Chapter 6
Isabelle
The bar at Solstice is tucked into a corner of the main tasting room, with exposed stone and warm wood, bottles backlit behind the counter like something out of a design magazine.
By the time I make my way there at nine o'clock, I have been on my feet for fourteen hours and my body is staging a full rebellion.
My feet throb, my shoulders have fused into a single concrete block, and I want nothing more than a glass of something strong and a conversation that does not involve mise en place or protein delivery schedules.
Margot is already at the bar with some papers spread out in front of her, working on her own glass of wine and looking the picture of elegance.
I like to think of myself as someone with style and a decent sense of presentation, but after fourteen hours in a kitchen I look like I have been dragged through a hedge backwards and then lightly sautéed for good measure.
But she’s one of those incredible women who somehow manages to look effortlessly put together no matter the hour or the circumstance, like she just stepped out of a spa instead of working a long day coordinating events and handling sommelier duties.
Maybe it will rub off on me if I sit close enough to her. Osmosis of sophistication.
"Hey," I say, sliding onto the stool next to her at the corner of the bar. "Would I be in your way if I join you? You look busy, so I can find somewhere else if you need to concentrate."
"No, please," she says, cutting me off with a laugh and pushing the papers aside. "I am at the point where all of this is blurring together into one incomprehensible mess. I could use a distraction"
"Wonderful, because I could use one too." I flag down the bartender, a guy in his twenties with impressive tattoos covering both forearms. "Blanton's, neat."
Wine feels too delicate for the kind of exhaustion I am currently experiencing. If I am going to treat myself, I am going to do it properly.
Margot watches me with amusement as the bartender pours. "Rough day?"
"Rough week," I correct, accepting my glass and taking a grateful sip. The bourbon burns warm and smooth down my throat. "I mean everything is going well, but we’re two days out from opening night and I am starting to have stress dreams about salmon tartare."
"What happens in the salmon tartare dreams?" Margot asks.
"Last night the roe started multiplying exponentially and took over the entire kitchen. The night before that, the salmon grew legs and walked out the back door." I shake my head. "My subconscious is not subtle."
She laughs at that, the sound carrying over the low hum of conversation around us. "Those are oddly specific. Have you considered therapy?"
"I have considered wine, mostly.” I raise my glass. “Or bourbon, apparently."
"How is it going with Alex?" she asks, swirling her wine thoughtfully. "I know you were dreading having him around at first. Has he been tolerable, or should I start looking for places to hide the body?"
I snort into my bourbon. "He’s been fine. Surprisingly fine, actually." I pause, considering how much to admit. "He is actually quite good at what he does. Which is inconvenient, because I would prefer to maintain my moral high ground about the whole situation."
"The moral high ground of what, exactly?"
"Of being furious that my father sent someone to babysit me like I am twelve years old. Ideally the person he sent would be an asshole I could hate." I take another sip. "But it’s hard to stay furious when the person in question keeps being competent and helpful. He’s been showing me the messages to my father, so it’s like he’s more on my side. "
Margot tilts her head, studying me with that calm, assessing look she does so well. "So he is growing on you."
"I did not say that."
"You didn’t have to." She glances past my shoulder briefly, then back at me with a small smile. "You know I met him last summer, right? He was here for that chef collaboration event we hosted."
"I did not know that, no." I turn my glass slowly on the bar top, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "What was he like?"
"Lovely, actually. Very warm with everyone, respectful to the staff.
He stayed late every night helping clean up even though he absolutely did not have to.
Also, he is really nice to the estate dog who hangs around the gardens.
I feel like that says a lot about a person's character, how they treat animals. "
"That's a good metric," I admit.
Margot grins. "See I think Alex is growing on you, whether you want to admit it or not."
"He is bearable," I say firmly. "That is as far as I am willing to go."
She laughs and takes another sip of her wine, then her gaze drifts past my shoulder toward the other end of the bar. "Well, don’t look now, but your bearable new colleague is over there."
