Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Somewhere in the middle of the California coast, a cliff grows out of the Pacific Ocean and climbs straight up, like a beanstalk in a children’s fairy tale. So tall that if you tilt your head just right on some days, it looks as though the land wears the clouds like a bad toupee. Perched atop the cliff sits a restaurant, its western wall made entirely of glass so patrons can appreciate the stunning sight of the orange sun slipping back into the water every evening—a million-dollar view, if there ever was one. Dinner and a show , the three-Michelin-star-lauded head chef of La Fin du Monde, Lars Johansson, jokes nightly to the highest-earning clientele—the A-list celebrities, the tech tycoons, the media moguls—when they are afforded a private audience with him at the end of their meal.
But the view isn’t even what gives the restaurant its renown. It’s most known for its Guinness world record of having the most expensive, decadent dessert on a menu ever. The Semlor Guld is a Swedish concoction consisting of a cardamom-flavored bun filled with almond paste and whipped cream, flaked with edible 24K gold, and served on a pure gold platter. The true expense comes from the Harry Winston 9.7-carat diamond bracelet delicately draped across the top of the pastry. (The dessert costs a whopping $8.4 million and has famously been ordered only once, by a New York Yankees player for his wife, the week after his sext messages with a Southwest flight attendant went viral.)
There is only one way into the restaurant and one way out—a two-lane road that snakes up through the dense slope of forest, back and forth like the thread in a weaver’s loom.
After they’ve been on that winding road for thirteen minutes with no end in sight, Jane asks: “Are you sure this is the right way?”—even though they’re following the portable GPS suction-cupped to the dash of Dan’s Subaru Forester. The same Subaru Forester Dan’s had since Jane first met him twenty years earlier, because Dan refuses to get rid of it, even though the air-conditioning no longer works and the back seat has a red stain the size of a throw pillow where Josh once threw up an entire cherry Icee after a peewee football game.
“Yes,” Dan says, even though Jane knows he’s not sure.
It’s a road neither has ever been on before (and will ever be on again), as they aren’t A-listers or tycoons or moguls, and while they know of La Fin du Monde, and it’s only ninety minutes from their home, it feels like a faraway destination they’ve heard about but would never visit—like Lake Como or Saint-Tropez. A playground for the rich. Not for a podiatrist and a failed author in their midforties who, though they could afford it, still got a bit panicky when each of their children needed braces.
But it’s their anniversary. And while they would typically enjoy a less expensive evening out to celebrate (like the Macaroni Grill, for instance, because Jane made the mistake of offhandedly saying she enjoyed their chicken scaloppine and Dan took that to mean it was Jane’s favorite restaurant and booked it most years without consulting her, thinking it was a romantic gesture), Dan had apparently bought a twenty-dollar raffle ticket from a pharmaceutical sales rep who was selling them for her daughter—some fundraiser for the kid’s ridiculously expensive private school. When Dan told Jane he won, he said proudly, “The dinner is on the same date as our anniversary. It’s kismet,” and Jane remembered thinking: The tuition to this school is forty-five thousand dollars a year, why do they need to raise funds?
It was Jane who pointed out, after Dan had already confirmed the booking, that the gift certificate was for the reservation only and did not actually cover the cost of dinner. “What?” Dan snatched the vellum paper from his wife’s hand. He borrowed Jane’s readers (Jane had offered to buy him a pair, but he swore he didn’t need them), and the small print at the bottom became clear.
“I paid twenty dollars for a reservation I could get for free?”
“Well, you likely couldn’t have gotten a reservation. It’s notoriously booked out. I think a year or two ahead of time.”
This didn’t appear to make Dan feel better.
“We don’t have to go,” Jane said.
“It’s our twentieth anniversary,” Dan said. “We’re going.”
“It’s our nineteenth.”
“Is it?” he said. “Well. Still.”
