Chapter Four Claire
Ispend the rest of the day packing, switching accounts into my own name, and triangulating.
That sounds like a fancy covert ops word, but in my case, it just means finding a city where they have some sort of culinary arts program (even if it’s through the local night school), a restaurant that’s hiring, and an affordable place to live.
My search moves out of the Five Boroughs in a heartbeat, and I’m about to work my way out of the state when I come across a tiny town right near the New York/Pennsylvania border in the foothills of the Adirondacks— a little place called Pine Ridge.
There’s a middle-to-high-end American restaurant with decent reviews called The River House. They are hiring waitstaff at a surprisingly generous hourly wage, plus tips. I put in an application through the restaurant's website.
As for places to live, I find a couple of listings, but the information has to be wrong.
I couldn't possibly expect to pay that kind of rent in the state of New York, not for an apartment. That has to be the price for one room. However, the campus at Pine Ridge does have a dorm—if I’m accepted. It would be cheaper to live on campus.
After I finish applying and packing, I load my appliances from the kitchen into the car. I would prefer an apartment so I’ll have a kitchen to practice in, but beggars can't be choosers.
Yeah, I know, I’m a real “beggar” with a Kitchen-Aid mixer with every attachment, a set of copper-bottom pots and pans, a knife block that would make a butcher envious, and a Vitamix that can do everything but my taxes.
“Do I have everything?” I mutter, standing in the lobby with sturdy Rubber-Maid totes and bags of matching luggage surrounding me.
No, of course not. I have an E-Class Mercedes sedan that’s barely used, living in the city. The doorman helps me finish loading up. Both of us are quiet.
I can’t pack memories. My father never liked clutter or photo albums, so I feel like there’s nothing tangible to bring with me that will help me hold onto the family I used to have, the people we used to be.
I have a few framed pictures of my mother, brother, and me on various vacations tucked safely in a padded nest of sweaters. But there’s no way I have it all.
“You have what you need, Ms. Langdon.”
Renaldo looks at me with somber eyes and a little smile.
“Was I talking out loud again?”
“No. I could tell by looking at you. You’re ready to fly solo, aren’t you?
” His voice is soft. I know if my father were here, he wouldn’t dare say more than two words, but Daddy isn’t around, and Renaldo has known me since I was seven.
“You can’t take everything in that big penthouse, but you have all you need, carried around inside. ” He taps his chest and winks at me.
It fucking undoes me, and I start bawling. “I’m going to be a chef,” I tell him, gesturing to the pots and pans.
“And a damn good one. The cookie trays you make every Christmas are picked clean in fifteen minutes. Call the front desk and tell me where your restaurant is, Ms. Langdon, and I’ll be there on my day off.”
I laugh, trying to smile. “It’ll be a while, Renaldo.” If I had my father’s money or his blessing, this would be easier. But calling his bluff is going to be more satisfying.
“I’m not retiring for another five or six years. I have time.”
I hug the doorman of the building I’ve lived in for the last eighteen years. He hugged me the day my mother died. He hugged me at her funeral. He hugged me when I graduated after taking two extra years because depression fucking crippled me.
He’s hugged me more than my father has. Maybe in my whole life.
“I’m getting mascara and snot on your uniform.”
“The dry cleaning is included with the job, sweetheart. Claire. My little Claire, my little cupcake. Do you remember I used to call you that?”
I nod, sniffling.
“Good. Now, go be a chef.”
I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt (which is now a t-shirt that says Great Chefs Don’t Age, They Marinate). “I’ll be calling,” I promise with a jaunty little salute.
He returns it and opens the car door for me. “I’ll be waiting.”