by Adriana Peck
We’d been together six months at that point, and things were getting serious between us. We were talking about moving in together.
But after that night I never saw Carly again. I heard from her friends that she changed her number, moved far away. I tried calling her, texting her, but I only got radio silence back. I don’t know. It was all so quick I didn’t have time to process it all. She left me at the Porto without any closure, and the hurt still stings every time she crosses through my mind.
Of course, her replacement ended up being Rosa, who asked me out for drinks just the other night. And then I go and storm out of the Restaurante when things get heated with Gambio.
Funny how history repeats itself like that.
I keep walking. Market Street, Boardwalk, Southern Avenue. They all have vacant lots. I pass by building after building, scoping out nearby small business that might drive customers to a potential restaurant of mine. I think to myself: is it better to have a restaurant next to a coffee shop, or a bookstore? I can’t imagine how that would affect business, but I know it’s important. I keep looking as I walk from block to block downtown. I know I’ll find something sooner or later.
On Park Avenue, I see one building that catches my eye. It’s sitting right between a pharmacy and a bookshop. No neighboring competition. The building is also only one story, so I’m not going to have to deal with any shaky tenants upstairs. I also spot a semi-open parking lot with a designated entrance and exit. Even the Porto required its patrons to park down the street and walk to the doors. We used to offer a valet service, but Gambio shut that down quick once the valets asked to be paid. I plan on opening a place where my customers can pull up and park wherever they so desire. I resolve to give my customers a better experience than Gambio could ever offer them. I try the door to see if it’s unlocked. It is, and I step inside.
Inside the vacant building, I can already see exactly where everything should go. There’s a bar in the lobby. A kitchen in the back, of course. I see an office, up near the front of the restaurant where the host or hostess will greet patrons. I open the door and peer inside. It’s a little better than what Gambio had at the Porto. Not much larger than a broom closet, but there’s a desk and a filing cabinet. That’ll work, I think to myself as I close the office door and slink back out to see the rest of the establishment. There are scattered tables, held up by flimsy plastic legs. One table has an old white plastic tablecloth on it, covered with dirt and disease.
The kitchen, however, steals the show. As I walk through the back of the restaurant, I can see old equipment that’s still up to snuff. An oven, in need of a fine scrubbing. There’s a walk in cooler and freezer with fancy temperature gages. A multi-sink station for a reliable dishwasher to use. I see a large counter that would work perfect for a prep station made of stainless steel and dented slightly in a few places.
This will definitely work, I think to myself. It’s a fixer-upper, but it’s got enough charm. And, best of all, the place is for sale. No renting, no landlord. Once I can shell out the clams to fix this place up, it’ll be all mine and I won’t have to answer to anybody. Just the way I like it.
I spend the rest of the day popping around from vacant lot to vacant lot downtown. Nothing catches my eye quite like the vacancy on Park Avenue, however, so I finish my day heading back there to write down the realtor’s number on the FOR SALE sign.
As the sun sets, I have two phone numbers floating around in my head. Realtor. Rosa. Realtor. Rosa. I only have the realtor’s number, of course, so I know she’s going to be the one I’ll end up calling.
I figure I might as well call the realtor. I apologize for the hour when she picks up, but she is still excited to make an offer on the Park Avenue lot. She tells me we’ll talk tomorrow after she can draw up a contract at her office. Great. Perfect. See you tomorrow, I tell her. I get her office’s address and jot it down in my calendar.
After hanging up, I look again at my phone. Rosa. I know I should call her. If only I had her number. I know I gave her mine, but I’m oddly nervous about her calling.
And, just like magic, my phone lights up with an incoming call. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, but the area code’s the same as mine. Could be a spam caller. Or it could be something else. After the third ring, my stomach does a backflip. And I pick up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mason? It’s me, Rosa.”
A hint of a smile creeps across my face.
Thirteen
“You miss me?” I say jokingly, but I’m smiling with genuine interest. Good thing Mason can’t see my face on a phone call, or he’d know how big of a schmuck I really am.
As I sit alone in my apartment, I can see the lights of the city shining bright outside. Friday nights never looked so good, but lately I’ve found nights like these to be lonely ever since I was fired from the Porto. Things feel a little less lonely with Mason on the phone, though. As I sit on the couch, my phone pressed tightly against my ear with anxiousness, I feel more connected to him than I had since our kiss in the pantry.
“Only a little,” Mason admits. The line crackles, our connection is spotty. I try to make it work, turning up my phone’s volume as high as it goes. “Gambio’s a dirtbag, and I certainly don’t miss that.”
“Well, you’re right about Gambio,” I say. “Things back at the Porto got pretty rough back there. He fired me after I told him I wouldn’t pick up your server duties.”
Mason pauses, then laughs heartily.
“I’m not surprised at all,” Mason laughs. “How long did he try waiting tables after he smacked me like a pouting child? Five minutes?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “More like five seconds.”
“That sounds about right.”
I smile. There’s a pause, and I can tell that Mason’s warming up to me. I know if we tried this while we were both still back at the Porto he’d make some excuse to end the call, saying something suddenly came up. But now we’re just two adults talking, shooting the breeze over the phone. And I’m having a great time talking to him, I just hope he’s feeling the same.
