by Vivien Vale
It’s my fault The Pearl on Park is having issues. If I hadn’t behaved like I did, complaining about a man I knew nothing about, none of this would be happening.
Sure, the slow march of progress would eventually force me to close down my restaurant, but so what? That’s the cycle of life. If it isn’t Palmer’s restaurant, it’ll be a shopping mall next week, or some high-rise condo.
But no, I had to bitch about the competition to Percy, and he took it upon himself to start a war against a man who doesn't deserve any of it.
“It’s over, Nicole.”
His voice... so casual; cold even. It’s almost as if he doesn’t care about what happens next. It hurts to hear him speak about his restaurant like this; I know that, more than anything, he wanted it to be a success.
And now his dreams seem to have been crushed.
“It doesn’t need to happen like this,” I insist, not sure if I believe my own words. What do I know about anything?
I’m just the owner of a small bistro restaurant; I never had to deal with investors or anything like that. I know absolutely nothing about the inner workings of a multi-million dollar enterprise.
“Forget about it. Whatever happens, happens,” he whispers, his vacant gaze reaching for some place where I can’t reach him. I just stay there, nestled against his body and staring at his face, the dim lights of the restaurant making his features sharper.
He’s smiling, but there’s a certain sadness to it.
It’s almost tragic.
More than just it being about the restaurant, I see a deeper worry in his eyes. He feels as if the clock is running out on him, and I know he believes his next breath might be the last one. I can’t even imagine how it must feel to know he won’t have the time to see his dream come true.
Then, almost as if we we're commenting on the weather, he simply shrugs and sits up. He stretches his arms and then goes up to his feet, jumping inside his boxer briefs and pants.
He starts making his way toward the kitchen and I follow after him, throwing his button-up shirt over my shoulders.
“Hungry?” he asks me, opening the large fridge that seems to take over half the wall of his industrial kitchen, large enough to house a small army of cooks and waiters.
“I’m fine,” I reply offhandedly, still thinking about how I should tell him. Because I have to tell him that I’m to blame; if it weren’t for me, The Pearl on Park would be a success.
“No, you’re not,” he chuckles, more to himself than to me. “Nothing good happens on an empty belly, you know?” He continues, grabbing a couple of eggs and bacon from inside the fridge.
He grabs one of the frying pans hanging overhead and lights up the stove, and I just watch as he cuts a small square of butter and lets it fall from his fingers into the pan.
“Palmer... there’s something I must tell you.”
I don’t even know how I summoned the courage to tell him that. But, somehow, I did. He raises his eyes, his gaze meeting mine, and then he just waits for me to continue.
“I was the one that -”
The words lose themselves on the way up my throat as I catch a glimpse of something on the counter next to me. There’s an open notebook there, a fountain pen resting between pages, and my eyes are immediately drawn to what’s written in there.
“Nicole?”
I hear Palmer’s voice, but I’m not even processing what he’s saying. I’m just reading what’s written on the notebook; it’s a long list of ingredients and procedures, all of them a step toward reverse-engineering my grandmother’s recipe.
No, it can’t be.
I try and tell myself that I’m dreaming, but there’s no mistaking it. It’s all there, in his little notebook. He’s been trying to figure out my family’s recipe, and without telling me.
But why would he do that? Unless... unless he was planning to use it as a hail Mary attempt at saving his restaurant. Maybe he hasn’t given up on The Pearl on Park. Maybe he’s still trying to save the only thing he cares about, even if that means stealing from me.
Even if that means betraying me.
“Nicole, are you okay?” He asks me, taking one step toward me, but I can’t even look into his eyes. I just purse my lips, throw his shirt over the counter, and walk back to the dining room.
He follows after me, surprised, but I remain silent as I pick my clothes up from the floor and get dressed.
“I just remembered,” I tell him, lying with every single tooth I had, “there’s somewhere I need to be right now.”
“Nicole—” he calls after me, but I don’t stop. I just walk out of his restaurant, tears stinging my eyes.
How could I have been so wrong about Palmer?
Palmer
One minute I'm offering to make Nicole bacon and eggs, and the next she's running out of the restaurant as if her feet are on fire. She couldn't get out of here fast enough. She didn't so much as give me an explanation, or even a look.
I've never seen her act that way before.
Things were going so well… maybe even perfect. At least more perfect than I've ever known a relationship with another person to be.
My mind replays all of the moments we shared this week, to see if anything was amiss. Was there something I didn't pay attention to? But the more I think about it, the more I think that all of the moments were perfect.
Like the other day—sharing one of the best steak recipes with her.
I stirred the chocolate sauce on the stove. The kitchen smelled amazing, and we were still standing there in an after-sex glow. I was shirtless, and she couldn't keep her eyes off of my body. I couldn't keep mine off of hers, either.
I mixed in heavy cream, dark chocolate, and chili pepper. To give it some kick, I said with a wink.
"And you're serving this on a steak?"
It's going to be mind blowing—just wait and see," I promised her with a smile.
