28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Carrington
I typed out my daily text to Thea, sent it off, and tossed my phone on top of the sea of paperwork on the desk in front of me almost an hour ago. Even after two weeks of radio silence, I still hope one of these days the “read” notification will be followed up by a bubble indicating she’s responding. It hasn’t happened yet, but it doesn’t stop me from checking every chance I get.
I’ve commandeered Seth’s office at the back of Carina Cove to sort through all the restaurant’s finances, compiling reports for prospective investors and organizing the documents to help make the transition as smooth as possible.
I’ve been at this every day since getting back from South Carolina, and I’m so close to having everything finalized. I reached out to Michael, my old boss, who put me in contact with an investment group that specializes in restaurants and the hospitality sector. After Seth and I met with them last week, they’ve shown interest and—pending the financial reports I’m working on now—will move forward with taking over majority ownership, giving me an opportunity to step back and be solely a silent partner.
A big selling point for the investment group was that Dan, my sous chef, agreed to take over the executive chef position. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to head my kitchen. Dan has been with me since day one, helped me develop the menu, and was integral when we hired almost every other kitchen staff member.
As for Seth, he will be moving up to a general manager position, and the investors agreed that nothing will change without Seth’s input and final sign off. He himself is investing as well and will hold a share of ownership. It’s something I should have offered him a long time ago—he’s definitely earned a right to call Carina Cove his own.
Seth and I reached an unspoken truce after our fight my first night here. After a few tense days around the apartment, he tabled his animosity toward me so we could prepare for the meetings with the investors. I know he’s still unhappy with my decision to leave Seattle, but I can live with that. I hope he’ll learn there are more important things in life than work one day.
With any luck, this time next week, I’ll be back in Indigo Hill with Thea ignoring me to my face instead of over text. One issue at a time.
I put down the printed profit and loss statement I’ve been poring over and rub the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to stave off the headache I feel coming on. After another minute, I heave a heavy sigh and reach to pick up the papers again when my phone pings with an email notification at the same time as a knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I call out, turning to the door, leaving the phone on the desk, email unread.
The door opens, and Dan pops his head in. “Have a second, Chef?”
“Of course, come in,” I say and drop the papers again. I motion for him to have a seat in the chair on the other side of the desk from me. As soon as he steps fully into the small office, I know I’m not going to like what he has to say. His body language is speaking volumes before he even makes it the couple of steps to the chair. His hands are fidgeting, and his brow is dewy with sweat. As he sits, his eyes refuse to meet mine. “What’s up, Dan?”
His eyes continue to ping around the small space, looking at anything but me. After a beat, I finally see resolve settle across his features, and he slides his eyes to me. “I’ve accepted an offer at Exodus. I’m here to give my notice.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, trying to keep my voice level to hide my panic. My mind is whirring with how this could possibly be happening. All of my plans to move back to South Carolina slowly start circling the drain.
“Someone must have talked about all the changes going on here, and they reached out to me. They’re offering me the head chef position but also ownership shares when their new restaurant opens in a few months. It’s a significant offer.”
I school my face so he can’t see just how much this is affecting me. My stomach has bottomed out, and I’m fighting down the anger that was first to rise within me. Dan is pivotal to the deal to sell to the investors. Without him, the deal will fall apart.
Finding a new chef with the experience needed to run our kitchen is not an easy task. Besides the necessary skills, whoever will replace me needs to be able to seamlessly fit in from day one. It’s not a small ask. Transitions in kitchen leadership make or break restaurants. I can’t leave my life’s work to just anyone, and I don’t have the months it would take to find someone else.
I run my hand over my scruff a few times before speaking, trying to collect myself. “Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. You’re leaving us in a tight spot.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t even consider it if it weren’t everything I’ve been dreaming of. I’ll pretty much be doing what you did six years ago—not only head chef, but owner. You know I wouldn’t leave for anything less.” Dan’s a great man and a hard worker. He deserves this, and his sincerity douses some of the anger inside me.
“How much time can you give us before you move on?” I ask.
