by T. E. Woods
Nancy Richardson’s smile softened. “Your father would have loved to see this. You, all grown up. Fancy lady about town. But things are what they are, darling. I’m talking about back then. We said you could invite twelve kids.”
“One for each year. I remember. It was the first time I was happy my birthday fell during the summer. That way I didn’t have to explain to some of my classmates why they weren’t invited.”
Nancy nodded. “Eight girls, four boys. I don’t know how your father came up with that ratio, but he said if he had to accept a mixer, he was damned sure he wanted those boys to feel outnumbered.”
“Not like they could have gotten away with anything.”
“You got that right! Your dad made damned sure every boy in the neighborhood knew you were Joe Richardson’s girl. Cop’s kid. Anyone who messed with you was sure to get a fast ride in the back of a squad car.”
“Try to imagine how eager boys were to date me.”
“Your father counted on that. But think back. Party was supposed to start at six o’clock. You worked all day stringing up lights on the patio. Checking if the Cokes in the cooler had enough ice. Badgering me every five minutes about the sloppy joes and chips. Do you remember tearing up a few minutes before six?”
Her mother was right. She had been worried no one would show. She had been convinced her social life was over before it even began. She’d be the laughingstock of Velma Hamilton Middle School.
Nancy reached out and pulled her daughter into an embrace. Sydney inhaled the familiar rose-water scent. One spritz, Sydney. The only person who smells a lady’s perfume is the person hugging her.
“Your birthday party was a smash hit. And tonight’s gonna be the night of your life, Sydney. I promise you that.”
Sydney pulled back and looked into the face so different from her own. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
“Have I ever been wrong?”
Sydney smiled. “You thought little Gordy Jacobson was going to be president one day. Last I heard he was doing a six-year stretch in Portage for embezzlement.”
“He was a true disappointment. Broke his mother’s heart, that one did.”
“We’re ready?” Sydney’s tone was pure business again.
“I’m holding up my end. I’ve never been prouder of a group of servers. I put ’em through the wringer these past two weeks. Hit ’em with every complaint or mishap I could think of. They’re ready.” An uncertain look crossed her mother’s face. “Yeah, they’re ready.”
“What?” Sydney asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Windy’s not here.”
“She sick?”
“Can’t tell ya. No call.”
“You call her?”
“Three times already. I get nothing but her answering machine.”
A small alarm tugged at Sydney’s gut. “Maybe Gabby got sick. Or she couldn’t find a sitter.”
“And what? She forgot how to use her phone?” Nancy looked doubtful.
“Are we okay if she doesn’t make it?”
“If I have to, I’ll take a station myself. Don’t worry, Syd. The front of the house is aces. I can’t say the same for that maniac in the starched whites.”
Sydney heaved a long sigh. “He’s acting up?”
“You’d think Meryl Streep was chopping carrots. I’m steering clear. Recommend you do the same.”
Sydney leaned forward to plant a quick kiss on her mother’s plump cheek. “Let’s go kick some opening-night butt. What d’ya say?”
The two women walked back to the dining room wearing smiles that, to the casual observer, displayed more confidence than either of them felt. Sydney dared another look at her watch. 4:57. She gave her mother’s hand a squeeze.
“I’m going to check next door. I’ll be right back.”
Sydney kept her eyes down as she hurried through the kitchen, passing behind a tall, thin man with skin the color of café au lait screaming at his kitchen staff. Roland Delmardo was a brilliant chef. He’d been nominated for the James Beard Award four times and won it two years earlier. He had never wanted the hassles associated with owning his own restaurant. Roland made it known to anyone willing to listen that the drudgery of business drained him of his culinary creativity. Sydney remembered one particularly pompous quotation she’d read in a New York Times interview: “I want to keep myself pure so the muse of genius will choose my soul in which to dance.”
Any restaurateur hiring Delmardo could bank on reviews from the nation’s best food critics. When Sydney had flown to San Jose to convince him to come work for her, he’d balked at the thought of relocating to the Midwest. Especially to work for someone who’d never before run her own place.
