Chapter 19
As I walked home from the crap encounter with Alexander, I tried to remember what had been going on with Eva at Sara’s birthday party. She’d been expecting her husband to show up, and he hadn’t. Once, when she’d been in the kitchen, grossly double-dipping tortilla chips into a little cup of salsa, the buzzer had rung, and she’d jumped, almost spilling the salsa on me. She’d rushed to the intercom, and when it turned out to be a coworker of Sara’s, Eva had flung the chip in the sink and stalked off with her phone in hand. I’d taken it as the usual crazy bullshit of Eva’s “they are; they aren’t” status update. She’d probably called her husband and asked where the hell he was and if he was coming to the party like she’d told everyone he was. Between that call and my missing recipes was her motive. To suck up to him? To win him back? To prove her undying love?
I punched her number in my phone. Fuming.
No answer. But it rang a bunch of times before going to voice mail, which meant she was ignoring it. After the beep, I left a message. “Eva, it’s Clementine. I passed Prime tonight, which your husband co-owns, I just found out, and three of my recipes are hanging on a blackboard in the window. I’m doubting this is a coincidence.” Click .
By the time I got home twenty minutes later, she called back.
“Clementine, that’s crazy. I would never. Never.”
“Really. So it’s a coincidence.”
“It absolutely has to be,” she said. “What was on the menu? Veggie burgers? That’s on every menu.”
“Actually, my jambalaya, my empanadas, and my lasagna.”
“ Your lasagna? Clem, come on. You think you’re the one chef who ever came up with Mediterranean Lasagna?” She snorted.
There was dead silence for a moment, so she clearly knew she’d outed herself. Lasagna? Yeah. On every menu. Mediterranean Lasagna? No.
“Well, if you’re saying I stole your recipes and gave them to my husband to use at Prime, you’re wrong. Because I didn’t. Yeah, I saw the recipes at the cooking class when you were showing them to the reporter. And yeah, my husband has a stake in Prime. But I’d never betray you like that, Clem. I swear.”
Right.
“So someone else stole my recipes.”
“Or you misplaced them. The thing with Prime is total coincidence. Okay, yeah, I mentioned to Derek that you were creating vegan menus for some restaurants. And yeah, he thought that was a great idea. So he obviously mentioned it to his chef, and his chef made up some dishes. I’m sure once he saw the L.A. Times article he wanted to make sure he had something going for the weekend crowd.”
“You’re a liar, Eva,” I said. “I thought we were friends.” And then I hung up on her.
Sara and I were watching Top Chef when the buzzer rang.
Eva.
When I opened the door, she started crying.
“It was all for nothing, too,” she said, blackish-brown mascara streaks running down her face. “He’s back with the skank.”
“Are we supposed to feel bad for you?” Sara asked. “Because I don’t. You, Clem?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Clem, just let me try to explain, okay?” Eva said.
“What’s to explain? You betrayed me to suck up to your husband. Do I have that right?”
More tears. “I just felt so desperate. He’s been stringing me along for sex. And when I told him about the menus you’re creating for restaurants, it was the first time in a long time that he actually listened to me. He paid attention to me, you know?”
“You know who else paid attention to you, Eva? Clementine,” Sara said. “When you were crying your eyes out over that douche at Clem’s parents’ farm, who went to go to talk to you? Clem. Who calmed you down? Clem. Who gave you good advice? Clem. And you fucked her over. I can’t believe it.”
“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” Eva said, looking from Sara to me. “When I told him about the vegan menus, he thought it was such a great idea and was asking me all kinds of questions about what we covered in class and if I’d saved any of the recipes, which I didn’t. So then he got all pissed at me for not keeping them and what was the point of telling him about the vegan menus if I couldn’t help him out. The main owner of Prime can’t stand him and was trying to buy him out. I thought if I could help him, he’d be so grateful and—” She started crying again.
“Jesus, Eva,” Sara said. “This isn’t any kind of excuse.”
“I’m just trying to explain. No excuse, okay?” She reached into her bag and pulled out a gross wadded-up tissue and dabbed at her nose. “He’s just been so hot and cold and leaving me totally hanging. So when he didn’t come to the party, I just got so upset, and then I saw the pack of recipes in the kitchen and I thought if I gave them to him, he’d be so grateful and would want me back.”
“So now he has my recipes and he’s back with the Pilates chick instead,” I said.
She nodded and blew her nose again.
“You also screwed up Clem’s friendship with someone else,” Sara said. “She accused someone else of taking the recipes.”
Actually, that one’s on me, I thought but didn’t say.
“I’m really sorry, Clementine. Really, really sorry. If I could make it up to you somehow, I would. I feel like such an ass.”
Sara rolled her eyes and handed Eva a clean tissue. “We’re missing who’s gonna get cut from Top Chef , so …”
Eva eyed me. “I am really sorry, Clem.” Then she ran down the stairs.
