Chapter 18
LORENZO
I’m ready for today.
I’ve been ready for a long time. Taking this last-minute opportunity to come to Aruba to be a guest chef for the wedding of the year had sounded like an escape from a bad situation at Avanti. But since I’ve arrived, it’s been a dream come true. Maybe even better than a dream.
Cooking alongside Esmar and his crew, I’ve learned so much—about the flavors of the island, the creativity he’s honed over decades as a chef, and his own congenial style of running a kitchen, which is so different from others I’ve worked for who felt that yelling and insults were the best way to command respect.
Esmar, on the other hand, is welcoming and generous, even friendly with his team.
I’m thankful for that because it’s allowed me the freedom to make several meals and dishes over this week, for Claire’s events and even for dinner services. It’s been a true culinary gift I am thankful to have received.
And tonight is the proverbial cherry on top.
I’m running the kitchen for the wedding, even Esmar taking orders from me.
“This is your show, Chef, what you were hand-selected and flown in to do. Show us what you’ve got,” he’d said.
And I am.
“Henri, more lime on the albacore crudo,” I order.
“Yes, Chef,” he answers as he grabs another fresh lime and begins juicing for his life.
I step to the pasta workstation, double-checking that my instructions are being followed correctly.
Letting go of that duty had been difficult.
It’s the one thing that always makes me feel at home, like I’m honoring all the lessons taught in the steamy kitchens of Positano.
But I can’t be locked down in one place.
I see that Gilberto, for all his craziness, is hyper-focused on his dough.
“Good. Steady hands make for consistent noodles.”
“Steady, Chef,” he repeats with a smile.
I look around in delight, seeing dishes I designed being crafted with care. I’ve stuck to my roots, the foundation of Italian cooking that lives and breathes in my soul, but added touches of the island to honor our beautiful locale.
Finding myself next to Esmar, I whisper, “I don’t want to jinx things, but it seems as though this is all going well, yes?”
He smiles and touches the wooden spoon sitting next to him. I do the same to banish any bad luck my words might’ve conjured.
“You are a thoughtful chef, Lorenzo. You should not be surprised that prep is going well.”
His praise means a lot to me. “Thank you, Chef.”
He scans the room, double-checking on his crew before tilting his head toward the dry storage. Silently, I follow him to the semi-private area, sure that he’s going to impart some knowledge or give me some feedback on something I can do better.
“Have you enjoyed your short time here on the island, Chef Toscani?” Esmar says formally.
“Absolutely,” I answer instantly.
The truth is, I have. More than I had anticipated.
The time in the kitchen has been amazing, but also, the time exploring the island with Abigail has been unexpected and powerful.
It feels like I have this full, vibrant life where I never know what to expect—are the papayas ripe to make Aruban hot sauce this morning?
Will Gilberto show up on time or will Henri have to drag him out of some random guest’s bed to get him to the line, where he’ll regale us with tales that I’m certain are more embellishment than truth?
Am I playing along with some honeymoon scheme by making eyes at Abigail?
What shocking craziness will come out of Abigail’s mouth when the two of us talk for hours after the sun has long since disappeared below the horizon?
It feels like every moment is full of possibility.
Esmar nods, a wide smile showing his white teeth.
“Good, good. I know you travel frequently, a man who always wanders but is never lost, you are.” He makes it sound fanciful and romantic to live out of a duffle bag so small it can attach to my motorcycle.
“So I know I cannot keep you locked down. But I would like to offer a position for however long you’d like it.
A week, a month, six? I would be honored if you would work alongside me. ”
I’m shocked. I’m honored. I’m excited. I’m . . . terrified.
“Wow, I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. “Uh, first, thank you, of course. Thank you, truly. But . . .”
And that’s where I get stuck.
This is how so many of my opportunities have come up over the years—a friend of a friend recommending me or a chef coming through a restaurant that I’m working at, or even my hearing of a chef I’d like to learn from and approaching them directly. It’s always been a buzzing thrill of ‘what if?’
If I stay here, I will get to work with Esmar, Gilberto, Henri, and more.
If I stay here, I will live in paradise, steps from the sea.
If I stay here, I will have a whole world of new foods and flavors to learn and incorporate into my portfolio and palate.
If I stay here, I will never see Abigail again.
She will go home, this I know for certain. Back to her family, her business, and her future. She is not a flower arrangement to be pulled from the dirt for transport anywhere I wish. No, she is an oak tree with roots spread deep and wide, meant to live out her life in one place.
Would Aruba be the same without her here? I don’t know.
But will returning ruin things between Abigail and me? I don’t know that, either. Perhaps this is nothing more than one of her schemes that has gotten out of hand, and when we hit the mainland, it will vanish into thin air.
Esmar senses my uncertainty. He pats my shoulder, much like a father would a son.
“No rush, Lorenzo. The offer has no expiration date. I simply want you to know . . . you are always welcome here. I do not share often or well, but with you, I would share my kitchen anytime. Or if you’d rather run your own pass, there are two other restaurants on the resort grounds that would be lucky bastards to have you. ”
Emotion makes my throat tight. “Thank you, Chef. Working with you has been a true honor.” I shake his hand, both our hands squeezing respectfully.
But never one to play too fast and loose, Esmar adds, “By the way, I put you on the schedule for dinner service on Monday night.”
I laugh. “My flight leaves on Sunday.”
“Aah, we shall see, Chef Toscani.”
“Chef!”
