Chapter 21 Rip Out the Weeds
Rip Out the Weeds
— F OUR M ONTHS TO A MELIE’S W EDDING —
“Amelie, did you see all the reposts?”
“Re tweets. ”
“They accused us of discrimination. Look! Look!” My dad holds his phone out. “ Quel bordel. ”
With a sigh, I grab it and scroll through the answers.
Monica said, “What about throuples? @LaBrasserie should consider there isn’t just one type of family,” while someone whose nickname is Lucasiisthebest wrote, “@LaBrasserie Can I come with my boyfriend? How do I prove he’s not just a friend? #LGBT #QueerRights.” My eyes skim over the third tweet that shows up, from Penny, that reads, “My husband is sober. Are we still welcome in your establishment, @LaBrasserie?”
Jesus Christ. How did this become about LGBT rights and alcoholism? Offering a free glass of champagne to couples was just a cute idea to celebrate the holiday, and it seemed like a good idea last February, when I came up with it. How did they even find it? I swear, whoever is behind these tweets at the Marguerite is the devil.
“We’re going to have to delete the tweet and apologize,” my dad says, his voice coming out more breathy than normal as he shoves his glasses somewhere on his crowded desk. “We can say we’ll offer a glass of champagne to all guests next February fourteenth and hopefully everyone will forget about this.”
“Absolutely not.” Shaking my head firmly, I cross my arms over my T-shirt. “We’ve done nothing wrong, and saying that would be like admitting Roberts and the damn Marguerite are right.”
His mouth, initially open, closes. Nothing changes his mind like mentioning William Roberts getting the upper hand.
“Fine. What do you suggest we do?” he asks, the harsh lines on his face deepening.
I’d like to find whoever’s behind the Marguerite’s Twitter profile and set their car on fire. But if I’m to abide by the law, I’ll have to limit myself to humiliating the crap out of that disgraced restaurant. “I’ll answer, don’t worry.”
“Amelie, I let you handle this because I thought you knew what you were doing.” With a deep sigh, he rubs a hand over his forehead, the noise of his nails scraping his scalp, making me shiver. “But I might have overestimated you.”
“Ha!” comes out of my lips before I have any way to stop it, and his frowning round face turns a shade redder. “That would be the first time ever.”
Motionless, he stares at me. He always does this, and it has the power to frustrate me to madness. He watches me intently without saying a word, as if he’s dealing with an unreasonable child who isn’t worth explaining the rules to.
I endure a minute—maybe a little less—of intense eye contact before I break. “I’m not even supposed to be dealing with Twitter, you know? If I recall correctly, my very first words about this were ‘Hire a social media manager.’?” Rushing to stand, I grumble, “I’m a chef. That’s what I do: I cook.”
“That’s what you do right now.” He hunches over a thick pile of papers. “When you inherit La Brasserie, that’s not the only thing you’ll be doing.”
“Will I inherit the restaurant?” I ask, my voice pregnant with sarcasm. “I assumed one day you’d announce your imminent death and explain that every chef in here has the same chance to inherit the business.”
As I stalk toward the door, his stern words hit me in the back like an axe. “Throwing a fit because I didn’t give you the position yet? You know how old I was before I was made head chef, Amelie?”
“Thirty-eight,” I say without missing a beat. I know that and every other detail pertaining to his career. His recipes have been my bible since I was able to read, his work what I aspired to, knowing I’d never achieve the same greatness. Of course I know.
“Right. Because my father never handed anything to me.” He swings lightly on his dark red upholstered chair. “He always said that La Brasserie would take priority over anything else, and I’d get the job when I excelled at it.”
“Okay. You win,” I say with a dull voice. Why am I even fighting for a job I’m not sure I want? Why do I always give him the satisfaction?
He chuckles as if this is all a joke. It probably is to him, but it’s also my life, and it’s starting to feel like he just wants me here, waiting. Stuck, not going forward or backward. I’m a grown woman, a competent chef, yet he still treats me like I’m an emotional child.
