Chapter Eight
A COUPLE OF days later, settled into her new apartment, a charming brick building in Harlem, her morning alarm abruptly awakened her.
Even though the ringtone sounded like wind chimes, it might as well have been a bullhorn.
Cierra let out an audible groan and slapped one of her pillows across her face; it was time to get to work.
Rubbing her eyes, she walked barefoot down her hardwood hallway to the quaint galley kitchen.
It had enough room for a French-bistro style circular table and a little wire chair, which was right beneath the window facing the next-door building.
She put on some coffee, adding dashes of cinnamon to the grounds and a little ginger.
Soft morning light filled the room as she opened her notebook to review the menu.
Breakfast:
Sourdough toast with mushrooms, eggs, red pepper, and feta
Wild berry chia oat bars
Lunch:
Mediterranean tuna salad wraps with fruit
Grilled vegetable pressed paninis
Dinner:
Roasted chicken with rice pilaf and tabbouleh
Wild rice soup with daikon, mushrooms, and coconut milk
It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, but man, it looked good written out. She was still in her first month on the job and wasn’t willing to take many risks.
While double-checking her list she had written, she thought about where to shop.
She figured she’d walk through the park to reach a nearby farmers’ market, and whatever she couldn’t find there, she’d get at a specialty grocery store.
It was a little more effort, but she always found that the produce was more flavorful, and it would make for great video content, especially on a beautiful day like today.
Like most parks in Manhattan, once inside its confines, she could almost forget it was in the most haywire cement jungle in the world.
Cierra shuffled along the stone path, occasionally stopping to bask in the sun’s rays peeking through emerald-colored tree leaves, until she came upon the market, which was absolutely bustling.
According to her watch, it was already eleven, so she needed to move fast if she wanted to make it to the Lawsons’ by one p.m. when she was due to arrive.
Carrots, celery, daikon, mushrooms . . .
She recited the ingredients to herself as she scanned and filmed some goods. She nestled herself beside a discerning older man in a frumpy old hunting jacket, who didn’t look happy about the intrusion.
“Sorry,” Cierra muttered. She grabbed fragrant celery and carrots and then made her way to the register.
Luckily, she spotted a bunch of daikon en route as well.
She deeply inhaled the fresh, almost acidic smell coming from the vegetables in her arms. Nothing beat farm-fresh celery.
It was a hill Cierra was willing to die on.
When she looked up, there was a line of at least six people in front of her, and she still needed to find the mushroom person (there was always a weird mushroom person).
She checked her phone again (for the time, not to check if Julian had texted her back).
It was ten minutes until noon — she was cutting it close.
But before she knew it, she was checking out and booking it to the mushroom stand.
There was an older woman working there, wearing a canvas apron with specks of dirt on it.
She had thick, unruly hair that looked like it used to be a deep red but was now showing more gray.
In front of her, there were various bins of fungi.
Lobster mushrooms, large and fleshy, with an orange tint.
Bunches of enoki mushrooms sat upright; their slender white shoots made them look like miniature fungal bouquets.
There were even morels, always difficult to find, with their brownish honeycomb shape.
And of course, handwritten signs with egregious prices jutted out from each bin.
But luckily for Cierra, price wasn’t an issue; everything would be expensed to the Lawsons.
For the recipe she was making, she opted for a mix of cremini and shiitake, liking the balance of texture they offered.
“That’ll be forty-two fifty,” the woman said after weighing the goods.
Cierra shook her head in astonishment at the price. “Sure thing.” She tapped her phone and opted for a text receipt, smirking at the clean-tech way of purchasing a dirt-smeared bag.
“What’s so funny?” the woman asked. Not intrusively, but the way a friend might ask when they want to see a video on your phone.
Cierra was a little startled, unaware of what her face had been doing.
“Oh, just that little square thing. It’s crazy what tech can do .
. . even at a farmers' market. Just funny to me, I guess,” Cierra said, shrugging off her embarrassingly elementary observation.
Like she’d never seen a credit card before.
“Ah, this stupid thing. I was cash-only for years but finally gave in after losing over half of my customers. Sometimes you just have to know when to stop swimming against the stream.”
