19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter 19
Risto
“ Y o, Risto! You have a visitor!” Jose yelled from the kitchen.
I checked the time. Three o’clock, smack in the middle of our downtime transition between lunch and dinner service. With no appointments on my calendar, I wondered if Silas had sent another potential investor my way.
I pushed back from my desk and abandoned the relative peace of my office to find Freddie’s salsa music blaring in the kitchen, while an uncomfortable Leslie shrank in the corner, hugging herself. I waved her over, and she wiggled away from her would-be dance partner.
I led her to my office and closed the door.
“Sorry to arrive unannounced.”
“I’m surprised to see you here. It’s your least favorite place.” I slipped the pen from behind my ear and slotted it into the breast pocket of my black chef’s jacket while she sank onto my sofa. Leslie navigated life big, loud, and took up a full measure of space. Not today. She shrank small, occupying as little real estate as possible, looking like a tiny child who wanted to disappear.
Something was very wrong.
“Are you okay?” Worry soaked those three words.
Leslie’s eyes welled with tears. “No. But before I tell you what it is and ask you a favor I have no right to ask, I need to know one thing.”
She smashed her lips together as if fighting to keep the words from spilling out.
“Anything.”
“Do you love me?”
Emotion clenched in my chest. I wanted Leslie more than I felt comfortable sharing. But this sudden outpouring of vulnerability felt wrong. Diving in without thinking would leave us both drowned. We’d been there before, and I’d be an idiot to forget how wrecked it left us when I walked away. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be there for her in other ways. As a friend.
“I think you need to tell me what’s going on.”
“Fuck, Risto. Why do you always have to make everything so difficult? I need help. I can’t do this alone… But if you don’t love me, then it’s wrong for me to ask… I just… I need. Oh, God, what am I doing here?” Overcome, Leslie dissolved into mournful sobs, her body heaving as she hid her face in her hands.
I’d never seen her like this, and it scared me.
“Please. What’s going on? Help me understand.” I dropped to kneel before her, hugging her close.
She shifted to my shoulder, where her warm tears soaked my coat through. I waited as she expelled whatever pain had her tied in knots. Squeezing tighter, I pressed strength into her while drawing out the hurt. She was always so strong—it killed me to see her in distress. Once settled, she leaned back, and I kissed her nose.
“Better?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She sniffled, wiping her eyes with her palms.
“Can we start over?”
“Yes, of course. So. Have you ever noticed I don’t eat much?”
It had to be a trick question, and the mild sarcasm in her tone made me wonder why she was asking and what flavor response she expected.
“What about it?”
“That article I told you about led me to ask some questions about myself. I came straight from the hospital, where they’re beginning a treatment plan for me. I have anorexia nervosa. I’ve been starving myself.”
I wrapped her tight in my arms and she wept, silently this time. At last, she resumed talking, her head still resting on my shoulder.
“I didn’t realize that my eating habits were caused by a mental illness. They’re doing a battery of tests and may admit me for treatment depending on how sick I am. How am I supposed to support Dot if I can’t even help myself?”
I pulled back to look her in the eyes. “It’s not a choice. You both deserve love and support.”
We locked eyes.
“So you do love me,” Leslie said. She didn’t ask. We both knew it was true, but knowing wasn’t enough. She needed to hear it.
“Yes. I still love you.”
I pulled her close, rocking her in my arms before kissing the top of her head.
Leslie had been rail-thin since we were teens. I saw how often she ate, which was never. But I’d never put a name to it. I assumed it was how she was. Like her mom.
“How can I help?” I asked.
“Just be here for me, if you’re open to it. I don’t want to overtax Dot, and it sounds like I might be seriously sick from not eating enough for so long. It’s a lot to ask, but is it okay if I lean on you a bit? I’m scared.”
I never imagined hearing those two words cross her lips. I’m scared. That she admitted that to me showed how serious the situation was. I’d be there for her, now and always, if she’d have me. This conversation wasn’t about us, but maybe it was. Maybe her resistance had never been about me at all. My life centered on the thing she feared most.
Food.
Rejecting me was the only logical solution. I’d pushed her away because I thought she didn’t love me. It seemed the grownup choice to voice what I thought to be the truth. Her coming here today showed there was only one adult between us, and it wasn’t me.
I held her face in my hands. “I will be here, by your side, for as long as you want me. I’ll do anything for you.”
“Anything?” She asked.
“Name it.”
“Would you mind making me something to eat?” Her mouth curled up in a tentative smile. As if asking a chef to cook was a huge inconvenience.
I pulled her up, and we walked hand in hand back to a now spotless kitchen. Dinner prep was done, and the boys typically took a quick break in the afternoons before diving into the evening service. Living so close, they sometimes ran home for showers or chill time alone.