“You know, other restaurants would be happy to hire me as their head chef.”
“Would they, now?” He stands, walks to his liquor cabinet, and fills a glass with his most expensive rum. “Did you inquire?”
I drag a hand across my face. I’d be flattered by his obvious displeasure, but I know it has nearly nothing to do with me. How very humiliating would it be for Hammond Preston if his daughter were to work for some other restaurant?
“Moretti has been after me for years, Dad,” I point out. And his restaurant, La Fattoria, is much more in line with what I like to cook.
“Yes.” He smiles, bringing the glass to his lips. “And I know you’d sooner cut your hands off than work for that blaireau .”
My eyes narrow. “I’m competent enough to be a head chef, and Moretti might be a… blaireau , but he knows that. You don’t.”
“Hmm,” he says distractedly. “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe I’m not sure being my head chef is the right step for you.”
To him, I’ll never be ready. I’ll never be enough. And, God, I’m done trying to please him. “Well, thanks for the chat, Dad.”
“Fix the Twitter thing as soon as possible. I don’t have time to worry about your messes.”
My shoulders tense, my teeth grinding so hard that they might just turn into dust. “Maybe I will take that job for Moretti, then. So you won’t have to worry about me at all.”
“Really?” He laughs, the sound more evil than joyous. “That’s what you’ll leave La Brasserie for? A mediocre restaurant?”
“It wouldn’t be mediocre if I was the head chef.”
With his smile gone, he stands and walks to the window. “I didn’t raise you as a fool, Amelie.”
“No,” I agree. “You raised me as a chef.” Yanking the door open, I throw him one last hateful look. “Everything else I am, I did by myself.”
I walk out, not even bothering to close the door, and head into the parking lot just as my phone pings.
Ian:
Dan texted me to say thanks. Apparently, you booked the band. It was a knife to my heart. What about the Almighty Lumberjacks of Death?
Amelie:
Is that the name of your band?
Ian:
Does it turn you on?
I snort my laughter, then rest my chin in my hand. Ten seconds. That’s how long it took him to make me smile.
Amelie:
Uh-oh. Is it getting warmer in here?
Ian:
PFP.
Pointing the front camera at my face, I groan. My skin is ghostly, as if I spent the last few months living in a cave, and the top of my hair is pinned back; I always wear it like this at work, but it makes my forehead look huge.
I unpin my hair, then pinch my cheeks to give them some color. With a smile, I take the picture and send it.
I wait for a response, and when it doesn’t come, I turn to the busboy who’s smoking by the trash can. “George?”
His tired brown eyes meet mine. “Yes, Chef?”
“We’re not in the kitchen. ‘Amelie’ is fine.” I stand with a smile and walk over to him. “Could I have one?”
His hand rises, his forehead furrowed with confusion. “A smoke?”
“Yes.”
He hesitates, then quickly nods and takes out his packet. He offers it to me, and I clumsily slide a cigarette out, then accept his lighter. Just as I light the cigarette up and explode into a coughing fit, my ringtone blasts from my pocket.
“Thanks,” I manage to say before walking away. I take my phone out, and my camera is on. Ian’s video-calling me. Why today of all days?
With a sad look at my Iron Maiden sweatshirt and ripped jeans, I answer and force a smile on my face. “Hey, stranger,” I say as the call starts and his face fills my screen.
He’s as gorgeous as ever. His hair has grown, falling over his face with the wind, which is making his microphone rattle. And in contrast to me, he’s tan. The picture of happiness and relaxation. I often wonder what he does for a living; whatever it is, our lives must be pretty different. “Look where I am.”
The camera turns, and Mayfield’s Beckett Bridge stands tall against a bright blue sky. “Oh, wow, it’s beautiful,” I say, my voice soaked with admiration.
The camera switches back to his smiling, gorgeous face. “Frank, Martha, or work?”
“What?”
“What’s upsetting you?”
I hesitate, my eyes roaming left and right. How did he figure it out? I smiled—I really tried to look cheerful. How does he always get it?
