by Hazel Parker
I throw an undetermined amount of cash up front and get out of the cab and scan the crowd. Daniel is on the sidelines, looking dazed. I run up to him and look him over. He’s unhurt, at least as far as I can tell.
“Steph,” he says, and his voice falters. “Steph, it’s terrible. It’s out of control. I’m so sorry—”
I throw my arms around him and hug him close. “I’m so relieved you’re okay,” I tell him, having to raise my voice to make myself heard over the din of activity around us. “Is everyone else…did everyone else get out all right?”
He nods, still looking like he just lost his best friend. “Yeah. We all got out, just before…before things went to hell.” He looks at me with wet eyes. “I don’t know what happened, Steph. Suddenly, Marco’s shouting that there’s a fire, and before I knew it, it was everywhere! It spread all over the place before we could do anything!”
I shush him. “You’re okay, and so’s everyone else, and that’s what matters,” I say, even though that sick feeling in my stomach is growing worse with every new detail I take in. My restaurant, my pride and joy, is burning like everything in it was made of kerosene-soaked cedar.
I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “The customers?”
“All okay,” Daniel replies quickly. “Most of them kept right on going when they hit the street.” He jerks his head at the white, boxy ambulance squatting in between two of the fire engines. “EMS is only here as a precaution. So far, nobody’s been hurt.”
“We got lucky,” I say.
“Some lucky,” Daniel says morosely.
“Hey, it could have been worse.”
“That’s very glass-half-full of you, Steph.”
“No other way to be at the moment.”
“Yeah, especially when the glass in question is on fire.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Steph. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“It’s all right,” I assure him. “This is why we have insurance.”
“Yeah, but—”
“We’ll just have to wait until this is all over and then see what’s left for us to work with.”
He nods, still looking like the very definition of unhappiness.
“In the meantime,” I add, “there’s something else I need to tell you.”
“Oh, god,” he moans, “tell me it’s not anything we have to deal with today.”
“No,” I smile. “Not today. Not for about eight more months.”
Chapter 26 - Trent
Out over the Atlantic Ocean now, shooting along at over six hundred miles an hour, the Gulfstream G650ER is empty of passengers other than myself. That’s to be expected—it’s my plane. I don’t fly intercontinentally very often, and don’t need to in this age of videoconferences, but when I do, I prefer to fly with as few other people as possible.
The flight from London to New York will take seven hours. After refueling, it will be another few hours from New York to Chicago. That gives me an abundance of time to make calls, which is good, and to think, which is sometimes not so good.
I’ve been talking with Scott a great deal, sending him out on factfinding missions. He’s exceptionally good at what he does, and in less than an hour, he calls me back with information.
“Heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning system went haywire,” he reports. “HVAC’s where it started, and it swept through the place like…well, like wildfire, Trent. All the people who were there are damned lucky to have gotten out with their asses intact and unseared.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Lucky. I’m guessing the building itself isn’t so lucky.”
“Right you are,” he says. “It’s not a total loss. The ‘bones’ of the building, I guess you’d say, are intact, barely, but that’s about it. You’d be hard-pressed to find anything to sit on if you were to go in there today, which you wouldn’t be able to do anyway.”
“It all went up?” I ask.
“Every stick of furniture, all of the floor, most of the ceiling, all of it charred to briquettes. It’s basically a burned-out shell now.” He pauses, waiting for me to respond. When I don’t, he keeps going. “White wasn’t there at the time.”
“No?”
“Nope. She was working away in one of her other two restaurants at the time. Her sous chef called her from the curb and told her what was going on. Apparently, she dropped everything and hauled ass over there, because she was there almost before the fire department went in.”
“Sounds like her,” I say, smiling a little. “But you say no one was hurt?”
“Right, and that in itself is a miracle.”
“Agreed. Find out for me how restaurant insurance works, if it covers this kind of thing, and if it does, how much does it cover.”
“You want me to find out what kind of insurance White has specifically?”
“No,” I say pointedly. “I don’t want any kind of nosing around done into her affairs. I’m talking about a general idea of what can be done from an insurance point of view for a restaurant…again, in general.”
“That’s surprisingly vague of you, Trent.”
“I’m serious, Scott. I want this kept in the realm of hypotheticals and suppositions.”
“Okay,” he says, “you got it. Anything else?”
I hesitate. “No. Maybe. I’ll call you back. I have to think on a few things. Remember, general inquiries only. No butting in of any kind.”
My next call goes to Curtis. He had seen the breaking news story covering Steph’s misfortune and had called me right away.
“Curtis,” I say. “I’m in the air. I’ll call once we refuel in New York and begin making the hop to Chicago.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to have you returning home under these circumstances.”
