Chapter 37 Dinner with the Enemy
Dinner with the Enemy
— N INE W EEKS A FTER A MELIE’S W EDDING —
Large metal rings hang from the ceiling next to blue, white, and red ribbons that gently flap as the breeze from outside makes its way in. Closing the door, I study the empty high tables, the tablets placed on each, the colorful theater masks hanging on the walls. Now that it’s empty, the Marguerite has lost all its usual festive atmosphere, and instead reminds me of an abandoned amusement park.
It’s bigger than what it looks like on TV or in magazines. And though it smells somewhat similar to La Brasserie, there’s something that’s just a little bit different and has me scrunching my nose. Maybe it’s what bad taste smells like.
“Hello?” I call, taking a reluctant step forward. I must say, when I suggested we come here for dinner, mostly pushed by a morbid curiosity, I didn’t expect the restaurant to be closed.
“Amelie.” William enters the dining room through the swinging doors of the kitchen, a warm smile on his face as he cheerfully walks toward me. In his gray suit, he looks even better than he did yesterday, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about my unimpressive jeans and shirt.
Ian didn’t receive today’s pickup line either. “Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.” It was stupid anyway.
I guess I should give up, but he didn’t when we met, and I won’t now, even if we’re strangers again.
“Come. The chef is cooking a special dinner for us.” William gestures to me to follow, and we stop in front of the only set table in the room, the one right under the large upside-down candelabra hanging from the ceiling. With two lit red candles, colorful plates on white linen, and light pop music coming out of the speakers, this place couldn’t be more different from La Brasserie. “What do you think?”
“Hmm?”
He gestures toward the decor as he pulls my chair out for me. “About the restaurant. It’s your first time here, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yeah.” He pushes my chair in after I sit, then settles down in front of me as he unbuttons the cuffs of his jacket. “It’s really gorgeous.”
And a little flamboyant.
“I’m afraid I can’t take the credit for it. My wife did most of the design.”
“Your wife?” I search my brain for any piece of information I have about this man. I know he has a son who’s not a chef. A wife, though? I don’t remember anything about a wife. “You’re married?”
“I was, a long time ago.” He smiles stiffly. “Marguerite.”
“French?”
“Parisienne.” Clearing his throat and resting his forearms on the table, he smiles wider. “She was the family’s French cuisine fanatic. She’s no longer with us, I’m afraid.”
I immediately feel more confident in my decision. To this day, all I’ve known about William Roberts has been about his mediocre cuisine and more than awful attitude. Now he’s a man who’s lost his wife, and I can sympathize with him a little more. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Amelie.”
Two waiters come out of the kitchen, and instead of the stuffy tuxes my father’s staff wears, they’re in black T-shirts with the Marguerite’s logo and red jeans.
Also flamboyant.
They set two wooden trays on either side of us—on one, a selection of French cheeses and charcuterie, and on the other, a sampling of appetizers that’s fairly familiar. Pissaladière, smoked salmon canapés, socca , and more well-presented delicacies in small portions.
With one quick look, I can tell this isn’t going to be a good meal, but I smile and force a “Wow” out.
“Please dig in. I’m dying to know your opinion.”
He’s really not.
I grab one of everything and set it on my plate, slowly making my way through the amuse-bouches. They’re anything but amusing, though, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s forcing down bad food. “Delicious,” I comment after a bite of the canapé.
“Oh, Amelie, I can’t see you suffer like that.” He laughs, dabbing a napkin over his lips. “Please don’t eat whatever it is you don’t like.”
When my apologetic look meets his, he scoffs. “Nothing?” Shoulders sinking, he points at the board on his right. “Not even the cheese? You know we just cut it, right?”
I study his expectant expression and, deciding he’s definitely more of a good sport than my dad, I point at the salmon. “See the dark coloration there? It’s because it’s frozen. Fresh salmon has an even, lighter color. And the socca… it’s dry. As for the canapés, you should tell your chef they were done about two minutes before they actually served them, and the pissaladière is… basically a pizza. The dough should be about this much thinner.” I show him my thumb and forefinger almost touching. He mostly looks entertained, so I turn to the cubes of cheese. “As for this… that’s not how you cut cheese. It should be in slices.”
“Huh.” His brow furrows as he studies the food around him.
“Sorry. I’m pretty sure that’s not how one is supposed to bury the hatchet.”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “No, no. I asked. Or, er, well, I didn’t. But I wanted to know, and if you weren’t about to open your own restaurant, I’d hire you.” He throws a look at the door leading to the kitchen. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to get rid of my current head chef.”
I force out a laugh. One would think mediocre cooking skills would be enough to fire a chef.
“I must admit I’m somewhat curious,” William says, taking a bite of a canapé. “What happened between Amelie Preston and her father to cause such a deep rupture?”
Throwing a look at him over the light of the candle between us, I shrug. Though I don’t intend to fight my dad’s war, I’m certainly not fighting William’s either. “No rupture. It was just time for me to move on.”
“That easy?”
“That easy,” I confirm. It surely was that easy for my dad, since he barely reacted to the news.
He tilts his head, then takes a sip of red wine, his eyes burning into mine until he sets it down. “And when will the grand opening be?”
“The date isn’t set yet,” I lie. I think he knows, because he continues eating with a smug smile as he observes me.
“And your menu? What do you plan to—”
“William,” I say, offering a smile to balance out my rude interruption. “We both know I’ll either lie or refuse to share any detail about my upcoming venture.”
“Fair enough.” He gestures to the waiter, who comes closer and begins removing the appetizers from the table. “So you won’t tell me anything about your restaurant.”
“I will not.”
