The Coincidence of Coconut Cake Page 4

  Lou took a deep breath. “I want to try owning my own restaurant. Sue and Harley think I’d be great at it. I saved enough. I found the perfect place.”

  “Why do you want to keep working in restaurants? I told you, I’ll take care of you. With your support, I’ll be one of the top attorneys in Wisconsin. That’s where our efforts should be focused.”

  “Devlin, I need to try this. I’m sorry if you don’t understand.” He looked back at her, studying her face, her posture, as if she were a new car he might like to buy or a witness he wanted to break.

  “Okay, Elizabeth, but I don’t want it to distract from our plans.”

  End of conversation. For once, Devlin must have sensed her determination. But he’d ignored all her planning and had only eaten at Luella’s three times since she’d opened.

  “Lou, you okay if I take a quick break?” Lou looked over at Sue to see blood dripping off her wrist.

  “What the . . . ?”

  “It’s just a minor cut, but I need to stop the bleeding,” Sue said.

  “Go.” Lou waved her tongs at her, hearing Harley ask whether she needed help. Lou’s attention turned to another ticket for sole meunière. Lou started the fish at the sauté station, then returned to the grill.

  “Chef?” a quiet voice asked from the window.

  “Yes, Tyler.”

  “Can you put a rush on the sole for table twelve? He’s been here a while.”

  Lou saw red. She glared at Tyler.

  “Fine.”

  Four more orders arrived. Lou flipped the damn fish, started two more orders of sole, then rushed to the grill to turn all the items before she burned more food.

  “Where the hell is Sue?” Lou shouted. She slammed a pan down on a burner and lit it to start the sauce for the fish. She tossed in the ingredients, but as she reached for the salt, her sleeve caught the cooking brandy, spilling it across the lit burners and sending flames whooshing to the industrial vents above the cooking area. Lou jumped back, but not before singed hair crinkled around her face and her sleeve caught fire.

  Food first. She pulled the flaming fish and sauce off the stove and covered it with a lid to extinguish the flames. By the time she used a damp rag to douse her sleeve, the ignited brandy had burnt low, then flickered out. Before she could finish assessing the damage, Tyler’s face appeared in the window.

  “Chef?”

  She slid the rescued fish out of the pan onto a plate and dumped the butter sauce over the top.

  Lou slammed the plate under the heat lamp and shouted, “Order.”

  “And that’s enough,” said Sue from behind her, her wrist neatly wrapped in duct tape. She grabbed Lou’s hand and looked her straight in the eyes. “I say this as your best friend. You’re a raging bitch right now. While I’d like a little more sass from you, that’s not your thing. Go wash dishes until you can get your attitude under control. And what did you do to the food?”

  Lou’s eyes widened as she stared at the sauté station. She saw one overdone and one half-cooked fillet, both charred.

  “I grabbed the wrong one. Get that order back.” Lou peered out the pickup window, hoping to see Tyler holding it on the other side.

  But it had already been served. Sue firmly pushed Lou toward the dishwashing area.

  “I can handle it. The worst of the rush is over.” Sue turned back to the line of tickets and started a new sole to remedy the complaint.

  • • • • •

  And stop. Al pushed a button on his wristwatch. Thirty-three minutes since his salad. He looked at the plate. The fish looked wan, drowning in its sauce. The capers were scattered haphazardly. A pathetic wedge of lemon clung to the edge of the white plate as if for its life. He nudged the empty salad plate away from the silverware so he could pick up a fork. On his iPad under “Decent salad,” he typed, “Limp fish, poor presentation, slow service, no bread.” Al cut into the middle of the fish to take a bite. The inside looked underdone. Perhaps the edge would be safer. He took a bite and gagged. Somehow the fish was over- and underdone, with a heavy alcohol flavor. He wasn’t staying for soufflé.

  “Check, please.”

  • • • • •

  Lou took over washing pots and pans for the night, embracing the heavy, repetitive labor. She scrubbed every pan immaculately, pretending each was Devlin’s lying face. Anger and hurt flooded her, blinding her to everything else. She scrubbed and scrubbed, expunging the indignation, the fury, the misery. Harley or Sue, she didn’t look up to verify who, put more pans next to the sink and she scrubbed. Then someone else put them away. She didn’t think, she just scrubbed, stopping occasionally to swab the damp off her face.