“I asked them for four weeks. I want to give you some time to find someone else or get Eliza up to speed.” Eliza is one of our chefs de partie, and although she’s talented, she’s fresh out of school and not ready to step into the executive chef position. I was hoping Dan would promote her to sous chef after my departure.
I stand to signal the end of the impromptu meeting and hold my hand out to Dan. He quickly stands and grips my palm. “I’m really sorry to see you go, but I get it. I wouldn’t be able to pass it up either.”
Dan nods, and the relief in his eyes is evident. He quietly makes his way out. I stand for a minute or two with hands on my hips and head hanging, trying to think of my next steps.
“Fuck!” I scream and swipe everything off the top of the desk in front of me. Papers, pens, and my cell all clatter to the floor. Dropping back into the chair, my head lands in my hands as I lean forward with elbows on the desk. I dig my nails into my scalp.
I was so close. With each breath I take, my hopes of seeing Thea anytime soon seem to move further and further away. There’s no way I can find a new chef to replace me in just a few weeks. Without an executive chef to carry on the restaurant’s standards, the investors will pull out. Without the investors, my only choices are to stay on personally or close up shop and say goodbye to everything I have worked toward my entire adult life.
How do I go back to South Carolina knowing that closing Carina Cove will put twenty-seven people out of work?
It’s after one-thirty in the morning when I finally get back to Seth’s. After my conversation with Dan, I threw myself into the dinner service, only coming up for air long after the last customer left, and I’d let the kitchen staff go. I had stayed and deep cleaned the walk-in freezer. I needed something to keep my hands busy while my mind worked to come up with a solution.
Three hours later, the freezer is spotless, but I’m no closer to finding a way back to Thea without throwing away everything I’ve created here.
After hanging my coat up in the hall closet and tossing my keys in Seth’s key dish, I beeline directly for the fridge to grab a cold beer. As soon as my hand makes contact with the fridge’s door handle, I throw my head back with a long sigh. I turn around and go back to the door to make sure my boots are on the shoe tray. Seth is rigid about his apartment, and the last thing I want to wake up to is another one of his speeches about how everything has its place.
Fuck. I have to get out of here.
After grabbing a can of beer and popping it open, I finally drop onto one of the stools at the island. I take a few pulls of the crisp IPA and enjoy the silence for a few beats. Seth is more than likely asleep in his room since he’s an early riser, usually getting to the gym by five. He hardly ever goes out unless it’s work related, or I force him out with our friends. I can’t remember the last time he had a date. He’ll become a complete workaholic if I leave.
When. When I leave. There can’t be a choice here.
I pull out my phone to text Thea. I have to tell her what’s going on. She needs to know that this will take a lot longer than I was hoping. I promised to be an open book with her. My fingers hover over the screen. I can’t make myself tell her I’m not coming.
Closing out of the message app, I switch over to my email, hoping for something from the investors. An email from Thea catches my eye. Read this… I immediately click on it and try to make sense of the picture. As soon as I recognize my mother’s handwriting, I know what it is.
I read through the letter once and then twice more to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Answers. Acknowledgement. Validation . It’s all I’ve wanted from my parents for the last thirteen years. Of course it comes too late.
“Fuck!” I scream and toss the half empty can across the kitchen and into the sink. Beer splashes on the counter and tile backsplash. Apparently, emotional outbursts are all I can do today. I drop my face into my hands as I hear Seth run out of his room and into the kitchen.
“Wha—what’s going on?” His voice is raspy from sleep, but his eyes dart around looking from me to the mess on the other side of the kitchen and back.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll—I’ll clean that up.” I stand and start making my way over to grab some paper towels, but Seth’s hand lands on my forearm before I can get around him.
“No, stop. What happened?” He shoves me back down on the stool and goes around the island to clean it up himself.
“Did Dan tell you he’s leaving?”
“What?” Seth’s head snaps to me. “No. What do you mean? Leaving where?”
“He got an offer from Exodus. Executive chef and partner-owner.”
“Fuck.” He sighs and turns back to wiping the counter.
“Oh, and Thea found a letter from my parents,” I say.
“A letter?”