“Are you—Amelie, are you on fire?”
Glancing at the screen, I notice the smoke from the cigarette still in my hand is moving in front of the camera. “Oh, no. I’m just—” I show him the cigarette, and his brows arch. “No, I don’t smoke. I’ve done it twice in my life and hated it both times.”
“Don’t tell me you’re holding it for a friend,” he says, cocking his head dramatically. “I’m pretty sure I came up with that one.”
“I just figured…” With a deep sigh, I shrug. “I don’t know. Stress. Smoke.”
“I see. Well, what’s new?”
What’s new? he asks. Besides the latest battle with my dad, and Martha sending her engagement photos on the group chat, Frank continues to live his best single life and hasn’t asked a single question about Ian.
“Are you on your way to work?” I ask. He’s walking along the street, people rushing around him, and it looks like he’s wearing one of his soft-looking sweaters. This one’s red.
“Lunch break.”
“Oh, Ian, I don’t want to bother you during—”
“Amelie, come on.” His eyes squint, the different shades of blue in his irises bright with the sunlight hitting his face directly. “If by the end of this call you’re not smiling, I won’t be able to focus on work. And then I’ll get fired. And I’ll lose my apartment and starve. No pressure.”
When I chuckle, he points at the screen, joining in. “That’s what I’m looking for. Come on, spit it out.”
“But, Ian—”
“ Amelie ,” he insists. “Don’t make me beg.”
“No, don’t beg.” It’s bad enough that this man is at my beck and call for whatever emotional crisis I’m going through. I don’t need him to beg for me to vomit my issues on him. “My father is playing me.”
He nods. “Mm-hmm.”
“He refuses to give me the promotion, although he knows I’m much more qualified for it than any of his other employees. I’ve worked for it much harder than they ever could.”
His jaw squares as he angrily stares away. “You’ve been waiting for months, Amelie. You’re right to demand recognition for all the work you’ve done.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” I whine, dropping the cigarette onto the ground and putting it out with the ball of my foot. I can’t help my relief. He sees it as well. I’m not crazy. “And I’ve been offered the same position elsewhere, better money too.”
“But? Why do you want to stick with your dad?”
“I don’t know.” Lies. I do know. Looking in the distance, at the rows of cars in the parking lot, I twist a lock of hair with my fingers. “To prove to myself I can? To prove him wrong?”
There’s the ringing of a bell, and he enters what looks like a deli. After he tells me to wait, he orders a sandwich. From where his phone is, I can see his Adam’s apple, his chin, the curve of his smile. He winks down at the phone, his unbuttoned collar letting me see just a hint of the golden skin of his chest. I wonder if he has tattoos there like he has on his arms.
They’re so hot. He’s so hot.
“Okay,” he says, leaving with his order a few minutes later. “Amelie, what’s the end goal?”
“The end goal?”
“Yeah. Your dream.”
I shrug, unsure of what he wants me to say. “To get the promotion, I guess? To take my father’s place in his business?”
“You guess ?” He sits down on a park bench, shrubs taking up most of the background as the sun highlights his ash-brown hair. Unwrapping his food with one hand, he looks at the screen. “Why is that your dream? What’s the appeal?”
“Well, it’s—” I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Hmm. One would think that’s a question you’d know how to answer.”
Clicking my tongue, I pick at my nails. “I know how to answer. I want to be successful. My dad is the best at…” With a smile, I bite my bottom lip. “At what he does.”
“So, if you were a contractor, you’d want to be the best contractor.”
I study his relaxed blue eyes. “Yeah, sure, but what does—”
“That’s not a dream. That’s ambition.” His jaw works for a while as he observes me. “Why is your dream to work for your dad and not as a contractor?”
“I can’t use a hammer, for one.”
“I’ll teach you.” Bringing the phone closer, he narrows his eyes. “Amelie, where do you see yourself in ten years? What’s the passion that gets you out of bed in the morning? The imprint you want to leave on this world?”
