Chapter 2
TWO
RAY
“Where’s my salmon, Cam?”
“Coming, Chef,” Cameron hollers as she pivots away from the range, sizzling pan in hand, and rounds the pasta and salad stations for the plating area.
Bent over the marble top, I spoon pomegranate forbidden rice into a crescent-shaped mold on the center of the plate, packing it tightly before removing the mold. As I strategically lay green beans on an angle beside the rice, Cameron sidles up to me with the quinoa-crusted salmon filet.
Taking the thin spatula from her, I set the salmon atop the green beans. “Great work, Cam.”
She draws in a sharp breath. “Th-thank you, Chef.” And then she scurries back to her place at the range.
Head down, a hint of a smile curves one corner of my mouth as I create art with the seasonal salmon dish. By no means am I oblivious to Cameron’s crush on me, but I will never exploit her with it.
After Chef Beaulieu hired me last year, he asked me to interview candidates for two more positions. People who were versatile in the kitchen and loved food as we did. Cameron was my first interviewee. Her knowledge base and competence blew my mind. Her kitchen skills were impeccable as she cooked a dish for me and Chef Beaulieu. But it was the way she blushed when I complimented her expertise that caught my attention most.
Although I’d never cross the line with an employee—no one needs that kind of drama in their life—the faint rouge on her cheeks at my praise was the main reason I hired her. Yes, her culinary expertise was top-notch. Her time management was flawless. But her humble nature won me over.
Many in our field are arrogant and determined. We all dream of the executive chef title, of running our own restaurant. We work tirelessly to perfect our craft. And oftentimes, those qualities give us a superiority complex.
Cameron is an exception. She doesn’t have a pretentious bone in her body and is by far the most selfless person I’ve met in this industry. But her brilliance and innovative thinking outweigh her timidity. Her wild passion and outspoken nature shine when she conjures a new dish.
An expert in our field, I admire Cameron. But that’s where my feelings for her end.
I add a small spoonful of orange-ginger marmalade between the salmon and rice, followed by a slow-roasted garlic clove. I garnish the plate with dots of spicy orange-miso sauce, large to small, from the edge of the plate to the fish. For the final touch, a teaspoon of salmon roe and an edible flower atop the fish.
Straightening my spine, I turn the plate and look at it from every angle.
Perfection .
Plate in hand, I pivot and slide it across the marble counter of the pass-through window. The server opposite me takes the plate along with another and crosses the dining room to a couple in my line of sight. I stare on as the dishes are presented, my breath caught in my throat as I wait for their reaction.
The woman’s eyes light up, a hand coming to her chest. When the salmon is set in front of the man, his mouth forms an O as his brows lift with excitement.
Their reaction is one reason why I love what I do. Seeing someone light up at the sight of my food, hearing their praise before they leave the restaurant… it’s a high like no other.
“Another hit of magic,” I say loud enough for everyone in the kitchen to hear. “Proud of you, team.”
Shortly after I started at Calhoun’s Bistro, I came up with the term hit of magic . It’s the phrase I use with my kitchen staff to tell them we are on our A game. And since the kitchen is open to the dining room, it’s also a way to keep our vocabulary in check while on the clock.
If you think sailors and truckers have a colorful dictionary, you should step inside a closed kitchen. Other than dish names and culinary terms, fuck is the most used word away from customer earshot.
“Thank you, Chef,” they sound off as they work.
The rest of the night passes faster than anticipated. By quarter to eleven, half of the stations are being cleaned and prepped for tomorrow. Once the final dishes for the night leave the kitchen, the rest of the kitchen is scrubbed spotless.
“Fin, you still good to stay?”
His attention shifts from the steel counter he washes to me, and he nods. “Yeah, man. It’d take an act of God to keep me away.”
I laugh. “Noted.”
Once the last table clears and the staff head home for the night, I prep for another job I’ve come to love. Filming online food porn videos.
Before Chef Beaulieu brought me on board, I worked with my dad at RJ’s Diner. I had a lot of freedom in that kitchen. Dad let me come up with fun, unconventional creations to attract regulars more often as well as entice newcomers.
