by Grace Palmer
“None. They just want to congratulate me for all my hard work. They also mentioned giving me a speaking slot during the conference. I’ll prepare a few words and inspire some attendees with my eloquence,” she’d said with a shrug. “And also cook dinner one evening. But otherwise—”
“Those are strings!” Joey had pointed at her, wagging his finger wildly like he’d just solved a mystery. “The trip is their way of filling their conference schedule and avoiding paying you.”
“But they are paying me. With a trip.”
“Cash is better,” he’d said.
Sara had shaken her head. “Except I’d feel forced to spend cash on responsible things like student loan debt and a car payment. But a trip is a trip. I can’t cash it in. All I can do is accept it and spend a week by the pool, getting a killer tan and a wicked hangover.”
And that was exactly what Sara had done.
Joey warmed up to the idea slowly at first. At least, until they’d arrived and he learned the mini-bar was free, at which point he warmed up very quickly indeed.
But a week went fast. Now, real life had resumed. No more poolside mojitos. No more late-night room service sundaes. It was time for Sara to trade in her bikini for some oven mitts.
Jose popped his head out of the pantry when the back door slammed closed behind Sara. When he saw her, his face split into a grin. “She returns! Our very own rising star!”
Sara rolled her eyes. “Please tell me we aren’t still doing the nickname.”
“No, no, we’ve moved onto bigger and better,” Jose laughed, walking across the kitchen and dropping an arm full of San Marzano tomatoes on the counter. “I just haven’t messed with you in a week. I missed it.”
After Sara had informed her staff of the award and written her week off into the schedule, they’d all taken to calling her “Chef Rising Star.” They were supportive and proud of her, but they also knew how much Sara hated public recognition. If this particular honor hadn’t come with all of the perks, Sara would have refused it.
Though, now that all was said and done, she was glad she hadn’t. Sara deserved this.
Sure, Little Bull had been born from desperation and necessity. But it had also come from a deep desire to foster the kind of collaborative kitchen environment Sara had always longed for.
It was important that customers loved the food, but it was equally important that the staff loved making it and serving it. That they found the same fulfillment in their jobs that Sara found in hers. Seeing the kitchen as spotless as ever and her righthand man thrilled to see her, it felt like Sara had achieved that.
Not that it was easy. God only knew that nothing in Sara Benson’s life came easy. But she’d done it. Despite the electrical fire the year before that took out most of her kitchen. Despite Gavin using his culinary world connections to have her restaurant slaughtered by renowned critic Martin Hogan right after opening. Despite one of her own employees stealing from the till last year and lying to her face about it.
Despite this and that and every other little bump along the way, Sara had persevered. She’d overcome. And so she deserved the award.
That being said, anyone who insisted on calling her “Chef Rising Star” was going to find themselves next in line for grease trap clean-up duty. Sara wanted to foster a positive environment, but even she had her limits.
“Everything go okay while I was gone?” she asked Jose. “Any calamities?”
“The new server spilled wine down a woman’s blouse,” Jose said with a wince. “But I comped their meal, and they promised they’d come back. I made it right.”
“That was Millie?”
Jose shook his head. “Millie quit three weeks ago. I’m talking about Michael.”
Sara groaned and ran a hand down her face. “I can’t even keep track anymore.”
“Well, Millie was only here for a week,” Jose said. “She was my second choice from the last batch of applications. My first choice, Laura, didn’t show up for her first shift. Then, two weeks after starting, Millie got hired on as a lifeguard for the summer and quit. So, I went with Michael.”
“Your third choice?”
“No. Fifth.” Jose rolled his eyes. “My third and fourth choices both got hired on at The Supper Club.”
Sara shook a dramatic fist at the ceiling. “Damn The Supper Club.”
“Agreed. They’re taking on seasonal workers and they’re scalping from our pool of potentials.”
The Supper Club was a relative newcomer in the Nantucket restaurant scene, having opened only six months after Little Bull, but it had made a splash. Their location was prime. Tourists flocked to reserve a table on the balcony that hung over the water.
Sara thought their food was ridiculously overpriced. But they had twice the square footage of Little Bull and needed twice the servers. Too many good potential hires had gone to them, and Sara was becoming bitter.
“Well, if Michael works out, then I guess it won’t matter, right?” she asked, trying to inject some of the relaxation and positivity she’d found in Charleston into her first day back.
Jose didn’t pick up on Sara’s vibe. He just grimaced. “Sure. Right.”
Sara lowered her chin and narrowed her eyes at Jose. “Is Michael going to work out?”
“There’s always hope,” he said with a tight-lipped smile. Which meant there was no hope at all.
Sara made a mental note to print out more paper applications and leave them at the hostess stand. Third round of applications, here we come. The never-ending headache of owning entrepreneurship.
“That’s the spirit,” she said, walking towards her office. “You have the special this week?”
“Pasta with lamb ragù.” He pointed to the chalkboard leaning against the wall. Sara would have Annica rewrite it in her fancy cursive before it was set out on the sidewalk. “I’m using those huge hollow noodles you ordered—”
“The paccheri? Nice.” Sara had ordered the noodles by mistake and had been looking for a reason to use them in a dish.
