by Sarah Dessen
“Marion? ”
“The woman at Model Community Ventures who answers the help line,” she said. “She’s just been a godsend.”
“You made friends,” I said, “with the help line lady?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re friends,” she replied. “But she’s really been great. Usually, they just put those numbers on there but nobody answers. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent on hold, waiting for someone to tell me how to glue an eave properly.”
I just looked at her. From across the room, Dave snorted.
“Hey, is Gus up there?” someone called up the stairs.
I walked over to see Tracey on the landing below. “Nope. He’s in a meeting in the event room with Opal.”
“Still? God, what are they doing in there?”
I had a flash of the pad with all those numbers, how her name had been awfully close to the top. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Well, when he finally emerges,” she said, pulling a pen out from her hair and sticking it back in with her free hand, “tell him that councilwoman called again. I don’t know how much longer I can put her off. Clearly, she’s undersexed and highly motivated.”
“What?”
“She’s hot for your dad,” she said, speaking slowly for my benefit. “And he is not getting the message. Literally. So tell him, would you?”
I nodded and she turned, walking back to the dining room, the downstairs door banging shut behind her. It wasn’t like I should have been surprised. This was the pattern. We landed somewhere, got settled, and eventually he’d start dating someone. But usually, it was not until he knew he had an end date that he’d take that plunge. Sort of like someone else I knew.
“Mclean?” I heard Deb call out from behind me. “Can I have a quick discussion with you about your approach in this area here by the planetarium?”
I turned around. Dave, who was carrying a structure past, said cheerfully, “And you said your sectors were perfect.”
I smiled at this, but as I walked over to take her critique, I was distracted. I didn’t even know why. It was just a phone call, some messages. Nothing that hadn’t happened before. And it wasn’t like he’d called her back. Yet.
At five o’clock, with three sectors done that had passed Deb’s rigorous inspection, we decided to knock off for the night. When we came downstairs, the restaurant had just opened. It was warm and lit up, and my dad and Opal were sitting at the bar, a bottle of red wine open between them. Opal’s face was flushed, and she was smiling, happier than I’d ever seen her.
“Mclean!” she said when she spotted me. “I didn’t even know you were here!”
“We were working on the model,” I told her.
“Really?” She shook her head. “And on your snow day, to boot. That’s some serious dedication.”
“We got three sectors done,” Dave told her.
She look confused. “Three what?”
“Sectors.” Nope, still lost. I didn’t even know how to explain, so I just said, “It looks really good. Serious progress.”
“That’s great.” She smiled again. “You guys are the best.”
“It’s mostly Deb,” I said. Beside me, Deb blushed, clearly pleased. “Turns out she has a lot of model experience.”
“Thank God somebody does,” Opal replied. “Maybe now Lindsay will relax about this whole thing. Do you know she keeps calling here? It’s like she’s suddenly obsessed with this project.”
I glanced at my Dad, who picked up his wineglass, taking a sip as he looked out the window. “Well,” I said, “she should be happy next time she stops by.”
“That,” Opal said, pointing at me, “is what I love to hear. She’s happy. I’m happy. Everybody’s happy.”
“Oh my goodness,” Deb said, her eyes widening as Tracey came toward us with a heaping plate of fried pickles, placing it right in front of Opal. “Are those—”
“Fried pickles,” Opal told her. “The best in town. Try one.”
“Really?”
“Of course! You too, Dave. It’s the least we can do for all your hard work.” She pushed the plate down, and they both went over to help themselves.
“Wow,” Dave said. “These are amazing.”
“Aren’t they?” Opal replied. “They’re our signature appetizer.”
Wow, indeed, I thought, looking at her as she helped herself to a pickle, popping it into her mouth. My dad was still looking out the window. “So the meeting went well?” I asked.
“Better than well,” Opal said. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Nobody’s getting fired. I mean, we presented our arguments, and he just . . . he got it. He understood. It was amazing.”
“That’s great.”
“Oh, I feel so relieved!” She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s like the best I could hope for. I might actually sleep tonight. And it’s all because of your dad.”
She turned, squeezing his arm, and he finally turned his attention to us. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“Oh, he’s just being modest,” Opal told me. “He totally went to bat for our staff. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he actually didn’t want anyone to get fired either.”
I looked at my dad. This time, he gave me a shrug. “It’s over,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
“Is that Mclean I see?” I heard a voice boom from the back of the restaurant. I turned, and there was Chuckles, huge and hulking and striding right toward us. As usual, he had on an expensive suit, shiny shoes, and his two NBA championship rings, one on each hand. Chuckles was not a believer in casual wear.
“Hi, Charles,” I said as he gathered me in a big hug, squeezing tight. He towered over me: I was about level with his abs. “How are you?”
“I’ll be better once we tuck into that buffalo,” he said. Dave and Deb, standing at the bar, watched him, both wide-eyed, as he reached over with his impressive arm span to pluck a pickle from the plate in front of them.
“Chuckles just invested in a bison ranch,” my dad explained to me. “He brought ten pounds of steaks with him.”