I recorded myself as I worked and figured out how to edit the clips down to a reasonable amount of time. Most of the videos were simple—me in the kitchen doing what I love. The first few months, a couple hundred people viewed my videos. Occasionally, someone left a comment and applauded my culinary skills.
One of those comments tipped the first domino to me going viral online. A follower asked if I would share a fancy meal anyone could make at home for a special occasion. I gladly acquiesced.
With Stone Bay being a coastal town, I decided on a seafood dish. As a bonus, I also made a romantic dessert.
Jerk shrimp with rice in pineapple bowls and chocolate lava cake is the video that garnered more than a million followers on social media within a week. A unique yet simple dinner for two is what skyrocketed me from an ordinary line cook in a small-town diner to sought-after sous-chef in a gourmet restaurant.
The food in the video isn’t what boosted my culinary career. How I made the food is what made me an overnight sensation.
For decades, I’ve watched cooking videos and shows. Studied culinary masters and absorbed as much knowledge and expertise as possible. Followed countless foodies and drooled over their content.
When it was time to share my own abilities, I mirrored other foodies and used the same hashtag—#foodporn.
The night I filmed the fancy romantic meal video, I elected to make it literal food porn. From how I ran my finger through the splayed spine of the shrimp to the way I rapidly flicked my fingers through the melted chocolate for the cake.
Food. Porn.
The viewers wanted more. So, I gave it to them. It’s been a whirlwind since.
Arms loaded with ingredients, I amble out of the walk-in and set everything on the prep station counter. Heading for the back room by the office, I unbutton my chef coat, toss it in the dirty hamper, and swap my work shirt for a fresh, white T-shirt that fits like a second skin.
Fin is waiting when I return to the kitchen, his hip against the counter as he scrolls through his phone.
“Thanks for another great night, man,” I say as I sort the ingredients in order of when I need them.
He locks his phone and stows it in his back pocket. “Tonight was fire. How many plates went out?”
Calhoun’s Bistro is more of an experience than the average restaurant. With fifty-four seats in the dining room and our doors open for six hours in the evening, it’s rare for us to fill tables twice Monday through Wednesday. Thursdays are hit or miss. And the private rooms seldomly book during the week.
Weekends are a different story. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday reservations are fully booked three months in advance and further out for holidays. Private rooms are reserved as far out as six months to a year, but we keep one off the reservation list and available in case a large party calls in. The only exception we make on the weekend is for the Seven or close friends with my grandfather, Ray Calhoun Sr., or his business partner, Roger Kemp. If a founding family calls and asks for a table last minute, we do our best to squeeze them in.
“Sixty-three,” I answer with pride. “A damn good night.”
“At one point, I checked my phone to see what day it was.” Fin laughs. “Tonight felt more like Thursday than Tuesday.”
“Agreed.”
Fin surveys the ingredients on the counter. “What’s on the menu tonight?”
Tuna, salmon, chicken, shrimp, precooked sushi rice, vegetables, sake, and wonton wrappers are spread across the counter. I still need to grab ingredients for the sauce and tempura batter.
“Bento box, Tré style.” I use the nickname many call me when my dad or grandfather are present. Mom tried to make my middle name cute when I was young, but I vetoed Georgie as my sobriquet before age ten.
Fin hums as his eyes roam the ingredients again. “Love it.”
After I collect the remaining ingredients, I hand Fin my phone.
Not long after he started here, Fin asked to join me when I film. Sounded fun, so I agreed. After a couple videos, he learned being in front of the camera wasn’t for him. Still wanting to be involved, he offered to help record. Not only did it make the process more entertaining, it also cut recording time in half.
The next hour and a half flies by as I slice sashimi, roll sushi, fry tempura, steam dumplings, and grill chicken. Every move I make is planned. Intentional. The way I trail my fingers over the meat and between the slices. How I dip my first and middle fingers in the batter and flick them rapidly back and forth. How I dunk my middle finger in the teriyaki sauce then glide it over my tongue.
