Max knew the feeling.
He clicked the remote on the bedside table, meaning to turn on the television. Instead the curtains opened, and the rising sun very nearly blinded him. He was a morning person, but that was a bit much.
He picked up the phone and was greeted by a perky voice from the front desk. “Yes, Mr. Cavanagh? How can I assist you this morning? Do you need a ride, sir? Or some coffee perhaps?”
With a grunt and a stretch, he responded. “Coffee. Black. Strong. And bacon.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Cavanagh. And how would you like—”
“Black. Strong. That’s it.”
“No, sir, I’m sorry . . . I was referring to your bacon.”
It was a little too early for the perkiness, but the attention to detail won him over. “As crispy as possible without burning it. And one egg. Poached.” He caught himself. He just wasn’t in the mood for a bad food experience, and there was nothing worse than a chef who didn’t know how to properly poach an egg. “Actually, how is your breakfast chef here?”
“He is excellent, Mr. Cav—” She gasped. “Oh, forgive me, sir. I didn’t realize that you are . . . I mean, I’m sorry. It just clicked.” She cleared her throat. “All of our chefs are excellent, Chef Cavanagh. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend the poached eggs, but they are delicious, in my opinion.”
This was far more conversation than he had ever wanted pre-coffee. “But you wouldn’t recommend them?” He knew he didn’t really require breakfast, since he was meeting Hadley in less than an hour, but he hadn’t had the opportunity to go to the gym for four days now, and he just wasn’t sure he would be able to find anything remotely healthy to eat at a place called Pancake Pantry.
“I just meant, sir, that I’m sure my taste is not as, um . . . discerning as yours. I’ve had them and I like them. But I don’t know if my standard is up to your—”
“Yeah, I get it,” he replied, rubbing his eyes. When he ordered food, he often felt like a police officer, minding his own business, frustrated that everyone on the road was driving 35 in a 65, just because he was in the lane behind them. “Let’s just go with the bacon. And the coffee. Definitely the coffee.”
“Yes, sir. Black, strong coffee is on the way to your room right now, and the bacon—extra crisp—should be to you in just a few minutes. If you change your mind on the egg, just let me—”
“Yes, yes, it’s fine.” He prepared to hang up the phone, the conversation coming to its conclusion, finally, but he had thoughts of Hadley—or, rather, thoughts of Hadley’s perception of him—running through his head. He took a deep breath and added, “Thank you for your help. Sorry if I’m a little cranky this morning. I’m sure that coffee will do the trick.”
“Oh no, sir. Not at all. And I’m happy to assist, however I can. Please don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
With that he hung up the phone, satisfied by how much better he felt about it all.
It wasn’t that he thought about Chef Hadley all that often. Not the woman herself, anyway. But very early on at Tranquility Peaks, once he’d allowed himself to settle in and become somewhat open to it all—having gotten used to not being able to go to the bathroom without Martin, the yoga instructor, saying “Namaste” as he passed his studio—they’d taught him that one of the best ways to tackle his anger was to personalize it. Not just the anger itself, but the results of losing control of the anger in unhealthy ways. For him, that would always look like Hadley Beckett—dark circles under bloodshot eyes, complete shock written across her face—being robbed of what should have been one of the proudest moments of her career. As much as it pained him to admit it, that sight was one of the very few things he actually remembered from that day.
Thirty seconds later there was a knock on the door, and Max rushed to receive his coffee, not certain he would survive another moment without it. He was forced to slow things down just a bit, however, as he realized, once his hand was on the doorknob, that he was only wearing his underwear. He groaned, threw open the closet door, and was relieved to find a hotel-provided bathrobe inside. He slipped it on and cinched the tie around his waist as he pulled open the door.
A man in full hotel uniform greeted him and began rolling a cart into the room. He was instantly about his business of performing each step of the process—pushing down the little brake on the cart wheels, assuring that the presentation was flawless, talking to Max in a way that made it evident he, unlike the sane people of the world, had been up for hours and had already consumed unfathomable quantities of caffeine. Max appreciated the effort but still decided to cut to the chase and pour the coffee for himself.
“My apologies, sir. Allow me to pour that for you.”
Max shook his head emphatically but gently—so as not to spill—as he lifted the cup to his lips and gulped down as much of the steaming black gold as his throat could stand. When he came up for air he said, “No apology necessary. The coffee is just desperately needed this morning.”
The man in uniform nodded and walked toward the door, but stopped and turned, just short of his exit. Ah. Of course. The internationally recognized symbol for, “Aren’t you going to tip me, you doofus?” Before Max could scramble for his wallet, a second uniformed man—boy, really—showed up in the open doorway with a covered plate of what was hopefully very crispy bacon.
“Good morning, Mr. Cavanagh,” he said in greeting. “I hope everything meets your approval.”
Max gestured that he could set the plate down on the cart, as he took another gulp of coffee and then poured himself a refill. As he drank, he fumbled around for his wallet, only to discover he didn’t have any cash.
“Thanks for your prompt service,” he said to both of the uniformed gentlemen, who were still awkwardly standing there. “Please add a 30 percent tip to each of the bills and charge it to the room.” They both nodded and smiled and took their leave, but he quickly realized that his attempt at a fairly generous tip only amounted to about a dollar or two for each of them. “Eighty percent!” he called out down the hallway. “Sorry! Too early for math.”
He walked back into the room and shut the door behind him. He yanked the cover off the plate and took a bite of crispy, delicious bacon. Well done, Chef. Even if I wouldn’t trust you with a poached egg.
Once the caffeine began washing over his brain, the conversation that awaited him came into clearer focus. He sat on the edge of the bed—coffee in one hand, bacon in the other—and wished he knew how to prepare himself. When he’d gotten her call, he was halfway to Knoxville, with no plans to stop until at least somewhere in Virginia. But he’d turned around immediately, knowing she deserved at least that from him.
“It’s about Renowned,” he muttered aloud. “It has to be.”
But what, exactly? He figured he could live with whatever it was, as long as she hadn’t decided not to do it. And he didn’t think that was very likely. She probably wanted it just as much as he did.
Well, maybe not quite that much. He had no doubt whatsoever that she wanted it—he’d never met a chef in his entire life who didn’t—but Max was fairly certain no one wanted it as much as he did. He’d been passed over for years—when he won the James Beard Award, when new restaurants opened, even when a major network that didn’t normally focus on food began airing his annual Christmas special. And when chefs he’d grown up watching and looking up to got their season on Renowned, he was primarily a viewer: excited for it to come on each Sunday evening, anxious to see if he could learn anything new, and yes, wanting his turn so desperately he could taste it.