“So, what’s up?” I ask.
“Rosa, I think I’m going to drop out of the rat race. I’d like to open my own restaurant, and today I think I found a place that’ll work just fine for me.”
“Really? Where?”
“Park Avenue. It’s just a few blocks south from the Porto, but it’s a good spot. I called the realtor just before you rang. I’m meeting with her tomorrow to look over a contract.”
“Mason, that’s great!” I nearly jump for joy. “So, what are you going to call your new joint? Any ideas you want to bounce off me?” I’m practically beaming. I’m just so happy for him, I can hardly contain it. Hearing someone that’s actually following their dreams gives me hope for my future and the cookbook I’ll hopefully publish one day.
“Nothing yet. But I wanted to ask you something,” he says cautiously. I can hear the hesitancy in his voice over the crackly connection.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still looking for a chef job? You said you got fired. I just wanted to know if you’ve found anything yet.”
Is he offering me a job?
My head is swimming. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think. Mason, my work rival from the Restaurante Porto, is offering me a job? We must be in crazy times, indeed.
“What do you mean?” I ask, making sure I’m really on the same page as him.
“I need a Head Chef if I’m going to open a place of my own,” Mason says matter-of-factly. “And you’re a pretty good one who’s looking for work. I thought we could team up, make something of this place I’m looking at.”
So he is offering me a job.
“I don’t know what to say,” I’m smiling, but still as wildly nervous as before. And now I know for sure that he’s serious.
“Just think about it,” Mason says. “I’ve got to meet with the realtor tomorrow anyways. And then I
have to talk to the bank about a loan. I might get shot down anyways, so don’t worry about it now.”
“Can I come with you to meet her?” I ask suddenly. “The realtor, I mean. I think it’d be good to have a chef with you when you’re looking over the kitchen. You know, just to be safe.”
I know Mason used to work in Gambio’s kitchen with his ex. I don’t know the specifics of it, but I’m worried I just touched a nerve when Mason doesn’t say anything for a minute.
“Okay,” he says. “You can come with me to see the realtor. Meet me on the corner of Park Avenue and Market tomorrow at eleven. I’ll show you where the place is at.”
“I’ll see you then,” I smile, trying my best to sound as sweet as pie.
“See you then,” and Mason hangs up.
And that’s that. I look at the clock. 10:27 p.m.. It’s getting late, but I decide to stay up a little bit anyways to make myself a bite to eat.
I cook myself some risotto to cheer me up. Risotto is easily my favorite comfort food, and I start making some lemon risotto to take my mind off of tomorrow.
I bring a cup of chicken broth to a gentle simmer over low heat as I melt butter in a separate pan, adding onion and a hint of garlic for flavor. After the butter’s melted, I add in my dry rice to the mixture, cooking it as the rice sizzles with the butter and onion mix. I throw in a little white wine, too, just to keep a light vinegary flavor to the whole dish.
After the chicken broth’s been simmering for a while and my rice is cooking, coated in melted butter, I slowly start to spoon in the broth, mixing it in with the rice until everything’s perfectly cooked and creamy.
When the pot’s been cooked, I throw a little bit of lemon zest over it with some parmesan cheese, and I sit in front of the TV with my bowl of comforting lemon risotto as I flip onto the local news. The whole time I find myself thinking about Mason. Wishing I could share the dish with him. Wishing he was here with me right now.
He isn’t. And he probably will never be. At best, we’ll go back to being co-workers. I’ll never find out what happened with his ex. I’ll never get close enough to him to help him heal the pain.
I know it’s weird, but I feel myself start to cry. I hold the tears back for as long as I can, but eventually they start flowing.
I can’t get him out of my head, no matter how hard I try. Mason is all I can think about.
Fourteen
“Mason?” I say to the figure standing on the corner of Park and Market. He turns to me, and I see it really is Mason, tattoos and all. He’s smiling, the first time I’ve seen that since our kiss in the pantry.
“How are you?” he asks casually, and my legs immediately turn to jelly. His jawline is as hot as ever. I look into those piercing blue eyes of his, and I know I’m going to be with him until the end of the line.
“I’m good,” I smile. “You?”
“Could be better,” Mason shrugs. “But, hey, we’ve got that appointment coming up. Let’s head that way. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
The meeting with the realtor is certainly interesting, to say the least.
First off, Mason can’t seem to take his eyes off of her. Charlotte Debney is the realtor's name, dressed in an obviously slim-fitting pencil skirt and mini suit that even I have a hard time looking away from. Her bleached-blonde hair is put up in a tight ponytail, which bobs around as she shows us around the premises. She tells us she just finished restoring the place with a team of contractors, and she takes extra special care to show Mason just how polished every nook and cranny really was. She bends over in an exaggerated fashion, showing Mason where every plug-in sits alongside the bottom half of the wall.
Nothing would have made me happier than to stuff her in the pantry, lock the door and throw away the key, but something tells me Mason wouldn’t like that very much.
