Chapter 4 Mayfield, Here I Come
Mayfield, Here I Come
— T ODAY —
I get off my bike and park behind La Brasserie, the scent of garlic and onions telling me dinner service has begun. Unclipping my helmet, I follow the voices I can hear around the corner and find Jeremy, Thomas, and David smoking at the back entrance, their black chef coats on.
“Gentlemen,” I say as I approach my former colleagues. “How are we doing?”
“Good, uh… we’re just—we’re…” David trails off as they all glance in different directions.
So they’ve read the article.
I’m not surprised. It’s been almost a week, and pretty much anyone in the business has read it. It’s everywhere.
After standing awkwardly for a few seconds, David throws his cigarette away and enters La Brasserie. Thomas and Jeremy follow, and with a deep breath I enter the kitchen too.
Immediately, I’m welcomed by the familiar clinking noise of pots and pans, by the butter sizzling on the stoves and the kitchen staff moving around like soldiers. My father’s restaurant has had the same menu for as long as I’ve worked here, and the stainless steel kitchen has never changed. It feels more homey to me than most places I’ve actually lived in.
“Ames!” Barb calls out from the other end of the long kitchen. Everybody’s eyes meet mine before they look away and whisper words into each other’s ears.
My body temperature rises so quickly, it feels like my skin is steaming.
They’ve all read it. They all know.
Barbara steps closer and plops her oven mitts on the counter by my side, a wary expression taking over her face. “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at five.”
“My dad wants to talk.” Unfortunately, this is only one of two very unpleasant tasks today, because Martha also texted on the group chat and asked to meet us for a coffee at Beans, our usual café. “We can leave together.”
Sasha, one of the latest waitresses to join the staff, walks beside me with an entrec?te and a bowl of onion soup. My gaze follows the tray until she disappears around the corner, my hands itching to stop her, because the meat looked a little overdone.
“Would you like to cook something?” Barb asks with a soft voice. “For old times’ sake?”
With a glance at the black chef’s coats hanging on the entrance wall, I wave her off. “I’ll just go see what the man of the hour wants. Where is he?”
“Dining room,” she says, patting my hand twice before stalking toward the fryer, then turning back and pointing a finger at me. “Don’t spoil the customers’ dinner with murder.”
“I’ll make sure the only red stains are left by the sauvignon,” I call before entering the dining room.
Though the sun is beaming outside, the tinted windows absorb most of the natural light. A dim yellow glow comes from the chandelier and provides a soft ambience for the small groups sitting at beige linen–covered tables across the room.
My father, in his chef’s coat and hat, is talking to the people sitting by the front window. There’s an affable smile on his face as the soft strains of “Non, je ne regrette rien” by édith Piaf accompany us.
I wish I could say I’m surprised to find him at the front of the house, but these days, he spends more time talking to customers in the dining room than cooking. The rest of the time, he travels from one location to another for an interview, a cooking show, a competition he’ll judge—whatever it may be. Three seasons on The Silver Spoon , and everybody has come to know his less-than-amicable working attitude, earning him the nickname of “Le Dictateur.” He loves the name so much, some days I think he might have a golden plaque engraved with it hung at the entrance.
As soon as he sees me across the room, his expression falls, and he excuses himself and walks closer. Taking off his black chef’s hat, he passes a hand over his balding head. Once he reaches me, his dark brown sunken eyes—the same color as mine—scan me with a disappointed look. “ Ma fille. ”
“You wanted to see me?”
“You’re working the dinner service tomorrow,” he says in his usual cold voice. He gestures at me to follow him, then struts into the kitchen, all eyes on us as he approaches the serving counter.
“I don’t work here, Dad.”
“You don’t work anywhere.” He pierces me with a cold gaze. “After that article, you’ll never work again.”
Surprise, surprise. Father dearest has read the article, too, and he isn’t pleased.
“We’ve already had this conversation. I don’t work at La Brasserie, and at the moment, I’m not looking for a job in any kitchen.” I glare at one of the waiters, fidgeting with a bottle of champagne while he eavesdrops. “Yesterday’s article changes nothing.”
“Are you aware of what it means for me? What they wrote?” he says, seething, lowering his voice as he looks left and right.
“Yes. Everyone in the world of fine dining knows your daughter is a failure. They know I didn’t take after the great Hammond Preston. I don’t have your talent, your experience. I’m just a nobody who’s used her dad’s connections.”
My tone is flat, and, surprisingly, saying those words out loud didn’t hurt half as much as it should. It’s almost liberating.
If I had known giving up would feel so good, I would have done it much sooner.
When his chin tilts toward his chest, I wonder if he’ll contradict me. If, for once, he’ll say I’m a fighter and he regrets being the parent he’s always been to me.
But I don’t wonder for too long.
