Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  Books. I shake my head. Even here, always a reminder.

  That’s not the only thing gnawing at my insides.

  The new chef I hired, Bobby DeVille, is a pain in the ass. Sure, I expected some degree of attitude. Brilliant chefs are usually prima donnas, and DeVille’s no exception. Dubbed the “Cadillac Chef” by his peers, he perfected his skills at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. Bobby’s got long black curly hair tied up in a man bun, held back from his face in a net. Good looking cuss, tats on his arms, one of a fighting rooster with turquoise feathers and the other arm of the bird’s leg and spur.

  He flings a steel spoon at the sink, and it makes a deafening clatter. “I can’t work like this.”

  “What’s up, Bob?”

  “Bobby.”

  For a moment, I want to lift a pinky and call him Bob-bay in a nasally French accent, but DeVille is a hothead. So am I. This is going to be one hell of a long day.

  He tilts his head back, chin high. “I’m used to a Molteni.”

  “What’s his number? I’ll call him.”

  “A Molteni is what the most exclusive restaurants in the world use—”

  “I know it’s an oven, Bobby. It’s a joke. A friggin’ joke. We gotta work with what we have.”

  “I need scallions. Do you have any fucking scallions?”

  “Refrigerator, lower shelf.”

  While Bobby grabs the green scallions and starts chopping, working alongside us is a guy from a food service staffing agency, basically a short-order cook who’d know a gas burner from a microwave.

  The only drawback?

  This guy, Sterling—yeah, the guy’s name is Sterling—talks an ear off. I mean, my left ear’s numb and the right one’s dialing paramedics. Bobby can’t stand the guy. Treats him like a serf who works in the stables and smells bad.

  Despite DeVille’s glares and Sterling’s jabbering, we set up for the lunch crunch, lots of prep work, sauces in cups.

  Sterling crams one of the appetizers I’m assembling into his mouth. “Man, these are tasty. Jalapeño poppers, right? Bobby come up with these?”

  “Nope.” I dust off my hands. “My secret weapon.” I was proud of that recipe; I’d come up with it myself. A Wisconsin farmer shipped the pepper jack cheese to me direct.

  “I like all the doo-dads.” Sterling’s referring to my signage and the portable tailgate, a miniaturized back of a pick-up stocked with condiments and plastic cutlery. “A sports bar, huh?”

  “Yeah. Tailgaters.” That’s the third time I’ve told him the name.

  He squints at a business card. “You ever hear of Zaccardi Hotels?”

  “Hand me that spicy mustard.” Second reminder.

  He complies with the request and chops up lettuce and tomatoes. Bobby steps around him to grab the Worchester sauce.

  I grunt and continue to work. A half dozen Millennials halt in front of our stall, decked out in suits, ties, and heels. Glued to their phones, scrolling. Behind us, Bobby’s sautéing baby Bellas for mini cheeseburgers.

  Sterling must’ve earned a Scout badge in Goading. He snaps his fingers. “Zaccardi Hotels, have you heard—”

  “Father. He’s my father.”

  “Wow. No wonder you could hire Bobby. You’ll be inheriting all that, huh? Doesn’t Pops own Division One, on Michigan Avenue?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you don’t work for him?” Sterling whistles. “I’ve been meaning to get over there, maybe ask for a job.”

  “Do that. Just wait until you wrap up here. Try earning a decent reference.” This Sterling’s got no polish. He skates on doing the bare minimum, pokey as hell. The only way he’d hustle is if a zombie was about to chomp on his ass. I take over at the cash register to take care of a customer, and one of the sauces Sterling left out spills on my apron.

  Sterling slides a plastic container of bell peppers, green, orange, and red, big healthy ones, chopped finely. “Is this Tailgaters a trial balloon for Pops? He gonna try a new sports bar or something?”

  Please. Calling the old man “Pops” is like calling Julius Caesar “Julie.” I make a quick hand gesture around the counter space. “This is my venture.”

  “You walk away from five-star hotels and Division One to this?”

  Who the hell is this, the uncle who reminds everyone of your rotten childhood nickname? “Bobby, can you ring up these customers?”

