Finally, after Peter crossed the small kitchen to tug on the hem of my T-shirt, I relented. “Alright. Well if you really don’t mind, I can check in on your references. I’ll text you the number for the restaurant and my friend Jay’s number in case you can’t get a hold of me. I have to get over there first thing tomorrow to meet with management. Is around seven thirty okay for you?”
It would be a godsend not to have to pay the sitter the agreed upon fifteen dollars an hour. Money was stretched tight as it was. But guilt reared its very familiar head at the thought of not paying Vanessa anything to watch Peter. Maybe I could at least arrange some kind of barter, free dinner once a week or something. Then fear climbed on top of guilt, just as familiar and just as unwelcome. What if despite the references and sweet veneer, Vanessa turned out to be a bad egg? What kind of person just agreed to help someone like this? I needed to move my body, burn off some of this frantic energy buzzing through me. I bit my lip hard. This would be fine. Everything was fine.
“Sweetheart.” It took me a long moment to realize Vanessa was speaking to me, not to my son. “I know this is a lot. New job. New place. I understand how hard it can be to start over. Let me help. Please.”
I wanted to argue. I didn’t need help. Not from her. Not from anyone. Instead, I forced my tight muscles to relax just a little. Relief seeped into my limbs and the sensation was strange. I usually only felt this way for a few minutes after a particularly punishing run or when I lost myself to the rhythm of work in the kitchen.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
* * *
You could have knocked me over with a feather as I stepped into my new kitchen the next morning. My kitchen. Mine.
No pixels on a tablet screen could have prepared me for the gleaming expanse of stainless steel and clean white tile. A giant copper hood fan arced over the space and a wide, polished concrete pass separated the kitchen from the front of house. Everything smelled new, like a hardware store. Like possibility. My ears heated and my eyes fizzed. I squeezed them shut, hoping this wouldn’t all disappear.
Next to me, Riccardo, the owner of Zest Restaurant Group, and Sean, the general manager of Bella Vista, were talking a mile a minute about...something. I should have been listening and chiming in. This mattered to me as much as it mattered to them. More, maybe. For Riccardo, Bella Vista’s failure would mean a huge financial loss and a disastrous business gamble in a new market. For Sean, who had a fancy-pants track record managing Zest’s fine-dining spots in Manhattan, failure would mean personal and professional disgrace. For me, Bella Vista had to succeed. I’d uprooted my family, left the only city—heck, the only kitchen—that had really felt like home. And when I did something, I did it right.
Opening a high-end, high-concept Mediterranean seafood restaurant in a city known best for chowder and lobster rolls was a risky proposition. I was still reeling from Riccardo’s decision to hire me for this of all jobs.
Of course, in a lot of ways it made sense. I’d spent the last three years as the sous-chef at Café Eloise, his chic French small plates restaurant. I’d worked my tail off for him. And when the head chef disappeared in a cloud of cigarette smoke and expletives, I’d taken over for a few months, pushing the restaurant out of traditional chicken liver pate territory into serving creative takes on Provençal classics. I revamped the menu and we ended up winning a few small, city-magazine awards. Our food was artistic without sacrificing flavor. We had a solid group of regulars and tourists alike. And I knew how to run a kitchen.
When Riccardo found out I’d grown up fishing on the streams in Missouri and knew how to debone a trout with my eyes closed, he called me into his office for a chat about my future. And when he discovered I was looking for a change of scenery, he offered me the job in Maine on the spot. Executive chef. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, barely to myself, but I was nervous. The stakes were high. Besides, at the end of the day I was still more at home frying up catfish than I was whipping up lobster gnocchi. But I was determined to create a delicious, innovative menu that would do us all proud. Bella Vista would be a success.
“Adah, does that sound agreeable?” Sean asked. His voice carried the impatient edge of someone who was aware he was being tuned out.
“Oh yeah. Absolutely.” I nodded curtly and met his eyes. Jay, my best friend and the pastry chef at Café Eloise, had warned me that Sean could be difficult and that he didn’t always respect women in the kitchen.
Riccardo chuckled warmly. “You were spaced out, darling. Sean and I thought the three of us should take today to personally assess some of the other fine-dining spots in the area.”
I perked up. I’d done thorough research on the local competition. There was a lot. The city had been named a culinary destination to watch by a number of food publications in the past few years. Although we would be on the higher end of the offerings, there were a few I wanted to see in person. One in particular.
“We’ll start with The River Street Café. Then I want to take a look at Commonwealth Provisions. And what do you think, Ric, should we bother with Osteria Mina or have they gone too far downhill?” Sean shifted his body just enough to make it a two-man conversation.
I took a step toward him.
Riccardo looked to me. “What do you think, chef?”
I bit my lip to hide my smile. “I’d like to check them out. See the space and maybe talk to a few people in the front of house if they’d be willing. I think it will be good to start off on the right foot with folks.” I paused, looking from Sean, who had crossed his arms, to Riccardo, who was nodding along vigorously. “And what about The Yellow House? I really want to see what they’re doing over there.”
I didn’t mention that my interest in the local-coffee-shop-turned-award-winning-culinary-destination had a whole lot to do with a profile I’d read a few months earlier of Beth Summers, the laid-back owner. Waiting in line at the grocery store, I’d picked up an issue of a splashy food magazine specifically because the cover image had caught my eye—a gorgeous woman laughing with her head thrown back, a tumble of auburn curls, a decidedly non-cheffy lavender dress, a hodgepodge of crystal necklaces.
Then I’d flipped to her interview. I’d been fascinated with her business philosophy even if it didn’t make a lick of sense to me. In theory, using only local ingredients, ensuring a competitive salary and full health benefits for all staff, and cooking almost everything in a wood burning oven sounded amazing. In the cold reality of the restaurant world, though, those things were almost impossible to do. Still, when she breezily mentioned her dedication to visibility for queer female chefs in a male-dominated industry, I’d actually bought a copy of the dang magazine so I could read the full interview. Several times.
Riccardo made one of his dramatic affirmative noises, whereas Sean’s brows crashed together. “That tiny place in the middle of nowhere?” Sean practically scoffed. “I don’t think we need to worry about them. Overhead like that they’ll close next month.”