Chapter 18 Caleb
Caleb
I make my last trip up the stairs and into Hamilton Homestead, carrying a large bin filled with containers of prepped ingredients.
We’ve got two hours until service begins for tonight’s reception.
The Hamilton Homestead is the historic home of some American revolutionary whose name I can’t remember.
Not Hamilton himself, but maybe he stayed here once and that’s how it got the name.
I’ll leave keeping track of historic buildings to Joey.
While it’s beautifully restored and does make for a picturesque wedding, the kitchen leaves a lot to be desired. Lucky me.
Joey’s helping tonight, and he’s thrilled to be back with the Foley’s team. Dad overcommitted this summer and we need more help than we have. I might even be able to convince Joey to come back full-time. I have a feeling it won’t be too hard.
Joey and the team already have the catering tent set up, and when I walk through the venue and out the back, he’s finishing up with the fire marshal.
“All set, Foley,” the fire marshal says. One less thing to worry about. “You’ve got one of the cleanest operations I’ve seen, and I’ve seen it all.”
Brooke would be impressed. If she were actually talking to me.
I delegate setup whenever I can. It’s one of the more grueling parts of the job.
I pushed against it for so long, but cooking really is my passion.
As a kid, I loved cooking with Dad. He’d pull a chair to the counter and let me crack eggs, chop vegetables, and mix ingredients.
I had a julienne down before most kids were allowed to hold a butter knife.
Though I loved it, by the time I was an angsty teenager, I no longer wanted to follow in his footsteps.
I wanted to do something, anything else.
I spent my early twenties picking up enough credits at UConn-Stamford to graduate, then bummed around town hoping to figure things out.
I also hoped that such behavior would convince my parents that handing over the business to me was a bad idea.
The summer I dated Jennifer, things changed.
We were never going to be anything serious, not when I wished I was sneaking around with someone else.
But her family’s reaction to us was the wakeup call I needed to get my shit together.
I applied to culinary school the next day.
I couldn’t deny it any longer. I loved it and was pretty damn good at it.
This wedding grind, however, is already getting old.
Schlepping supplies and food in and out, cooking under the sweltering sun, breaking down at the end of the night.
Every wedding, I’m thinking about how much easier it was in San Francisco.
Weddings were still a grind, but being the head chef at a venue with my own kitchen was a hell of a lot easier.
Today, I want to get into the makeshift kitchen at the venue and get to work.
Finish prep, fire off the entrees, and focus on executing a great service.
Anything to get my mind off Brooke and how royally I fucked up.
Right as we were getting back on solid footing.
I keep going back to the moment I decided to open that stupid door.
I thought it was a mess of boxes, Brooke’s little secret that she isn’t as perfect and organized as she wants the outside world to think she is.
I got that wrong. Yeah, I crossed a line, but she went ice cold on me in an instant.
Something more is going on. We have another planning meeting with Hannah and Preston next week.
I have to figure it out and apologize before then.
Cocktail hour is in full swing by the time I notice Jordan with her camera.
She’s buzzing through the outdoor garden, taking candid photos and posing groups of friends together.
Inside, as the band does soundcheck, the flower girl and ring bearer are dancing in front of the stage on the black and white checkered floor.
“Jordan!” I call over the noise of instruments tuning and vocalists warming up their voices.
I wave my hand in the air signaling her to come over.
She gives me a sideways glance. I point to the kids who are dancing like no one is watching.
Carefree and having the time of their lives.
The band must be done with their soundcheck by now, but they keep playing for the tiny audience.
Jordan notices the kids and walks over, swapping the camera in her hands for another one hanging from the straps crisscrossing her back.
She crouches down at the edge of dance floor, snapping candids of the little dancers.
They hold hands, trying to spin in a circle but stumble over their own feet. Their giggles are infectious.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Jordan says, scrolling through the shots she captured. “The bride is going to love these. They’re her niece and nephew, twins.”
“No problem.” I shift my hands into my pockets and rock on my feet, trying to figure out how to ask Jordan about Brooke.
“Whatever you want to ask me about Brooke, Caleb, just ask it,” she says without a glance at me. She’s occupied with switching out her camera lens. “I’ve got a reception to shoot and you’ve got a meal to serve.”