Leslie trailed behind me as I entered our walk-in fridge. The wet spot on my shoulder instantly chilled, sending a shudder down my back. Leslie stood in the doorway, rubbing her cooling arms.
I grabbed an empty stainless steel tray to fill with ingredients. “Let me guess. Pork chops, rice, and beans?”
“And maduros,” she added.
“Ahh, how silly of me to forget your beloved plantains. I’ll get the fryer on.” I strode past her with my bounty, and she snapped the door handle locked behind us.
Leslie leaned her elbows on the counter, sniffing and savoring the oregano and garlic as I chopped. Our eyes met, and she cracked a closemouthed grin. I loved that I was able to be here for her and help her heal. Her request for my cooking was a dream come true. It gave me hope that we might have a lasting future together.
But first, we had to get her well.
The plantains crackled as I dropped them into the fryer, which would caramelize the surface into a golden brown. After a few minutes, I lifted the basket, shook it, and toppled the crispy slices into a stainless warming tray. I tossed them with sea salt, then dumped them into a black metal stand lined with white parchment paper. Ready for prime time, I slid it across to her on the counter.
Now came the moment of truth. I’d cooked for Leslie many times, but getting her to eat and enjoy meals was a struggle. Why hadn’t I realized something was wrong?
Our deep history together made it easy to forget we’d been apart for years. That made her personal life a mystery, though I had more than a passing interest and tracked what I could from afar. From her guest spots on TV, to her articles and updates from Dot, I knew enough to keep me on edge and yearning. But that was about to change.
Without hesitating, Leslie picked up a fork and speared a steaming plantain. She blew it briefly, then took a tentative bite. “It’s not as hot as I thought.”
She slid the rest into her mouth, moaning as she chewed. “It’s so good. I can’t believe I get to eat these.”
“Whenever you want. Just ask,” I said.
Watching diners enjoy my food never got old. Watching Leslie eat my food was borderline erotic. I couldn’t tear myself away from the sight.
She ate two more hunks before pausing to give me a stink eye. “Um. Shouldn’t you be cooking?”
“Yeah, probably.”
I turned back to my work, emerging with her favorite dish within 25 minutes. Crispy pork chop cubes with rice and black beans. I put the plate in front of her, sprinkling chopped parsley across the top with pinpoint precision.
The dish steamed with anticipation. But, as she’d done with the now-devoured maduros, she dug in, savoring each bite. I let her eat in peace while I cleaned up. The staff would be returning soon. When drying my hands, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
“This is Risto,” I answered.
“Chef Zaldo, hello! This is Brock Benson. I got your name from Silas Greene. I hope this is a good time?” the man said. “I hear you’re in the market for a culinary agent, and I’d very much like to be your man.”
Leslie looked to be in a blissful dream state, her eyes dropping closed with each mouthful.
“Okay if I take this call?” I asked, but Leslie shooed me away.
I meandered into my office to talk in private. “Silas has become my guardian angel. The dude’s pretty relentless.”
Brock chuckled. “That’s Silas. He’s sent many clients my way. But I’m the reason the famous chefs you know are names you know. I’m good at what I do, just as you are.”
He explained how his firm represented some of the most celebrated culinary talent, food writers, and kitchen personalities in the industry. His client list was a Who’s Who on the Food Network. Rapt, I hung on every word, forgetting his goal was to make me a star like they were.
“I get all that, but why me?” I asked. “There are thousands of chefs across the country.”
“Two reasons: the cover of Philadelphia Metro and the rabid fans warring about you in chat rooms. That, my friend, has sent people chattering from coast to coast. If we can tap that energy and use it to build momentum, it will work to your financial advantage with your expansion to New York.”
“How do you—”
“Oh, come now. Do you think this industry has ANY secrets?” Brock chuckled.
Apparently not.
“I only have one question for you. Do you want to be famous? Be on more covers? Judge on TV shows and appear at food festivals?” he asked.
Up until now, I lived a quiet life. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t crave more. The success of Boricua made me a big fish in a small pond. Brock could make me a bigger fish in a gigantic ocean, which both thrilled me and triggered queasiness. Ambition was for other people, or so my grandparents preached. A long shot reserved for a rare few. The likelihood of success was so remote it was a waste to try. But they were wrong. It was time for me to step out of the shadows and own what I wanted.
Did I want to be famous?
Hell, yes.
But if I was going to sign on with Brock—after confirming that he wasn’t lying about his abilities and client list—I needed to be all-in about being in the spotlight. If I could pull it off, it just might get me enough success in New York to fulfill two dreams. Being a celebrated chef and building a life with Leslie.
“Okay, Brock. If you’re as good as you say, make me the next big thing in food.”
He whooped into the phone. “Buckle up, Chef Zaldo! You’re about to be a star.”