  DeVille stands taller and goes rigid. “I don’t do cash registers.”

  I turn back toward the gathering storm of hungry people and hear one voice above all.

  “Hi, Nick.”

  It’s Elena, all curves in an emerald-green suit, black top with tiny white polka dots. Her shoes are black with a dark gray cheetah pattern. Let that sink in. The professor in stilettos with a cheetah heel. The light brush of makeup on her face enhances her features but doesn’t obliterate them. Her lips are lined in a coral red. Somehow her perfume infiltrates the frying food. There’s a new tan coat over her arm, and she’s carrying that same buckle briefcase. A dozen guys at a table are checking her out.

  She looks up at me.

  That sweet beautiful face.

  God, I’ve missed her.

  “Hey, Nick. Congratulations are in order.” That comes from Dustin Fallon, a ginger I went to grade school with. He’s standing next to her, wearing a nice suit and overcoat, his wavy red hair tamed by a short haircut. “We hired her.”

  I nod. “Congrats.”

  After a typical breakup, other girls would do the cold-shoulder. Curse at me in Wiccan. Wear an “I Bathe in Nick’s Tears” t-shirt.

  Not Elena. She glances down and clutches the handles of her briefcase. She murmurs “thank you,” and her politeness gets to me.

  “You final in that NEW EATS thing yet, buddy?” Dustin leans into the counter, elbow propped on the edge.

  “Committee’s supposed to contact the finalist today.” I extract my phone from my pocket. “Any moment now.” I look down and see all the ugly stains on my apron versus Dustin’s immaculate suit.

  He gets a better hold of his lunch purchase in a crumpling of the brown wrapping paper. “Well. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  I yell at Bobby and Sterling to mind the fort and chase Elena and Dustin out into the wide expanse of tables, where Millennials in business attire scurry around food stations. “Dustin, can you give us a sec?”

  Both his eyebrows are raised, and he tips his red head at Elena. “Sure. I’ll be waiting near the entrance.”

  The moment he leaves, all pretenses drop.

  “Elena. Elena. Look at me.” I have no idea what I’m going to say, only that I have to see her.

  Not exactly helping is party-like fanfare that’s going on at a stall several rows down from mine, a loud kazoo and cheers. Confetti’s being thrown.

  Ignoring the ruckus, I focus on her. “I want you to come over to the book—sports bar. For a surprise.”

  Her dark blue eyes narrow.

  “Not that kind of surprise. Invite your entire family. Your aunt. Chris.” I almost add Norman and the plants, anything to persuade her.

  She starts to walk away in her cheetah heels.

  “I miss you.”

  She stops. Turns. Her expression changes, maybe melts a little.

  But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she joins Dustin, who’s been waiting, clutching their lunch. Together they head toward three pillars which lead to deco-style doors, where sunlight streams through the thick glass.

  A trumpet blares, and I pivot, spotting pink, yellow and blue balloons. For a moment, I think it’s a shower of some kind—bridal or baby. Then I see Lexi, carrying in a bright yellow sign, the words NEW EATS in a retro Vegas-style sign. She greets the owner of a stall several rows away from my temporary station.

  Lexi leans forward to speak into a Bluetooth microphone. “And now, I’d like to announce the final and seventh finalist to NEW EATS. Congratulations.”

  A burst of applause follows; tho
se closest to the stall cheer loudly. Two young guys step forward, whom I assume are the owners.

  Across the crowd and tables, Lexi finds me.

  She waves, and I see it, ever so subtly, part of her princess wave.

  Her middle finger is pushed way out.

  Twenty feet from the entrance, Elena halted.

  Not only had the brick bookstore been transformed from a solid façade to three giant arched windows, but some kind of light also glowed eerily from the first floor. Everything was dark, except for that weird flickering.

  Her aunt had refused to come, pushing aside the knitting needles in her lap, giving her an exasperated look. We both know Nick only wants to see you.

  Bracing herself, she reached the front door, which seemed to open by itself. Dozens of tiny candles on the floor flickered in the cold air.