Damn, she’s perceptive. “I don’t know what I did. I mean…I do. I shouldn’t have been looking around, but I thought it was cute she had this secret messy closet. As soon as I mentioned it, a switch flipped and she went back to hating me.”
“Brooke has never hated you, Caleb,” she says, shaking her head. “Upset you rejected her, sure. But she’s never hated you.”
Rejected her. Fuck.
“I didn’t…I…it’s complicated,” I mutter. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Listen, I know why she’s upset,” she says, pausing like she’s choosing her words carefully. “But it’s not my story to tell.”
“Whatever it is, she’s not going to tell me. She’s not returning my texts or emails. Even the ones about work. You know that isn’t like her.”
She sighs, clearly exasperated by me. “During your snooping, did you take a second to look around that room?”
“Yeah, I mean, it was a lot of boxes. Gift boxes and random wedding supplies and stuff.”
“And does that remind you of anything?”
I’m so utterly confused. “Weddings?”
“You’re a smart guy, Caleb. You’ll figure it out. Now come on, introductions are going to start any minute.”
Am I a smart guy? Because I feel pretty fucking dumb. Brooke’s life is work, how is knowing it’s wedding stuff supposed to help me?
Hamilton Homestead’s proximity to residential neighborhoods means the wedding’s over at ten o’clock.
Which means an earlier night for me and a less exhausting day tomorrow.
Thank you, local noise ordinances. Dessert was set at nine, giving the team plenty of time to clear plates, clean, and pack up before the reception is even over.
Joey and I watch the last few songs from the corner of the room.
The bride and groom are in the center of the dance floor with guests crowded around them.
Arms flailing everywhere. I scan the room to be sure we’ve cleared everything.
A few feet away from me, our wedding coordinator organizes and packs up the gifts for the bride and groom to take home.
The table is covered with boxes and bags wrapped in various pastel shades.
There’s one large Crate & Barrel shipping box.
I also spot the Williams Sonoma gift wrap that makes an appearance at all of these Fairfield County weddings.
“Shit,” I say a little too loudly, remembering where I last saw that wrapping paper.
“What?” Joey asks. “I thought we got everything. What’d we forget?”
Jordan walks by us, heading to the dance floor.
“Nothing. Can you handle the rest of the night? I’ll owe you one!” I clap Joey’s shoulder and jog to catch up to Jordan. “Tell me what venue Brooke’s working tonight…please?”
She groans, rolling her eyes. “You’re so desperate.”
“I’m well aware,” I say. “Please, Jordan?”
“Alright, if you can correctly guess the last song, I’ll tell you where Brooke is.”
“Oh c’mon!” I plead.
“Caleb, it’s not that hard. You’ve been to enough weddings to figure this out,” she says, sly smirk on her face.
“You know what it is, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” she says. “I’ve got to be strategically positioned on the dance floor to photograph it. That’s your only hint.”
Okay. Last song of the night. Usually, I’m barely paying attention by that point.
Hell, I’m lucky if I can hear the music from whatever terrible kitchen I’m stuck in at any given wedding.
“Don’t Stop Believin’” is an obvious choice.
Or this could be a “Closing Time” crowd.
But Jordan has to be on the dance floor in a specific spot.
“‘Shout’!” I yell. “It’s ‘Shout’!”
Jordan shushes me and shakes her head. At least she’s genuinely smiling a little. She doesn’t seem to hold the same grudge against me that Maddie does. I’ll take that win. “Congratulations, Caleb Foley, you are officially a jaded wedding professional!”
“Yeah, yeah, where is she tonight?” I need to run to wherever she is and apologize for being such a complete and total dipshit. And to find out if what I think that room is all about is true. I should have never unfollowed her socials. I had no idea they were set to private when I did.
“She’s at home, Caleb.”
It’s a Saturday in early July. Home is the last place I expect Brooke to be.
“Thanks, Jordan. Good luck out there.” I gesture to the dance floor as the band begins the first notes of “Shout,” guests roaring with enthusiasm. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”
I run to my car.