“And you won’t tell me what happened with your father.”
“Definitely not.”
He raises both hands in defeat. “All right, Amelie. Tell me about you. Who’s Amelie Preston, besides her father’s daughter and a soon-to-be restaurateur?”
The question nearly sends me reeling.
For the longest time, I’ve been Frank’s girlfriend. I’ve been one of La Brasserie’s chefs. Martha’s best friend. Then Ian became a huge part of me until he wasn’t anymore. Now, I don’t know who I am.
I guess I’m Amelie, sharing dinner with someone I probably should avoid at all costs.
Amelie who was left at the altar.
Amelie whose father let her go without batting an eye.
Amelie who made the wrong decision.
“I—I need to use the restroom,” I say, moving my chair back and rising.
William sets his napkin down and, with a nod, points behind him. “Second door to the—”
I glance at him, but his eyes aren’t on my face. They’re just a touch south of it—enough to immediately cause me to panic, thinking I might be flashing him with a nip slip. But when I look down, ready to cover up, I notice the long silver chain I keep around my neck has escaped from underneath my shirt, and what William sees is an engagement ring.
Yellow topaz tear-shaped stones around a central white diamond on a thick gold band. Like a yellow daisy.
The ring that Ian almost gave me.
I slide it back under my shirt and offer him a circumstantial smile. For a few seconds, his eyes roam left and right, his lips parted. God, how pathetic. He must know I’m not married, because he’s utterly shocked. I clear my throat. “Second door to the…”
“Left. To the left.”
Politely, I nod and walk away, cursing myself in every French and English word that can be used for the occasion. I enter the bathroom, taking stock of its black-and-gold marble sinks, rendering it just as eccentric as everything else. I step in front of the mirror, throwing a disgruntled look at my flushed cheeks and sunken eyes. Even with makeup, I’ve been able to cover only part of the misery I’ve been through in the last eight months. And this heat isn’t helping either.
After splashing some water on my wrists and dabbing a tissue over my face to dry up the thin layer of sweat covering it, I leave the bathroom and make my way back to the table. William smiles, but something’s definitely off, and though I certainly don’t owe him an explanation, I’d rather say something now than be surprised by his question later.
“I’m not married,” I say as I avoid his gaze. “Just… just in case you were wondering.”
“You’re not?”
This time I focus on his dark eyes and shake my head.
“Why aren’t you—” He breaks off, then rubs his chin. “I mean, if you’re not married, then are you… engaged?”
Well, if it isn’t my favorite topic of conversation. “Hmm… I was engaged for a while, but things didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”
Lord, he will not let this go, will he? And after refusing to share any details about my restaurant or my father, then freaking out at his next question, I feel weird telling him to mind his own business. “We broke up.”
“What happened?”
Clearing my throat, I meet his gaze. Why is he being so damn invasive? I’m obviously being vague on purpose. “William, I’m afraid there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. I’ve agreed to have dinner with you because I’d love to—what was it you said?” I ask, not giving him time to answer. “Hash out our differences. Start fresh. But whether I’m married, or engaged, or one of eight sister wives, should be of no interest to you.” Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders. “We’re not friends, and you’re making me uncomfortable.”
He seems to remember himself, and as the waiters set a plate of salmon and another of entrec?te on the table, he rubs his hands together and studies me with an apologetic smile. “You’re right. I’m so sorry. I guess… you’re wearing a ring around your neck and… it’s peculiar.”
I stab my salmon, my annoyance growing with his insistence. I refuse to acknowledge it, though. I’ve given him all the answers he needs.
“So did you leave him? Or did he leave you?”
God! Why does he keep insisting?
I set my fork down, knowing there’s one answer that will get him to drop the topic immediately. “He left me at the altar, okay? We were having problems for a while, and I tried really hard to fix them, but it didn’t work out.”
“Hmm. So sorry to hear.” His gaze narrows as he cuts a piece of his steak, his charming demeanor now only a distant memory. He looks… annoyed, for some reason. “Are you still in love with him? Is that why you’re wearing that ring?”
“I’m not in love with anyone,” I mutter through gritted teeth. It’s a lie, of course, but there’s no way I’m telling him the ring I wear around my neck is from another guy. The guy I should have ended up with.
Blowing out an annoyed breath, I try to compose myself. “If this is what you’ll want to talk about for the rest of our dinner, then I think we should end it right now.”
He distractedly nods, his jaw clenched. Quickly, he grabs his phone, throws it a look, then turns to me. “I’m sorry, Amelie, but it looks like we’ll indeed need to call it a night. Something came up that has to be taken care of right now.”
With my fork and knife still in hand, I study his expression. He’s clearly not joking, but this makes no sense. The guy came to my restaurant to ask me to bury the hatchet, then questioned me about Frank, and now he’s getting rid of me? “What—”
He stands. “Thank you so much for coming. Do you know how you’re getting back home?”
“Y-yes.” I stand, too, just as he motions to the waiters to come over. They take away our plates of nearly untouched food, and once I grab my bag, William walks me to the door in complete silence. The tension is so palpable, it can’t possibly be because of the ring. Because of my personal life. Is he annoyed because I didn’t answer all his questions? Because I dared to defy him? Maybe my dad was right all along, and he’s just an arrogant douchebag.
We reach the entrance of the restaurant, and when I throw a questioning look at him, he smiles politely. “Apologies for cutting our evening short. You’ll hear from me sooner than you expect.”
I open my mouth to say something, but I’m possibly less interested in all of this than he is, so I just nod, plenty aware that I won’t hear from him at all. Thank God.
I guess the hatchet remains anything but buried.