He nodded. “And I’m topping the tomato ragù and seared lamb chunks with pecorino and mint. I think it’s great, but if you—”
“Nope. I love it.” Sara waved her hands and turned her back on her right-hand man, heading towards her office. “The kitchen is in your control for one more day while I try to tackle the mountain of mail that has no doubt accumulated while I’ve been gone. I believe in you.”
“I’ve seen that mountain of mail on your desk,” Jose called after her. “I might be in charge of the kitchen for two more days at least.”
Jose wasn’t lying. Sara walked into her office and found the Everest of mail mountains.
Science had never been her strong suit, but she was confident that the gravity-defying stack was defying several laws of physics.
The desire to turn around, head straight back to the airport, and hop the next plane to anywhere warm, sunny, and far away was overwhelming. But rising stars didn’t run from mail. Rising stars opened mail with a smile and a “Thanks for reaching out!”
So Sara took a deep breath, walked around her desk, and dropped down into her office chair. The stack of mail blocked her view of the door. She slid down into a slouch.
“Welcome home, Chef,” she muttered to herself.
How could one person receive so much junk mail?
Some of the mail was addressed to Sara Benson, but a lot of it was addressed to the “current resident.” And almost all of it was instant trash.
Advertisements and coupons and refinancing scams. “FINAL NOTICES” that didn’t notify her of anything final whatsoever, and so many offers for credit cards with “no strings attached” that she wondered if there were any trees at all left in the Amazon.
It ought to be illegal to harass upstanding citizens with this nonsense. Aside from clipping out a BOGO breakfast sandwich coupon, Sara threw all of it away.
And yet, the pile never seemed to shrink. She was almost certain that it had in fact
grown when she wasn’t looking. She was tempted to ask Jose if the staff was playing pranks on her by slipping junk envelopes in the bottom of the stack every time she went to the bathroom.
Time ticked by slowly.
At minute fifty-seven, she spent three minutes hunting for split ends in her hair.
At minute ninety-eight, she dropped a pen, noticed cobwebs in the corner of her desk while retrieving it, and promptly dedicated another quarter of an hour to scouring them away.
At minute one-hundred-and-twenty-three, much to her delight, Sara found a Chef’s Warehouse catalog. She flipped through, dog-earring the page corners of industrial ovens and double-wide refrigerators and a beautiful seafoam green stand mixer.
At minute one-hundred-and-seventy-two, a loud bang from the kitchen—followed by a shouted “I’m fine!” from Jose—pulled Sara out of her trance. She’d wasted eleven minutes, and she did not have a spare thirteen hundred dollars for a stand mixer.
Sara groaned and threw the catalog into the recycling bag at her feet. She was losing her focus. Maybe it was time to step away and do something else for a minute. Like, chop something. Or baste something. Or watch paint dry. Except she had nothing to chop or baste and no paint needed observing.
Technically speaking, her week off included today. The seventh day, during which she was supposed to come into Little Bull and get caught up on all of the paperwork and entrepreneurial drudgery she’d missed while she was gone.
She ought to stay in here. She needed to stay in here.
Sara knew if she walked into the kitchen, she wouldn’t make it back to the office. She’d hide amongst the food and cookware until closing and then she’d have to deal with all of this tomorrow.
She dropped her forehead onto her desk, thankful for the thin cushion of unopened envelopes and weekly ads. No one mentions that, when you become your own boss, you still have to do things you don’t want to do. Or at least, no one had mentioned it to Sara.
“I can do this,” Sara muttered.
As she sat up, an envelope came with her, stuck to her forehead. How cute.
She peeled it off and was relieved to see that, unlike the last ten envelopes she’d opened, this one was actually addressed to her.
Chef Sara Benson.
Sara ran the dulling blade of her mail opener along the top of the envelope. The paper inside was surprisingly thick. A warm cream color with specks of other colors. Likely recycled. Definitely expensive.
The top third folded back to reveal a very formal looking letterhead.
The Law Offices of Nelson & Associates.
Still assuming it was elaborate junk mail or some kind of ad, Sara skimmed the contents of the letter quickly.
Then, eyes narrowed in confusion, she read it a second time more closely.
By the third readthrough, Sara considered looking around her office for the cameras. Surely, this was some kind of prank.
But the fourth read confirmed it.
Someone wanted to buy Little Bull.
The “someone” was anonymous, so Sara had no idea who it could be. But according to Mr. or Mrs. Anonymous’s lawyer, they wanted to purchase a massive majority controlling stake in Sara’s restaurant.
“…Provided that you, Sara Alexandra Benson, remain in your role as Executive Chef for a minimum of one year during a transitional period.”
A transition from what? To what?
Rather than read the letter for a fifth time, Sara picked it up, marched around her desk, and headed across the narrow hall to Patrick’s office.
Patrick Burton was Sara’s business manager. While she complained about all of the boring, dull, humdrum paperwork, what Sara did was nothing compared to Patrick. Secretly, Sara thought of him like a computer. Anytime Sara had a question about the business side of things, Patrick had the answer. He’d have the answer for this, too.