The raunchier I make the videos, the better.
Lucky for me, Chef Beaulieu encourages my social media presence. “We’ve seen a boom in business since you joined us,” he told me during my ninety-day evaluation. A month later, he created his own account and started sharing his own passion for food—chocolate and pastry. A literal chocolatier and master in the kitchen, his following surpassed mine in a matter of days.
Oftentimes, he attests the restaurant’s success to my provocative videos. But I wave off the notion and tell him it’s us and our team who are responsible for the growth at Calhoun’s Bistro.
Once we get a shot of the completed food, Fin and I devour every morsel. When we finish, I clean the kitchen and Fin records.
Everything back to rights, we shut off lights and grab our stuff to leave. As we near our cars, I pause and spin to face him.
“My place in the morning? Film a couple easier dishes.”
“Ten?” Fin unlocks his SUV.
“Perfect. Gives me time with Tucker before school.”
Fin opens his door and slips behind the wheel. “See ya in the morning.”
I get in my own car and wave before I shut the door. Cranking the engine, I wait for Fin to drive off and then follow. Not a soul on the road, we drive the same path until we reach Granite Parkway. As Fin turns left at the light, he sticks his hand out the window and waves. I do the same as I turn right.
Stars glitter in the sky as my tires eat up the miles. Trees blend in with the darkness and pass in a blur. The scent of pine and earth mingle in the crisp night air as it dances over my skin.
I turn onto Fossil Mountain Highway then take the narrow two-lane road for the Calhoun estate. The property is sizable but minuscule compared to the properties of the Seven. Three grand houses sit nestled between a thicket of trees—mine, Mom and Dad’s house, and one for my grandparents. On the north side of the property, past acres of trees, is Stone Bay Country Club with its beloved golf course.
Our property may be on the outskirts of town, but I love the incomparable peace and quiet.
I steer my car down the drive to my parents’ house. A single light on in the living room tells me one of them is awake, waiting.
“Shit,” I mutter as I put the car in park and cut the engine.
Most nights, I slip into their house undetected, grab Tucker from bed, and leave with him without waking anyone. Every now and then, one of my parents waits up to talk.
Tiptoeing into the house, I ease the door shut and head for the living room. Wrapped in a blanket, Mom is curled up on the couch with her eyes closed. On light feet, I pad across the room to turn off the light. As my hand reaches for the lamp switch, Mom’s eyes flutter open.
“Hey, sweetheart. How was work?”
In the food and hospitality industry most of their lives, my parents know what it’s like to work crazy early or late hours.
“Busier than usual.”
She scoots back and sits up straighter. “That’s wonderful.” Lifting a hand to her mouth, she stifles a yawn. “And you got another video in?”
I nod. “One. Fin and I plan to meet up after Tucker’s at school tomorrow.”
Reaching up to rub the back of her neck, her expression turns pensive as she hums. “Speaking of Tucker…”
This is why she’s on the couch.
“What?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“You need to spend more time with him.” A hint of sharp determination in her sleepy voice.
At least she got straight to the point. “I’m trying, Mom. You know my schedule is hectic.”
Lips in a flat line, she subtly nods. “I also know you’re working more hours than necessary. That you’ve gone in to help on a day off several times over the past month.”
In a blink, I feel like a teenager again. Every move scrutinized. Every imperfection thrown in my face.
Downfall of working in a place your family owns, they have easy access to everything, including schedules and clocked hours. Last I checked, my time card registered no less than sixty hours a week for the past six weeks… which doesn’t include the time I spend filming for social media.
Irritated as I am with Mom for pointing out my flaws, my indignation fizzles out. Guilt wiggles its way in and sits like a brick in my gut.
“Was worried the kitchen would get bogged down with the number of reservations,” I say.
She tugs the blanket tighter around herself. “I get it, sweetheart. Your father and I both do. Being in the kitchen is part of who you are. It’s in your genes.” A sympathetic smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “But Tucker needs to be higher on your list of priorities.”
