Chapter 10
The problem wasn’t a lack of jobs. Nearly every business in this dinky town of Bonaventure had a NOW HIRING sign in the window—from the Walmart out by the interstate to this very coffee shop Felice had been camped out in for two days, surfing their Wi-Fi and slowly nursing the one mug of fancy coffee she allowed herself per visit—just for the sake of using said Wi-Fi. Everybody needed summer help.
No, the problem was a simple matter of economics. All those employers were offering minimum wage, or barely above. Which meant that after paying for food, her phone, and gas for her fifteen-year-old Nissan, not to mention her student loans, there would be nothing left to live on. Or in. The cheapest studio apartment she’d seen advertised online wanted an eye-popping $1,100 a month, plus security deposits. Even a rickety double-wide in the laughably named Oasis Mobile Home Manor, way out in the country, twenty miles from civilization, cost $800 a month—plus utilities.
And then there was the matter of the note she’d cosigned when she and Deion bought the food truck. Thinking about that bastard made her head throb and her stomach burn.
Felice idly turned the page of the free local advertising shopper she’d plucked from a rack near the coffee shop’s cash register. Squeezed in between the pancake house, tanning salon, and putt-putt advertisements, a small display ad caught her eye.
EXECUTIVE CHEF—Immediate position open for creative and experienced chef for exclusive local resort. Pay commensurate with experience. Position includes free on-site housing and meals. Uniforms provided. References required. $100 signing bonus.
“On-site housing” was the magic phrase. She’d slept in the Nissan for the past two nights. Her back might never recover. Felice wasn’t what you’d call petite. Nearly six feet tall, and her braids added another two inches to her height.
She didn’t need much. Growing up in her auntie’s two-bedroom apartment in Liberty City along with her two little brothers and a herd of cousins, Felice had never had the luxury of needing much. Maybe that explained why she’d so easily fallen for Deion’s line of bullshit. He’d offered her an escape, a glittering glimpse of what life could be.
Now she picked up her phone and called the number in the ad.
Traci had read the applicant’s résumé with mounting excitement, tempered with more than a little trepidation.
The young woman, who’d called earlier, then followed up with her résumé, had impeccable credentials. Formal training at a respected culinary institute, stints at two high-end Miami hotel restaurants. But her last job, at a chain steakhouse in Hialeah, gave Traci pause. What was a woman like her doing at a place like that?
Traci had hired and fired enough staff over the years to be wary of those kinds of gaps. They could mean nothing, or they could mean a stint in rehab, jail, or worse.
Charlie poked his head inside the doorway. “You need me?”
“Just a heads-up. Ric informed me yesterday that he has effectively hired Spencer Parkhurst’s son, for a yet-to-be-determined position.”
“Oh. Well, it’s not like we can’t use an extra set of hands around here,” Charlie said.
She sat back in her desk chair. “Wait. Did you know about this?”
“Saw Ric at the tennis courts yesterday. He mentioned it in passing.”
“And you didn’t think to mention it to me?”
“You beat me to the punch. It’s no big deal, Traci. One less hire for you to worry about.”
“But I do worry about it. That’s the point. We don’t know a damn thing about this kid, except that his father’s rich and Ric apparently owes him a favor.”
“So start him as a parking valet, or in the pro shop. If he flames out after a week or two you can fire him and send him on his way.”
“And then I’ll be right back where I started,” Traci said, fuming.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you shouldn’t have hired his daughter without discussing it with Ric. You know how he is about her.”
“He’s a giant pain in my ass. And you, Charlie? I can’t believe you’re siding with Ric.”
“I don’t side,” Charlie said. “I merely opine.”
“Go opine someplace else then,” Traci said, making a shooing motion. “I’ve got a hot chef prospect coming in for an interview.”
“Anyone local?”
“Nope. She’s young, but she sounds pretty good on paper.”
“Don’t they all,” he said as his parting shot.
Felice followed the signs pointing to the executive offices, housed in a low, vaguely Spanish-looking stucco wing of the hotel, painted shrimp pink with a red tile roof. Felice wiped her sweaty palms on the seat of her pants, took a deep breath, and stepped into the air-conditioned building, where she was directed to Traci’s office off the hotel lobby.
“Mrs. Eddings? I’m Felice Bonpierre.”
“Hello, Felice,” Traci said. “I’m so grateful you could come in today for a chat.”
The applicant was not what Traci had expected. She was very tall, for one thing, with long braids that spilled down the back of her jacket, and curious eyes that peered out from behind oversized tortoiseshell-framed glasses. Despite the glasses, she looked very young.
“I’m glad too,” Felice said. “I was admiring your grounds as I drove in. Such a beautiful place. It would be a pleasure to work here.”
