Chapter 6 Jacquarding
Jacquarding
Jack
I sink the tip of my knife into yet another cockroach, grimacing as it pierces the carapace. I fling it into the nearest garbage
can—slam dunk—and turn to the sink.
Only cold water. Fantastic. So far today I’ve been a night porter, electrician, exterminator, and cleaner. I’ve hauled enough
garbage to fill the dumpster out back. The grease trap fell on my head earlier, and I don’t think there’s a shampoo in the
world that will rescue my hair. A horrendous-looking alley cat scratched me when I tried to shoo him out of the kitchen, so
I’ll probably start foaming at the mouth before sunset.
And now I’m a plumber.
Not exactly how I imagined my career going post-Pastiche.
It’s only been three days since everything turned to shit, but it feels like three years. When I took the keys to the Sailfish
from Kiara, I expected a mess. This is verging on a disaster. I don’t blame her for letting upkeep go by the wayside during
her dad’s illness. I barely wanted to push open the door when I first arrived, my chest tight as I peered at the dark, disheveled
space. It needs help. More elbow grease than I can provide on my own. My savings are going to be drained by the time this
project is done.
I sit back on my heels, scratching my beard. My T-shirt is sticking to my back. The AC needs a tune up, too. Another thing to add to my increasingly crowded mental list.
As if to add insult to injury, the cat pokes his head around the back door I’ve propped open, his long whiskers twitching.
“Go away,” I grumble. “There’s no food here.”
I did that sweep first thing, in case anything in the walk-in or lowboys had turned into a science experiment and needed a
hazmat clean-up. Thankfully, the only things I found were seasonings and tinned items verging on expiration.
The cat paws at something underneath a table. A lizard scrambles out and the cat pounces on it. My lips twitch with reluctant
amusement at the sight of the lizard’s tail hanging out of his mouth.
“Guess I was wrong,” I tell him.
He trots away, tail held high. I pry open the cabinet underneath the sink, frowning at the pipes. The water pressure sucks,
in addition to being freezing. I’m afraid to look at the water heater; I’m sure it needs to be replaced.
Herman, the grizzled line cook who handled the day-to-day kitchen operations when I was around, would know who to contact
about this. He was a stubborn old man, but he was close with Sal and loved this place. Taught me some good recipes. How to
shotgun a beer. When I started working at the Sailfish, he seemed larger than life, like a rockstar.
I walked into this mess and it’s mine to fix, but if I can find him, maybe he’ll give me a hand. I remember him living in
one of those trailer park communities by the water. Tiny place with a taxidermied alligator nailed to the wall.
It’s as good a plan as any.
The last notes of the playlist I was listening to—heavy on Greta Van Fleet—fade, leaving behind unpleasant silence. I need
noise to focus, be it music or the buzz of a kitchen. Ideally both at the same time. When I worked in Tokyo, at a place that
mixed Japanese classics with the sensibility of a French brasserie, the head chef would torture the staff with disco. I didn’t
mind, really. Helped me keep my head down.
I stand, groaning as my knees protest, and stretch.
I ran along the beach this morning, something I haven’t had an opportunity to do in years.
Probably went too hard, but the thought of starting the day with a beer was tempting, and I needed to stop that in its tracks.
I might have fond memories of Herman, but I don’t want to end up like him.
I grab my phone from the counter and put on a new playlist. As I click on Chester’s contact—which I’ve done repeatedly the
past few days, before losing the nerve to text him—a message from Kiara pops up.
Kiara: Have you seen Poppy Winfield’s story?
Me: Story?
Kiara: On Instagram
Me: Why?
Kiara: Looks like she’s in West Palm
Me: ???
I look up her profile, careful not to do anything dumb like follow her, and click on her story. The most recent image, from
this morning, is a selfie, big designer sunglasses concealing her eyes. Kiara’s right. The background looks just like downtown
West Palm Beach. No text, no context. The sunshine—no, it must be whatever filter she used before posting—is making her hair
glow gold.
Maybe she’s going to Palm Beach for a shopping spree.
In August.
Some of the stores must stay open even when it’s not Season, right?
Something about her carefree smile reminds me of Jessica.
I didn’t mean to nurse the pain of the lost promotion with the daughter of the man who fired me, but I can’t bring myself to regret it, either.