“Your best chance at a future as a chef is to come back to work for me. With time, people will forget. Hopefully.” His jaw tenses and his words slur, as if pronouncing them is hard, the LED lighting accentuating the sweat on his broad forehead. “I still need a head chef to take my place.”
I lean against the counter and look deeply into his tired eyes, my fingers mindlessly fidgeting with the chain of my necklace. “Dad, I’m done with cooking,” I say with a firm voice. This must be the fiftieth time we’ve talked about this, so I should have imagined this is why he called me in. “I won’t be your head chef. Hire externally if there’s nobody in this kitchen who can meet your expectations.”
He grunts and, without another word, walks straight to Trent, one of the line cooks, then barks something about his knife technique.
For a few seconds I’m glad this isn’t my life anymore. Then I squeeze the strap of my bag and walk toward Barb, who’s bent over the stove and working on a pot of lobster bisque. Wiping her hands on her apron, she straightens and throws me a worried look, her red curls trapped under a black hairnet. “All good?”
“Yeah. He just wanted me to come in for the dinner service tomorrow.” With an eye roll, I point at the door. “I’ll see you outside.”
Skillfully avoiding the cooks and busboys who shift from one side of the kitchen to the other, I get to the back door, only to stop when I notice the article from Yum magazine taped to it. There’s boisterous laughter coming from behind me, but I don’t bother turning around, my gaze laser focused on the worst parts.
My eyes fill with words like embarrassment and shame . I close them, but I can still see more of them. Nepotism. Incompetence . And, of course, failure .
“Seriously? You people have nothing in your brain, do you?” Barb shouts.
She comes closer, her fingers pulling on one corner of the page to strip it off the door, but I’m quick to wrap my hand around her wrist. “Wait.”
“What is it?”
My eyes scroll through the lines of text. I’ve been staring at this article for the past week, but I was so stuck on the reputation smackdown, I didn’t notice the red bubble at the bottom, prompting the reader to reveal the piece about the International Cooking and Culture Expo. “The ICCE,” I huff out as my heartbeat quickens. “Did you withdraw us already?”
“I called, but they said they need me to send an email. Don’t worry, I’ll do it tonight.”
“No you won’t,” I tell her. “We have to go.”
“Do we?”
Yes, we do. I meant what I said: I’m done with cooking. I’m done with restaurants and with my dad and with everything French. But the red bubble caught my attention for a reason. I missed some things, including the email where they announced the conference’s location.
But location is key, and this year the ICCE happens to be a mere two hours away—and, coincidentally, where I want to be.
In Mayfield.
Barbara and I sit at the first available table at Beans, our local café. We’ve been coming here for so long, we’ve seen three different owners come and go.
The waitress takes our order, and instead of the usual macchiato, Barb gets some type of herbal infusion. Our lives have changed from the days when we’d sit here and chat about boys over our frappuccinos and mochas.
“Do you miss coffee?” I ask, crossing my legs under the iron table. “I don’t know if I’d be able to give up sushi and—” I stop speaking. “What?”
She shakes her head dramatically, her bright copper hair bouncing. “ What? What do you mean, what ?”
“I mean—”
“Martha is five minutes away, so cut the crap, Ames. How did you pass from ‘not interested’ to ‘I’m in’ in half a second?”
The ICCE. Wiping away a few crumbs from the table, I try to feign indifference. She’s known me for ten years, so I’m not sure she buys it. Plus, she’s sensitive. She always knows when there’s more than meets the eye.
“Oh my God. It’s that guy, isn’t it?”
I mentally curse myself. Martha and Barbara know little about Ian, but I’ve shared a few bits of information here and there. Mostly under coercion.
“What guy?” I ask placidly, avoiding her gaze as I dig around in my purse.
“ What guy? ” she mocks. “ That guy. The ‘mystery texts’ guy? The guy you crushed hard over?”
Okay. No point in feigning ignorance. “Ian?” When she wiggles her eyebrows, I ask, “What about him?”
“He totally lives in Mayfield, doesn’t he?”
When I shrug, she laughs loudly, letting me off the hook only because the waitress is approaching with our order. But once she walks away, Barb’s pointed look forces me to answer. “I don’t know if he still does. We haven’t talked in forever.”
“But that’s the reason you said yes, right?” She gasps. “That’s why you don’t want me to fix you up with anyone. You still like him.”
I sigh. “Like him” seems a bit of an understatement, but that’s not the only reason I don’t want to be set up with anyone. Frank’s equally responsible for that.
“Do you know what this is about?” I ask as I point at the table. Though I’m eager to change the topic, I’m genuinely concerned about seeing Martha.
“She hasn’t said a word to me.” Barb shrugs. “I know that she’s been having issues with the wedding, though.”