I watch Ian’s face fill my screen as he brings a napkin to his mouth. I guess there is a dream. Something that I used to fantasize about before falling asleep when I was younger. My own restaurant—nothing like my dad’s. With simple food, a cozy atmosphere. The type of place where people would feel comfortable having dinner in a simple T-shirt and jeans. Back then, I dreamed of a place that specialized in Italian cuisine. Today I’d probably wish for something different. Maybe an intimate place by the beach that serves whatever the local fishermen catch daily. Maybe a rustic restaurant in the countryside where the food is farm-to-table.
“Ahh. There is something,” Ian exults with his usual excitement. “Come on, I want to know. What is it?”
“Well… at some point, I wanted my own thing.” I stare down at the ground, carefully choosing my words not to betray the nature of my occupation. “Open my own… place .”
He tilts his head, his radiant smile looking only half as good as it does in real life but, even so, stealing my breath away. “Of course. Beautiful Amelie the entrepreneur.” He takes another bite, and even the way he eats has me almost drooling at the screen. How his jaw snaps open and closed rhythmically, the way his tongue darts out of his mouth to lick his lips every once in a while. He’s illegally pretty.
“I know we’re in taboo territory,” he says with a smirk, “but you can tell me it’s a strip joint. I won’t judge.”
“A what?” I screech. “Is that what you think I am? A stripper ?”
“Aren’t you, with those hours you work? Night shifts?” He grins, his good mood so freaking contagious, I can’t help but smile widely myself. “Okay, so… you want to open your own strip joint.”
My cheeks flush again. “It’s not a strip joint, and I didn’t say I want to. I said I wanted to.”
“And now you don’t.”
I shake my head, though the firm no I was planning on saying doesn’t come out. The idea of opening my own restaurant sounds so obvious, I’m trying to figure out when I abandoned that dream and why. At some point, getting my dad’s approval became more important than what I wanted. “Maybe I do.”
He snorts. “Yeah, you definitely do. So… forget about your dad for a minute. How do you get there? How do you achieve your dream?”
“I mean, I could do it already. I have the experience I need,” I say. It’s not like I’d really do it right now, but I can savor the possibility. Imagine my father’s shocked expression if I told him I was leaving to open my own restaurant, the sense of achievement I’d get from running my own kitchen, the freedom of choosing my own menu.
“Okay. Let’s do that, then,” Ian says.
With a chuckle, I study his expression. He’s dead serious.
“I mean it.”
“Right,” I say with a cynical smile. “So I’ll just pop in, tell my dad I quit, and go to the bank for a loan.”
“Awesome.” Noticing my bemused expression, he leans closer to the screen. Stoic. Unblinking. Ian’s never stoic or unblinking. “Amelie, give me a good reason not to. If you can get a loan and have the experience to do it, then what’s stopping you?”
My mouth opens, millions of reasons flashing through my mind. “I can’t just quit.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because my dad—”
“He’ll be fine.”
“But the wedding… Frank…”
“He doesn’t need you to babysit him, Amelie.”
I sigh, looking away. I can’t believe I’m considering quitting and opening my own restaurant. It’s a stupid idea, and not a decision you make in a minute. And with the wedding, I already have enough on my plate. No, it’s definitely not doable. “Ian, be serious.”
“I am serious,” he insists. He leans back on the bench, holding his phone up high enough that I can see just a hint of his shirt, his coat sitting casually on his shoulders and wrapping his thick biceps. “Amelie, you need to rip the weeds out of your life. If there’s something that doesn’t make you happy and you have the power to change it, then you have to. You owe it to yourself.”
God, does he make it sound simple.
He lazily chews his sandwich. “Promise me you’ll think about it. For real.”
“I promise,” I say, and when I look at the time, I point behind me. “My shift is starting now.”
“Don’t you owe me something?”
Owe him something? Oh, right. I give him an exaggerated grin, and his serious expression turns into one of genuine joy.
Ian always makes me smile.
He nods as if proven right. “See? Gorgeous. Go, beautiful Amelie.”