"When I think of chocolate, I think of ice cream, or sundaes, or strawberries, or cake, or even truffles… but steak?" she said.
"Trust me."
"I do," she said.
The way she said that with the depth of her eyes, more than her words, made me know she meant it. And it also made me melt faster than the chocolate in that saucepan.
I continued to whisk the chocolate until it was thick and glossy like a silk robe. I added a splash more cream, and a sprig of rosemary to top it off.
"Perfect," I smiled. "Could you grab me that filet?"
She nodded, and brought me the perfectly caramelized steak.
"How did you get so good at cooking steaks?" she asked.
"That's a secret," I smiled.
She watched me as I drizzled the chocolate sauce over the fillet and carefully sliced off a piece.
"Here," I said. "Taste this."
She leaned in and carefully parted her lips. I brought the fork to her mouth, carefully placing it on her tongue with my free hand underneath it.
"Oh. My. God. That's good. Sinfully good, Palmer," she said, her face flushing—either from the heat of the chili pepper, or from me handfeeding her the amazing steak, I’m not sure.
I smiled at her reaction. "There's a hint of coffee in there too," I told her. "Can you taste it? It brings out the chocolate."
Her eyes rolled back in her head as she chewed.
"You are a culinary god," she said. "I'm dead serious."
My thoughts come back to the present.
That was one moment of many perfect moments. She called me a god. Everything was going so well.
But now? Now Nicole's colder than a freezer-burned drumstick.
I pick up my cell phone anddial her.
The phone rings and goes to voicemail.
Fuck. Now she's ignoring me.
What the fuck is going on?
I call her restaurant and Kate picks up.
"You've reached The Old Tale, how can I help you?"
"Hi, Kate—it's me, Palmer."
"What do you w
ant?"
"I need to talk to Nicole and she isn't answering her phone," I say. "Is she there?"
There's a moment of silence.
"Please—I just need a quick word with her."
"Sorry, she isn't here," Kate says. "She left me running the restaurant today."
"Is she OK? I mean, she isn't answering her phone," I say. "She isn't returning my calls. I left countless messages, and it's driving me crazy because I have no idea what's wrong."
"Look, I'm going to be blunt with you," she says. "Nicole is through with you."
"What?" I say, unable to comprehend what she's saying.
But instead of clarifying, or saying anything further, Kate hangs up and the line goes dead.
Well, that wasn't helpful.
That gave me more questions than answers.
I look around the kitchen and pace back and forth. What is it, what is it… why is she so upset? Then I look down at my recipe notes. They're in an open notebook on the counter.
Did she see these notes when she was here?
I shake my head. No, I'm sure she didn't.
I walk over to the bar and pour myself a drink. I look across the kitchen, and then walk out into the dining room. To think—in no time, this place will be turned into God knows what. It will no longer be the culmination of all my hopes and dreams.
All of my goals will be gone down the drain.
I pour a second drink and feel my body start to relax.
At least I gave it everything I got, right? I can look myself in the mirror every morning and say I tried… and I guess that's more than most people can say.
I pour a third drink and gulp it down. Now the liquor is really starting to take effect and I feel a slow blurring of my thoughts at the edges of my mind. My body is completely relaxed at this point, and my mind doesn't have a filter.
With Nicole deserting me… and the restaurant closing… what do I have left in New York City?
Maybe it's best if I leave this place… this city… completely.
As soon as this thought enters my mind, it takes hold and solidifies itself as a real solution. It feels like the right thing to do.
Yes, I should leave.
There's nothing left for me here.
Nicole
I'm home wearing my favorite stretchy pants, a pint of chocolate ice cream in one hand, and an entire bottle of red wine in the other. And I've already eaten my way through half the pint of ice cream, and this bottle is my second of the night.
Don't judge.
Desperate times calls for… some indulgences.
I'm almost through that second bottle of wine, and I'm lying on the couch watching an old romantic comedy. It's called "When Harry Met Sally" and it's one of my favorites.
It doesn't matter how awful of a day I've had; when that movie comes on TV, I'm captivated and my mood is transformed. Literally, there is always at least one scene that will have me laughing.
Like when Meg Ryan's character, who plays Sally, does the famous fake orgasm scene in Katz Delicatessen. She just keeps telling Harry that all women fake orgasms and he can't believe that. He says no way, that can't be true, because he's been with countless women and they've all had orgasms.
But Sally just kind of smiles and insists he's wrong and that what he's saying is a typical guy thing to say, you know?
They go back and forth like this until Sally sort of puts her foot down and proves it to him by having a fake orgasm right there in the deli. In front of the other diners, the waitresses, everything.
I always get a kick out of that because she doesn't seem embarrassed... she just launches right in. And she does it so well and is so convincing that when a waitress walks by she famously says, "I'll have what she's having." And of course she totally wins Harry over… together with the rest of us.
It's a great scene. And you know why? Because it's an honest scene.
I know someone who could stand to learn a lot about honesty: Palmer.