“There’s only so much one can do with corn,” he’d informed her at their first meeting. “And honey, I’m nobody’s set of training wheels.”
Her promise of the freedom to design and staff the kitchen as he wished, as well as a blank check to build it, had gotten her a second meeting with the master chef. She offered a base salary of $100,000 and added 10 percent of any profit the restaurant made.
“Does that include the wine list?” he’d asked.
Sydney assured him it meant the entire bar. Roland Delmardo took less than thirty seconds to decide the culinary gods had chosen him to bring haute cuisine to the gastronomic innocents of America’s heartland.
Roland had designed an incredible menu for Hush Money. Under his skilled direction, locally sourced ingredients were transformed into mouthwatering masterpieces. But her mother was right. Roland Delmardo lived for operatic drama. And the moments before first-night opening provided him the stage for a diva performance that would have had Maria Callas drooling in her grave.
Sydney ignored her chef’s tirade, stepped through one closed door, and traveled a narrow hallway to another. She put her hand on the knob, closed her eyes, and conjured up the smiling face of Joe Richardson.
“This one’s for you, Dad,” she whispered.
She opened the door and stepped into the space behind the bar of the second restaurant she was opening that night.
Sydney called it the Ten-Ten. The public entrance was around the corner from Hush Money, at 100 Wisconsin Avenue. The typical patron might think the name played off the address, but Sydney and the clientele she intended for this establishment knew better. Every police officer, firefighter, and paramedic knew ten-ten was the radio code signaling Off Duty.
“It’s five o’clock straight up, Syd.” Roscoe Donovan tied a starched white apron over his jeans. “Noses been pressed to the window for twenty minutes already. And Welke’s yellin’ through the glass. Sayin’ he’s runnin’ us all in if he doesn’t have a beer in his hand by 5:01.”
“Let’s not disappoint the man.” Sydney pulled a frosted mug from the cooler while Roscoe made his way across the oak floor past two rows of simple pine tables and chairs. If a person had watched him closely, they’d have noticed his gait was a bit more deliberate than one would expect from a fifty-year-old man in good health. Roscoe Donovan had taken a bullet to the hip four years ago. A woman, three whiskey sours past stupid, was threatening to shoot her cheating husband. The husband dived under his wife’s massive Beanie Baby collection and called 911. When Roscoe and his partner pulled up, the missus was searching for her spouse in the juniper bushes in front of their house. Roscoe called for her to drop her weapon. When the woman turned, the presence of two uniformed officers startled her. Her gun went off, Roscoe went down, and when he got out of surgery eleven hours later, it was clear he’d never again patrol a beat. He did his best to ride a desk for the next couple of years, but when Sydney approached him with her idea of opening a tavern designed especially for first responders, it didn’t take long to convince him he was the right guy to manage it.
Horst Welke was the first man through the door when Roscoe turned the key. He slapped his hand on the brightly polished copper bar and gave Sydney a wink.
“It’s a big night, Kitz. And
if I have to tell you what I want in my glass, you’re not half the detective your dear father was.”
Sydney set a mug of doppelbock in front of him. “Did I get it right?”
The man who’d been her father’s partner during his last years on the force, the same man who held him as he bled to death on a dark city street, took a long sip. He was silent for a moment, then a smile lit his broad face. “Ayinger Celebrator! Finest beer in Munich.”
“Nothing but the best for you, Horst.” Sydney looked beyond him to the suddenly filled space. Many faces were familiar to her. In the years since her father’s murder, there had been members of the Madison Police Department at every milestone of her life. A smile came unbidden to her lips at the memory of four of Madison’s finest forming a motorcade to deliver her and her nervous date to the senior prom.
There were new faces, too—men and women laughing, familiar with one another, physically fit in that universal way people who make it their profession to run toward trouble seem to be.
“Looks like you got yourself a hit,” Horst remarked. “Word travels. Joe Richardson’s girl’s got herself a new business. Gets ’em here. Now you gotta do your part.”
“The food’s going to keep them.” Sydney liked the way the five servers were handling the crowd. “I promise that.”