My sister talked a mile a minute about lawsuits and intellectual property to the point that my brain was going to explode. I’d called her after Eva left and filled her in on everything. Elizabeth said I had to do something to legally document how my recipes had ended up at Prime so that a) the asshole couldn’t sell them as Skinny Bitch recipes in his possession and b) so I wouldn’t get sued for selling my own recipes that he had on his menu.
“Any way you cut it,” Elizabeth said, “Eva will have to be deposed. Will she tell the truth?”
“Not sure,” I said. “She seems to feel guilty enough. But get her husband in possible deep shit? I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get on it. Wow, Clem. Recipe theft. I guess this means you’ve really arrived.”
Whoo-hoo.
I had the weirdest dreams that night. Eva trying to stab me with a fork. Alexander saying “I thought we were friends.” And Zach throwing hundred-dollar hills at me. I woke up Sunday morning feeling like total crap. But I had to get the hell out of bed. I had a zillion orders to fulfill by seven thirty. Because people—including me—liked to hang in coffee shops with the Times and pastries, Sundays were my busiest days.
Which meant I was too busy to think about any of it—Eva backstabbing me, Alexander hating me, Zach being … Zach. I got out of bed and took a long, hot shower, flung my hair into a bun, and hit the kitchen, turning on ABBA as loud as I could for five thirty in the morning, which meant I could barely hear “Fernando” and “Dancing Queen.”
And then, as always, it happened. The feel of flour, the scent of vanilla, the taste of chocolate on my fingers—it all combined to take me away, make me forget everything. Baking for me was as good as meditating or doing hot yoga. And in a couple of hours I had six dozen cupcakes—cherry almond, chocolate raspberry, and vanilla chai—four dozen tropical fruit scones, and seven dozen cookies. I’d make my deliveries, then come back and test my blackened seitan fajitas; I had a cooking demonstration and tasting for the chef at Surf in the afternoon.
I left Sara a scone and even made her a pot of coffee, then went to make my deliveries. The manager at Runyon’s flirted with me, as always, and the grumpy owner of Delia’s barely cracked a smile, also as always. I had no idea what she was always so grumpy about, considering she owned an always-packed coffee shop. She hadn’t even smiled as she was telling me my gluten-free cookies were the best she ever had.
Deliveries made, I headed in the direction of my space for Clementine’s No Crap Café. I was so close to making it mine. The bank should be calling me in a few days to tell me I got the loan, and then I could rip down the FOR LEASE sign. I couldn’t wait to do that. I couldn’t wait to stand in front of that storefront and know the place was mine. Open the door with my key instead of pressing my face against the glass and imagining what I’d do if it were mine.
It would be mine.
Maybe I’ll finally call the Realtor listing the space and make an appointment to tour it, I thought as I approached the door, getting out my phone to key in the Realtor’s number.
Except there was a new sign up on my space.
LAST CHANCE FOR BIDS FRIDAY, AUGUST 15TH!
Friday, August 15th, was seven days away. The loan would come through, and I’d make the deadline. I punched in the Realtor’s number and told her I was interested in the space.
“Well, the owner of the building has two offers and will be making final decisions on the 15th. What’s your intended use of the space?”
“A vegan restaurant. Ten, maybe twelve tables. A few tables out back.”
“Well, you’d be up against a bar, a knitting store, and a coffee shop. Once you see the space, if you’re sold on it you’ll need to make an offer by the 15th.”
I was sold on it and made an appointment to see it the next morning.
I already knew it was perfect. All I needed was that loan from Ms. Pritchard to come through.
That night I went to Zach’s. All I wanted was a strong drink, some good food that didn’t involve me going near an oven, and hours of amazing, mind-blowing, forget-everything sex. But when I saw Zach, I was reminded of what Jolie had said about the French heartbreaker. What Zach had said about not being able to trust anyone. Maybe he was pining away for her.
“You don’t look like someone who’s the new It Girl,” Zach said.
He handed me a glass of white wine and I took a sip. Then I updated him on everything: about the recipes, about Alexander, about Eva, about finding a new space and the deadline. “And something else has been on my mind. What Jolie said …”
He glanced away. “Not talking about Jolie. Talking about Jolie gets me into trouble.”
“Okay, let’s talk about you then. And Vivienne.”
“So if the loan doesn’t come through,” he said, totally ignoring what had just come out of my mouth, “you’ll just save up and find another space.” He put his arm around me as he sat down next to me on a love seat.
I inched away from him. “Why wouldn’t it come through?”
“You said you don’t have a lot in the bank. And you don’t own any property. You’re a tough sell.”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t get the loan. All the publicity from the Times article, all my new business, all the business I have lined up. I can’t lose this new space. If I can’t have the one some steakhouse with a huge dead deer sign went into on my corner, I want this new one.”