  Devlin never supported her unless it aligned with his goals. His generous gifts, future plans, and lofty aspirations were always his, not hers. He made her feel safe, and sometimes sheltered, as if he stood between her and real life, as if she were a princess he wanted locked away in a tower, a beautiful but boring tower. But he had needed her, too, in his own way—needed someone to protect, to take care of, keep safe. Someone to help exorcise the demons left over from watching his mother deteriorate as she worked herself to the bone at restaurants. But this morning had shifted her understanding of their entire relationship. She held back tears as she tried to scrub him out of her life.

  By the end of the night, she dripped from head to toe, every muscle ached, and her pots hadn’t looked this clean since they’d come out of their boxes. When no more pots and pans appeared, she staggered to the Lair and closed the door behind her.

  • CHAPTER FOUR •

  Al never, ever got sick. He had eaten dodgy foods from Shanghai to Mexico City, from food trucks and back-alley counters. One reckless evening he even drank tap water in a small Indian village an hour outside Mumbai. During a college trip to North Africa, every one of his friends spent some time locked in their hotel room bathroom while he explored the vibrant souks and sampled more of the fragrant foods, uninterrupted. He was quite proud that he could eat anything, anywhere without negative effects—so the unsettled stomach ruining his morning made him particularly cantankerous toward Luella’s.

  His review was due to Hannah by three o’clock for the Friday edition. He’d mostly finished it last night while awake with stomach cramps. The discomfort sharpened his wit to a samurai sword; this was his most scathing review yet. A little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. After this review, he hoped no one else would have to endure indigestion at the hands of Luella’s inept chef. Serving undercooked fish should be criminal, outside of a sushi bar. And Luella’s was most definitely not sushi.

  “Why’re you here so early?” asked John as he set his camouflage messenger bag on his chair, a perfect accompaniment to his shabby appearance. Then Al noticed the tiny print on the shiny silver buckles.

  “Is that camouflage Prada? Where did you find that in Milwaukee?”

  John looked pleased and guilty at Al’s observation.

  “Chicago. Though I find a lot of stuff online.”

  Al sniffed. “That’s where I go when I want good food. And a promotion.” He added the last part under his breath.

  “We should take the Hiawatha down sometime. I can show you the great shops. You can show me the great eats.”

  Al stared. “You want to go to Chicago with me?”

  “You can’t be an ass all of the time. It might be fun.” John shrugged. “So, why are you here so early?”

  “Submitting my review from last night.”

  “Wasn’t that your first visit? Don’t you normally go a few times?”

  “After last night, there’s no need.” He took a meaningful sip of tea and turned back to his monitor. His eyes settled on an e-mail he’d been avoiding. With a sigh, he opened it. It had arrived last week from his mother, but he hadn’t had the stomach to open it then. Now on a high from writing his review, he was ready. Attached was a scanned article from the Windsor Observer, his hometown newspaper. Ian, his perfect o
lder brother, had donated several million pounds to build a new library at Eton.

  During their schoolboy days, Ian had always fit in effortlessly with the much wealthier families, comfortable with the sleek private jets, castle-like country homes, and watches worth more than most cars. He had embraced the privileged world of high collars with coat and tails while Al squirmed, drowning in the school uniforms, more dork than dashing. Everyone had expected him to come from the same Golden Boy mold as his brother, but he could never quite fit, never quite found himself. Instead, he was the awkward teacher’s son who squirmed in the back of class, avoiding notice. Ian acted as if he belonged, so he belonged. Al had just counted the days until he could be free of his brother’s long shadow.

  So Ian would now be immortalized at Eton—fantastic for him. He was even putting Dad’s name on the building, earning him another hash mark on the “best son” scorecard. He must have had a great year in investment banking. Al looked at the time—8:44. He moved his fingers, counting—2:44 in London. He dialed Ian’s office number and heard the familiar ringback tones.