I do not have time for this. Though everything is running smoothly—I touch the wooden spoon again—I don’t have time to pause for Meredith’s meddling.
But such is life.
“Yes, Meredith,” I say, not stopping my movements as I add the final touches to the tray of hors d’oeuvres.
She oversees my work for a moment, and internally, I dare her to say one word. She doesn’t know a thing about fine cuisine, probably eats a microwaved Lean Cuisine each night or nibbles on celery stalks to maintain her harsh, angular shape.
“I received the menu . . . this time.”
Ah, come to rub my nose in the fact that in the end, I did acquiesce to her request. She seems to feel some victory in my choice to send on the list of courses this evening, but it’s reasonable for an event like this one.
I will not be going out to make course announcements as tonight is all about the bride and groom, so it’s common courtesy to let the guests know what they’re eating.
“Yes.” I don’t have time to play her games or invite further conversation.
Still, she lingers. “What is that?” she asks sharply as I begin adding small yellow blooms to each plate.
“Marigold.”
She balks, her voice reaching high into the screech zone. “Flowers? On the tuna?” She makes it sound like the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard.
I pause and turn to face her fully, standing to my full height.
“Ms. Wildeman, Claire hired me to provide her guests with a wedding feast and I am doing so with the full skill and scope of my years of experience.” I let my judgement of her lack of pallete shine through.
“If you, as the wedding planner, would’ve liked ingredient by ingredient approvals, then you should’ve requested it long ago.
Right now, as the chef, I have two hundred more plates to prepare. If you’ll excuse me.”
Cold fury freezes her face with her lips pressed into a thin line and her penciled-on brows drawn up . . . well, as high as they can be, considering her forehead doesn’t move.
“Chef Toscani, you would do well to remember that I might be a wedding planner” —she mimics my obvious distaste, mistaking it for her profession when it’s entirely personal— “but I work with a long list of clients on a multitude of events. And I find your lack of professionalism alarming. I’m not sure I would be comfortable recommending your services to my clients in the future. ”
“Okay.”
She thought her threat would hold water with me, but I don’t give a fuck about her snooty list of clients. I want to cook, to create, and will happily do so for people who can appreciate that.
Hell, I don’t even know where I’m going to be next week! Why would I bend to this imaginary list of clients in one town that she’s holding over me?
But Meredith Wildeman is a cunning woman. She might not have anything to lord over my head, but she does have an ace up her sleeve.
“I do wonder,” she muses as she taps her red lips with an equally red-tipped finger, “where you got these marigolds? Is it from the flower girl? I hope she hasn’t let her work suffer from providing the kitchen staff with flowers. I guess I’ll have to see, won’t I?”
Flower girl. Kitchen staff. Every word she speaks makes it quite clear that she feels we are all beneath her, puppets for her play.
And her threat is thinly veiled. If she can’t get at me, she’ll go after someone else I care about.
“You mean Abigail?” I correct, feeling my blood heat. How dare this bitch!
Meredith smiles serenely. “Ah, yes, Miss Andrews, the flower girl who gets by on her name. Or her father’s, I guess I should say,” she clarifies snidely. “If her work isn’t up to snuff, I guess I shan’t be recommending her either. Such. A. Pity.”
Who the fuck says ‘shan’t’ in regular conversation when they’re not quoting Elizabethan literature? Or wanting to sound like a fucking Disney villain?
“I’m sure the arrangements are exactly as Claire ordered,” I reply coldly, gritting my teeth.
I want to smash things. I want to go out there and tell Abigail that this bitch is threatening her business.
I want to tell Claire exactly where she can shove her wedding planner, and it’s nowhere as nice as an island paradise.
No, I’d leave Meredith in the desolate cold of Siberia where she belongs. I bet her blood wouldn’t even freeze, cold bitch that she is.
But this a battle of words, of leverage. And she does have some power over Abigail, working in the city she does and with a similar clientele. Meredith Wildeman could sabotage Abigail’s plans.
“I suppose you would know. You’re rather close with Miss Andrews, are you not?” Meredith tilts her head, looking down her nose at me smugly. And that’s saying something considering I’m a good six inches taller than she is in her black heels.
“We have people in common, as you’re aware.” I’m hedging, not mentioning this week but playing on Violet as our common denominator the way Abigail and I decided to early on. It’s not the best look for the staff to be fraternizing, even if it hasn’t affected our work in the slightest.
“Hmm, it is good to have close friends and family on a trip like this,” she declares. “I’m glad you’ve gotten on so well with the other staff.”
I can see it now. The picture she’s painting . . .
One of a grand opportunity to work the wedding of the year in paradise.
One where Abigail and I spend the week fucking off, taking yoga and sunset cruises, and neglecting our work.
One where, regardless of the food or the flowers, Meredith can deem them inadequate and sell the storyline that if we had only focused on what we were supposed to, things could’ve been so much better.
How does she even know that Abigail and I have been spending time together? Does that even matter?
Before I can respond to our verbal warfare, Esmar comes up. “Chef, you are needed at the pasta station. Urgente!”
Fuck! What has Gilberto gotten up to now?
I don’t bother excusing myself from Meredith. I simply walk away to handle my work, exactly as I’m supposed to do. That’s what a chef does—no matter what’s happening, service must go on.
“Ugh, this is why I need you here!” Esmar rants loudly as we walk down the line, though now I can see that he is smiling so it can’t be that bad. “I can’t wait for you to help me corral this madness!”
He slaps me on the back, and I help Gilberto, having forgotten all about Meredith and her threats.