“Not your doing. I’m just glad you called me when you did. I don’t think I’ve touched the local news on the Internet the whole time I’ve been in London, so I probably wouldn’t have heard the news for who knows how long.”
“My thinking exactly, sir.” He stops. I feel like he’s deciding whether or not to say more.
“What’s on your mind, Curtis?” I prompt.
“Shall I call on Ms. White, sir? She has suffered a considerable loss.”
“That’s putting it mildly. And…if circumstances were a little different, I might indeed want you to check up on her. But…” I don’t know how to finish, but as always, Curtis is able to supply the rest himself.
“But circumstances are the way they are,” he says.
“Yes.”
“I understand, sir. What will you do when you arrive?”
“That,” I say, “is something I am still meditating on. You ever pace in a private jet?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that I have.”
“Well, I don’t know if it can be done properly, but I intend to give it my best try. I have a lot of thinking and planning to do.”
I hang up, and almost immediately, Scott calls me back.
“You have a television in your flying fortress?”
“Don’t call it that; it’s not the Batplane. And yes, I have a TV.”
“Evening news has coverage of the fire. It’s coming on after the commercial break, so if you move fast, you can still catch it.”
“Right. Thanks, Scott. And remember—”
“I know, I know…I’ll keep my looking general. I’ll be back in touch soon.”
Pacing can wait. I sit and flip on the forty-two-inch flat screen. After some remote manipulation, I settle on the right channel. A dog food commercial is just ending, and the news is picking back up.
“We’re now going live to the scene of one of the worst infernos in the Chicago business district in recent memory,” says the anchor. “Karen?”
The scene cuts to a view of the front of the restaurant, or rather, what’s left of it. It looks like it’s been firebombed. It’s not quite pandemonium, but there is still plenty of hustling and bustling going on.
The newscaster steps in front of the camera, mic
rophone in hand. “I’m standing outside DuMonde’s, now little more than rubble after a horrific fire broke out earlier this afternoon.”
“Rubble? Very sensitive of you,” I mutter.
“I’m here with—” she goes on, and my heart lifts a bit, then settles back into its accustomed place when I see a vaguely familiar young man on the screen. “—Daniel Jeffreys, who was working in the kitchen as the fire started. It’s my understanding that…”
I mute the sound on the TV. I don’t think Jeffreys can volunteer any information that I haven’t already gotten via Scott. Besides, he’s not the one I’m looking for.
Jeffreys talks for a few moments, then images of the restaurant from better, un-burned days splash across the screen.
I unmute the sound.
“—this three-star Michelin establishment,” the newscaster is going on. “Owner and premier head chef Stephanie White had this to say…”
I sit up straight in my chair as the camera cuts to another location on site. Steph’s face dominates the screen.
“Everyone in the restaurant got out safely,” she says, “and that’s the thing that matters the most.”
“And what will you do now?” the newscaster asks.
Steph shakes her head, glances over her shoulder. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
She looks lost. My hand clenches tight around the remote again.
The scene cuts back to the front of the building, and why not—it’s carnage that sells, not the human angle, after all. I switch off the TV. I’ve seen enough.
My phone rings not long after. Scott has been typically quick and efficient with his intel-gathering.
“Okay,” he says, “generally speaking, if White has good insurance—”
“And she probably does,” I muse.
“And she probably does,” Scott concurs, “after the structural inspection, all of the flame-broiled décor can be hauled out and the reconstruction can begin as soon as that’s done.”
“What’s the timeline on starting the reconstruction?”
“Depends on how long it takes to get the inspection. Could be as much as a month, could be as little as two weeks if she catches all the right breaks.” He pauses. “Are we still—”
“Yes,” I say. “We’re staying out of it.”
“Trent, I just want to be sure you understand the magnitude of what White’s facing here. You think you had to pay out the big bucks to get your kitchen put back in order…well, that was only one room. We’re talking about an entire restaurant. You can’t just call up one company and say, ‘Hey, there was a fire at my restaurant. Can you come in and fix everything?’ She’s going to be dealing with multiple contractors at all hours of the day and night. It’ll be enough to drive her up the wall.”
I drum my fingers on the arm of my chair and force myself to say the words. “She’ll be okay.”
“I’m just saying, there’s no magic wand to be waved over this mess. The closest thing to it would be the kind of influence and resources that are beyond her means.”
“But not beyond mine.”
“No, not beyond yours.”
“Scott, she doesn’t want a bail-out.”
“Yeah, but how do you know that?”
I close my eyes and massage my temples with one hand. “Because I know her. She’d rather operate a hot dog cart on the sidewalk corner than take charity to get her business back online.”
“So this is a pride thing?” Scott says. He sounds doubtful.
“More like an independence thing,” I tell him. “I can’t just up and offer to bankroll her reconstruction effort, and I’m sure as hell not going to engineer it behind her back. I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to that.”
