The Second Chance Supper Club

by Meier, Nicole

  As the service rolled on, Olive mentioned that the guy kept ogling her and snapping a lot of close-up images of the food. The women had to remind him that while sharing photos was fine, Ginny preferred that guests not tag the location. They were met with indifference. No one seemed the least bit aware of who Julia was. While the women agreed that was for the best, it was strange that someone so curious would overlook the real subject of scandal right under his nose.

  Ginny only shrugged and chalked the evening up to someone’s overt interest in the industry. “Maybe the kid is an aspiring chef himself. Who knows? As long as I get paid and my guests go away happy, that’s all I care about.” Julia noticed the bitter coating to her words and pretended to ignore her own sense of unease.

  When the night was finished, the three of them separated with awkward silence. Julia went to her room with a headache and a sense of gloom. What was she going to do when she woke up? Downing a glass of wine, she prayed for sleep to take over and for a dreamless night. She had no idea what the morning would bring.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JULIA

  Julia had decided to stay on despite the lingering tension. She figured that, while she didn’t like what Ginny had to say, especially the blame, it would be far worse if she left her sister and niece in the lurch. Again. There were overdue bills, and there wasn’t enough manpower to run the business. It wasn’t permanent, but something like loyalty kept Julia from leaving just yet.

  It was now Saturday afternoon and the second weekend the three women had worked together to make Mesquite a success. They had fallen into a collective rhythm, tidying the house, preparing food, and entertaining a group of regular diners. Julia found herself getting lost in the business of it all. Perhaps it was convenient avoidance. She didn’t allow herself to dwell too much. Otherwise, her thoughts would go dark.

  Now, however, as she stood over the kitchen counter, absentmindedly snipping the delicate tail ends from a bowl of French green beans—or haricots verts, as Ginny called them—a faint sadness tugged at her.

  “Hey,” Ginny said, coming in from the other room. She met Julia with a look of trepidation. Her eyebrow arched. Julia pressed her lips together, worried she might say the wrong thing. Her heated anger had cooled off into the form of grief. Yet she wasn’t sure how to get past it.

  “Oh, hey.” She did her best to act casual.

  Ginny’s gaze went from Julia’s face and then down to the pile of untrimmed ends arranged on the counter.

  “Watch your knife cuts!” she warned.

  “Good grief.” Julia let go of the razor-sharp paring knife, and it clattered onto the hard stone surface. It never failed. Every time she wielded any kind of a sharp edge, Ginny maddeningly appeared at her shoulder to scrutinize her work. She still couldn’t quite mimic Ginny’s hummingbird-like chopping methods. She feared getting nicked. “You can’t scare me like that. I might chop my finger off if I’m not careful. Then what would you do?”

  “I’d be down a helper, that’s for sure.” Ginny leaned in close. “Seriously, though. You’re hacking up my side dish. You’ve got to pay better attention.”

  Julia took offense. In her opinion, she’d done a fine job. It was just a bunch of long skinny beans with the tops cut off. She inspected more carefully. It looked mostly right, so long as no one was holding a ruler to the beans.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked. Was it really just the vegetables, or was her sister still trying to punish her? “I’m trimming the ends just like you told me.”

  Ginny reached around with a huff. Julia noticed her sister had softened over the past week, but not enough to ease up on certain things, like the high standards of her kitchen. Once a demanding chef, always a demanding chef, she thought.

  “This isn’t good enough,” Ginny responded. A single bean was raised, the rolled sleeve of her button-down shirt sliding into the crook of her elbow. Julia’s eye caught the flash of pocked skin—a puckered cooking burn here, a deep knife scar there.

  A clutch of tenderness gripped Julia’s heart. She should have been more understanding; instead, she’d been defensive.

