“Kiss?”
“That. But cook too,” Lucy says. “If we’re ever going to get the restaurant off the ground, we’ll have to do a lot of testing.”
Hours in the kitchen with Lucy.
I want that.
I really want that.
* * *
Before long, the meal is ready. I plate up the chicken, which has been drizzled with soy sauce, and Lucy drains the gai lan before tossing it back into the now empty pot with some oyster sauce. She tosses it, lightly coating the greens, then places it alongside the chicken.
“We could have done rice too,” Lucy says, “but this will be delicious on its own.”
I can’t help but pluck a piece of chicken from the plate and pop it into my mouth. It is delicious. Better than I’ve ever had. I close my eyes.
“Let’s eat at the bar,” Lucy says. “Try not to inhale it all.”
I laugh and open my eyes and take the plates to the bar. Lucy grabs cutlery from the drawer and tears off a piece of paper towel for each of us. “For the extra drool.”
“Want a glass of wine?” I head to the fridge and pull out a bottle I’ve had chilling.
“Just a small glass,” she says. “I don’t drink much.”
“It’s a good one. French, from Sancerre.”
We dig in, and it’s quieter than it’s been all evening. I’m savoring every bite, that flavorful zing of the ginger and onions, that brief taste of the sesame, and the tender crunch of the stalks of gai lan, with its wilted leaves reminding me a bit of sautéed spinach. I feel like I could eat this forever.
Lucy eats slowly, thoughtfully, and I wonder what she’s thinking about. I take a sip of my wine, trying to slow my own eating, but honestly, it’s so delicious that I can’t be slow. When I’m done, I sit back in my chair, savoring what I’ve just eaten, taking small sips of wine. I glance at Heimei, sitting there in her metal catlike glory watching over us, then at Lucy. I can’t help but feel a bit of wonder at her presence here, loving her being in my apartment, in my kitchen, sitting here with me. I don’t know why I feel like this with her. I know my apartment has felt lonely, even a bit sterile. All work. Lucy brings warmth here, just like her sculpture. Her creativity amazes me.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says after she finishes her last bite. She sits back in her chair, shifting to face me.
“About?”
“Names. We can cook and eat, but if we can’t get the people in, then what? We need a name that pops, that grabs their attention.” She picks up her glass of wine and takes a sip. “But I don’t know what the place should be called.”
“Brainstorming. Hold on.” I hop down from my chair and go to my home office, my second bedroom, grab a yellow legal-sized pad and a couple of pens. I come back and shift my plate to put the notepad down.
“I know you suggested The Cat’s Paw, but if we do Cantonese/Canadian fusion stuff, then what about Canasia?” Lucy suggests. I write it down. “Or what about something about the location, or the food itself?” Lucy adds. “There’s a small storefront in town that I was thinking might do, and it’s just around the corner from the main street.”
“Around the Corner?” I suggest. “Around the Bend?”
Lucy rests her chin on her hand. “Maybe. Write those down.”
I scribble down both names.
“Cantonese Corner?” Lucy adds.
“Sumo Corner?” I add, thinking of a restaurant a few blocks away.
“Not unless we’re doing sushi.”
“What if we name it something similar to your farm?” I ask. It makes sense to me—Lucy already has a presence in town, and even here in Calgary, with Country Mouse Farms.
“A restaurant named Mouse would be really weird,” Lucy says, though she’s smiling. “It’d make for a cute logo and theme, though.”
I write it down. We sit in silence, and I find myself struggling to think of something creative, something fun. Something that will draw people in.
“Cantonadian?” I suggest, though just saying it, I feel a cringe at the silliness of it. Like the celebrity gossip rags and their Brangelina nicknames.
Lucy chuckles. “That sounds awkward.”
“It really does. The worst kind of celebrity couple.”
“Kitlu.”
She says it so quickly I’m not even sure what I heard. “Say that again?”
“Kitlu,” she says. “Kitty-Lucy shortened.”
“Kit-Lu.” I write it down, both hyphenated and not.