I follow her gaze and spot Alex at the far end of the bar, leaning against the counter with a rocks glass in his hand, chatting with the bartender. He has not noticed us yet, or if he has, he is pretending not to.
"You should invite him over," Margot says.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because you have been working together all week and clearly do not hate him as much as you thought you would." She raises an eyebrow. "Or because you want to, and you are looking for permission."
"I do not need permission to—" I stop, pressing my lips together. "You’re terrible."
"I know." She takes a sip of her wine, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
And then, because apparently Margot's terrible influence is contagious, I hear myself call out, "Alex!" and my hand is already up in the air waving before my brain has fully caught up to what my mouth is doing.
Alex turns immediately, his eyes finding mine across the bar, and he breaks into a wide smile that sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest. When did I become such a lightweight? This is definitely the bourbon's fault.
I motion for him to join us, and he nods, draining the last of whatever he was drinking and saying something to the bartender before pushing off from his spot at the bar.
"See?" Margot says, looking entirely too smug. "That wasn’t so hard."
"It means nothing," I mutter.
"So what is your type, anyway?" she asks, leaning in slightly. "Since you are being so insistent that Alex is not it."
"Finance guys," I say. "You know, the buttoned-up spreadsheet types. Structured. Predictable. Good with numbers."
Margot makes a face like I just told her I enjoy eating broken glass. "Noooo. Finance guys? And here I was thinking we were kindred spirits, soulmates even."
I laugh. "Hey! They can be charming. In their own way. In a very specific, slightly boring way that I find comforting."
Which is true, mostly. My last boyfriend was an analyst at a hedge fund in Manhattan. He was perfectly nice, perfectly appropriate, and perfectly forgettable. We dated for a few months until he told me he loved me and I dumped him.
But none of that matters. Alex and I are going to be working together for a while, so I might as well smooth things over between us. He makes his way through the crowded bar and leans against the counter next to me, nodding at Margot with familiarity.
"Nice to see you again," he says.
"You too, Alex." She raises her glass in a small salute. "How are you settling in?"
"Can't complain. The cottage is incredible, the views are unbeatable, and the company..." He glances at me with a grin. "Is mostly tolerable."
I roll my eyes. "High praise."
Margot is watching this entire exchange like she has front row seats to the best show in town, her wine glass raised partway to her lips, not bothering to hide her smile.
He turns to me more fully, and there is something almost boyish in the way he grins, like he is perpetually on the verge of getting into trouble and enjoying every second of it. "So. Two days out from opening night. How are you feeling?"
"Exhausted," I admit, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. "But good. I think we are in decent shape."
"Better than decent," he says, leaning back against the bar. "The menu is solid, your team knows what they are doing, and you have got everything dialed in. You are going to crush it."
The bartender appears with Alex's drink, setting it down in front of him. He picks up the glass and nods his thanks, then turns back to me. "Nerves getting any better at all?"
"No, I'm still a disaster," I admit. "I just told Margot about my increasingly horrifying food dreams. I'm worried the next one will be even more disturbing. Like the salmon will start a revolution or something. Maybe eventually that will stop happening before big events like this."
"I doubt it," he says. "I still get that way before big services, the ones where I really want everything to be perfect. I think it's healthy, actually. Means you still care."
"Is that your philosophy?" I ask. "Stay nervous, stay sharp?"
"Something like that." He takes a sip of his drink. "Though I prefer to think of it as caring enough to want it to be perfect, even though you know perfect doesn't exist."
I find myself nodding. "The pursuit of something you know you will never quite reach, but you chase it anyway."
We settle into conversation after that, swapping work disaster stories that get progressively more ridiculous.
We trade them back and forth, each trying to outdo the last, and Alex is unfortunately quite funny, and I find myself laughing so hard at one point that I have to wipe tears from the corners of my eyes and catch my breath.
We eventually move off work stories and onto movies, both Alex and I turning out to be complete cinephiles who can argue about film for hours, whereas Margot sits back and watches us with amusement.
"No, the original is objectively better," Alex argues, grinning at me. "There is no way you can possibly think the remake holds up."