Chapter 10 #2
“Steven and I are cooking. But it would be great if you chopped onions,” I say.
She’s quiet for a second, then the corner of her mouth twitches. “Am I your prep cook?”
“We’re down a station chef. If you insist on being in the kitchen, you have to work where you’re needed,” I say. “But I understand if you can’t handle assisting after being a private chef who serves risotto on verandas in Italy.”
“Careful, Carmello,” she says, “you almost sound like you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”
“More like everyone in here has a big mouth, including you,” I reply. “You gonna chop the onions or not?”
“Sure, sure,” she says, full on smirking now. “I’m really good at chopping things.”
I turn toward the stove so she doesn’t see me smile.
For the first time since we lost our prep cook, Steven starts singing to himself while he’s seasoning meat, and I bet it’s because Olivia’s doing the boring work.
When she tells him how beautiful his voice is, he even sings a little louder.
A couple of hours later, a lunch customer orders pork monggo.
In a staff meeting recently we discussed what changes we need to make to the menu, and it was voted to be taken off.
It’s our least popular dish but was my mom’s favorite.
And at this moment, I can’t help remembering easy days, when she’d come home still energized from a long shift and tell me to gather the ingredients to make this dish for us.
Now, I sauté onions, garlic, and cubed tomatoes before adding the pork to the pan and can almost hear her from across the room, Make sure you’re browning it well or you’ll be missing some of the flavor when you add the mung beans.
I zone out, thinking of the last time I cooked this for her.
She’d just gotten home from the hospital and was anxious to eat something “with taste.” We sat on the couch, watching reruns of The Simpsons.
She fell asleep, and I covered her with a blanket then took her bowl to the trash. She hardly touched it.
Someone’s arm brushes against mine and brings me back to the present. Olivia’s beside me, leaning over to look into the pan. “Do you still use your mom’s original recipe?”
I pull away so that her skin is no longer touching my skin and my brain can return to functioning normally. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on the vegetables?”
She points behind me, and I turn to see a generous mound of onions. Peppers beside them. All meticulously sliced. Screaming this was done by a goddamn professional. I grit my teeth when she asks, “Can I try it? I don’t remember what her monggo tastes like.”
“You can wash and peel potatoes,” I say. There was a time when Olivia was sitting at our table back home, right across from my mom and me, eating this. But something about her intruding on my memory and wanting to taste it now makes me want to build a wall between us.
She gives me a look, then leaves. I heave out a breath, wondering if I’ve underestimated how hard it would be sharing a kitchen with her again. It isn’t big enough for…
“Excuse me,” she says, coming back with a spoon and cutting right in front of me to do whatever she wants. She takes a sip of the juice while I stew behind her.
Visible steam must be rising from my body because Steven whistles the way one does when there’s a problem on the horizon but said whistler will only be observing it.
Olivia turns back to me, a satisfied look on her face. “It’s delicious,” she says. And when I don’t respond, she tilts her head. “Can you teach me how to make it? I never learned this one.”
“Why? So you can make it for the rich families you work for?”
She examines me further. “You’re really upset I asked this…. Why?”
“My mom didn’t give just anyone her favorite recipes,” I say.
Olivia inhales sharply and takes a step back. A touch of guilt twists my stomach. After a second, she asks, “How many potatoes do you need?”
“As many as you can peel,” I say.
***
Olivia does more than provide me with the most perfectly peeled potatoes; she helps us plate dishes, organizes orders coming in so the kitchen runs more efficiently, and anticipates my needs like it’s second nature.
She sings with Steven, and he looks thrown off about it but doesn’t stop.
After lunch rush, I catch her laughing with the staff at the front-of-house while cleaning barstools with a smile on her face.
Who is this person, happy to do any job, ready and willing to get her hands dirty?
She washes her hands plenty between tasks, so I don’t have to remind her or watch to make sure she does it well like I do with some of my staff.
It’s almost like she never left, the way she slots right in here.
And even though she doesn’t ask for other recipes or to cook the main courses with me, it seems normal to her when our hands reach for the same thing at the same time.
There’s no sign that she’s unnerved by being close to me in these very strange circumstances, while we pretend they aren’t strange at all.
Meanwhile, as she wins over every member of my staff, I’m reconsidering my legal options.
Who am I to know for certain that my mom was of sound mind and wasn’t influenced by the spell that is Olivia Jones?
***
While everyone gets ready to leave for the day, I sit in my office trying to get a head start on tomorrow’s work. Mentally listing off things I have to do. On that list is to text Rachael and check in, but when I reach for my phone, I see she’s already texted me.
Hey! My friends rented a private room at Pasha and we’re having a small party tonight. There’s hookah. I’d love it if you came by and hung out for a little.
I reread the text three times. We’ve only gone on two dates, neither of us has professed to wanting anything serious, and she’s already trying to introduce me to her friends?
I take a breath, trying to remember that everyone moves at different speeds. I won’t shame her for wanting me around. I can’t tonight, I text, but thank you for the offer. I’m about to send another message about seeing her at the concert in a few days, but she replies too quickly.
Are you ghosting me?
No. But I am going through some things, so I’m sorry if I’ve been slower to respond.
It’s fine if you’re busy
I stare at the text. The simple smiley face always seems a little passive-aggressive.
Okay, I reply. Have a good night.
Paula knocks on my open office door as I’m rereading the messages. “I have to get home to this wife of mine,” she says. “But the fridge in the back room is acting up again.”
“I’ll handle it,” I tell her. “Say hello to Gabby and tell her I’m sorry I’ve been keeping you here so late. Maybe I’ll go over and teach her some salsa soon to make up for it.”
Paula rolls her eyes at my Olivia dig. Then says, “Almost forgot how likable that girl is.”
“If you get too attached again,” I say, “you might be sad when she leaves.”
“I’ll be fine,” Paula says. “Life is short. I take people as they come. One day at a time.”