“We could always use my Chinese name,” she says. “Ming Kitty.”
That one’s catchy. And it brings up something I’ve been wondering about. “Why do you have a Chinese name and an English one?”
“Easier, mostly. Especially when I was a kid. How many kids at the country school had even met someone named Ming?” Lucy shakes her head. “And I always liked Lucy. Mama used to watch I Love Lucy on TV when I was really little. She was funny.”
“I’ve only seen clips.”
“Why are you called Kitty?” Lucy asks.
“Short for Katherine,” I reply. It’s automatic, a question I’ve had so many times.
“I like Katherine,” she says. “Like Katharine Hepburn.”
“But hard to say when you’re two,” I quip. “That’s why Kitty, at least at first. Then it stuck.” I shrug. “So, Kitty.”
“Do you like it?”
I haven’t really thought about it before. But it’s me. I’ve never really thought of myself as a Katherine. “I’ve always been Kitty. Katherine would be weird.”
“There we are, both of us with names we didn’t quite intend,” Lucy says. She lifts her glass of wine and we clink the rims.
“At least here we can choose,” I say. I shift on my chair. “Let’s go sit in the living room. It’s more comfortable there.”
Lucy slides off her chair, taking her glass in one hand and the notepad in the other. I move into the kitchen and grab the bottle of wine from the fridge, scooping up my pens and glass on my way back. Lucy settles on the sofa, propping her stocking feet up on the coffee table.
“I’m really feeling Kit-Lu,” she says, holding out her glass for more wine. I oblige, sinking down next to her.
“Or Ming Kitty,” I say.
“Ming Kitty. Ming Kitty. You don’t think it’d start to sound silly?” Lucy asks.
“Almost anything does if you say it too many times.” I pull my phone from my back pocket and google the name. The first hit is a cat looking for a home on one of the pet-finder websites. I keep scrolling. Nothing there that’s anywhere near what we’d be doing. I type in the name of a domain provider and try it out. It’s not taken yet.
I show Lucy. “That’s a real possibility. Should we?”
“Do we want to take that leap?” We look at each other.
“Do we ever.”
We have a domain name. And a plan.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m giddy. Sitting here with Kitty, with our pop-up restaurant name now a registered domain, my stomach full and my head buzzing with the wine, it’s the best sort of feeling. I don’t want it to end.
“We’re doing it, Lucy,” she murmurs to me. “We will do it.”
We clink glasses again. Kitty downs her wine. I follow suit.
“We need to celebrate,” Kitty says.
“How?” I ask.
“I can think of a few ways.” Kitty takes the glass from my hand and sets both onto the coffee table. I feel a rush of anticipation—the tingles spread through me, from my head to my toes and back again. We meet in a crush of mouths, of bodies together on the small sofa. She tastes of ginger, of wine, of Kitty. I can’t get enough of her.
Kitty shifts her thigh between my legs and I rock against her, every movement causing a heady rush of desire. We’re not even naked, and already I feel like I’m close to losing it, to losing myself in this need, this want. I’ve never felt this way, never felt such intensity.
I pull Kitty’s shirt fr
om her waistband, slide my hand up under the back, against her hot skin, undoing the clasp of her bra. Her breath is a caress on my cheeks as she pulls back.
“Bedroom,” she says breathlessly. We untangle ourselves, and she rises, grasping my hand and pulling me up with her. She leads me to her room. It’s sparse like the rest of her place, a queen-sized bed with its plain black headboard against one wall. The window has white blinds, closed against the night. There’s a large photograph on one wall, so startling against the starkness. It’s green, leaves and trees of an old-growth forest, and in the middle ground, a woman with her back to the camera, a brilliantly red dress swirling around her. It’s fanciful yet real, and so different from everything I’ve seen so far.
“That’s beautiful,” I say, stilling Kitty as she tries to pull me toward the bed. “Where’d you get it?”
“Online,” she says. “A photographer I came across. It’s my favorite.”
I turn to her, away from the photo.