“Yeah, an in-case-of letter. They apologized for everything, explained their reasons for leaving RED to me and Thea. I don’t know how to deal with all of this. We were so close with those investors. How am I going to find another chef, let alone get them up and running in the time frame we discussed?”
Seth tosses the paper towel in the trash under the sink and reaches up to another cabinet to bring down a couple of tumblers. “I think you need something a little stronger than beer right now.” He pulls down a now-familiar looking bottle of whiskey and pours us each two fingers.
I nod my head in thanks and take a long sip.
“So,” he says, taking a sip himself. “Should I start updating my resume?” he asks with a wry smile, but I see a hint of apprehension in his eyes.
I drain my glass and say, “I don’t fucking know.” Running my fingers through my hair, I then add, “I don’t fucking know anything.”
“Your parents are only human. We often idolize our parents and place them on a pedestal. We think because they’ve been around longer, they have all the answers and know the difference between right and wrong. Your parents were only a few years older than you are now when you left. Do you think you’ll have all the answers in six or seven years?”
There’s a long pause. Dr. Ferris agreed to see me at seven thirty this morning after I texted her in the middle of the night once Seth and I finally said goodnight following two more refills.
“Okay, let’s reframe this,” she says. “What’s your greatest regret?”
I look up at her and say without missing a beat, “Letting Thea go.”
“Okay. And how long would you have stayed away from her if your parents hadn’t passed and you didn’t have to go back to South Carolina?”
“Fine, I get it. We’re a family of cowards.”
“I don’t think cowardice has anything to do with it. I think when emotions are high, it’s easier for people to create distance as a means of self-preservation. Once enough time goes by, we convince ourselves that it’s easier to continue on maintaining this distance than to face the emotions again to try to fix what’s broken. Let’s call it emotional inertia.”
“So you’re saying I can’t be angry with my parents because it’s human nature that kept them from reaching out?”
“Now you know I would never tell you not to feel something. Points for being able to name the emotion you’re feeling, by the way. For the longest time, you would come in here and talk to me about what happened with you and your family, but when I asked you how you felt about it, you’d say ‘I don’t know,’” she drops her voice to imitate me on the last words. I give her a flat look and she continues, “Eighteen months.”
“What’s eighteen months?” I ask.
“Eighteen months is how long it took for you to be able to label what you felt toward your parents, your brother. Not until you told me about that last fight with your parents. That was the first time you said, and I quote, ‘I have never been more angry.’ Talking about that particular incident opened the floodgates.” She pauses and looks at me with her usual pointed gaze. “But going back to your question; you are free to feel toward your parents however is appropriate for you. But do you think it’s also appropriate to grant them the same grace you’ve allowed yourself for staying away from Thea for so long?”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped in front of me. My eyes are cast down on the carpet, tracing the swirls in the pattern.
Seeing she’s not going to draw an answer out of me, Dr. Ferris says, “There is no right or wrong answer here. Your parents are no longer here to help you find closure. It is entirely up to you how you choose to move forward.”
“But none of this helps me figure out what my next step is right now. Do I abandon the career—the name I’ve created for myself—here or do I spend the next six months to a year finding and training someone to replace me? Because, realistically, that’s how long it will take. I don’t think Thea will wait for me. I’m already on shaky ground with her after everything I’ve put her through the last month. This may very well be the last thing she needs to close the door on me—on us—forever.”
“What do you want?” she asks flatly.
“I want Thea. More than anything. Full stop. But I also want my career. Right or wrong, it’s part of my identity.” I pause then add, “Is it selfish to want to have my cake and eat it too?”
Dr. Ferris narrows her eyes at me, and we sit in silence for a minute. She glances at her watch. “Looks like the hour’s up. But before you go, let me just say this: you’re a chef; seems like you have the skillset to bake another cake at any time. But this piece of cake that you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist for the last eight years will not be around for you to eat forever.”
“That’s not your best metaphor, Dr. Ferris,” I say with a smile, standing up and making my way to the door.
“It’s the best I’ve got before my second cup of coffee, but I think you get the idea.”
I thank Dr. Ferris again for meeting me so early and head out. I glance at the time and see it’s only eight-thirty, but suddenly I really want a piece of cake.