Patrick’s back was straight, but his head was bent low over something on his desk, his pen held aloft in the air. Clearly concentrating on his work. She was loathe to interrupt, but this letter seemed sufficiently pressing.
She slapped it down on his desk without bothering with a greeting. When Patrick looked up at her, eyebrow raised, she pointed at the letter. “Read that.”
What had taken Sara four readthroughs only took Patrick one.
“Someone wants to become the new owner,” he remarked. “Interesting.”
“Is that really what that means?” Sara asked, her hands folded nervously in her lap.
“Effectively.” He furrowed his brow, eyes flicking across the lines. “You would remain the chef and, likely, the public face of the business. Though that isn’t explicitly stated here. But the buyer would have control of the business side of things. And they would take a cut of the profits.”
“And that’s bad, right?”
Patrick shrugged. “It depends. They’ve listed a flat sum you’d be paid for the majority stake. If that’s tempting for you, then no, it isn’t bad.”
Sara had seen the sum. But it would take at least ten readthroughs for her to fully process that number of zeroes. It still didn’t seem real.
“So, it’s a good deal, then?” she prodded.
Patrick pressed the letter down on his meticulously clean desk and slid it towards Sara. “I can’t answer that question for you.”
“But you’re my business manager.”
“Yes. But I’m not you.”
Sara sagged down in the wooden chair. “You’re being aggressively unhelpful.”
“Only you can decide if you want to sell your business,” he said gently. “It isn’t my place to say either way. I will say this offer is flattering. Between this and the award, it seems you’re making a real name for yourself. People are taking notice.”
Sara sat up a little taller at that. It wasn’t often she got a compliment from Patrick.
“Won’t I look like a sellout, though? It’s my first restaurant. My baby. People don’t usually sell their babies.”
“People do it all the time. Trust me,” he said. “And I’ve seen it go both ways. Sometimes, it’s a roaring success. Other times, they live to regret it.”
“Once again, aggressively unhelpful.”
At that, Patrick actually cracked a smile. Sara thought it might have been a first.
“Sorry. You have to decide whether you want to run Little Bull and be the head chef or whether you want to hand over the day-to-day business operations to someone else and focus on the food. There are pros and cons to each route. And unfortunately, that decision has to be yours.”
Sara frowned. Hadn’t she just been thinking how nice her week off had been? Even though Little Bull was her baby, it felt wonderful to leave it in someone else’s hands for a few days.
What would it be like to put it in someone else’s hands forever? Was Sara ready for that? And if she wasn’t, would she live to regret turning down the offer?
“You’re sure it has to be my decision?” she asked in one last ditch effort to get Patrick to decide for her.
“Positive,” he said, his smile gone. “The way I see it, you have two good choices in front of you.”
Sure, fine, that was all well and good. Two good choices. The question was…
Which one to pick?
4
Holly
THE NANTUCKET PORT AUTHORITY
Headphones.
Comic book.
Nintendo Switch.
Spare batteries.
Fruit snacks.
Water bottles.
Holly Goodwin mentally ran through her kids’ packing list—the chorus of her life—for the last time. The last time for a week, anyway.
“Do you have tissues? I told you to pack tissues,” she said, grabbing her daughter’s embroidered butterfly backpack to check the side pouch.
Sending children on a trip was like sending an adult into the Amazon. It required planning, packing, more planning, and an anticipation of the unanticipated.
Alice jerked
to a stop and groaned. “Moooom.”
“When you make port in Hyannis, you’ll be glad I checked. Your allergies always go wild.”
“I have tissues,” Pete said, gently pushing Holly’s hands away and re-zipping Alice’s bag. “You handed them to me in the car. And Grady’s seasickness band.”
“What about—”
“And my spare glasses,” he interrupted, anticipating her next question.
Holly closed her mouth. Had she thought of everything?
In all likelihood, Pete would realize the second they got on the boat that something undoubtedly essential was missing. But by then, it would be too late. The slow ferry left at 6:30 AM. If they missed it, the next one didn’t leave until noon. And then they’d miss the train to Boston. The fast ferry was an option, but an expensive one.
“We’re going to be late,” Pete’s mom said, checking the thin gold watch on her wrist. “We need to get on the boat.”
Trisha Goodwin had been telling the family they’d be late since they woke up at four that morning. The woman had never been tardy a day in her life. If the day ever came where she was late, Holly was certain she’d combust on the spot.
“Grandma’s right,” Pete’s dad said, rubbing his palm over his wife’s shoulder blades. “Time to embark on our epic journey.”
The “epic journey” in question was a Goodwin family reunion. It happened once every three years in Boston. Family members from far and wide would descend on the rented school gymnasium carrying an entrée, side dish, or dessert in flowered Pyrex dishes or lukewarm crock pots. Then they would sit in the stuffy gym for hours eating and looking at pictures and telling the same old stories. The ones where someone’s grandma jumped off a grain elevator and avoided death due to a well-placed stack of hay. Or how they were distantly related to such and such actor or had ties to some distant branch of French nobility. Or Holly’s personal favorite, the one where Pete escaped the watchful eye of the nursery worker at church and ran down the sanctuary aisle bare-bottomed, waving his diaper in the air like a battle flag.