“I could see you like that. Intense. Beautiful. Determined.”
“You could?” Her eyes are wide with surprise.
“Absolutely.”
Kitty has an energy to her, a determination that she might not even know she has. I don’t really know how to describe it to her.
“I think you’re the only one,” Kitty says. She seems solemn, suddenly, some of her energy dampened.
“I’m sure others see it too,” I say. I hope they do. I don’t see how they couldn’t.
“I don’t know.” Kitty sinks down onto the bed, and I go with her, sitting next to her. Our fingers intertwine.
“If they don’t, then they’re missing out.” I reach out, catch her chin with my fingers, gently turn her face toward me. “And if they don’t know, they will know soon, just as soon as we open our restaurant. It’s going to be incredible.”
“It really will, won’t it?” Kitty says. Her expression brightens, and she relaxes into my touch. I lean forward, brushing her lips with mine, and her lips part, and the kiss becomes something more. It’s desire, need, sex, but it’s also trust and partnership and that emotion I feel but cannot identify. It’s us.
“Ming Kitty,” I say when we break apart. “It’s so us.”
“We’re going to rock this,” Kitty says. She takes my hands in hers and squeezes. “We need a menu, and a website, and a logo, and permits, and—”
“Tomorrow. And next week, and the week after that, and the months after that. We have time.” I lean in, kissing her again, this time a gentle press of lips. I glance at the alarm clock she has on the bedside table. It’s way later than I expected, and I still have to drive back to the farm. “I need to head home.”
“Don’t go yet,” Kitty says. “Stay. I promise you that we can get up early, but you shouldn’t be driving at this time of night.”
“I have chores in the morning,” I add, though my heart thrills at the idea of spending the night with Kitty, curled up in bed together.
“I can set the alarm for whenever you want,” Kitty assures me. “I’m always up early for work.”
I pull my phone from my back pocket, text Alice. “I’ll just give Mama a call,” I say. “She’ll worry if I’m not home.”
“I’ll find you some pj’s,” Kitty says, rising.
I chuckle. “Pj’s? We won’t need them.”
Kitty blushes then, something I don’t expect. After what we’ve done together, she’s blushing over pj’s?
“We will after. Or I will, anyway. I get cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
“Prove it.” Kitty bends to drop a kiss on my lips, then heads away, pulling open the door to her walk-in closet.
I will prove it. She’ll never need pj’s again while I’m around. I speed-dial Mama.
* * *
It’s late when we finally turn out the light. I know I’m going to regret this late night in the morning, but right now, I don’t care. I’m boneless, relaxed, and for the first time in a long while, I’m warm lying here in bed. Lucy was right. I don’t need pj’s when she’s around. She’s on her back and I’m on my side next to her, our legs aligned, her hip pressing against my pelvis, my foot over her ankle, my arm across her chest. Her arm is under my head, and I’ve never felt so peaceful, so content. Her breathing is slow, steady. I wonder if she’s fallen asleep already. I don’t want to ask, to make a noise that could wake her.
“Go to sleep, Kitty,” she whispers, squeezing my hand that rests at her shoulder. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
I can’t stop thinking. I can’t help it. It’s going to be one of those nights where I run everything through my mind, over and over. I’m already thinking ahead to menus and dishes and who to invite. I wonder if Jo will come if I ask her. She’s leveraged her love for food into a restaurant critic’s job at the local paper, and though they don’t do as many features as she’d like, she might be our in to the industry, a good connection.
“You’re not asleep yet,” Lucy murmurs. “Why is that?”
“I can’t help it,” I whisper back. “I’m too excited.”
“It’s not Christmas,” Lucy says. “Not yet. Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
I tell her.
“That’s amazing,” Lucy says. She yawns and shifts so we’re face to face. I can just see the outline of her eyebrow, her eye, the line of her nose, in the dim light from the crack in the blinds. “We’ll do it tomorrow. But we don’t have to rush. We have time.” She strokes my hair, a gentle, delicate touch that is amazingly soothing. It’s calming, rhythmic, and my eyes are fluttering shut, and somehow, some way, my mind has quieted.
