Chapter 46 Taylor
Taylor
There’s a different energy that day, with the Knox members having returned from their retreat. An electricity.
“The initiation,” the diners utter several times, as Taylor refills their water glasses. For once, Rose has allowed her to stick around for the Canton lunch crowd, even though she can’t fully wait tables yet. That’s perfectly fine with her; it’s not like Taylor needs to earn tips, after all.
Instead, she replaces silverware that gets dropped, buses plates and drinks.
The initiation. It must be upcoming—and the reason for the charge in the air.
One of the chefs asks Taylor to show him the plates returned with uneaten portions, but the diners—all men today—are mostly licking their plates clean. Gathering their energy for the initiation?
She keeps a lookout for Peter; to her disappointment, he doesn’t show. But Oliver does, arriving in a silk Cuban-style shirt and khakis. He’s jittery, spilling his wine and then his water glass. Taylor wonders if the girl wearing the sheet has crawled back into his bed or been ushered out.
Luckily for Taylor, Oliver doesn’t give any of the help a second glance.
Jerry seems to be eyeing him, though, a big scowl contorting his face.
For a moment, while no one is looking, Taylor pauses in the dining room with her eyes closed.
Given the expensive quality of the Italian suits most of the men wear and the honest-to-goodness Rolexes shimmering on their wrists, there’s likely enough Black Amexes here to buy a small country.
What if she were here as a diner, not an employee?
Then Jerry jostles her—intentionally?—and she slips back into the kitchen.
One might argue that it’s really here, in the kitchen, where she belongs.
Here, with the heat of the stove and the chatter of the cooks, most of whom barely give her a glance.
Here, where she could so easily fade into the familiar: the repetitive chop of knives, the sizzles of meats on the grill.
The intense aroma of garlic, onion, butter. Sweat.
All that’s missing is the fried seafood, and, of course, her dad himself.
She wonders where he is right now: in his own restaurant, frying up a catfish or hush puppy?
Drinking a Diet Coke like water? She knows Aunt Gigi told him about her waitressing gig because he called and didn’t leave a voicemail like he always does.
So, it’s her move now. But she’d rather wait until he receives the check in the mail.
Then, she’s hoping, he won’t be disappointed. Or won’t be as disappointed.
Jerry enters the kitchen, dropping a dirty plate in the metal industrial sink with a loud clank. She catches his eye and nods. He makes his way over to her.
“What?” he says.
“Hi to you, too.”
“Yeah, fine. What’s up?”
She studies him. His face is red, like a sunburn.
She’s looking at all her fellow employees more closely, trying to figure out who might be behind the note. So far they seem to be treating her mostly with the same indifference; Jerry might seem a little more moody than usual, but given Oliver’s appearance, perhaps that’s to be expected.
“I heard back from my landlord,” she says.
“And?”
“She spoke to Nicholas, the bookstore owner of Turned Pages. He’s expecting us; he said we could come by today.”
“We?”
“Yeah, we.”
“I’ll just run the books over later.”
Taylor narrows her eyes. “Fine, but remember our deal.”
“I remember,” he grumbles. “What about the other stuff? The doctor’s kit?”
Oh, right. She’s supposed to be following up on that, too. And Taylor would—that is, if she could. “I, uh, we haven’t heard back from the antiques store owner. Just hold on to those for now.”
“All right.”
Later, after the lunch crowd clears, Rose stands surveying the emptied restaurant with a satisfied look on her face, like a proud mother hen.
Like a shoemaker’s elves, they get to work cleaning the restaurant. Liam clears the bar; the rest of them bus the tables. Taylor is picking a stray napkin from beneath a table when she sees a man’s legs briskly stride into Canton’s. Navy pressed trousers, horse bit tan loafers.
Peter.
She nearly bumps her head trying to scramble out.
But it’s not Peter. It’s a man who looks nothing like him. What was she thinking? The person is tall, almost too tall. All arms and legs, like a human Gumby. But he’s one of them, clearly. The loafers look like top-grain leather, and a paisley silk pocket square peeks out of his navy suit jacket.
“Hello, Rose,” the man says. “And Liam, Eduardo, Jerry,” he acknowledges with a nod.
They nod back, and he turns to Taylor. “Hello, Taylor, I’m Michael,” he says, rather stiffly. He’s frowning, as if he doesn’t know what to make of her. Finally, he says, “Welcome to the Knox.”
This must be the Michael they said may have done her geomancy-reading thing. She’s never seen him before in her life; she’d remember.
“Hello,” she replies. “Nice to meet you.” She’s standing there awkwardly; does she shake his hand? But he hasn’t extended it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here last week. Did anyone tell you you’ve joined us at an interesting time?”
She can feel Liam watching closely from the bar. “Uh, yeah,” she says.
“We are happy to have someone join us who has a restaurant background. Though this is quite different from North Carolina. It must be a bit of a cultural shock.”
“It’s okay.” It’s okay? She internally cringes, wishing she’d offered something more interesting.
“She’s doing well,” Rose says, coming to stand beside them with a look of pride that now extends to Taylor.
Taylor shrugs, but she’s pleased. “I’m trying.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Keep it up,” says Michael. The way he’s studying her, as if she were a math equation, makes Taylor feel like he knows more about her than he’s letting on. Did he somehow uncover her nursing background? Is he the one behind the note?
“I’ll try.”