  Her sister had gone through so much. Ginny’s arms were a road map of years given over to difficult challenges and unforgiving cooking equipment. The work had consumed her whole life. The marks reminded Julia of how so many of Ginny’s former kitchen staff had covered their own aggrieved bodies with sleeves of inky tattoos—some even of knives themselves—and only now did it all make sense. She supposed that many chefs chose to brand themselves because they literally wore their work on their arms.

  Ginny’s arms were proof that the scars didn’t always fade away. She’d paid a price for her talent, and now these reminders would always be with her. And it had all been given up when she relocated to the desert.

  “Sorry,” Julia blurted out. Her sister had sacrificed pieces of herself. Perhaps Julia hadn’t appreciated this about Ginny as much as she should have.

  “It’s okay, just start again.”

  “No, I mean I’m sorry about everything.” Julia gulped back a welling of fresh emotion. She set down her knife and turned to face her sister. “I’ve thought a lot about what you said last night. About my not showing up after Mom’s and Dad’s deaths and about how you took on everything. I hope you know I never meant it to go that way. I didn’t do what I did to hurt you. I just, I don’t know, I was so invested in my career and assumed you’d be the same. When you weren’t, I took it as an affront. Like you lost your drive and gave up, and it scared me. It made me realize that our hold on success—on life, even—is precarious and could end at any moment, so I suppose I threw myself into my work even more determinedly to fight against that. Does that make any sense? Anyway, I needed to tell you that I’m sorry. You’ve done a lot, and I appreciate it.”

  A crack in Ginny’s tight expression emerged. Julia watched as she took a long inhale and rolled the apology around in her head. Julia hadn’t known she was going to say those things in that way, but the delivery felt right. She wanted her sister to know that she regretted how she’d turned her back all those years ago. And that it hadn’t been intentional. None of it.

  “Thanks for that,” Ginny murmured.

  “Of course.”

  “I know you loved your job. I know how hard you worked to get where you are. I don’t begrudge you that. I said some harsh things. I didn’t mean all of it. You’re here now. That’s been helpful.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “I know.” Ginny eased over and rested against the edge of the counter. It was as if a wall was finally crumbling. Julia leaned back, too, allowing herself to be comforted by Ginny’s familiar scent. Her clothes smelled of something sweet and tantalizing, like rich, caramelized onions. “Truce?”

  “Truce.”

  A swollen bean was rolled between Ginny’s fingers. “Now, about these beans. You can do better. Only the stems get cut. See here? And each of them needs to be uniform. Understand?”

  Julia studied the green dart between Ginny’s plump fingers. She didn’t see what her sister saw: the imperfections. But then again, her sister had an eye for such things. That’s what had aided in her success in the first place. That and hard, driving talent. But surely Mesquite’s dinner guests wouldn’t be so discerning. So far, they’d just seemed happy enough with how it all tasted. Julia, however, had been helping Ginny long enough to know she shouldn’t second-guess. “I think so.”

  Appearing unsatisfied, Ginny met her eye. The deepening creases near her temples held worry. Something lurked just below the surface. Julia sensed it.

  “Are we good?” Julia asked.

  Ginny sighed. “Yes. I know you think stuff like this doesn’t matter, but it’s important to me. Even if it’s on a subconscious level, diners register perfection. If you haven’t noticed, it’s kind of a big deal that I’ve conceded this much control already.”

  A chuckle escaped. It was true. Her sister had uncoiled ever so slightly in her ne
w environment. “I’m surprised you let me do this much.”

  “Ha ha. Very funny.” Ginny’s tone was dry. “I was going to let you move on to dicing the shallots next. But after seeing this hack job, I don’t think you’re ready.”

  “Oh my god.” Julia rolled her eyes playfully. “You really are impossible to please.”

  “Damn straight. How do you think I got that Michelin star?” Ginny winked. They were going to be okay.

  “Yes, I know,” Julia said. The Michelin rating had once been everything. It had taken Ginny decades to hone her skill and build upon her knowledge before reaching such an esteemed level. They both knew the recognition was what Ginny sought.