“I want to show you something,” he said, taking my hand and leading me out the door, Charlie trailing on his leash behind him. “As a just in case—just in case the loan doesn’t come through—I want you to see there are a lot of other spaces that could work. I looked at everything when I was scouting for a location for The Silver Steer.”
For the next two hours, as Charlie scampered along happily sniffing at everything, Zach took me on a walking tour of my own city, explaining restaurants and location and space to me in ways I’d never thought of before. I’d been inside restaurants for years, obviously, and deep in the kitchen, starting from nothing on prep and vegetables. But I had no idea how many hoops I’d have to jump through to open my own place. There were so many boring legal issues that he talked so much about that he started to sound like my sister. I’d long forgotten about Vivienne and how he dodged the question. Wasn’t my business anyway. Sort of. I’d bring it back up when and if the time was right.
We passed by Prime and I noticed the blackboard that had listed my vegan dishes now noted the specials, all involving dead animals. Either Eva let her husband know he’d better take it down or my sister had gotten her claws in Ackerman.
We ended up in front of The Silver Steer with its gorgeous arched stone entryway and red door. “Bastard,” I said, punching him in the arm. “This place is gorgeous. Nothing can top it.”
“I thought that about a spot I lost out on,” he said. “Then I found this place. You’ll make your new place gorgeous, whether it’s the one you’re vying for or another one.”
We kept walking, taking turns with Charlie’s leash, Zach telling me how each restaurant we passed was doing. The last two we walked by would last another six weeks tops, but three more were doing amazing business. He talked about word-of-mouth and publicity and great food and, of course, location. He showed me a space on Third Street but it would need a lot of work. And a place near his on the beach that I’d never be able to afford.
We stopped in front of my dream space on Montana. “I was trying to show you that this isn’t the only option, but I ended up bumming you out, didn’t I?” he asked.
“I’ve just got this place all set up in my mind, what kind of tables and where they’ll go, how the staff will dress.”
“You’re on your way, Clem,” he said, pulling me close.
“Get a room,” a familiar voice said and laughed.
I turned around to find Jolie and Rufus walking toward us, holding hands.
“Zach, don’t speak,” she said. “I apologize for being an ass the last time I saw you. But every time you open your mouth, you say something that pisses me off. So I’m going to talk to Clementine instead. I read the piece on you in the Times . How awesome is that?”
I smiled. “Hey, Rufus,” I said. If the guy could speak, he didn’t now. He just nodded at me.
“So, did Zach tell you that Rufus and I are getting married on the beach in September?”
“Can I bring a date?” I asked, linking arms with Zach.
“She’s not getting married,” Zach said. “She’s eighteen. How is Rufus going to say ‘I do’ when he doesn’t even talk? Clearly, he only sings.”
“I talk,” Rufus said, and we all turned to stare at him. The guy was drop-dead model beautiful and seemingly vacant, but Jolie was no idiot. If she loved the guy, there had to be more to him.
“We’re on our way to a dinner party in our honor,” Jolie said. “Some people are actually excited for us.”
I watched them head down Montana. “Maybe there is more to Rufus than it seems. Jolie’s a smart girl.”
“No, there’s less,” Zach said as we headed back toward the beach. “And she’s not smart. Smart people don’t get married at eighteen. Smart people make their singing fiancés sign that millions in family trusts are protected. Smart people don’t throw their future away on some stupid one-in-a-million dream. You think she’ll make it as an actress? Please. She’s just another pretty girl in a town full of them.”
Way to be supportive. “Zach, it’s her mistake to make.”
“No, it’s all of ours. Everything she does affects me. Cleaning up her mess, handling it with my father—”
“Jesus, Zach, so don’t . Let her make her mistakes. I’m trying to imagine if my father told me not to go to culinary school, that chefs were a dime a dozen or whatever that cliché is. That I should study teaching or something.”
“Clem, how much money do you have in the bank? Five thousand bucks? Yeah, you’re the It Girl right now. You’ll rake it in for the next six months. But five more vegan chefs will come along on your publicity trail and you’ll be just another vegan chef. Someone else will have a better gimmick. And the money will dry up. Then what? This is why you’re a tough sell for the loan. Get it?”
I stared at him. “Did you say gimmick ? Being a vegan chef is a gimmick ?”
“Clem, don’t pick at what I’m saying. I’m not sugarcoating the real world and finance and how things work.”
“So you’re an expert and everyone else is an idiot.”
“Did I say that? I’m just realistic.”
“You sound more like someone who doesn’t think I’m going to make it.”
He sighed. “I’m just saying that—”
“Yeah, I know what you’re saying. And here’s what I’m saying: Bye.”
I turned and walked away fast, my heart beating like crazy. Why did every beautiful night with Zach always seem to end like this?