  “Mr. Waters’s office, Margie speaking.”

  “Hello, Margie. This is Al Waters. Is he available for a moment or two?”

  “One moment, please.”

  The Muzak version of “Yellow Submarine” played as Al waited on hold. He sipped tea, watching John’s back as he worked. From behind, he resembled a caveman fumbling with a computer, an image at odds with his elegant cube.

  “Al! You saw the article, didn’t you?” Ian’s voice broke into Al’s thoughts. He sat up and turned back to his desk.

  “Mum sent it. Congrats, mate. Now Eton can never forget you.”

  “Thanks. Dad’s a bit overwhelmed at the mo. They would have named a building after him sooner or later—I just made it happen while he could still savor it.”

  “You’re such a good son,” Al muttered.

  “Don’t be a twit. So, when should I come visit you in Milwaukee? I haven’t seen you in ages. You can show me the sights.” Al could hear papers shuffling in the background, Ian managing to work and be kind to his little brother at the same time.

  Al thought about his first impression of Milwaukee—the gray lake, the boarded-up shopwindows down Wisconsin Avenue, the Milwaukee River, frothy like a bitter, dark beer. He imagined walking Ian past the graffiti-covered alley walls and up the dark, narrow stairs to his apartment. His view was of the busy street in front of his building, not the grand views Ian had in his many homes.

  “There’s nothing to see—trust me. And I won’t be here much longer. Wait until I’m someplace better.” Al took another gulp of now-cold tea. He never had anything that he felt was worth sharing with his brother, so their conversations dwindled into awkwardness. “I better be off. Just wanted to say congrats.”

  “Thanks, mate. See you soon, I hope.”

  Al set down the phone and rubbed under his too-tight collar.

  • • • • •

  Everything hurt, inside and out. Muscles on her back twitched from sleeping on the office cot, her hands were rubbed raw from the hot water and harsh soap used to wash the dishes, and her face hurt from fighting back tears. She remembered staggering into the Lair and tumbling onto the cot the night before, her aching body a testament to her hard work. Lou knew Sue had capably finished the night as the sole chef. Sue could run any kitchen, but she shouldn’t have to run Luella’s.

  With a deep breath, Lou sat up, smoothed her hair, and opened her eyes. Her cluttered office surrounded her, giving her comfort. The shards melted a little; her heart reinforced itself. She told herself Devlin was no longer important. It didn’t matter if she was alone. Her restaurant and, more importantly, her employees needed her. A pan clanged from the kitchen. Lou glanced at the round clock hanging on the wall—the little hand hovered near the ten. Sue must have come in assuming Lou would be useless again. Not today. Not ever again. A coffee-scented breeze wafted into the Lair, and Lou followed its trail out of her office and into the already-bustling kitchen.

  It wasn’t just Sue. Harley’s bandanna-covered head bopped to a Katy Perry song as he vigorously chopped onions. All the busboys and dishwashers washed floors and walls. Lou grabbed Tyler’s arm as he walked by with a stack of freshly laundered napkins. He jumped a little when he felt her hand.

  “Sorry about last night,” Lou said, and looked him straight in the eye. Tyler moved his shoulders.

  “We all have bad days.”

  “But I’m the boss. I should have known better.”

  Tyler smiled. “We’re cool.”

  Lou smiled back. “Is there a health inspection I don’t know about?” She pointed at the bustling kitchen.

  “No.” Tyler shook his head. “We just wanted to do something to make you feel better. Harley wouldn’t let us go after your fiancé. This seemed the next-best option.” He continued out to the dining room, where the entire waitstaff were cleaning everything, from the light fixtures to the coffeepots. New tears misted her eyes.

  “You gonna help or just stand there leaking all over the clean floor?” Sue noticed her late arrival and knew just how to get her moving. Sentimentality had no place in the kitchen. Her staff’s actions showed her they’d forgiven her meltdown; they didn’t need to say anything. Back to work as usual—exactly what she needed after the turmoil of yesterday. She lost herself in the kitchen; the smell of fresh bread and simmering veal stock, the hum of the kitchen vents over the stove and grill, the chatter of her staff as they worked—they were a healing salve on her still-throbbing wounds. She wasn’t better yet, but she would be.