  “So, let me see you do it the right way,” Ginny instructed, interrupting Julia’s contemplation. She inched nearer still. Julia could practically feel her expectant breath.

  “I understand.” Julia wondered if she might offer Ginny a loan. Their rift might have been fixed, but not the financial woes.

  Julia clutched the knife and nodded. Solemnly, she began again, this time with much more care. She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand and leave the worrying over her sister for later. Right now, Ginny was counting on her to finish.

  Ginny wandered off, mumbling something about going into the garage to sift through a stash of extra pans.

  In her absence, Julia sent up an acknowledgment of gratitude. This was progress. Now, how to make some progress between Ginny and her daughter? She reflected on yesterday morning with Olive. If only Ginny could have seen the way Olive lit up at the flower market and spoke of her uncertain future. Surely her sister would understand the need to let Olive go and seek her own path. But Ginny’s tunnel vision, as far as the tenuous supper club was concerned, was going to be difficult to break. Somehow Julia had to find a way to help Ginny see that getting closer to Olive actually meant cutting her loose. She just didn’t know what would become of her sister if both she and Olive abandoned her at the same time. Was distance really the best medicine?

  And then, as they usually did when she was left to the task of chopping in solitude, her thoughts went to James. He’d called once that morning but hadn’t left a message. Julia wondered if it was because he missed her or if there was some new development regarding the Rossetti business.

  Slipping her phone from her back pocket, she set aside her chopping and touched the screen. A list of news alerts cascaded downward. Scanning them, it wasn’t until she read the last one that her eyes bulged.

  Damn. Ginny’s name appeared across her screen in a headline.

  A few days earlier, just for fun really, she’d been discussing with Olive the idea of news alerts. The two women had punched in “Ginny Frank” as a lark. Julia thought she saw pride flash over Olive’s face as the feed generated pages upon pages of headlines on her rock-star-chef mother’s rise to stardom. Most of the articles had been dated before three years ago, after which there’d been a trickle of rumors about why she’d jumped ship and what had become of her. But now, as Julia frantically opened the article and skimmed the headline, she realized what she was seeing.

  Her sister’s secret supper club had just been discovered and reviewed online. And Ginny was not going to like it.

  “Whatcha doing?” Olive came up from behind and peeked over Julia’s shoulder. It caused her to jump a foot.

  “You scared me!” she yelped. “Oh, Olive. I’m afraid something terrible has happened.” The old, familiar flip-flopping of worry filled her.

  Olive came around, her face scrunched with concern. “What’s the matter? More bad press about you and the mayor?”

  “No.” Julia shook her head. She expanded the words on the screen and then shoved the phone under Olive’s nose. “It seems bad press follows me everywhere I go these days. Remember that weird guy who was here last night asking all the questions? Turns out he’s some big-time food blogger.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He just published a write-up of Mesquite online! And”—Julia scrolled frantically with her finger—“it appears he has, like, two hundred thousand followers! These look like legit industry people too.”

  Olive went pale. “Oh my god! I thought there was something suspicious about that guy! Mom’s gonna freak.”

  Julia nodded. “Yep. You should see this.” They both bent over the phone. Quietly, they continued to read.

  After a minute, Olive exhaled. “Did you read the part where he says Mom is a former Manhattan celebrity chef who now runs an illegal speakeasy for rich people, with her disenchanted daughter acting as sommelier and her scandalous news-anchor sister as food server? Oh no!”

  “Yeah.” Julia moaned. “I read it.”

  “Who does this guy think he is?”

  Julia felt her knees buckling. Her career was already circling the drain, but she couldn’t be responsible for taking Ginny down with her. Or Olive. This was awful. Had Julia being there put her sister’s business in an even worse light? Clearly this guy had done his homework on the whole family. She moaned again. This was going to do some serious damage to all of them. But she didn’t care about herself as much as she worried about Ginny. What would her sister’s reaction be? What would happen to Mesquite? And what about Olive?