  Fingers on the door handle, he emerged from the shadows in a stripe of formal white, a white bow, shirt and vest, the rest of his body in a black tuxedo with tails.

  That evening, she’d also taken extra care to look good, selecting a sexy sheath dress, its Aegean blue fabric scattered with blush-pink roses. She swept her hair back from her face, and pearl drop earrings danced from her ear lobes.

  He bowed slightly and took her coat, leaving a trail of shivers as he pulled the heavy wool from her bare shoulders.

  “Bella regazza,” he murmured, leaning in close, his breath warming her skin, mouth curled into a sly smile.

  More tingles shimmered along her spine. The rigid backbone she’d mentally fortified moments ago wobbled a little.

  She squared her shoulders. Don’t you dare liquefy into a brainless sap.

  He stepped aside to let her move farther into the space. The darkened lower level now had a completely open floor plan, interior brick walls, wood plank floors. New tables and chairs were pushed to the side, yet to be assembled and arranged for opening day.

  She walked along a magical path, dozens of tealight candles in a giant swirl leading to a table draped in white linen, flanked by the caramel-dyed leather chairs. Choosing the chair to the left, she sat, the cushion making a slight whoosh. She smoothed a hand over her lap and settled, taking in the centerpiece of white silk roses and tiny lights balled up inside two mason jars. Through the glass panels sparkled nightlife, cheerful street lamps, storefronts, and neon signs.

  “Wow.”

  “Champagne?”

  She nodded.

  They caught up on the family, and how they’d spent Christmas. Nick listened attentively to all the details, grateful for any tidbit of news, as though he were a soldier stationed overseas.

  “How are you liking the new job?” he asked.

  “I kind of . . . love it.”

  “You’re just saying that because of how pathetic I looked in that greasy apron.”

  She shook her head. “Nick.”

  “At your service.” He drew up, imitating the sniff of a snooty waiter. “Time to share a sampling of Tailgater features. A feast of gastronomic delights.”

  First, he brought out three different types of wings—spicy, buffalo and barbecue—served with celery sticks and blue cheese dressing. She nibbled on two before he carried in mini cheeseburgers with steak fries as well as jalapeño poppers.

  She dipped a fry into ketchup and delighted in its salty flavor, its fried edges the perfect crunchy contrast to the warm potato core. She laughed when he brought in another appetizer and a chocolate dessert.

  “I can’t keep up with all this.”

  “Better try this, the ice cream’s melting.” He dipped a spoon into its gooey decadence. “It’s one of the headliners. Flourless chocolate cake with warm chocolate sauce, vanilla ice cream and slivers of truffles. Wait, wait.” He rose from the chair. “One more surprise, just for you. Mama’s lobster ravioli with cream sauce.”

  He set a white china plate topped with steaming pasta squares and fresh grated Parmesan in front of her.

  “Oh, Nick.” Wrists on the edge of the table, she held a fork in her right hand, ready to spear. “This is spectacular.”

  He grinned. “Mind if I partake?”

  “Please. Partake.”

  He sat and loosened the white bow tie.

  She savored a bite of the lobster ravioli. “You’re a shoo-in for that GOOD EATS contest.”

  Something flickered over his eyes. The candlelight made the dark circles under his eyes more prominent. He bit into a steak fry. “Nope. Been shooed-out.”

  Maybe it was wisest not to try to console him. She sliced into another ravioli square and swirled it around the cream sauce.

  “Guess what. Cos and wifey-poo invited us over for a dinner party. You and me. That’s as rare as a Wonka ticket.” He chewed on a buffalo wing. “D’you think you’d like to come?”

  “Nick.” Inviting her as a plus-one when they’d been a negative-zero? “I’m not sure—”

  “Don’t answer just yet.” He put up both hands. “I’ve got one more thing.” He jumped up and disappeared into the shadows.

  So much quieter without him, and left alone to her thoughts, uncertainty started to get the best of her. If she agreed, this would be their first official outing together, her mingling with his social circle. So why wasn’t she happy about being included? Was she a token girlfriend, a way for Nick to gain entry into young marrieds who were settling down? Was it a calculated maneuver to reconnect to Marc, cajole his old buddy “Cos” to invest in Tailgaters? Because Tiffany liked her?