Cierra nodded. “Yeah, I get what you mean.”
The woman rubbed her calloused fingers on her apron and stuck out a hand to Cierra. “I’m Miriam, by the way. Here every week, unless I don’t feel like it, that is.” Miriam laughed at her own joke. “I gotta ask, what the hell are you gonna do with all those mushrooms?”
Forgetting about catching the train, Cierra got excited at the thought of divulging her new recipe to someone.
She told Miriam about the soup, which then led to talking about her new gig and how she was still feeling nervous about her new job.
All the while, Miriam was nodding along emphatically, even ignoring passersby who made their way in and out.
When Miriam’s phone rang, it snapped Cierra back to reality.
“Sorry, kid. It’s the hubby — gotta take this.
He’s my boss, can’t get caught slacking.
” Miriam raised her eyebrows comically. Cierra checked her own phone — damn it.
She still had enough time to make it to the Lawsons, but she needed to leave right then.
As Cierra began to leave, Miriam told her hubby-boss to hang on a minute. “Great meeting you, Cierra. Do me a favor and take a picture of what you turn my babies into? I wanna see the end product!”
“For sure.” Cierra felt a warmth spread through her, a pleasant surprise at this unexpected interest in her work. Not because of who she worked for, which she hadn’t even brought up. Just because Miriam thought her soup sounded tasty.
Cierra smiled and put her headphones in while she speed-walked to the subway. It wasn’t until she was sitting on the hard, orange seats that she realized she had no way of showing Miriam her recipe. She didn’t even know the name of her business.
Guess I’m just gonna have to go back next week, Cierra told herself happily.
It was nice getting into a new routine. Cierra sat with all her farm-fresh spoils and a sense of hopeful optimism. But then the phone itch returned, and this time, she couldn’t resist.
She tapped on the little green message emoji on her home screen.
Still nothing.
Disappointed, she put her phone away.
After months of wallowing in a pool of self-pity filled by the pain of being rejected by a man, Cierra walked to the Lawsons’ brownstone determined to break the cycle.
So what if Julian hadn’t texted back yet, she told herself. You have an incredible job, and a sweet new apartment. Just focus on killing this meal prep.
She reapplied her coral lip gloss before exiting the subway station, and with a faint smile, she sauntered along with her head held high. Jet-black sunglasses sat just low enough on her nose bridge to give the look of an intriguing woman about town.
And when she reached her destination, she rang the doorbell, waiting confidently on the step as if it were her own place. She was surprised when Erik, not Zelda or Elliot, answered the door in sweatpants and a rumpled shirt.
“Oh,” he said, sounding a little disappointed.
Cierra remained tall, but she casually removed her elbow from the side of the door she had been leaning against. “Oh. Hey, Erik. Did Zelda tell you I was coming?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I thought you were going to be delivery.” He eyed the bursting bags of food she had just dropped to the floor and reconsidered. “Which I guess I wasn’t totally wrong. Want any help with those?”
“I’m good, thanks though.” Cierra lugged one of the bags back to the kitchen as Erik lifted an eyebrow, watching her struggle independently with the heavy load.
Even though he probably meant nothing by it, Cierra did not particularly appreciate being compared to delivery.
But for ten thousand a month, she’d put up with a lot worse.
She just hoped they would stay out of each other’s way.
Sure, Zelda had said she had the right to kick him out from under her feet any time, but that was not something she realistically planned to exercise any time soon.
As soon as she was back in the kitchen, though, the energy she’d had while strolling in the lively city returned to her with all its bright optimism.
The past few months had been challenging, but here she was with full access to an all-star cooking space, making double the salary she had previously.
The room was sparkling, resembling a kitchen studio for television.
They had either had it professionally cleaned recently, or Zelda meant what she said about hardly ever using it.
Erik appeared with her other bags and gently set them down.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, before dragging them closer to her prep station.
“No problem.”
Quickly, Cierra unloaded the colorful groceries and placed the ingredients together by the recipe, eager to get started.
Delivery, my ass.