Chapter 8
Caleb
Brooke Spencer. So practical in her crewneck sleeveless black dress, wearing her little fanny pack, tapping her foot with her arms crossed against her chest. The way she tilted her head up at me caused the brown waves of her high ponytail to sway against her shoulders.
I know I’m smiling to myself like an idiot as I head into the kitchen of the Seafarer Beach Club. No way I’m letting her see that. How the hell am I going to get through this summer?
When Dad told me Mrs. Quincy had hired us for Hannah’s wedding, I was ecstatic.
Three events, three menus, and a chance to level up Foley’s in the eyes of the industry.
For decades, Dad’s been growing Foley’s to be a full-service events company, but some people still see us as just the caterers.
Good caterers—fucking great caterers, actually.
But still, we’re the help. Our in-house wedding coordinators do a damn good job, too.
Though I’m beginning to realize maybe not as good as Brooke and Spencer Soirees.
Then Dad dropped the bomb that Mrs. Quincy, on behalf of Hannah, was also insisting on a real planner.
And that infuriated me. People like Mrs. Quincy, the wealthy families who’ve lived here forever, are exactly the kind of people that look at us as the cooks.
The people at the little market where they grab some prepared foods for dinner when their chef has a night off.
I know them, and the feeling of being looked down on, all too well.
Part of the reason I stayed in California for so long was to nurture the craft of hospitality and event management specifically for weddings like Hannah Quincy’s. It’s what Dad always wanted me to do. Bring Foley’s into its next chapter.
This client is huge for Foley’s and, while it’s not my dream, I’m doing it for Dad. He’s worked so hard his entire life to get the business to this point, and now we have to share it with a planner.
Not just any planner—Brooke. Daughter of Judy Spencer, the reason Dad stopped working with wedding planners.
He and Mom have been tightlipped about the falling out, but it was bad enough that I knew better than to keep asking about it.
But now that we’re working with them, I can’t not know.
Judy’s been a looming presence in my life for long enough, ever since Brooke and I worked the same weddings at the country club.
We had the best time together, but we both knew our parents wouldn’t be thrilled about our friendship.
We worked hard and had fun. Okay, Brooke worked hard, but we both had fun. Brooke’s always been organized and put together, focused on following in her mom’s footsteps. While I’d been—let’s just say not so motivated. I was content to get by and push off the inevitable for as long as possible.
At the end of each wedding, I’d make sure Brooke got home safely.
She’d tell her mom she was getting a ride from one of the other planning assistants, but it was always me.
We’d go to the Duchess drive-thru for grilled cheeses and fries.
I’d park a few houses down from theirs and we’d eat and laugh at whatever antics happened that night until we were too tired to talk anymore.
She’d text me when she was in the house, and I’d count down the moments until our next wedding together.
It never went further than that. No matter how much I wanted it to. Or how much I sensed she wanted it to. I always held back.
Now, though, she wants nothing to do with me. Not after how we left things.
I can handle this. I’m used to working with planners. Though I’m not used to working with a planner I’ve had a falling out with. I’ll have to keep playing the part I’ve resigned myself to in order to get through the summer.
I push open the double doors to the kitchen.
“Caleb!” Joey calls out to me from the prep table. He’s the real reason I’m here. I was going to swing by tomorrow morning when the club manager said I could, then Joey mentioned he’d be here tonight working with Brooke. I couldn’t resist.
“Hey man,” I say, looking around the space. It’s not too bad for a seasonal club that mostly serves snack bar fare. “I’ll stay out of your way, going to take a look around.” I know better than to interrupt him in the middle of plating.
“Go for it. But if you stick around too long, you’re going to have to wash dishes for me.”
I scoff and walk to the back of the kitchen.
It has plenty of prep space, a few ovens, and easy access to the main room for the servers.
I can prep here on Saturday without having to bring much in.
The Market is absolute chaos on Saturdays.
I’d rather be out of there if I can. It’ll also be a welcome break from a full catering tent.
Humid summer nights firing up surf and turf over a hot stove aren’t ideal working conditions, but they’re the conditions that come with the job.
From the back of the kitchen, I hear the doors swing open followed by the clacking sound of heels. How she does this in heels, I’ll never know.
“Guests are seated and we’re ready for salads,” Brooke says to Joey.
Through the chandelier of pots and pans hanging in the middle of the kitchen, I watch her meticulously check off multiple items on her timeline.
