Chapter 46 Main Course
Main Course
Poppy
I huddle next to the bar, ostensibly to put in a few orders for Chester. In reality, I’m trying to use the reflection of the
mirrored backdrop to spy on my family. Appetizers went out a few minutes ago, and not much conversation seems to be occurring
at the table.
It could be a good thing—everyone is so in love with the food, they can’t stop eating for even a moment to rave about it.
Or it could be terrible, and they’re trying to think of a polite way to say so.
Even though I didn’t cook the food myself, I can’t curb my nerves. I want Jack to succeed so badly. I want all of them, Dad
especially, to be impressed, not just with him, but with me. With what we accomplished together.
“I’m sure they’re loving it,” Chester says as he works on a set of martinis. “Stop lurking like a creep and go talk to them.”
I look at Chester; he’s dressed up tonight in a navy-blue button down, to match my dress and the server uniforms, with an
apron tied at his waist. He looks good like this, at ease and charming with the bar patrons. “Chester?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you keep working here? I mean, if it was Jack’s place?”
“Jack’s place and your place, or Jack’s place?”
“It’s his.”
“We both know the only way he’s keeping it is if you’re here with him.” He sends another tray of drinks away with a server,
then wipes down the bar with a dishcloth. “Sure, I’d love to keep helping out. Maybe even get into the kitchen, a little.
Is this happening?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.” I look at the closed door to the kitchen. Jack is just beyond that wall. The way he kissed me and
played with my hair after his confession about the night he left Diamond Bay—it felt like an answer in itself. Yet I can’t
bring myself to trust it.
He has to realize this is where he belongs—but I can’t do that for him.
“Looks like your family is about ready for another glass of wine,” Chester says mildly.
“Ugh, fine.”
He laughs a little. “Deep breath, Pop Rocks. You’re doing great.”
I throw my shoulders back in an effort to banish my nerves as I walk to the cozy corner table where I seated my family. Julia
looks beautiful in a bold, floral-patterned dress, her dark blonde hair shining, and Caroline fabulous in a silk blouse and
slacks. Mom broke out a Palm Beach–inspired look for this dinner, down to the pink leather slingback bag carefully hooked
underneath the table (a modification I asked Jack and Chester to make, because nothing is worse than setting an expensive
purse on the floor). Dad, however, is in his typical black suit, salt-and-pepper hair combed back severely.
“More wine?” I pour the rest of the bottle into their glasses the way Chester taught me, rotating the bottle so none of it
spills out. “How were your appetizers?”
“Delicious,” Julia says, before either of our parents can get a word in. “The scallops were cooked perfectly.”
“And the duck was quite clever,” Mom says. “The plum sauce was delicious.”
“Amazing,” says Caroline. “And Poppy, it’s absolutely stunning in here.”
I beam at the praise, lacing my fingers behind my back. “Dad?”
“Very impressive so far.” He takes a sip of wine. “I know what this restaurant looked like before. Caroline’s right, it’s quite the transformation. And the crowd here—you’ve garnered a lot of attention. Bret and I are planning to compare notes after the meal.”
“I knew it would have to be beautiful to lure down the New York crowd.”
He considers that with a nod. “The appetizers were superb. Are you picking our entrées, as well?”
“You’ll love everything,” I promise. I glance at Julia, who has her head cocked to the side as she looks at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” she declares. “I just like this version of you.”
After I put in their main course orders, I sweep around the dining room again, thanking guests for giving us a chance, smoothing
out the odd complaint, and recommending different dishes from the menu. It feels a little like when I was an influencer—the
same smile, the same friendliness—but none of it is put on like it was when I knew I had to present myself as @itspoppywinfield.
I keep track of the timing, heading to the kitchen when it’s time to serve my family their entrées. Jack startles when I enter,
losing his rhythm for half a second before regaining it; he’s collected, unhurried in his movements, tweezers in hand as he
plates.
“How is it going?”
“They’re loving it so far. Everyone is.”
“A woman didn’t like the cook on her steak.”
“I handled it.” I smile at him. “For my family?”
“The guests of honor.” He slides the plates across to me, one at a time. “How does your father seem?”
“He said the appetizers were superb.” I carefully take two of the plates in hand; I don’t trust my balance with all four at
once. “Maybe you can get away for a second to say hi? I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to leave the guys in the weeds here without me.”
“Over dessert, then.” I wish I could kiss him, but the pass is between us, and anyway, he’ll shoo me out himself if I linger
too long. When he calls for hands, he means hands now.