“Which your dad is going to cook up as only he can,” Chuckles said, gesturing to Tracey, who was behind the bar, for a wineglass. “You’re joining us, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “But I need to go home first and change. I’ve got model dust all over me.”
“Do it,” Chuckles said, easing his huge frame onto a bar stool next to Opal as Tracey reached over with the wine bottle, filling his glass. “I’m just going to hang here with these gorgeous women until my food’s ready.”
My dad rolled his eyes, just as Jason stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Gus,” he called. “Phone call.”
“I’ll see you in a half hour or so?” he said to me as he got up. I nodded, and he walked back to Jason, taking the phone from him. I watched him say hello, and a grimace come across his face. Then he turned, and walked back toward his office, the door swinging shut behind him.
“I should go, too,” Deb said, zipping up her jacket. “I want to get home and whiteboard my ideas for the model while they’re still fresh.”
“Whiteboard?” Opal said.
“I have one in my room,” she explained. “I like to be ready when inspiration strikes.”
Opal looked at me, and I shrugged. Knowing Deb like I did, this made total sense to me. She slid on her earmuffs, then pulled her quilted purse over her shoulder. “I’ll see you guys.”
“Drive safe,” I told her, and she nodded, ducking her head as she stepped out into the snow and walked away. Even her footprints were neat and tidy.
“These pickles are really good,” Chuckles said to Opal as I gathered up my own stuff from the bar. “But what happened to those rolls you used to give out here?”
“The rolls?”
He nodded.
“Actually, we, um, decided to do away with them.”
“Huh,” Chuckles said. “That’s too bad. They were really something,from
what I remember.”
“Have another pickle,” she said, pushing the plate closer to him. “Believe me. Pretty soon those rolls will be a distant memory.”
I glanced at her as she lifted her wineglass again to her mouth, and she smiled at me. My dad had been right. Thirty days, give or take, and she’d come around.
Dave and I said our goodbyes, then walked down the corridor to the back entrance. We were just passing the kitchen door when we saw Jason, rummaging around on a shelf for some pans. “Be careful out there,” he said. “It’s still really coming down.”
“Will do,” I said.
“Hey,” Dave said to him, as he stood up, the pan in hand. “Did I see your name on the Brain Camp Listserv the other day?”
“I don’t know,” Jason said. “If it’s there, it’s not my doing. I haven’t been in touch with them in ages.”
“You went to Brain Camp, too?” I said.
“He didn’t just go there,” Dave told me. “He’s, like, a Brain Camp legend. They pretty much genuflect to his IQ scores.”
“Not true,” Jason said.
“Order up!” I heard Tracey call. “Salad for the big boss, so make it good!”
“Duty calls,” Jason said, then smiled, walking back toward the prep table. Dave watched him go as I pushed open the back door, a bit of snow blowing in.
“So Jason was a big geek deal, huh?” I asked as I pulled on my gloves.
“More like a rock star,” he replied. “He went to Kiffney-Brown and took U classes, just like me and Gervais, but he was a couple of years ahead. He went off to Harvard when I was a sophomore.”
“Harvard?” I glanced back at Jason, who was pulling a pan out of the walk-in. “It’s a long way from there to prep cook. What happened?”
He shrugged, walking out the door and pulling his hood up. “Don’t know. I thought he was still there until I saw him upstairs the other day.”
Strange, I thought as we passed by the half-open door to my dad’s office. I could see him inside, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the desk.
“. . . been pretty busy, with the new menu and some corporate meetings,” he was saying. I heard his chair creak. “No, no. I’m not, Lindsay. I promise. And lunch . . . would be good. Let’s do it.”
I looked out at the snow. Dave had his head tipped back, looking up, the outside light hitting the flakes as they fell down on him.
“Your office, city hall, eleven thirty,” my dad continued. “No, you pick. I’m sure you know the best places . . . yeah. All right. I’ll see you then.”
The door at the other end of the hallway, which led to the restaurant, suddenly opened. Opal was standing there, her wineglass in one hand. “Hey,” she said, “is your dad still on the phone?” she asked.
I nodded. “Think so.”
“Well, when he’s done, remind him we’re waing for him to join us. Tell him Chuckles is insisting on it.” She smiled. “And, um, so am I.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Thanks!” She lifted her glass to me, then disappeared back through the doorway, letting it swing shut behind her.
For a moment, I just stood there, right in the middle of the hallway, alone. In the kitchen, some bouncy dance music was playing, and over it I could hear the clanging of utensils, the squeaking of shoes on the damp floor, and the grill sizzling, the soundtrack to the beginning of a rush. All things I knew well. Almost as well as the tone in my dad’s voice just now, finally accepting the councilwoman’s offer. It was as familiar as the set of his jaw as he sat next to Opal earlier, even as she celebrated unknowingly beside him. Something had shifted, changed. Or, actually, not changed at all.
“Hey, Mclean,” Dave called out through the screen door. I looked over to see him surrounded by white: on the ground at his feet, blown onto the wall behind him, and flakes still falling. “You ready to go?”
I looked back at my dad’s door, now all quiet behind it. No, I thought. I’m not.
Ten
“Do you hear that?”