Now, to Jane’s surprise, the road finally ends, the trees part, and they encounter a house that looks like something out of a movie set. Very Californian—all sharp lines and angles, softened by perfectly manicured desert-tolerant vines and shrubbery. Jane says “Is this it?” even though a dramatic iron sign announces la fin du monde so they know they are in the right place. “Seems to be,” Dan says, because after you’ve been married for so long, sometimes you state even the most obvious observations out loud. Perhaps it’s a consequence of being parents—an old habit left over from the many years of pointing out things to your young children excitedly as they learn about the wonders of the world around them. Look! A bus. Look! A butterfly. Look! A helicopter . Or perhaps—and Jane thinks this is most likely—it’s just to fill the air because you’ve run out of other things to say.
···
Inside, the decor is sparse and light-filled, thanks not just to the wall of windows but the light oak floors and white tablecloths and white walls. Dan and Jane hover near the door along with ten other people, all waiting—for what, Jane isn’t quite sure.
“I’m nervous,” Jane whispers to Dan. She tries not to be awed by the view of both the expansive Pacific Ocean and the affluent fellow diners whose well-cut, high-end attire makes her favorite hunter green A-line Ann Taylor dress dim a bit in comparison.
“You are?”
“Yes.” She’s been harboring a sense of doom about the evening ever since she stepped into the shower that afternoon to get ready. She supposes, given the circumstances, it’s probably normal, but she’s never asked anyone for a divorce before, so how is she to know? To Dan she says: “It feels like in high school, that fear that someone is going to point out you don’t belong.”
“I’m nervous we’re about to spend one thousand dollars on a meal and could still be hungry afterward,” Dan says.
The couple standing closest to them chuckles. Jane, embarrassed to have been overheard, appraises them—a nicely suited man with a closely shaved head and a bushy mustache, and a woman who looks like she stepped out of the pages of Essence with her flawless makeup and a dress that hugs her body in all the right places. (Jane actually hates herself for thinking it as soon as she does. All the right places? Implying there are wrong parts of a woman’s body, a belief she has tried to keep her children from being indoctrinated in.)
“Is this your first time here?” Dan asks the couple, as Jane knew he would. An introvert, Jane would nearly always prefer to keep to herself, while Dan finds it impossible not to engage strangers in small talk.
“It is,” the woman with perfectly arched eyebrows says.
“Special occasion?”
“For work, really,” she says.
“Oh! What is it that you do? I’m Dan, by the way.”
“Ayanna, and this my husband, Rahul,” she says. Rahul keeps his hands in his pockets, but smiles and nods, and Jane thinks he must be the more introverted of the pair. “I’m a food influencer.”
Jane has to stop herself from visibly rolling her eyes. Jesus Christ , she thinks. They’re everywhere .
“A what?” Dan doesn’t have any form of social media and up until two years ago thought meme was pronounced mi-mi (and, gun to his head, couldn’t exactly tell you what one was).
“A food influencer,” the woman repeats, as if Dan is just hard of hearing (he is) and not like he lives under a rock and wouldn’t have any clue what an influencer actually is. “Although I’ve heard they won’t let us take any pictures of the food, which is going to make my job difficult.”
A woman finally steps through the swinging door at the back of the restaurant, saving Dan from the impending embarrassment of repeating his query, and walks toward the group. “Welcome to La Fin du Monde,” she says. “I’m Monica and I hope you’re all ready for an incredible culinary adventure. We have just a few reminders before we get started.”
“More rules?” Jane whispers. She recalls the email Dan forwarded to her confirming their reservation, bidding diners to not wear cologne or perfume as it could interfere with the full gastronomic experience of both yourself and other diners . And guests running late for their reservation will be “caught up” only at the chef’s discretion .
Dan flashes an amused grin as Monica continues: “All dishes have been created by Chef to work in perfect harmony, and so no substitutions or changes will be granted. If you have food preferences or allergies that you have not already brought to our attention, please do so to your dinner captain—me or Javier—at the beginning of the meal. Chef also requests that there be no cell phone use at the table, and photography is prohibited.” She smiles. The model-esque food influencer Ayanna frowns. “Now, I will be happy to escort you to your table, starting with the”—she checks the notepad she’s holding—“Harris party of two?”
Jane wonders when they started calling waiters captains and if it was around the same time they started calling bartenders mixologists .