Traci smiled and pointed to the chair across from her desk. “Please. Tell me, Felice, what do you like to cook?” she asked, as soon as the girl was seated.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m wondering what kind of dishes you enjoy preparing,” Traci said, enunciating each word as though she thought Felice was deaf or stupid or both.
“I… I… cook whatever kind of cuisine your guests like,” Felice said, stammering because she’d been caught off guard. “French, of course. Asian fusion? New American? Also, high-concept Southern. I went online and saw a couple menus from the Verandah, your fine dining restaurant. That’s in the hotel?”
“Correct,” Traci said, waiting.
“I can, of course, fry chicken…”
“No, no,” Traci interrupted, deliberately putting Felice off balance. “I mean, what do you like to cook, for yourself? Your favorite dishes?”
Felice clasped and unclasped her hands, which were folded on her lap. “Me? I cook simple at home. Fresh fish or crab when I’m in Florida, of course. I do a very nice roast chicken, and I love whatever fresh vegetables are in season. Fruit too. I do have a sweet tooth…”
“What would you cook for me? For lunch, today?”
“Maybe something light. Fresh local greens with a simple herbed vinaigrette. Some poached shrimp, slice of avocado. Some nice sliced tomatoes if they are ripe.”
“And if I don’t care for shrimp? Or seafood?”
Felice wrinkled her brow. They were at the coast. Who didn’t like seafood at the beach?
“Well… I do a nice peach and watermelon salad with burrata, dressed with reduced balsamic vinegar, that could be topped with some poached or grilled chicken, maybe sprinkled with some toasted, chopped pecans. Benne seed crackers too,” she added.
“What else would you add to our menu?”
“Hmm. What about a soft-shell crab BLT, on small brioche buns, with microgreens and an herb mayonnaise? If you have a reliable source, what about frog legs instead of wings, in a nice butter-lemon sauce? If your guests simply must have a burger, I’d offer Wagyu beef sliders with quick-pickled red onion slaw, or a deconstructed salmon burger served atop sourdough bread.”
Traci’s stomach rumbled. The protein shake she’d whipped up at home this morning seemed light-years away. And if this woman’s cooking was as good as she sounded, she felt heartened that she’d found her new chef.
“That all sounds very interesting. And inventive. Now, tell me a little about you. Your credentials look good. I called the GM at the Flamingo Club in South Beach, and he had lovely things to say about you.”
“Jerry. Nice man,” Felice said. “Best boss I ever had.”
“If he was so nice, why’d you leave a hit restaurant like the Flamingo to take a job at a less prestigious chain steakhouse?”
Felice flinched. “I had… family demands.”
“I see. Are you married? Do you have children?”
“No.” Felice felt her palms starting to perspire, but she’d be damned if she’d be pressured into explaining about her aunt’s illness and the shattering effect it’d had on her large, extended family. It was nobody else’s business.
Traci noted the applicant’s reluctance. She fiddled with the cap of her gold Montblanc pen. It had been a wedding gift. “I realize these are fairly personal questions, but this is an incredibly high-pressure, time-consuming position. So, if you’re a single parent…”
“I’m not,” Felice said, feeling her cheeks burn. Why did every white woman assume every Black woman her age was a single mother? She decided to plunge ahead with questions of her own.
“Your ad mentioned a competitive salary. Could you be more specific?”
The salary Traci Eddings mentioned made Felice’s eyes widen. “That’s… not bad,” she said. It was almost on par with what she’d been making when she left the Flamingo Club, back before Sherise’s cancer diagnosis. Before Felice moved home to take care of the aunt who’d been like a mother to her.
“Your ad also mentioned on-site housing,” Felice continued. “Could you tell me about that?”
“We’re just completing a staff dormitory down near the golf course,” Traci said. “We’re only set up for singles right now. You’d have a private room, of course, and there’s a communal lounge with seating and television, dining area, kitchenette, and laundry. Separate men’s and women’s bathrooms.”
“Oh.” Felice longed for a place of her own again.
“Mind if I ask what happened to your most recent chef?” Felice asked.
Traci shrugged. “She and her husband, who worked in the hotel in guest relations, both took jobs with a brand-new resort just up the coast. We hated to see Mehdi go, but the salaries she and Sammy were offered were ridiculous. Not something we could match.”
“Okay,” Felice said. “So, now what?”
“Now, we send you over to my HR person. He’ll get your paperwork completed, see about uniforms, and then you can go tour your kitchen.”
“Really?” Felice beamed. “I’m hired?”
“Pending a drug test,” Traci said.
“That won’t be a problem. And what about housing? When can I move in?”
“The furniture is supposed to be delivered later today, and I’ll have a final walk-through this evening. If everything shows up on time, I’d say you could probably move in Friday,” Traci said.
She stood up, held out a hand to her new executive chef. “Welcome to the Saint.”