  “Did Chris drop off the Bordeaux he promised?” Lou asked Sue, knowing her sous had stood in her place with all the early-morning vendors to pick out the best produce, meats, cheeses, or whatever hard-to-find morsels they might have unearthed. Sue’s jaw clenched and her eyes tightened in response to Lou’s question.

  “No,” she said. “He claimed he didn’t have any in our price range.”

  “But I already paid him for it,” Lou groaned.

  “I know—that’s why I told him he’ll give us something better to make up for the inconvenience. Billy’s putting the cases of wine in the cellar right now.” Sue’s smile implied her convincing involved unveiled threats, her favorite kind to make.

  “You shouldn’t have done that. He’ll think we’re cheap. I’ll have to pay him the difference.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he thinks, and we shouldn’t pay him any extra. He’s trying to screw you like he always does. It’s time to find a new wine vendor who won’t try to take advantage of your Midwestern good manners.”

  “You’re probably right.” Lou chewed her lip. “Anything good on the trucks?”

  “Some beautiful lake salmon, fresh asparagus, and new potatoes.”

  “New enough their skin is peeling?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know what we’re going to do today!” Lou felt the excitement surge. This was why she loved cooking: getting amazing fresh ingredients and making something extraordinary. Luella’s traditional French menu didn’t leave much room for creativity, so the daily special had become Lou’s canvas, where she was limited only by her imagination and whims.

  “We’ll keep it a simple spring dinner. Roast the potatoes in butter, salt, and pepper. Maybe some thyme or tarragon, too. We’ll top the salmon fillets with hollandaise and roast the asparagus.”

  “Works for me,” Sue said. “You know, you don’t need to make it French. It might be fun to do it with a Latin flair. Or get all crazy and do Japanese.”

  “I wish, but we aren’t there yet. We don’t have that many regulars, especially ones who’d like a change. And the new guests come because they want classic French cuisine. I just don’t want to mess with things now that we’re getting busier.”

  “You can’t play it safe forever.”

  “Someday, Sue, someday.” Lou squeezed Sue’s arm, then grabbed her favorite knife. She lost herself
breaking down the salmon into generous fillets. In the background, Lou could hear her crew start their latest debate.

  “You have to get out of the city,” said Sue. “You need to avoid people.”

  “No, no, no,” Harley disagreed. “Commandeer a huge boat and stay off the coast. You can get the resources of a big city—the water, empty stores, and fuel—but the zombies can’t get at you. You have mobility, supplies, and shelter. And you can move around to different ports.”

  “You won’t be able to get any supplies in a big city. The zombies will be where the most people are. You’ll need to go somewhere more isolated, with water, food, and weapons. Like north to Canada. Not a lot of zombies in Canada.”

  “That’s ’cause it’s cold. I’ll take my boat to the Caribbean—you go hang out with moose. Let’s see who lasts longer.”

  Sue scowled.

  Normalcy settled over the kitchen like a fleecy blanket. Lou smiled to herself, then stood up straighter as an idea flared.

  “Sue, what about a second restaurant?”

  Sue’s face brightened. “Now you’re talking. What are you thinking?”

  “Something small, intimate, where the menu changes with the seasons. Maybe even more.”

  “Lovely.” Sue’s eyes grew dreamy.

  “I’ll need to save a lot.” Lou paused, then added, “That’s what I originally planned for Luella’s.”

  “Why didn’t you do that?”

  “Devlin suggested a French restaurant would work better. People would be more open to it.” Lou shrugged her shoulders.

  “Well, he just screws everything up.”

  Lou smiled. “It was the only advice he gave me about Luella’s, so I thought taking it would encourage him to get more involved.”

  “Thank God that didn’t work.”

  Lou laughed, mending part of her broken heart.

  • CHAPTER FIVE •

  Al missed seeing his newly printed articles straight off the printer. Pushing Send wasn’t quite as satisfying as a crisp, white page emblazoned with perfectly written prose, but it was faster.