by Rick R. Reed
“Where do you live?”
“Evanston.”
“In one of them fancy places along the lake?”
Henry grinned sadly. “You got me.” He knew where this was going. Rosalie wasn’t that much different from his parents. She was about to tell him he wouldn’t fit in here. He was meant for something different than working in a hot kitchen, busing tables, setting up flatware and plates. “But I really am interested in working here, especially after eating the food you make. It’s sublime.” Henry hoped that last word didn’t make him sound too gay. Or pretentious.
“Well, thanks. We try.” Rosalie cocked her head. “Look, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wonder what the hell you’re doing here. Don’t you have school lined up for the fall? I’m not lookin’ for summer help. I need someone I can count on, someone who will be here for more than three months or so.”
Henry thought about how transparent he was. This was hopeless. Should he just get up and shake Rosalie’s hand? Quit wasting her time? Instead he said what he knew his father would probably strangle him for. “I’m looking for full-time work, Mrs.—” Henry realized he didn’t even know Rosalie’s last name.
“Fiorello, you little ciuccio. I was married to the man who started this restaurant for almost forty years.” She looked down, and when she looked up again, Henry saw that her eyes were brighter, wetter. “He passed last fall. Heart attack.” She put her hand over her own heart.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah, well that and a couple, three bucks will get you a cup of coffee.” She eyed him, smiling again. “You sure you wanna work here? Tell me why.”
Henry sat back in the chair, allowing himself a few seconds to think. The answer to her question could make or break him. He licked his lips and let it come out, trying not to worry if it was too much information or too little. “Maxine. She’s the woman who’s been our housekeeper and cook ever since I was a little boy.” He met Rosalie’s gaze and could tell she was already judging him even more—a lakefront house on the North Shore and now a full-time housekeeper. And cook! He held up his hand. “Just let me finish here.”
Rosalie smiled, and Henry suspected she knew she’d been caught. “I just want you to have an open mind. You can make it up when you’ve heard the rest of what I have to say.”
Rosalie nodded.
“See, it’s like this. Maxine pretty much raised me. My mom is, well, she’s a little distant, maybe a bit self-absorbed. So Maxine was there for me. And the thing I got from Maxine was her love of food—the way she viewed it.”
“And how did this Maxine view it?”
“Well, she sees it as more than a means to an end, which is why I love her so much. She sees food as something that isn’t just about filling your belly, but filling your heart. She didn’t just feed me growing up, she nurtured me. She showed me that making food for someone can be a way of showing them you love them.” He looked at Rosalie, trying to make sure she was taking in, understanding what he was saying. “When I understood that, I knew that food can actually be a very powerful thing. I don’t know if I knew it right away on a conscious level, but I knew it. When I was about ten, I began asking her if I could help her make meals. My parents didn’t know what had gotten into me. My father said that I shouldn’t be helping her, because that’s what he paid her for. But I wanted to learn what she did to make her food not only good, but good for the soul.”
“What kind of stuff did she make?”
“She’s a simple one, so it was basics, more like comfort food.”
“Is she Italian, this Maxine?”
Henry shook his head. “No, why?”
“She just sounds like an Italian, that’s all. We respect food. It’s an important part of our culture.”
“I think Maxine is a mix, Polish, Irish, maybe a little German, not sure what else. But I was telling you about the things she cooks and what she taught me.” Henry drew in a breath because he realized he was describing his training in the kitchen. “She showed me how to make a basic chicken stock, that you don’t overwork ground meat, that your knife cuts need to be precise so your food cooks evenly, and that most dishes can be saved by two things, salt and pepper.”
Rosalie smiled bigger than he had ever seen her smile. “And garlic.”
Henry laughed. “And garlic. Sure. From her, I learned how to mince it and that those presses are for amateurs. I can now make meat loaf, real chicken soup, roast chicken, and an assortment of vegetables, most of which taste best when they’re dressed in olive oil and roasted until they caramelize a bit.”
“And what about the nurturing part? The love? She teach you how to do that?”