The two of them himmed and hawwed about this and that, gas lines and the one single bathroom that was just remodeled, and so on and so forth. Every once in a while Mason would ask me what I thought of the place, or what I thought of this part of the kitchen. I’d be honest. I liked it. It was…it is a nice place. But by the time Miss Debney pulled out a contract, Mason looked smitten with either her or the restaurant itself. I couldn’t which one it was, exactly.
Miss Debney laid out the contract for us in as plain of English as she could. Boilerplate this, initial that, et cetera. Mason was buying the restaurant outright, with a 8% interest rate after five years. He signs everything without hesitation. I see the determined look in his eyes as he crosses every t and dots every i.
“I’ll have to run this up to the bank later today,” Miss Debney says. “Will you be heading that way, too, Mason?”
Mason looks over at me.
“Uh—I’ll stop by later today,” he says suddenly. “Rosa here and I have plans. But it was certainly nice meeting you.”
We have plans? News to me, but it’s a welcome surprise to be sure.
Mason and Miss Debney shake hands once the contract’s signed. Then, it’s over. Before she leaves, Miss Debney gives Mason his copy, tells us she’s going to stop by her office before the bank to run things over with her assistant. Mason should expect a call from her in a few hours once the contract’s been sent over to the bank for review. Mason shakes her hand again, then Miss Debney walks out, leaving us alone in the restaurant that Mason is going to own.
We look at each other for a minute, not knowing what to do next. Mason smiles, then I do too.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do, Rosa,” he says. “It is…we…right?”
I smirk, but I don’t agree. “You’ve got a lot of work left to do, Mason,” I say. I pause, then smile as sweetly as I can before asking: “What was that you were saying about us having plans for today?”
Mason laughs. “We can get some coffee if you want. I was mostly saying that to keep that realtor off my back. Did you see how big of a flirt she is? My god. It’s like I was being suffocated.”
And I laugh, too. “Coffee does sound nice,” I say. “I know a great place. Dad and I just went there the other weekend. Wanna head there?”
Mason nods. “I’d like that.”
◆◆◆
The coffee place is kitschy, with chalkboard menus highlighting the specials of the day as Mason I step in from outside. The whole place is decked out in treated wood, giving the café a rustic vibe that Mason snickers at once we’ve both got our drinks in hand. We take a seat at the bar looking out into the street, and Mason and I sit adjacent to one another as we sip our drinks.
“So, I never took you as the type to open his own restaurant,” I say. “What gives?”
Mason shrugs. “You’ve never dreamed of opening your own place?”
“Well, I do think about it sometimes, but I’ve never been as serious as you. What made you finally pull the trigger on that place?”
Mason shrugs his usual shrug again, and takes a sip of coffee before answering me.
“My Dad always wanted to own a place of his own,” Mason says quietly. I can tell he doesn’t share details like this often, so I keep quiet and let him keep talking. “His name is—was Sebastian, and he was more passionate about restaurants and hospitality than anyone I’d ever met.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I chime in. “It must be hard losing a parent like that. So passionate. Was he a good man?”
“He was the best Dad I could ever have asked for.”
There’s a heavy pause between us, and I can tell Mason’s done talking about his father for now.
“So,” I say, doing my best to change the subject. “What’s first for the restaurant?”
Mason sighs. “Well, after the bank, I’ll have to hire a contracting team to make the place look like a real restaurant,” he says. “And then we’ll order in all the equipment, the ovens and countertops, et cetera. Then I assemble a staff. Get them up to speed, make sure they’re a solid crew. We run health inspections, assemble a menu. Then we open.
; “And I still need a Head Chef,” Mason adds, looking over at me.
I take a sip of my coffee, weighing my options.
“I think about it,” I say.
Mason smiles again, and we finish our coffee in peace together before he’s off to the bank. I head home for the day. After all, I’ve got a job lined up. Might as well take some time off to enjoy my solitude before I’m thrown back into the mix.
Thrown back into the mix with Mason. I can’t help but smile at that. We were back together again, our future mysteriously ahead of us.
Fifteen
After approval from the bank for my business loan, I spend every waking morning I can working in my restaurant. It’s not going to open for another six weeks, but I still need to be up at 5 every morning so I can meet up with the contractors I’ve hired to remodel the place. Rosa and I met up and signed the contract a week ago, ever since then it’s been a whirlwind of laborers, loose wires and frustrated troubleshooting. I’ve found my team of contractors, and they’re hard at work at getting me as set up as I need to be.
This morning, I receive a call from the leader of my merry band of contractors, Rupert. Rupert tells me that they’re finishing up the walk-in freezer, which should be ready to freeze anything solid in just under a few hours. I can come by and test it when it’s ready. They also installed a new oven this morning, too. And I thought I was the one waking up early. Apparently these guys start at 3:30 every morning. Impressive. I’m glad to have such a devoted team behind me, working as hard as I am to get this place opened.
I catch a cab down to Park Avenue, imagining if Rosa will already be at the restaurant when I get there. She isn’t, of course, but that’s okay—I know I’ll hear from her sooner or later about the Head Chef offer. I head inside, ready to start my day.