I set the plates down in front of my parents, Julia, and Caroline carefully, making sure they’re rotated the right way—because there is a right way, when the food is composed like art—before stepping back and allowing them to pick up their utensils.
I chose the pasta for my mother, who loves mushrooms; grouper with burst tomatoes in a coconut milk sauce for Caroline—that’s one of Sal’s recipes, updated by Jack for Fable; and an upscale take on shrimp and grits for Julia.
She looks up at me, eyes dancing. “Is this an apology for what happened at my wedding?”
“From who, me or Jack?”
“Maybe both of you together,” she teases.
I hope my blush isn’t showing. “And Dad, I definitely wanted you to try this one. It’s the first concept we came up with for
the menu. It was my idea, actually.”
“You had an idea for the menu?”
“I contributed to more than half of what’s on the menu. This particular dish is meant to remind you that sometimes the best
food memories are simple.” I gesture to the foil packet, which Jack somehow managed to arrange artfully amid the potatoes
and asparagus. The fragrant smell of fish escapes along with the curl of steam over the plate. “Jack has been teaching me
how to cook. He’s been doing that since the beginning.”
“Really?” Julia says. “That’s amazing, Pops.”
Somehow, Dad doesn’t seem all that surprised, but he smiles. “I wouldn’t take Hartman for a very patient teacher.”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “He dragged his feet every step of the way.”
“Douglas,” Mom says, turning to my father. “Can you believe this?”
In the past, whenever they’ve expressed pride for something I accomplished, it always held a tinge of regret, as if they wished
they could be celebrating bigger, better things. Why celebrate one daughter finally passing geometry with a C+ when your other
daughter just got into Harvard law? It used to sting, even when they were smiling.
This feels different, however.
This feels genuine.
“Wait until you taste dessert,” I can’t help but add. “I made it, start to finish.”
Dad unwraps the fish packet slowly. He tastes it on its own first, a delicate bite with his eyes closed. Then he puts together a forkful of all the components together. It’s the same thing Jack does, wanting the separate parts and then the whole.
“Wow,” he says eventually.
My heart might explode. I nearly break out into a dance, but remember myself at the last moment. The front of house manager
doesn’t bounce on her feet—in front of her father, at least.
“You came up with this?” he says.
I nod. “Jack executed the details.”
“But it was your concept.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. I might not have become an accomplished chef overnight, but under Jack’s tutelage, I learned more in
a handful of months than I’d have thought possible. I know what flavors go together. I know how to handle a set of kitchen
knives. I can sear and braise and bake and broil. I don’t have the training to keep up with Jack during the dinner rush, but
I don’t want to, anyway. I want to continue to invent. To explore. To run this dining room with all the grace and dignity
it deserves.
“I’ll let you eat,” I add, retreating before they can draw me into more conversation. I’m about to burst out of my skin with
relief and happiness. The look in Dad’s eyes—I can read them perfectly. The food has impressed him. The restaurant has impressed
him. Jack has impressed him. And I impressed him, finally, after years and years of trying and failing.
I nearly burst into the kitchen, but I don’t want to throw Jack off again, so I escape to the restroom instead. I do a victory
dance in my heels until I trip and nearly fall into the hand dryer. I feel like I could run a marathon right now, shoes and
all, and win the whole thing.
Once Jack hears how much my dad loves Fable, there’s no way he’ll want to sell. Maybe Kiara’s right and we can get Dad onboard
as an investor. He’s been expanding to the west coast, after all; why not back a restaurant in Florida, too? Jack and I can
go in as partners and build it up even more. Together. Make it better than Green Street could ever be.
And I’ll have stubborn, headstrong, irresistible Jack Hartman in my life forever.
When I finally stop wiggling for half a second, I smooth the creases in my dress, reapply my lipstick, and fuss with my hair.
A quick glance at the dining room shows me that my family is nearly finished with their dinners; my dad isn’t even at the
table anymore. Maybe he’s in the other restroom, or getting a drink at the bar, or observing Jack as he works. I hope it’s
not the latter, because I want to surprise him when I bring out my tropical trifle for dessert.
I nudge open the door to the kitchen.
My dad is there—and he’s talking to Jack.
I nearly join them, but the way they’re positioned, heads bent together, gives me pause. I duck around the corner and behind
a storage cabinet. It’s hard to make out what they’re saying amid the general kitchen chaos, but my ears perk up when I hear
my name.