Henry wasn’t sure what to say. He finally confessed, “I don’t think that part can be taught. That’s the part where you just follow your instincts, what’s in your heart. I call it Maxine’s magic.”
“You’re a weird kid. You know that?”
Henry’s mouth dropped open.
“But I like you, even though everything is telling me not to offer you this job because in a couple hours here busting your butt, you’re gonna run back to your rich family and be a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant or something like that. But you know what? It seems like you got a good head on your shoulders and—more important—a decent heart. I trust my instincts in more than just the food we serve. I trust them for people too. And I have a good feeling about you.”
Henry couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. Something pulsed through him that felt very much like joy. “So I have the job?”
“Not so fast.” Rosalie wagged her finger at him. “Yeah, I’ll give you a shot. But before you answer, I want you to consider a few things. One, I can’t pay you more than minimum wage, at least to start out. Two, you’re gonna work harder than you ever have. I hope you’re ready. Toiling away in a professional kitchen is very, very hard. Endless. I appreciate what you said about Maxine, but cooking at home is a walk in the park compared to what we do here. And three, I want you to understand that, even though I don’t know your mom and pop, I got a pretty good idea they’re not gonna like you following this line of work. They may even try to stop you.”
“Well, they can’t. I’m eighteen.” Henry knew she was right. They would try to stop him. And he was dreading telling them.
“So go on. Get out of here. We need someone right away, so I’m only giving you until tomorrow to answer me. But I don’t want you to make up your mind until then. I really want you to think about what you’re doing. As I said, we’re not in a position to offer college kids summer jobs. I’ll be mad as hell if you work here the summer and then leave for school. I got a long list of applicants who I’m pretty sure won’t do that to me.
“So you take today and tonight and think real hard about this. Talk to your parents. See if I’m wrong about them. And then come back here tomorrow and tell me what you wanna do.”
Henry already knew what he wanted to do but could tell Rosalie was not the type of woman who would appreciate his going against her. He nodded. “Okay. That’s good advice—” His voice trailed off as he wondered what he should call her. “—Mrs. Fiorello.” He decided now was not the time to ask if it was okay if he used her first name.
Henry sat there for a few minutes, not saying anything but enjoying the moment.
Rosalie looked up at him. “Kid. I got work to do here. Vattènne!”
Henry stood quickly. He didn’t know Italian, but he knew enough from the context and the way she shooed him with her hand that it meant to go away.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fiorello. I’ll be by tomorrow.”
She nodded and didn’t look up from the papers she was sorting through. “Sure you will.”
CHAPTER THREE
HENRY STEPPED out onto the sidewalk and experienced the reverse of walking into the restaurant. He had to squint at the brilliant sunlight pouring down. It took him a minute or two for his eyes to adjust after the dimness inside.
He
allowed himself to simply stand still so he could sink back into reality. The ‘L,’ just a block west, rumbled out of Jarvis station, its metal wheels screeching as they gathered speed on the tracks. A car with a faulty muffler roared by. Two Hispanic women, one pushing a baby in a stroller, passed him, chattering away in Spanish. Although Henry had taken the language in high school, they were talking so fast he couldn’t understand a word. The leaves in the trees whispered, telling secrets.
All around him, the world went on. It seemed to Henry like there should be some acknowledgment for this turning point. Was he really going to do it? His father would say he was throwing his life away. His mother might cry. Maxine would stand by, keeping her own counsel. But Henry wondered if even she might try to dissuade him from tossing aside the trappings of his affluent life.
Could he do it? Did he really, really want to?
Henry turned east and knew the answer was yes. Undoubtedly. He’d never felt more certain about anything in his young life.
“You’re crazy,” he whispered to himself. “Flat-out fucking looney.” He continued walking east, drawn by the sparkling diamonds cast upon the surface of Lake Michigan.
When he neared Sheridan Road, he came upon something that caused him to stop short. His mother’s car, a Mercedes two-seater, was parked on the street. Henry laughed. There was no way his mother was in the Rogers Park neighborhood. The woman seldom left the suburbs. But the Merc was the same color as his mother’s—silver.