I take another swig from the wine bottle and lie back down on the couch. My body is warm and loose, and I have the distinct underwater feeling that I get when I've had too much to drink.
I watch as Harry's character finally says, "I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."
That line always gets me.
I don't know if it's the excessive wine, or my hormones, or both, but now I'm crying. Literally crying.
I can't help it. I'm even sniffling a little. I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down low and use it to wipe my eyes.
I feel stupid for crying, but it's uncontrollable.
The movie poses the problem—does sex mess everything up? Like can a man and a woman be friends without letting sex get in the way of things?
I sigh. What if I never slept with Palmer?
How would things be different, if at all?
Why couldn't I have just kept things professional?
Instead, I let down my guard. I was so stupid. I made myself vulnerable.
I was too available… even getting out of bed to see him in the middle of the night, and look what happened? What the hell was I thinking that night?
I was used. Plain and simple.
And the worst thing about it is that I was blind to it all. I didn't even recognize what was happening.
Just then, I hear a knock on the door. My head feels like it weighs a ton and is lodged in a fish bowl, but when I open the door, I play it off like I haven't been drinking a thing. But the person at the door is Kate, and she's not buying it. She knows me too well.
"Uh, oh… how many bottles of red have you had tonight?" she says in a mocking tone.
"None," I lie, and then backpedal. "Ok, well… maybe one."
Kate looks around my living room and spies both bottles.
"You mean two?"
"OK, fine, so sue me… I've had two, but I've also had a rough week so cut me some slack," I say.
Kate laughs. "Not this movie again," she says, looking over my shoulder and directly at the TV. “This must be the millionth time you've seen it, right?”
"Not a million," I laugh. "But OK … maybe nine hundred and ninety nine thousand."
"Sounds about right."
"Did everything go OK at the restaurant today?" I ask.
"Went great," she says, "But I did get a phone call?"
"A phone call?"
"Palmer called looking for you," she says. "He sounded pretty desperate."
Hearing his name makes me cry all over again. I try to hide it by looking away. I don't want Kate to see me like this, but nothing gets past Kate.
"Come here, babe," she says, putting one arm around me. "It's OK. Everything's gonna be fine."
"I'm so stupid," I mumble into her shoulder. "So, so stupid."
"Don't say that," she says, brushing the hair away from my face with her fingers. "You're one of the smartest people I know. I wish I had a quarter of your drive and determination."
"But look at me," I sob. "I'm a mess. I feel for a man who was the enemy, and he used me. I honestly believed me had something special. I believed we were falling for each other."
"Look at me," Kate says, pulling my face close to hers. "Forget about Palmer. There are plenty of fish in the sea."
Palmer
“You were telling the truth,” the blonde girl cries out, her jaw hanging open as she takes in the luxurious dining area of The Pearl on Park. “You really are Palmer!”
“That’s right,” I tell her casually, taking off my jacket and throwing it over one of the empty tables. I knock down a vase of flowers, but I couldn’t care less; this ship is already going down, so what do some flowers matter?
As far as I’m concerned, the whole place could go down in flames.
Hell, I might even be the one setting a match to it.
“Where are you going, Palmer?” The girl asks me, closing the distance between me and t
rying to kiss me. I guess now that she believes I’m Palmer, the oh-so-fucking-famous-chef, that she won’t grow tired of using my name.
I sidestep her fast, and then make my way toward the bar. I step inside the service area, and then grab a bottle of a 35-year-old Yamazaki whiskey. The whole bottle costs more than thirty thousand dollars, but I don’t give a shit; I need a fucking drink right now.
Well, I need another drink.
I’ve spent the whole night trying to drown myself in beer and cheap liquor, trying to forget all about The Pearl on Park, Nicole, and what must be my impending death sentence.
A failing restaurant, a girl on the run, and a fucking brain tumor—yeah, my life’s perfect right now. Even Pollock’s paintings aren’t as messy as my life has become.
“Oh, I don’t like whiskey,” the girl tells me, and I instantly regret bringing her here. What the hell was I thinking? Sure, she looked fine from a distance—firm breasts, curves that seemed like a perfect fit for my hands, and a smile easy enough for me to know she’d be down for some fun.
But that’s not all there is to a woman. Not after Nicole.
“Can you fix me a Sex on the Beach?” she asks me, looking at me as if she expected me to put down my bottle of whisky and get started on her fucking cocktail.
“Here,” I mutter, grabbing a beer from under the counter and slamming it down in front of her. I do it so fast that foam starts rising up the neck of the bottle, and she jumps back from the counter to avoid spilling some on her dress.
“I didn’t ask for a beer,” she continues, her tone of voice now telling me she’s getting slightly annoyed at me. Not annoyed enough to leave, it seems.
“Well, that’s what you’re getting tonight.”
Without even looking back at her, I start pouring the Yamazaki into a glass, watching as the amber liquid splashes on top of two ice cubes. I let it flow from the bottle onto the glass until I’m sure there’s almost five thousand dollars of whisky on top of the ice, and only then do I put the cap back on the bottle.