“Great. I’ve no doubt you will. Rose, a word, please,” he says, and Rose follows him out into the hall.
Taylor begins gathering ketchup bottles from the tables and carrying them to the bar, to be refilled from a giant jug of ketchup.
“I’m trying,” Liam says in a high-pitched voice, imitating her. She shoots him a dirty look across the bar.
“Relax, New Girl, I’m joking.” He polishes a glass.
She gathers more ketchup bottles, careful to avoid the corner of the room where Eduardo and Jerry stand in a deep conversation. Jerry’s holding his head, like he’s upset; Eduardo lays a gentle hand on his back.
When she brings the additional ketchup bottles to the bar, Liam says, “They’re having a lover’s quarrel, probably.”
“Oh?” So there is something between Eduardo and Jerry.
“Either that, or O’Doyle’s pissed because Oliver’s back.”
“Jerry holds grudges, huh?”
“Yeah.” Liam holds a glass up to the light, checking for smudges. “But Jerry’s not the only one less than pleased with Oliver.”
“No?”
“No. Some people around here don’t care for him.” He returns the glass to the shelf and picks up another.
“Why?” Taylor recalls Oliver’s long, greasy hair. The high-as-a-kite conversation they had earlier on in the kitchen. “I mean, other than the obvious.”
Liam pauses, and when he replies, he does so in a low voice. “Oliver wants to bring the Knox back a few decades, centuries maybe, to how it once was. In fact, it’s already underway.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Well, New Girl, that’s…for another time. But, not everyone agrees with this direction.”
A rift. This makes sense. She can feel it, she thinks. She didn’t her first week, but here, today, she does. It’s a slow-building tension: the minute hand rather than the second hand ticking around the clock. Maybe, in fact, she misinterpreted the charge in the air. Maybe it’s tension.
“Rose seems to like Oliver,” Taylor points out.
Liam gives a short, sarcastic laugh. “In case you haven’t noticed, Rose likes the Knox. And Oliver’s about to officially assume the reins at the initiation, so…”
“Gotcha. So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About Oliver, about the direction the Knox is going in? All of it, I guess?”
Liam’s mouth twists into a slow, unreadable smile. “I think we do what we have to do.”
Taylor notices his use of “we.” Liam is a bartender here, not a member.
But perhaps this is the difference between her and her coworkers.
They do feel like a part of the Knox; it’s their place of employment, yes, but it’s also their life.
They date each other; some even live next door.
It’s like a cult. Besides, she reminds herself, Liam is no ordinary bartender; Peter brought him over from England.
“Why don’t you live next door, with the others?” she asks, suddenly.
“I used to, but I like my space. I live at Harbor125 in East Boston. It’s not as convenient as living next door, but I wouldn’t trade it. You live alone?”
“Yeah,” she admits, and immediately wishes she hadn’t.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Ugh. “Yes,” she’s quick to fib.
Liam throws a hand towel over his shoulder and leans across the bar counter, now giving her his full attention. “That’s a shame. So, what do you do for fun? When you’re not working here?”
Before she can answer, a familiar voice rings out from across the room: “I’ve been looking for you.”
This time, it really is Peter. His five-o’clock shadow and quilted coat thrown over a dark pair of jeans make him look ruggedly handsome. A lopsided grin spreads across his face as he strides into the room, making her heart speed up. The same darn response she had during the interview.
“Hi, Peter,” Liam calls out.
Meanwhile, Taylor can’t help but grin back, even if she’s not the one he’s looking for.
The closer he gets, the more her body physically reacts. Her heart feels like it’s entered a horse race; it’s galloping so fast. She’s stupidly holding a ketchup bottle in her hand, so she sets it down on the counter, and it promptly topples over.
She tries to right it, but her hand is like jelly, and the bottle falls over once again. Then Peter’s hand is there, brushing against hers as he firmly sets the ketchup down.
“There you go,” he says, with a laugh.
“Thanks,” she returns.
Peter is like a magnet; Eduardo and Jerry have drifted over, and they all stand there in a wide-berth circle.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Peter says again, but he’s looking at Taylor. Or is he? She swivels to check behind her, but no one’s there.
“Me?” she says, and she can see the surprise on Liam’s face, too.
“You. The Cam Newton fan. Rose said you were in here. I wanted to see how your first week went.” He smiles.
“It, uh, it went well,” she says, her voice cracking like a pubescent teenager’s.
“I’m glad to hear it. Any questions, you can ask one of these fine fellows. Right, guys?”
The lot of them begin nodding, like this has been what they’ve been doing all along.
Hmph.
“Great. I will,” she says.
“You know, I was thinking about your reaction to that painting of the girl on the train,” he says, like it’s just the two of them, having a private conversation. “Now that you’ve been here a week, has your interpretation of the painting changed? What was it you said? ‘She’s just existing’?”
Taylor blinks. “I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I’d have to look at it again.”
“Well, let’s do that at some point, shall we?”
She nods, searching for something—anything—interesting to respond with, but like usual, falls short.
“Peter,” calls the tall man—Michael—from the doorway. “C’mon; they’re waiting for us.”
“Duty calls,” Peter says, with a secretive smile. When he swooshes out of the restaurant, it feels like he’s taken the air of the room with him.
With a prolonged sigh, Eduardo reaches out to pat Taylor’s arm. “We’re all a little in love with him,” he says.