Jane and Dan’s table is not by the window, but closer to the front of the restaurant, near the door to the kitchen. Dan mumbles that for twenty bucks—and with only five tables in the entire restaurant—they could have at least gotten one with an unobstructed view.
“Good evening,” a bespectacled man in a black vest and white button-down greets them. “My name is Javier, and I am at your service this evening. Monica will be assisting me. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your experience more enjoyable. Is this your first time?”
“Yes,” Dan says. “Be gentle.”
Javier laughs as if he’s genuinely never heard the joke before. Jane is impressed with his acting skills.
Javier claps his hands together. “Absolutely, sir. Are we celebrating anything special?”
“Nineteen years of marriage.”
“Ah! The bronze anniversary.”
“Is it?” Jane asks.
“Indeed,” he says. “In which case, may I recommend one of our specialty cocktails? The House Negroni, a blend of gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari infused with the bronze fennel from our organic herb garden on the property.”
“We’ll take two,” Jane says. Dan raises his eyebrows at her, and she knows it’s because he knows she doesn’t like fussy drinks or being upsold, and always orders a glass of wine, preferably pinot grigio, but she’s tired of being predictable.
Javier takes their water preference (flat) and leaves them each with a menu and instructions. “Although it’s a set nine-course dinner, you’ll have a few choices to make between seafood and meat, as indicated on the menu, and whether you want to supplement any dishes with the chef’s suggestions,” he says. “I’ll get your drinks for you and be back to answer any questions you may have.”
When he leaves, Dan—wearing Jane’s readers perched on the tip of his nose—leans over the table conspiratorially. “I have questions. What is matsutake mushroom foam and why does it cost two hundred dollars extra?” He glances back at the menu, and then: “Are the goose barnacles flown in from Galicia, Spain, made from actual geese?”
“I don’t know, but it’s pretty clear what a quarter suckling pig is,” Jane says. “Who writes these things—they couldn’t dress that up? That’s why the word ‘pork’ was invented. Nobody wants to eat Wilbur .”
Dan grins at her, and it’s amazing to Jane how effortless their banter still comes. Or maybe what’s amazing is how she used to find it so charming and delightful—a surefire sign of their fated connection (because isn’t that what every couple wants? The proof that their union was ordained in some way, no matter what your beliefs?)—but now, like an ill-fitting shoe, it chafes. Because it’s all an act, a role they’ve each played for so long it’s become as rote as brushing one’s teeth—and they could play it for years more, ’til death do them part. But Jane has gotten to the point where she thinks she might rather die.
“Javier,” she says. “That’s funny, isn’t it?”
Dan blinks at her. “What’s funny?”
“Remember? From my book? He’s the tea sommelier.”
“Oh. Right,” Dan says. But Jane can tell he doesn’t really remember and is just being agreeable. Jane’s not entirely convinced Dan ever even read the one book that she’s managed to get published—and is that really too much to ask?
Irritation grips her and suddenly she can’t participate in their charade for one more second. She had planned to wait until they got home from dinner to share her decision. (Jane pictured them in their pajamas, perhaps when they were both facing the bathroom mirror, Dan flossing and Jane plucking her errant chin hairs, comfortable and at ease, disarmed.) But now she thinks, Why? What is she preserving? It suddenly feels like a belt that has become too tight after Thanksgiving dinner and she has to unbuckle it immediately. It would feel so good to breathe.
“So, the meat and seafood,” Dan says. “What are you thinking?”
Jane takes a deep breath. “I think we should go our separate ways.” She exhales and feels the belt loosen, the weight lift from her shoulders.
“OK, so you get the lobster galette and I’ll get the charcoal- grilled Wagyu, maybe without the supplemental foam, so we can still send Sissy to college?”
“No,” Jane says, slightly annoyed. “Well, yes. That sounds fine. I also think we should get a divorce.”
He laughs, as if they’re still engaged in witty repartee, but when he looks at Jane’s face, he becomes serious. “What?”
“Here we are. A couple of House Negronis and water for the table.” Javier sets two glass tumblers filled with bright orange liquid in front of them. “Do we have any questions, or have you made some decisions?”