“So we’re going to do nothing.”
“Yes, that’s right. For the time being, we do nothing.”
“For the time being?”
“I’ve got an idea, but it’s pretty rough and splintery at this point. I’ll share the details once I’ve got them sorted out in my head.”
“Fair enough. Anything else you want me to look into?”
“No, Scott, that’s it for now. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
I’m quiet for a few minutes, thinking. Then, before I can second-guess myself, I pick up my phone and call Steph.
“Hi,” she says when she picks up. There’s no anger in the greeting, I’m glad to note.
“Hi. I heard you got some bad news.”
“Pretty rotten news, yes. I didn’t know the Chicago news was so popular over in London.”
“Curtis called and told me.”
“Oh. Must have been a sour note to get from home while you’re away.”
“I’m not the one whose business went up in flames. Steph, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” she says. “I understand it was a wiring malfunction.”
“I’m not apologizing for your restaurant burning. I’m apologizing for from before I left.”
She gives a weak little laugh. “To be honest, Trent, the edge’s kind of got taken off that situation by more recent events.”
We are quiet for a moment, the silence spinning out between us.
Then, she says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Have you been with Jamie Wells there in London?”
I don’t hesitate to answer her question. “No. She came by my hotel room, tried to start something up, and I shut her down. She left, probably pretty mad while she was at it.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ve been having phantom pains in my arms and legs where she’s no doubt been jabbing a needle into a voodoo effigy of me.”
“You weren’t with her, then.”
“Never have been, never will be.”
Steph is quiet again for almost half a minute. “I’ve missed you,” she says.
In that instant, I know I was right to call her. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“I’ve almost called you something like a hundred times.”
“Me, too.”
“So why didn’t you? Apart from that one time?” There’s no reproach in her question, only naked curiosity.
“You know,” I say, “just at this moment, it’s hard to say why not. Why didn’t you go through with it and call me?”
“I thought you’d still be angry with me,” she replies.
“That’s been the furthest thing from my mind.” I look out the window of the plane. We are going through a cloudbank, so there’s nothing much to see at the moment. I’m anxious to catch sight of the land below us that will signal that we are getting close to landing.
“And I’m not in London anymore,” I say.
“You’re not? Where are you, then?”
“Flying the friendly skies back to Mother America.”
“You’re coming back to Chicago?”
This is going to be the hard part. “Yes, but there’s something I have to see to first.”
“How long will that take?” she asks. She sounds disappointed. My resolve wavers, then I stand firm. This is the way it will have to be.
“Not long. A week. Maybe two. I promise to make it as quick as I can.”
“That’s the first time you made a promise to me.”
“I keep my promises, too.”
“I hope so,” she says.
“So tell me about where you are in the rebuilding process?” I ask, partly to change the subject, but mostly because I really want to know.
She sighs and tells me. Scott’s fears that the odds against her would be overwhelming are proving to be spot-on. She outlines all of the parties she is constantly on the phone with, architects and masons and plumbers and carpenters. The list goes on and on.
“It sounds like you’re on top of everything, though,” I say.
“Yes,” she concedes, “but every day is like a marathon of red-tape, phone calls, and waiting. The good news is, if the infrastructure of the building is in
tact, it’ll mostly be a matter of cosmetic work to get things back to the way they were.”
“Still sounds like a pretty huge job.”
“It will be. But I have the contractor’s word on it that they can start as soon as he gets the green light.”
“And how long will it take?” I ask.
“Don’t know. There’s so many things that need to be done. I’m going to have crews working round the clock. My goal is to have everything in order in a month’s time and open back up for business not long after that.”
“Pretty ambitious.”
“Go big or go home.”
“I know what you’re going to say, but I have to ask anyway—is there anything I can do?”
I feel like this is a gamble. I don’t want to nettle her all over again, but I need to put the question out there. She answers, though, exactly like I had expected.
“No,” she says. “I have the best insurance, so it’ll get done.” She laughs again without much mirth. “Somehow.”
“That’s what I figured,” I say. “I just wanted to offer.”
“Thank you,” she replies. “This is something I need to do on my own, though.”
“I know. And you’re going to be fine.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I smile. “Want to bet on it?”
She sounds like she’s smiling as well. “A bet?”
“Yes. I’ll bet you’re back on your feet and running smoothly by this time next month.”
“That’s a pretty narrow window you’re setting me up for, mister. What are we betting?”
I tell her, and she laughs, both honestly and openly. It’s wonderful to hear.
“Call me later?” she asks when she’s done.
“You bet.”
The “I love you” that I want to say is there on my tongue, but I want to be able to say it in person rather than over the phone. I wonder if the words are waiting just behind Steph’s lips, as well.
It’s going to be hard, not just going back to Chicago to see her, but I have something I need to do first.