Horst nodded toward the refurbished, neon-faced jukebox against the far wall. “What you have stocked in that Wurlitzer will go a long way. It’s the tunes that make or break. You were wise in your selections?”
Sydney pulled a red plastic card from her pocket. “Just for you. There’s a slot next to the money drop. This is going to allow you free play. As many as you want, as long as you want.”
Horst Welke was a fireplug of a man. Five feet nine, two hundred pounds, with what was left of his buzz cut more gray than blond. But he was a man who knew his music. His bushy eyebrows shot up as he took the card.
“You making me the official DJ of the Ten-Ten?”
“Let me know if you want a badge.”
Horst grabbed his mug and made his way through the restaurant. Sydney turned to Roscoe, who now was overseeing a bustling bar and kitchen. “You got this?”
Roscoe nodded. “It’s burgers, brats, and pizza. Great beer and stiff drinks. Nothing like the la-di-da you got goin’ next door. You leave it to me, Syd. Go tend to the other half.”
Sydney inhaled deeply. At least one of her places was opening on a high note. The clock over the bar read 5:17. “Wish me luck.”
“Fuck ’em,” Roscoe shot back. “If the upper crust is stupid enough not to know what they got goin’ on, cut ’em loose. C’mon back here and join our party. Like the song says, you got friends in low places.”
Sydney squeezed his arm in gratitude and walked through the door and back down the hall. She stepped into Hush Money’s kitchen in time to hear her chef crowing of his greatness.
“We’re going to need a stronger word than ‘brilliant’!” Roland Delmardo waved his tasting spoon before thrusting it at the shell-shocked assistant quivering at his elbow. “Lemony and light. Then the heat comes. Slowly, building on the back of your tongue. Just savage enough to dare you to take another bite. Someone take a photo. This moment must be recorded.”
Sydney glanced toward the gleaming stainless-steel delivery shelf. No plates waited for servers to pick up. Then she looked across the kitchen. Pots of sauces were kept warm over low flames. Stacks of white dishes and bowls sparkled in readiness to support the product of her chef’s genius. But the grill was empty. So, too, were the twelve gas cooktops. A mound of fresh pasta rested undisturbed on a floured board. She glanced toward the walk-in coolers and wondered how many thousands of dollars’ worth of steaks and seafood might go uneaten.
Maybe Roland could come up with a lobster pizza for the Ten-Ten crowd.
Her chef shoved his assistant aside and made his way toward her.
“Are you ready for my Madison debut?” He looked her up and down. “Love, love, love the off-the-shoulder drape, Sydney. It inspires me. Lavender and feta tossed with tender baby field greens!” He turned to his hapless assistant. “Olive oil only! There’s no need to weigh such a taste of spring with vinegar.”
“The kitchen seems quiet.” Sydney tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.
“We’re Olympians awaiting the starting pistol.” Roland waved a hand to include the entire space. “Champions poised to take our gold.”
“But nothing’s cooking. Have you had any orders?”
Roland’s look suggested he had just heard her announce aliens had landed and wanted to know if Hush Money provided take-out service. “It’s barely five-thirty. This isn’t your mother’s diner, toots. There’s no early-bird special or two-for-one coupon. This is the temple of Roland Delmardo. His fans wouldn’t order dinner before six-thirty if they’d just been rescued from an Iranian prison. This is cocktail hour, baby. Time for all the undercover lovers to ignore one another while they sip their Stoli, smile with their spouses, and try to determine if the other guy’s moving up the ladder faster than they are.”
Nancy Richardson’s appearance saved Sydney from having to respond.
“How’s it going next door?” she asked. “Horst here?”
“First one through the door. First beer went to him.”
“Fittingly so.” Nancy’s eyes danced with an I-told-you-so rhythm. “Are you ready to come see what’s happening on this end?” She led her daughter out of the kitchen. Sydney felt the warm rush of relief when she entered Hush Money’s elegant space.