Behind her, servers are lined up to collect platters of salads to serve to the awaiting guests.
Brooke stands by the door, inspecting each tray of plates with narrow eyes as they go out the doors.
Come on. She’s become one of those micromanaging planners.
Great. Just as I think I’ll be able to handle this, that it might be enjoyable.
Joey’s an excellent chef and experienced caterer.
He plated the salads himself. Brooke doesn’t need to handle quality control.
I’m tempted to emerge from my hiding spot and call her out for the excessive supervision, but I can’t step on Joey’s toes like that.
This is his gig, and I wouldn’t appreciate it if someone, even one of my oldest friends, stepped in on one of my jobs. Unless it’s to help wash dishes.
Brooke doesn’t find anything wrong with the salads—I’m not surprised—and follows the last server out.
“What was that about?” I walk back over to Joey. He’s moved on to plating the entrees.
He doesn’t look up from the assembly line in front of him. “What was what about?”
“That,” I say, pointing to where Brooke stood moments ago. “Brooke inspecting all of the salads looking for mistakes.”
Joey looks away from his work at my sharper-than-intended tone. “Eh, she always does that,” he says. “It drove me nuts at first, but she caught a few mistakes. Nothing major, just inconsistencies, and it’s been helpful.”
Helpful? Since when is having a wedding planner nitpick your plating helpful?
“Listen,” he says. “She’s a bit of a perfectionist and concerned with everything being perfect. Like per-fect. But she’s helped me step up my plating. I’ve landed some much fancier weddings since I started listening to her.”
“Humph, interesting.” I hadn’t noticed before, but Joey does look more professional now than he ever did when he was employed by my dad.
For one, his chef coat is immaculate. Not a single stain or speck of food.
That was once his signature look. Seeing the care in how he plated the entrees, I don’t doubt he’s improved.
“Something you don’t have to worry about with all that new experience and your dad never working with planners.” Joey laughs.
“Not anymore,” I mumble, running my fingers through my hair and looking away from Joey.
I haven’t had a chance to share the recent turn of events with him, and somehow the news hasn’t spread.
Judy must not be so eager to share this particular piece of industry gossip or it would have already made its way to him.
“What?” Joey turns his head to the spot where Brooke had been standing and back to me. “No way,” he says, eyes wide, letting out a loud guffaw. “Spencer Soirees and Foley’s Fine Catering, working together? I don’t believe it.”
He’s loving this.
“Believe it. We’re doing the Quincy wedding Labor Day weekend. Hannah wanted to hire us and Brooke.”
“So, you,” he says, pointing to me and back to the door, “and Brooke…working…together?”
I shrug and fist my hands into my pockets. “Yup.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head and goes back to plating. “I mean, you’re both the best of the best. This could be good for you guys and your relationship.”
“Our working relationship,” I clarify. “Yes, it will be great for that.”
“Sure, sure. You’re not worried about your feelings?”
He knows right where to hit me. “No, I’m not worried about my feelings. I’m worried about pulling off the biggest wedding of my career so far and dealing with an overbearing perfectionist wedding planner who isn’t all that thrilled to be working with me. Did you see her timeline? It’s color-coded!”
Joey taps the corner of the long prep table. There’s a copy of Brooke’s timeline with Joey’s chicken scratch in the margins and checkmarks of his own. I take a closer look. It’s color-coded but it looks different from the version I paged through earlier. Like it’s been personalized for each vendor.
I scoff. Of course it is.
“What? It’s helpful!” Joey says. “Listen man, I’ve got to keep plating these, but working with Brooke isn’t that bad. She might drive you crazy with her notes, checklists, and occasional snippy tone, and she’s definitely going to drive you crazy because you still have—”
“Joseph, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
He has the gall to laugh.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “Get out of here before you get stuck with dishwashing duty.”
“I’ll see you later man,” I say, pushing the doors into the main room.
The guests are finishing up their perfectly inspected salads.
A few couples are dancing. I spot Brooke across the room looking out to the dance floor, hugging her beloved clipboard to her chest. She’s wearing the first genuine smile I’ve seen since I saw her Sunday night.
Her eyes are on one of the older couples dancing, her body swaying ever so slightly to the rhythm of the song.
Thoughts of dancing with her, having that smile directly at me flood my head without my consent.
I blame Joey. When I shake the images away, I see Brooke looking right back at me, smile gone.
Well, that settles that. I give her a wave and leave.