“Good night, Lucy.” Or at least, that’s what I think I’ve said. But I’m not sure, because that’s all there is. Then, sleep.
* * *
Restaurant critics. The idea makes my stomach roll and flop and clench. Judgy people that I don’t know how to handle. It’s far different than with the farmers’ market. There, people want the fruit and veg, know what they’re looking for. Restaurant dishes are a far different animal. Far more complex. Fruit and veg are easy. Someone who likes blackberries buys blackberries. But blackberries in a sauce? Perhaps not. Or perhaps not done the way they’d think best.
Now it’s me that has the mind that won’t quiet. I know Kitty’s finally fallen asleep—her breathing is slow, quiet, and her limbs have relaxed. I take a deep breath, hold it in for a count of eight, then release slowly. I do it again, and again, and feel myself slowly relaxing.
There’s always tomorrow. We’re on our way.
Chapter Sixteen
“Your next client is due in a few minutes,” Cindy says as she pops her head into my office. My previous client just left and I have a pad full of notes that I need to take care of. And a second pad full of ideas for dishes for the restaurant. I really want to work on that, not on these clients and their needs. Just not today.
“Want me to type that up for you?” Cindy asks, coming closer. She knows my style, knows my compulsion to take notes on everything. She comes around my desk and checks out the second pad of paper.
“Honey in a Chinese food dish?” She picks up the notepad, reading closer. “I can’t imagine it, yet this might just work.”
“I have no idea if it will,” I admit. “But there’s a shop near Lucy’s farm that sells local honey, and we want to make things as local as possible, so…”
“That is so awesome!” Cindy picks up the other notepad, the one with my actual work notes. She tears off the top sheet. “I’ll get this typed up while you’re with this client. And then we have a few things that need to go to the courthouse for filing, and one lien to Land Titles.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say. It’s a cliché, but with Cindy, it’s utterly true.
“I know.” Cindy smiles and gives me a wave as she leaves the office. I check my calendar, refresh my memory on the client to come. He’s part of a larger corporation, and they’re dealing with a fe
w contractors who say they’re owed money. I’ve dealt with this many times before, in various capacities and volume, and this one seems reasonably simple. The contractors did not complete the jobs and thus were not paid, and as far as I can tell, the client has proof of work not done. It should be easy. The contractors, however, are threatening court action, which though unlikely to succeed, could get expensive. So, that’s where I come in. Negotiate, determine next steps, then execute.
Through my open door, I hear Cindy talking with the client. I rise and smooth out my skirt, putting my shoulders back and straightening my posture. I do it even though my shoulders want to slump and my eyes are burning from lack of sleep. Lucy and I did actually sleep last night, but I kept waking up, feeling her next to me. I couldn’t get settled. I’m hoping that won’t be an every night occurrence, but it’s hard to say. We’ll have to spend more time together. I feel warm at the thought, and I know I’m smiling. I dial it back a bit to professionally pleasant.
“Ms. Kerr, this is Mr. Barrow from CRL Estate Homes. Mr. Barrow, Ms. Kerr.”
I stride forward confidently, my hand held out. “Nice to meet you in person, Mr. Barrow,” I say. He gives my hand a firm shake. He’s a bit older, late fifties would be my guess, his carefully coiffed hair a mix of salt and pepper, a few laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and a crease between his brows. He dresses well, his suit possibly off-the-rack but carefully tailored. He reminds me a bit of my father in terms of polish, but my dad wouldn’t be caught dead in something off-the-rack, of course.
“Lovely to finally meet you too,” he says.
“Shall we get started?” I indicate a chair. “I’ve been reviewing the file, and I think that if we offer them a partial payment, we can get them to release the lien. It might be less costly than drawing this out in court.”
Cindy gives me a wave and disappears, shutting my office door. Mr. Barrow settles himself into one of the visitor’s chairs, and I head back behind my desk, pulling his file front and center. I position my notepad and click my pen.
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