Three bartenders hustled while four servers weaved their way through the understated room, balancing trays of cocktails. Every stool at the bar was filled. Most with well-dressed women talking to well-dressed men standing beside them. The six tables in the bar space were also full. Sydney counted eleven people mingling about, drinks in hand. Subdued conversations were occasionally accented with quiet laughter. Sabrina and Gail, the hostesses for the evening, stood behind a brass-and-glass podium, welcoming more people into the restaurant. Sydney watched as the girls pointed toward the tables in the restaurant section. To a person, each new arrival shook their head and indicated they’d first make a stop at the already-crowded bar.
Nancy leaned in and whispered, “Told ya. Night of your life.”
The migration from bar to restaurant began precisely at six-thirty. Sydney stopped at each table, greeting the patrons, thanking them for coming, and wishing them a fine evening. She was impressed with the synchronized efficiency of her waitstaff. No table was hovered over, yet each water glass was refilled before anyone needed to ask, each plate removed in precise sequence to ready a spot for the next course.
Just before eight o’clock Anita Saxon came over to speak to her. She was dressed in a silver chiffon gown that hugged her near-ebony skin like the dew on a morning rose. Tall and elegant, with an encyclopedic knowledge of wines, she wore her sommelier’s medallion like a royal crest.
“A blazing success, I must say.” Anita’s lyrical Kenyan accent added to her imperial impression. “Roland’s offered an inventive menu. It pairs beautifully with our wine list.”
“Customers happy?”
“I’ve heard no complaints. If someone dared, they’d be voicing nothing more than their own ignorance.”
“Everyone’s worked hard to make tonight a success.”
Anita waved away Sydney’s humility. “Hush Money is your doing. Your vision. Don’t belittle yourself with false modesty. It’s unbecoming.”
A server glanced their way, giving Anita a subtle smile. Hush Money’s sommelier glided across the room, ready to make wine recommendations to a table of four women.
“This your place?” A tall man with an easy smile pulled Sydney’s attention away from the room. “You’re Sydney Richardson, right? This is your restaurant?”
The man was disarmingly handsome. Sydney estimated him to be in his midforties. Trim. Chestnut hair styled with a precision suggesting he wasn
’t afraid to spend a few hundred dollars on a stylist. He clasped the hand of an equally gorgeous woman. She was younger, perhaps in her late thirties. Tall, blond, with eyes as bright and brown as her escort’s.
“I’m Andrew Conyer,” he told Sydney. “This is my wife, Cynthia. We’ve enjoyed Chef Delmardo’s food in California several times. It’s exciting to have him within walking distance.”
Sydney extended her hand. Andrew’s grip was firm and sure. His wife’s was halfhearted. She looked away when Sydney thanked them for coming.
“You’re a neighbor,” Sydney said. “I pass by the building with your name on it each time I enter Hush Money.”
Conyer seemed flattered by her recognition. “Guilty as charged. I was just telling Cynthia it’s such a competitive battle getting the best new legal associates to sign up with us. Having your restaurant next door makes my job a whole lot easier. Didn’t I say that, honey?”
His wife blinked as though her attention were returning from a faraway place. “What?”
“Wasn’t I saying Hush Money is going to make recruiting a snap? Not to mention client meetings will be considerably more upscale.”
Cynthia gave an empty smile, said nothing, and allowed her focus to drift back to where it had been before her husband disturbed her.
Sabrina stepped toward them. “Mr. and Mrs. Conyer, your table is ready.”
“Ah!” Andrew clapped his hands together. “The anticipation is over.” He took his wife’s elbow and steered her away. Sydney wondered if Cynthia was rude, medicated, or simply utterly disinterested in her husband’s excitement. Her assessment was interrupted by Gail, the other hostess.
“Syd? There’s a woman who’s been at the bar since we opened? Says she’s waiting for her husband, but it’s been, like, three hours? She’s been drinking, like, one after the other? Mike suggested she make her next drink ice water. That’s when she’s all, ‘I want to talk to the owner.’ ”
Sydney thanked the girl, made a mental note to coach her on professional speech patterns, and went to the bar. Mike caught her eye and nodded toward a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush since early the previous day.