I looked up from the fire station I was trying to get straight on the model base. “What?”
Dave, who was across the room, cocked his head to the side. “That,” he said, holding up a finger as the sound of voices, loud, in the restaurant below rose up the stairs behind him. “It’s been going on for a while now.”
“It’s probably just everyone setting up,” I said, moving the station again. It was just a small square that needed to go neatly into another small square, but for some reason, it would not cooperate. “Isn’t it close to five?”
“Four forty-six,” he said, still listening. “But that’s not setting up. It’s someone yelling.”
I put down the building, then walked over to where he was standing, peering down the stairs. I couldn’t see anything but the deserted side dining room, but now, I could hear the sound loud and clear.
“Oh,” I said. “That’s just my dad.”
Dave raised his eyebrows. “Your dad?”
I nodded, listening again. This time, I was reasonably sure I made out a bullshit, the word inept, and a mention of a road, and a suggestion that whoever he was speaking to consider hitting it. “Sounds like he’s firing someone.”
“Yeah?” Dave squinted as if this would help him decipher better. “How can you tell?”
“The volume,” I replied. “He never really gets that loud unless he knows the person isn’t going to be around much longer.” Just then, equally loud, there was a stream of expletives.
Dave raised his eyebrows.
“That’s whoever just got the hook.”
“And you know that becaus . . .”
“My dad doesn’t use those words. Even when he’s firing someone.” There was a crash. “I would wager that’s whoever it is throwing something. Sounds like a bus bin.” A bang. “And that’s the back door. It was probably a dishwasher.”
“Why?”
“Girls usually don’t bang out or throw stuff. And kitchen guys yell more.”
Dave was just looking at me as if I was insane. “What are you? The restaurant whisperer?”
I shook my head. It was quiet downstairs now, that heavy silence that falls after someone gets axed and everyone else is tiptoeing around, extra careful to keep their distance from the boss in case unemployment is catching. “I grew up in a place like this. After a while, you start to recognize things.”
I walked back over to my sector, picking up the fire station. As I knelt back down, focusing on the square again, Dave said, “Must have been pretty cool, your parents having their own place. Did you, like, have the run of the joint?”
“I guess.” I centered the piece, then realized it was crooked again. Damn. “It was either be there or never see them. Or my dad anyway.”
“Busy job, huh?”
“Full-time and more.” I sat back again. “My mom was around in the evenings, at least, and she was always on him to come home for dinner or take a weekend off to hang out with us. ‘That’s what we pay managers for,’ she’d tell him. But my dad always said even the best-paid employee is still that: an employee. They’ll never be as willing to Clorox the walk-in, mop the bathrooms, or empty the fryer when it’s all clogged.”
Dave didn’t say anything. When I looked up, he was again studying me as if I was speaking another language.
“They’ll never be dedicated the way you are when it’s your restaurant,” I explained. “As the owner, every job, from chef to bar back, is your job. That’s why it’s so hard.”
“And it was hard on you,” he said.
“I didn’t know any different. I think my mom had trouble with it at times. I mean, she loved our place. But she did call herself a ‘restaurant widow.’ ”
“You think that’s why she ended up with Peter?”
I blinked. I was still looking at the fire station, but suddenly everything seemed askew, not just that. “I . . .”
“Sorry,” Dave said quickly. I swallowed. “I just . . . That was stupi
d. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just talking.”
I nodded slowly. “I know.”
We were both quiet for a while, the only sound the voices of the waits, now talking downstairs. I’d learned, over the last few weeks of putting in time on the model, that the rhythm was different depending on who was working alongside me. When it was Deb, or Deb and Dave even, we kept up a pretty constant chatter, talking about music and school and whatever else. But when it was just me and him, there was a different ebb and flow: some conversation, some silence, always something to think about. It was like another language I was learning, how to be with someone and remain there, eve Wh the conversation—and I—got uncomfortable.
From the restaurant below, there was the final touch before opening as the music came on. As a rule, my dad believed in keeping whatever played similar to the food: simple and good. He also wanted a low volume (so as not to blast out the early birds), instrumentals only (so words didn’t compete with conversation), and up-tempo (to keep the staff from moving too slowly). “Fast beat, fast service,” he’d say, something he claimed to have learned during a disastrous stint at a folkie organic place where he worked in college.
In a good restaurant, you’d never notice these things, which was exactly how it should be. Eating out is about just that: eating. The meal is what matters. As a customer, you shouldn’t have to think about details like this. And if someone like my dad is doing their job right, you don’t.
Dave and I had been working in silence for a while before he finally said, “What is that they’re playing down there?”
“Cuban jazz,” I told him. “My dad swears it makes people enjoy the food more.”
“That is so weird,” he replied. “Because I hate jazz. But I’m suddenly starving.”
I smiled, adjusting the fire station one last time before pulling off the sticky backing. Then I pressed it down and felt it click into place. Done.
“You want to grab something to eat?” I asked Dave as he wiped some dust off the main road with the tail of his shirt.
“Only if you tell me what’s the best thing to order right after opening,” he replied. Then he looked up at me. “Because I know you know.”
