Chapter 2
REESE
TRACK: Bob Dylan & Johnny Cash, “Girl from the North Country”
OCTOBER
“All right, boss lass, hit me.”
The giant, portly Scotsman stands before me, red brows knitted together as he watches me chew. He fists his sausage-like fingers under his chin.
A small circle of people crowds around us amidst the shouts and clangs of the kitchen.
I close my eyes, savoring the mouthful of fluffy, cheesy egg, turning the flavors over in my mind.
Then I hold a single hand up, like an evangelical preacher communing with the heavens. But not to literally hit him. To make my proclamation.
I open my eyes and utter a single word. “Speck.”
“Speck!” everyone exclaims.
The Scot—my sous chef Rufus MacDonnell—slaps his broad forehead dramatically. “Reese, you ridiculous genius. You know, I thought about prosciutto, but speck is another level.”
“Mon dieu!” Jacques, our executive chef, shakes his head over at his desk, as if that’s the worst idea he’s ever heard. “Smoked meat will mar the purity of the egg.” But even now I see him scribbling on his inventory list.
“You have a gift. Even Jacques agrees,” Rufus says. “I know that particular mustache twitch of his.”
I wave a hand at him, smiling and tucking a strand of my sandy blonde hair that’s escaped my twist behind my ear. But somehow that compliment stings. Just a little. People used to tell me that when I got off stage, my guitar in hand. You have a gift. I ate it up.
Now, my gifts are constrained to semi-useful things like naming the missing ingredient in a soufflé.
Still, Rufus was being kind. He’s a good guy, as much like a brother to me than an employee, and I smile genuinely. I know I made the right decision in hiring Rufus last year.
I reach for another bite. “Not just a mean boss, am I?” Even without the smoked prosciutto, the soufflé is delicious.
“Hate to break it to you, but you haven’t got a mean bone in your body,” Rufus says, scooping out more cheesy egg onto plates for the other staff still milling about—ones I should instruct to get back to work.
But Rufus is right. I’m not mean. I can’t be.
I worked for too many assholes back when I was a server to run a restaurant with an iron fist, and a little social break won’t hurt anyone.
I look around L’Aubergine’s kitchen. I’m proud of what I built here since I took over as manager.
I’m good at my job. The restaurant used to be somewhere people went because it was part of the Rolling Hills hotel, but now, people come here from all over just to eat—it’s a gorgeous French restaurant with a hotel attached to it.
I hired the right people. Even with a cantankerous executive chef, who scowls but grabs a plate from Rufus, we have an amazing team.
“Sophie lass!” Rufus exclaims. “Try some soufflé?”
I turn to see my front of house manager—another fantastic hire—approach with an armful of tablecloths.
Sophie’s short and curvy, with creamy brown skin and tightly braided hair swirled in a bun on the top of her head.
“Actually I came to talk to Reese.” She smiles at me.
“But it does look pretty good.” Sophie opens her mouth to indicate Rufus should give her a bite.
My heart melts a little at the tender way Rufus gently inserts a forkful of egg into her mouth.
I watch them with a softness that borders on pain.
I should discourage their budding romance, given in a couple of months, Sophie will be his manager.
But what they have is too sweet and pure for me to interfere with.
Besides, love may be as long gone for me as the guitar-string callouses that once graced my fingers, but that doesn’t mean I can’t let my heart lift the tiniest bit at the sight of other people meant to be together.
I carry my plate over to the sink, giving them some space. I didn’t plan on stopping in the first place—I have a ton of work to do before our brunch seating starts.
“So it makes the list?” Rufus asks me as I rinse the plate.
I nearly drop it in the sink. The words send a jolt of nerves through me. Of course—the soufflé’s not for the brunch menu. Rufus is testing out new recipes to provide options for the contestants to make on Chef’s Apprentice, which will be taking over our kitchen in only a month’s time.
I should be excited about the reality show about to descend on my restaurant—my staff certainly are, even though their schedules are being upended to make room for it.
Maybe I would be if it weren’t for that particular person who dumped it on me.
I grit my teeth even now at the memory of that call from Eli—part owner of the Rolling Hills hotel, and technically the reason I’m here. Though it was his sister who hired me, after Eli and I ended things two years ago.
After Eli unceremoniously dumped me, more like.
I force myself to focus on the hopeful expression in my sous chef’s eyes, along with my assessment of his entrée and whether we should include it on the list we’re submitting to the producers of the show as a possible cooking challenge.
I sigh. “Yes, it makes the list.”
Rufus whoops.
“Did ya hear that, Sophie? The soufflé makes the list! Boss lass approves!”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “Like your head needs to get any bigger!”
“Aw, Soph, you love my big noggin’.”
Sophie blushes at the affection from the big Scot.
“Come talk to me when you’re done here,” I tell Sophie, seeing Rufus scoop a fresh portion of soufflé onto a plate for her.
I already know what she’s going to ask—Sophie’s a single mom to Talia, an eleven-year-old art prodigy, and needs to shift the schedules around again.
Until Sophie, I never knew art could be like sports at that age—she needs constant shift changes to accommodate her daughter’s lessons, classes, and even competitions.
But I always give Sophie whatever she needs. I’d be lost without her.
I head past the prep area to my office, a tiny room tucked into the back of the kitchen, whose only window is the frosted glass on the top half of the door.
“Would ya say it’s better than sex?” Rufus asks Sophie the moment I turn around, his tone teasing.
“Hey!” I exclaim, though I’m hiding a laugh. “At least pretend to have boundaries.”
“Listen, I’m asking someone who might actually know!” he lobs back.
I gasp, even though I’m not truly offended. “Rufus!” This is a restaurant, and we know a considerable amount about each other’s personal lives. Like how I’m not getting any at all these days.