  Something acidic rose in the back of her throat.

  Olive studied the device. Her hair fell around her face, but Julia could feel the heat of Olive’s anger rising. “And did you read this part, where he basically gives the street address of our house? I mean, people are going to find out. Mom could be fined or, worse, shut down!”

  Julia realized they were both breathing heavily by now. Panic bloomed as she craned an ear and listened for Ginny. Where was her sister? They were going to have to tell her, weren’t they?

  As if on cue, Ginny came ambling around the corner. At the sight of their faces, she stopped short. A set of suspicious eyes darted from one woman to the other. “What are you two doing?”

  Julia swallowed. “You’d better sit down and then we’ll tell you.”

  Ginny shifted and obliged. Julia slid the phone gently onto her lap. “I just want to say I’m sorry ahead of time.”

  Ginny frowned. “You already said you were sorry.” Julia could tell she was confused.

  “I know, but this is about something different.” How could this be happening now? Just when the two of them were back on even footing. She continued, “I know you don’t need this right now, but there’s something you need to see.”

  “Okay.” There was concern in her voice. Ginny reached down with hesitancy. Both women looked on as Ginny read, wide-eyed and stricken, the color quickly draining from her face.

  “Oh no!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Julia said for the umpteenth time, but it didn’t feel like enough. Her hand went to rub her sister’s tense shoulder. For the first time in her adult life, Julia understood what it meant—really meant—to be on the other side of the reporting fence. To be on the receiving end of a sharply pointed news angle. To be exposed. Without mercy. And it wasn’t good. Julia was sickened for Ginny.

  How the hell would she fix things for her sister and niece now that she was the source of their problems?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  GINNY

  Despite Ginny’s twist of raw nerves over the food blog, she knew the show must go on. There wasn’t any other choice. Not really. Mesquite was expecting a group of diners very soon, and she wasn’t going to let her emotions overtake her ability to work. It just wasn’t her style.

  A better part of her day had already been given over to analyzing the article, unpacking it piece by piece, and then poring over the long list of reader comments that followed. The blogger had written nice things about the food itself, but his focus seemed to be on the people in the room more than the ingredients on the menu. She couldn’t decide whether the guy was trying to take her down in an act of arrogant defiance or pat himself on the back for stumbling across not only a clandestine outfit run by a former celebrity ch
ef, but also a hideaway for her tarnished semicelebrity sister. He’d been after the salacious, and, according to the response from his audience, he’d found it.

  So far, any attempt to reach the blabbing idiot had failed. Ginny and then Julia had written scathing messages demanding that he take down the post. They stressed the importance of the word secret in “secret supper club.” They told him he should know better. Foodies were supposed to band together, not tear each other down. Ginny only hoped her guilt-inducing tactic would work. Otherwise, she’d be out of luck.

  In all her years working in the industry, there’d been no shortage of crazy situations. Fights among sous chefs, heated exchanges with pushy restaurant owners, and the odd mean-spirited critic. But never before had she felt so exposed. So vulnerable. All it would take to end her business—and her only source of income—would be for the blog to be picked up by the local media or, worse, discovered by the health inspector. Mesquite was how Ginny paid her bills, supported Olive, and connected with the customers she so desperately needed. This wasn’t just about bad press; it was so much more. Losing her business would mean losing everything she’d built up over the past three years. Having this taken away would be crushing.

  Aside from her business, Ginny also worried about the impact this might have on Julia’s position at GBN. True, she wasn’t thrilled about her sister’s presence adding fuel to the blogger’s fire. Having Julia named in the piece, especially at this point in her sister’s precarious career, would draw more unwanted attention. But Ginny realized just how negatively this could affect them both. No doubt the news network, and other press outlets, would soon learn about the write-up. She couldn’t help noting the irony that the one time they were all finally in it together, they were in a big, boiling stew of disaster.