She was so out of place in that hole-in-the-wall bar.
I thought she’d bail, and instead, she somehow got me to open up before I could think better of it.
She looked just as I remembered from her sister’s wedding—expensive haircut, designer dress, big blue eyes.
She might’ve tried for elegance, but there was something else under the surface.
A clumsiness, a strum of energy. Something tells me she has trouble containing it all.
She’s a spoiled brat. It comes with the territory when you’re the daughter of one of the richest men in Manhattan. Of course,
she got to go back to her fairytale life after that poor excuse of a drinking game. She has everything, same as Jessica did,
and I have nothing. No one. This place excluded.
My phone starts to buzz with an incoming call.
I step outside the restaurant, leaning against the weather-worn siding. I stare at the contact on the screen, stomach twisting
like a bed of snakes.
Douglas Winfield.
I let my head thud back. Despite all the shit I pulled over the past few months, I never let one of his calls go by.
My fingers twitch, half-reaching for my pocket. No crumpled pack of Marlboros. Maybe I forgot my medication this morning in
my rush to go for that run. I always miss smoking more when I haven’t had it.
“Hello?” My voice cracks as I answer the call. I kick myself internally. Pathetic.
“Jack. I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”
“What’s going on?”
For half a second, I allow myself to imagine it: He’s calling me to say he was wrong, that the job is mine, that I can come
back to New York City today. I’m not that lucky, of course. A few breaks aside, luck belongs to people like him, like Poppy.
Not me.
“You’re in Florida now, right?”
“Yep.”
“Your hometown?”
“Call it that if you want.”
Once, I thought Douglas understood me. Sal never got why I was so desperate to leave Florida, to find myself somewhere else,
but Douglas did. He came from a nowhere town in Ohio. Left as soon as he could and never looked back.
Now, I don’t know.
He’s quiet for a moment. My words hang on the line between us, far too dramatic, far too embarrassing.
“My daughter is in Florida.”
I squint at the sun, partially covered by clouds. “And?”
“And according to her, she’s in business with you.”
Fuck. I glance around, as if Poppy might stroll out from behind a palm tree. She wasn’t kidding about wanting to leave New
York. The story from West Palm was posted hours ago. It’s an hour drive at most to Diamond Bay. Maybe she’s somewhere in town,
looking for me.
The thought is exasperating, but I don’t hate it the way I should. Last night I broke down, scrolled through Poppy’s accounts,
looking at what amounts to a hefty portfolio of business promotion. I knew she was popular online, but not millions of devotees popular. I still think it’s bullshit, the need for self-promotion, especially in the culinary world, but I can’t deny that
she had a point about putting the Sailfish on the map.
At my silence, Douglas presses on. “Son? Is that true?”
Son. The word stings. I swallow, ducking my head. Trace a crack in the pavement with the toe of my sneaker. A lizard darts by,
running up the trunk of a nearby palm. I think of Poppy, all wide blue eyes and untamed energy. How lucky she is to have a
father who cares. A father at all. A family that will always choose her, without hesitation.
“Why do you care?”
“I haven’t spoken to her in days. You understand my concern.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“No, I just—”
“I didn’t kidnap her,” I snap, irritation rising. “She’s an adult. She can make her own choices.”
“We all make our own choices.” Somehow, over the phone, Douglas sounds older. Exhausted, really. “How does Sal’s old place
look?”
My thin thread of patience snaps. “Fuck you.”
I hang up, fingers clenched tightly around my phone. Jerking my hand through my sweaty hair, I kick a nearby rock. It skitters to the edge of the dock, a mere centimeter away from falling into the water. I finish the job, watching as it sinks beneath the surface.
As I turn to go back inside, I notice movement out on the docks. A woman wearing a hot pink dress and heels high enough to
break an ankle if she falls, her golden hair swaying in the breeze. She has big, ritzy sunglasses perched on her nose.
Poppy.
My chest tightens. I can’t help myself; I laugh. She’s as out of place here as she was in that dive bar, drinking whisky even
though she hated it and worming her way into my half-baked plans. I take a few steps forward, watching as she leans over to
peer at something in the water.
As I stare, she wobbles—and falls into the lagoon.
Goddamnit.
I guess I could use a swim.