  The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach matched the dwindling light. The wax around the candles looked watery, and the flames had gone lower. Often romance started as a candle and wound up a melted blob.

  She ran a fingertip over the edge of a silver platter. Yet he’d gone to all this trouble to impress her, when taking her to a restaurant would’ve been so much easier. Not every day would be candlelight and roses. If they resumed seeing each other, what might happen once they settled into a daily routine? Would he think her boring and their relationship a grind and return to his former lifestyle, parading endless girls in front of his father to show he could keep up?

  She set down her fork and wiped at her mouth with the cloth napkin. No. She refused to be his “plus one” because she was convenient. She refused to see him after tonight, period.

  “Mademoiselle.” Dress shoes clicking, he carried in a dome-covered dish and an orange box under his arm. He placed the silver half-sphere in front of her and removed the box from under his arm. He tapped the box. “Card first.”

  She tore open the envelope and read the handwritten note.

  To Elena,

  “Those who are hardest to love, need it the most.”

  —from Socrates

  (and Nick)

  “I translated that from Greek,” he said, winking. He slid into the leather seat across from her. “Although pig Latin is my native language.”

  “Nick.” She looked down, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “Do you need it, then?”

  “You’ll find that I’m occasionally human. Some people bring that out in me.” Across the table, his intense eyes studied her.

  It started again, that slow crawl of tingles along her spine. He reached for her hand, and his thumb stroked her palm, back and forth, back and forth, nail tracing her skin ever so lightly, sending chills all over her. Repeat after me, no sleeping with him. Remember, the man has seduction superpowers. Be a fortress. She slid free of his hold and strove to act casual. She picked up the dark orange box, a rich, almost Halloween color, stamped with an iconic logo, the dark brown ribbon tied into a bow.

  She opened the box and lifted the scarf, its silky splendor sliding over her fingers and hands, in the pattern she loved. The design featured bold blue feathers, the smiling tan leopard curled inward on itself, and small blue butterflies in the air.

  The same gorgeous Hermes scarf, brand new.

  “See?” Nick pointed at the silky fabric. “He’s smiling.”

  He remembered.
He remembered what she’d said in his SUV that afternoon.

  He remembered.

  “It’ll look great with the blue suit. I saw you awhile back, wearing it.”

  “You noticed . . . my suit?”

  “I always notice you.”

  “Okay. Thank you.” She put the scarf back into its box, placing the lid back over it. She patted the orange lid and signature brown ribbon.

  He tipped his dark head toward the silver dome.

  Don’t go there. Don’t. The emotional currents raging inside strained against her flimsy dam of control. There’s no way a ring’s under there. He doesn’t love you. Nick doesn’t love people. He doesn’t know how.

  In one sudden movement, she lifted the heavy lid.

  It was a frog. A real live frog. It was dark green, with long dark brown spots that looked like stripes but were long blobs. It had a wide mouth and a round body.

  “You know,” he said. “Kiss a few frogs before you get a prince.”

  It was such a shock that she couldn’t be disappointed. “It’s sort of cute and repulsive at the same time.”

  “Like me.”

  She laughed.

  Wearing yellow latex gloves, he came around to scoop up the frog. “You can’t touch them. It’s bad for them and us.”

  “What kind of pet is that, that you can’t touch it?”

  “A Pacman frog.”

  Of course, Nick would have a Pacman frog. “Where did you get those gloves?”

  “Your aunt.”

  Elena shook her head. Those had to be the gloves Lexi had sent over with the damaged scarf and toilet scrub brush. Talk about full circle.

  He deposited the frog in a plastic dishpan with stuff like that looked like peat moss. “Plantation soil. They burrow down into it. That’s Fred, by the way.”

  The creature stared, and its throat kept moving like it was being pinched from the inside. “Fred looks mad.”

  “You got tonight’s only reservation.”

  “Too bad. He’d like the pasta.”