Deep in my bones, I know she is right. I need to spend more time with Tucker. I need to show him one of his parents cares about him, loves him. After years of searching for him, after all the anxiety-filled days and sleepless nights, after all the bullshit Brianna put him through, I need to be more present.
What kind of parent am I if I fight to get my kid back only to not spend time with him?
More than anything, I want time with Tucker. To make up for our years apart. But damn is it hard to find work-life balance with conflicting schedules. Not to mention, working extra hours pads my paycheck and helps me give Tucker the life he should’ve had all along.
But if we’re never together, am I really providing him with a great life?
“I’ll talk with Chef Beaulieu. See if Tucker can be at the restaurant a few hours after school and during the summer.”
Her shoulders relax as her smile gentles. “I’m sure André will go along with the idea. One of us can pick Tucker up before dinner and watch him until your shift ends.” She swings her legs off the couch and stands. Resting a hand on my arm, her eyes bore into mine. “Tell André you need more time with Tucker. He’ll understand and find a way to make it happen.”
A pang flares in my belly.
Tucker is of the utmost importance. But I don’t want André to think I’m incapable of working my appointed shifts and managing my personal life. The last thing I want is a culinary genius I admire to see me as incompetent.
Had I not missed close to six years of Tucker’s life, everything would be different. Tucker would be a normal nine-year-old kid. He’d get upset over trivial things like not getting his way. He’d have a sense of belonging with peers and family. The hurt and confusion he wears daily would be nonexistent.
Had we spent those monumental years together, we would’ve grown into daily routines and schedules with ease instead of fighting the current at every turn. Love would highlight his life instead of abandonment. Jokes and laughter would color his world.
In the past week, since he met Oliver Moss—his current musician idol—at the Memorial Day Festival, Tucker has been better. Happier. But he’s still a scared little boy. He still fears the future. Questions if he will ever fit in.
And it breaks my damn heart.
I want a simple, easy life for Tucker. Daily smiles and shrill laughter as I tickle the spot on his ribs beneath his armpit. Grand adventures he brags to his friends about and fun cooking lessons he can’t get enough of. Stability that offers him the chance to grow into who he is meant to be without concern over what could happen. Above all, I want him surrounded by love.
It isn’t a monumental wish, but achieving it is harrowing.
“Promise I’ll talk with André in the morning.”
Mom pats my shoulder. “Good. Now take our boy home and tuck him into his own bed.” Mom leans in and kisses my cheek. “Night, sweetheart.”
“Night, Mom.”
I collect Tucker’s belongings and then scoop him up from the bed in his room at my parents’ house. He stirs a moment, curls into me, and falls right back asleep. I buckle him in the car, deposit his backpack near his feet, hop in the car, and drive to our house on the property.
As I tuck him into his bed, I study his face, which looks so much like my own at his age. Visually trace his little brows and wild, curly hair he inherited from his mother. But it’s the softness in his expression while he sleeps that shreds my heart to pieces. The softness he hides behind a steel mask of hurt while awake.
It kills me I missed so many years of his life.
Brianna moved around often enough I had trouble tracking them down. Just as the investigator received a tip on their whereabouts, Brianna packed their bags and left the area. Not sure if she knew I was on to her or her restless, vagabond soul needed to move.
Brianna never wanted to be a mother but stole our son and used him as a financial pawn. She robbed me of time and memories—precious commodities I’ll never get back. She ripped Tucker away from a loving parent for years, all for selfish, nefarious reasons.
What she did is repulsive and unforgivable.
I only hope Tucker finds peace and moves forward.
Tiptoeing out of his room, I close the door except for a few inches. Move down the hall to my room and go about my bedtime routine.
When my head hits the pillow, my mind zips into overdrive. Mom’s words play on repeat as my mind tries to solve the issue before sleep. After what feels like hours, exhaustion wins out. As I drift off, I think of how everything I do is for the little boy in the room across the hall. It also dawns on me to ask him what he needs rather than assume.