The wave of nausea that hits me as I remember when she planned her wedding the first time, alongside me, is swept away as her voice reaches us. “ Heeeeeeey! ”
We both turn and spot Martha’s bright smile as she approaches in a flurry, presses loud kisses to our cheeks, then sits down. The collection of paper bags in her hands crinkles before she drops them on the floor, and there’s an awkward exchange of looks as we all fall silent.
“My God, I’m exhausted,” Martha eventually says, trying to break the tension with a forced smile as she pushes her long, dark blond hair over her shoulders.
Eyeing the name of her favorite boutiques on the sides of the colorful bags, I ask, “Shopping?”
“Yes. Just needed to forget about the wedding for a minute.”
“Is everything all right?” Barb asks.
With a groan, Martha gestures at the waitress. “Honestly, I’m so over it. A wedding isn’t meant to be planned twice.” She puckers her lips, her green eyes lacking the usual gleam. “This second time around, it’s been even more of a nightmare.”
Barbara gives me a look that I translate to Martha should stop complaining about having to cancel her wedding the first time around, since the reason for it was that Trevor’s mom passed away a few days before the ceremony , and, discreetly widening my eyes, I pat Martha’s arm. “Well, let me know if you need anything. Barb is a little occupied at the moment,” I say, directing a grin at her bump, “but I’m happy to help.”
My stomach boils with sludge as Martha responds with her pity smile. I’ve seen it plenty during the years—most recently, when things with Frank went south. I can guess what this one is about. “I figured, with what happened, you’d want to stay away from anything love, wedding, and couple related,” she says, tilting her head, her wavy hair gently swooshing over her white T-shirt.
Maybe it’s not pity but compassion.
“I can be miserable about the train wreck that is my life and still be happy for you,” I say.
“No, Ames, I know—”
“Let me know if I can do anything,” I insist, this time with a full smile.
Barb tactically uses the moment of silence to change the topic back to shopping, then work, and then the baby, but something’s noticeably stiff. Within one hour our cups are empty and silence is once again acting like a brick wall between us.
“So, the reason I asked you to meet…” Martha starts, her bottom lip disappearing under the upper one as her nose wrinkles. She wants something. “Ames, I know we’ve been having our problems, but…” She rolls a lock of her hair around her finger, as she does every time she’s nervous, the light streaming in through the window and casting it a golden color. “…I just… I really miss you. Thirty years of friendship, and now we haven’t hung out in months. Are you even coming to my wedding?”
I can’t deny that my life without her has been easier. Lighter, even. After all the drama, there are cracks in our friendship that may heal only with time. But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss what we were before, and besides, she’s right. We’ve been friends for our whole lives, and that counts for something.
“Of course,” I reassure her. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Then… if you really mean it, there is something you could do for the wedding.”
My shoulders dip. “Of course I mean it.”
With an excited clap, she smiles. “You could… cook.”
The blood in my veins freezes as her fingers wrap around my forearm. She can’t be serious, can she? I haven’t truly opened up to her in months, but she knows everything that’s happened in my life. She must know, once again, she’s asking too much of me.
“The caterer blew me off, Ames. The wedding is in ten days, and I’ve got no food.” Her grip tightens. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“I’m sorry, Martha.” I pull my arm back, freeing it from her hold. “I won’t cook, but I’m happy to suggest plenty of chefs who could—”
“But I don’t want other chefs. I don’t know if I’ll like their food!” she complains.
“Well…” My shoulders rise in a shrug as if to say, That’s your problem.
“Seriously, Ames? You’re my best friend,” she insists. “Make me happy on my special day, pleeeeease .”
“I can’t. Anything else.”
“But—”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m sorry.”
She crosses her arms and tilts her chin up in a pout. “God, you’re so selfish.”
Oh, I am. I’m selfish, confrontational, stubborn. And I fucking love it. After spending my life failing to meet my father’s expectations, adjusting to suit Frank’s needs, and worrying about Martha’s whims, I now put myself first and won’t apologize for it.
The best part? Ian is the reason for it. Though he’s technically also the reason I have no job, boyfriend, best friend, money, or plans for the near future.
Her frown becomes a bitter smile, and I realize she’s not done pestering; she’s simply done for today. Before she can add anything else, I stand. “But call if you need anything else.”
Barb and Martha follow, collecting their belongings in a hurry, until, with a sour expression, Martha waves. “Yeah, okay. See ya.”
We walk, Martha going one direction, while Barb and I walk the opposite way. A perfect metaphor for what happened to our friendship over the past year. But it’s a drama I’m not eager to face, so I keep trudging without turning back.
I walk away from someone who’s been my best friend for most of my life and is now nothing more than an acquaintance. Away from the person I was until my life got upended, my certainties shattered, my principles challenged.
I have only one goal for the immediate future. One idea in my mind.
Tomorrow I’m going to Mayfield.
And I’m going to find Ian.