“Well? Is there something you’re not telling us?”
Sophie shoves him with the tablecloths.
I scowl. He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I had sex. No, scratch that. I dated someone last year. I just can’t remember the last time I had good sex.
Sure you can.
It must be clear from my expression what I’m thinking of, because Rufus gapes. “You do have something to tell us?”
It’s not the first time I wish I took fewer of my mother’s fair Irish genes.
My hair’s sandy blonde, but I have the complexion of a redhead with my pale, freckly skin, and it clearly does a poor job of hiding the heat in my cheeks.
I whirl around. “Rufus, I’m going to start telling people I take you out back to do your business again. ”
“You wouldn’t!” he cries to my back.
“I would! And Sophie would help me too, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure would,” Sophie agrees. “I’d tell everyone you humped my couch leg too that time I let you come over.”
I can’t help laughing at that. My Jack Russell mix is also named Rufus, though I got him before I hired Rufus, when I moved to Quince Valley two years ago. After having very good sex with someone I now wish I hadn’t.
Rufus the human guffaws as I make my way toward my office at the back of the kitchen.
When I slip through the door of my office, I’m still smiling. I leave the door slightly ajar for when Sophie wants to talk to me.
But the minute I’m alone, the sounds of the kitchen partially muffled by the half-closed door, a familiar painful sensation gnaws at me.
I grimace as I pick up a file from the stack of papers on my cluttered desk, nearly knocking the little potted cactus I have there off the side. I try to look at the stack of resumes inside, but for a moment, my eyes won’t focus.
I once had dreams of being known for my music, before I got it stamped out of me. But now the whole world’s going to know me as Reese Franco, Restaurant Manager. Or at least the million-plus audience of Chef’s Apprentice.
“What would you say if I said you were going to be on TV?”
“I’d say go home and lock the doors because I’m going to kill you.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands as I remember that call with Eli.
“Filming’s only six weeks total,” he’d promised, “and they’ll film early so you can have the kitchen back by the afternoon.”
If only it were that easy. What it was going to be was six weeks of my bombastic—and secretly needy and sensitive—executive chef Jacques Leclerc on a televised power trip every morning.
Six weeks of adjusting staffing, menus, and guest expectations to open at noon every weekday morning, cancelling our extremely popular brunch seating.
And all eyes on us.
Luckily, the focus will all be on Jacques and the contestants.
Unluckily, Eli’s getting away with this.
I’m sorry, Reese, I can’t do this. I know I said I could but…I’m fucking scared, Reese.
That earlier conversation with Eli, from two years ago, comes through even louder, making my stomach plunge.
I reach over and plug my phone into my stereo with speakers far too powerful for my tiny office, and flip through my music player, hovering over my playlist of romantic songs, one I called “Stars in Your Eyes.” I made it for my sister Michelle’s wedding last year.
I look up to the picture of her and her blended family up on the wall—she and her husband each brought two daughters into their marriage, and in the picture, they all look blissful.
Michelle doesn’t think I’ve wasted my life, even though I’ve drifted so far from music it’s laughable.
But Michelle’s not a thirty-six-year-old woman working in the industry that was always supposed to support her dreams, not become the mainstay.
She doesn’t live in a one-bedroom apartment with a roommate who has four legs.
My phone dings, and I grab it, grateful for the distraction.
NORA: How’s show planning going?
I’m relieved to see it’s my friend Nora, the only person besides my sister who knows the full details of my history with Eli. The only one who knows how much I’m dreading Chef’s Apprentice coming to L’Aubergine.
REESE: I can’t do it.
Three dots pop up on the screen. Nora knows exactly what I’m talking about because we just had this conversation last week over wine at my place, when I realized how soon filming was starting.
NORA: Yes, you can.
REESE: But I don’t want to do it.
NORA: You’re going to do great! And the camera loves you.
I send her a side-eye emoji.
Neither Nora nor I are exactly the type of people who love being center stage—but unlike me, Nora never did.
She’s so quiet, people are constantly telling her to speak up.
I’m no church mouse, but unless someone’s going after a person I care about or I lose my temper, I’d rather not have a whole room of people—let alone a whole cable TV audience—acknowledging my existence the way I once thought I would.
NORA: Anyway, Eli promised you wouldn’t have to make any onscreen appearances, right?
REESE: Eli’s broken his promises before.
I hate sounding so bitter. And really, it’s not Eli’s fault my life isn’t anywhere near where I thought it would be by now.
But it is his fault I have to confront all this head-on.
NORA: It’s okay to be pissed at him still. He did you dirty. And I’m serious, Reese. If you change your mind about making onscreen appearances, you’d be great. Sinéad, remember?
I cringe. “Oh God,” I say out loud. We may have indulged in a bit too much wine when we were hanging out.
No, we did have too much wine. I know because I sent her this clip I still have in my email my sister filmed of me ten years ago, on stage, back when I used to perform in tiny clubs in New York.
In the video, I sang this super depressing song by Sinéad O’Connor.
“The Last Day of Our Acquaintance”—a song about divorce.
I think I knew I was severing myself from my dreams.
Nora’s jaw had dropped. “You’re incredible.”
I run my thumb over the inside of my wrist now, glancing briefly at the dark strokes of ink there.
By the end of that video, Nora and I were both crying.
It was probably the wine.
REESE: I still can’t believe I showed you that.
NORA: I’m honored.
For a moment, I think of that song. Even with Dylan playing, I mouth the words, my eyes closed.
I hear a knock on my door.
Sophie. I reach back and grab my phone to turn the music down.
But when I turn back, it’s not my front of house manager who stands in my doorway.
It’s a big handsome man with a flop of brown hair and dark scruff who still makes my stomach flip.
Hard.
“Eli,” I say, voice stiff.