Jane waits for Dan to speak, but he continues to stare at her, as if his brain has short-circuited. She takes a sip of the Negroni—it’s bitter and the gin kicks her in the back of the throat, which she typically doesn’t like, but right now it feels perfect.
Jane clears her throat. “He’ll have the Wagyu and I’ll do the lobster. And no supplements for us, please.”
“Wonderful,” Javier says, glancing at Dan once more. “I’ll leave a menu at the table so you have a road map for your dinner, and we’ll get started with the first course shortly.”
He leaves, and when they’re alone again Dan says one word: “No.”
Jane sighs. What did she think? That he was just going to say yes and then they’d eat their nine courses and laugh and clink glasses, agreeing they’d had a good run and good on them?
Well, yes. She did, actually. She thought it would be a relief not only to her, but to him, too. That they’d been at this for so long. Pretending everything was fine. Good, even.
“Dan, yes,” she says. With not exasperation but kindness. She’s feeling magnanimous now that it’s out in the open. Now that the weight has been lifted from her chest.
“Why?” he says, and he seems genuinely shocked.
She tries to pinpoint, as she has for months, where it all went wrong. They did the therapy. Well, not with a trained therapist—Dan believed sharing anything deeper than polite chitchat with a stranger was unconscionable. But the books—oh! The books!—they read The 5 Love Languages (Dan: Acts of Service, Jane: a mix between Quality Time and Physical Touch) and took the Enneagram quiz (Dan: a Reformer/Peacemaker, Jane: an Achiever/Helper) and went on Eight Dates to a Better Marriage and even plugged halfway through a tantric sex workbook. Dan went along with all of it in his good-natured way (though he drew the line at licking honey off each other— It’s so sticky! The sheets will be a mess —and Jane had to agree). Jane wasn’t sure what she had been hoping for in performing all these exercises. A breakthrough of some kind? She didn’t even know what that would look like, exactly. She just wanted…more.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Dan. God, she loved him. And not in that juvenile I-love-him-but-I’m-not-IN-love-with-him way. What did that even mean? It’s something said by children who still believe love is a feeling. She loved him the only way you can love someone who you’ve been with for nearly half your life. It’s the same way you love your arm, she often thinks. Not your lungs, mind you. Your lungs are a necessity. But your arm. It’s always there. It’s part of you. You could live without it, but honestly it would be easier not to.
That was why Jane had been thinking about divorcing Dan for more than a year now and had never pulled the trigger. Not until her hand was forced.
She doesn’t want to have to say it. She doesn’t want to reduce their relationship—everything they shared over the years, their life —to this. But she sees that he’s going to leave her with no choice.
“I saw the text messages.”
She scrutinizes his face as she says it, a part of her still hoping she’s wrong, even as she knows she’s not. Which makes it complicated at best, because she felt relief when she found them—a tangible excuse to leave. (It also explained that one time he’d come home without his wedding ring on and made that lame excuse that it had been causing him a rash. Oh! And his recent, unexpected interest in jogging. She’d nearly laughed at herself for having not one but two of the most clichéd red flags right in front of her and not seeing them.) She knows every single expression on his face, better than she knows her own. He’s the one she’s been looking at for nineteen years—longer, if you count the time they dated. And that’s how she knows he’s lying when he says: “It’s not what you think.”
This is what breaks Jane’s heart. Not the affair, but the lie. That he couldn’t even let her have this. The dignity of walking away, pride intact, instead of belittling her intelligence with such a tiresome, predictable denial.
···
As Jane bathes in her disappointment and gin at the top of the hill, at the bottom of the hill a large van makes the same right turn Jane and Dan made some twenty-five minutes earlier at the base of the winding road—the only road to and from the restaurant. From the outside, the white van looks like one that might transport a church youth group singing “Father Abraham” in unison or supplies for a home-renovation business, not six members of an underground extremist group on the FBI watch list. A second white van, driven by the seventh member, turns onto the road behind them, following at a close distance, its only job to turn perpendicular to the road halfway up, creating an effective blockade of sorts, so no other cars can come in.
Or get out.