How many silver Mercedes were there in the city, anyway? A thousand? Ten thousand? Too many to count, anyway. This car was simply a coincidence.
As Henry neared the Merc, he peered inside. There, on the passenger seat, was the book his mother was reading: Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn. She’d been reading it for the last year, in fact. He doubted she’d ever finish it.
Still, it was just a coincidence, right? One of those things….
He peered inside the car, searching for more clues. The interior was clean, the leather seats virtually sparkling. He noticed, on the floor between the front and back seats, a silver Nordstrom bag. Henry pressed his nose to the glass and saw there was a shoebox inside the bag with the Ferragamo logo—his mother’s favorite brand of shoe.
This was no coincidence. Henry stepped away from the car, looking around himself guiltily, as though he was casing the car in order to steal it.
What was his mother doing in Rogers Park? It made no sense.
Had she followed him here? Henry shook his head, remembering she had left before he did. He’d watched her go.
Henry shrugged. Another mystery, and his mother—he wondered if he even knew her, despite the fact she’d given birth to him. Would he ever know her? He continued on, glancing back at the car as if it would provide an answer if he only stared hard enough. Maybe he could ask her later, maybe not. Conversation between mother and son had only grown more strained as the years passed, but still, it was odd, her being here.
Perhaps he was not the only one in the family with a secret.
He decided to let go of the mystery for now and walk home. It was a gorgeous day, perfect. The day was bright and hot but had none of the energy-sapping humidity Henry knew was sure to come later on in the summer. The sky was an overturned bowl of blue, with just a few thin clouds, up high. The walk would give him time to think, even though he knew his mind was already made up.
He continued down Jarvis. As he got closer to the lakefront, the roar of the surf and the smell of the water, with its slightly fishy tang, greeted him. He walked all the way to the end of the street, where a flight of concrete steps led down to the beach. He knew he could either go onto the sand or turn and go back to Sheridan Road and follow it north to Evanston. Although he was tempted to run across the beach, strip out of his clothes, and dive into the water in only his boxers, he turned around. He retraced his steps west and then followed busy Sheridan north, passing Calvary Cemetery as Chicago morphed into Evanston.
Once he got to the very south border of Evanston proper, he came to another beach. He paused to stand near the breakwater near the curve of the road where Sheridan turned into South Boulevard. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he stopped to look out over the broad expanse of beachfront, bordered at either end by boulders. The water sent out its siren call to him once more. Today it wasn’t calm. Waves rolled in and crashed against the shore, sending the little kids playing with their plastic buckets and shovels scampering farther in, screaming and laughing, as though the waves chased them.
Henry sighed. In order to access the beach here in Evanston, he’d need to go home and get his season pass, change into trunks. Still, the water looked so inviting, glinting in the sun, and almost a Caribbean shade of aqua. But Henry knew, from years of living on its coastline, that Lake Michigan in June was icy. That was why no one was swimming in it. The only ones brave enough to even dip their toes in were small children, who could not resist its allure. Henry remembered being one of those children. It was not so long ago.
And then he saw him.
Kade.
Kade was far back, near the rickety wooden fence the city had put up after Memorial Day, lying on a big red beach towel, white earbuds in and a pair of aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes from the sun. Beside him, Henry could see a bottle of suntan lotion and his iPad, cast aside and dirtied with sand. Only a rich kid would treat such an expensive toy so cavalierly. Heaped on the other side of him were a pair of cargo shorts and the Bulls T-shirt with the cutoff sleeves, and Henry knew Kade’s flip-flops were somewhere close by.
The sight of his friend caused Henry’s heart to skip a beat. He couldn’t deny it—Kade was a beautiful guy. His hair, nearly shoulder length and wavy, was an unkempt mass of wheat and pale brown. His body, bronzing even more in the sun, was already the shade of cappuccino. Henry closed his eyes, remembering that body, how it appeared much lighter in the darkness, naked before him. Kade was nearly hairless, and his skin was like satin, stretched smooth and hard over perfectly defined muscles. He had a body born of good health, privilege, and near-daily workouts. It was a body made for touching, caressing.
All the girls loved Kade.
And so did Henry.
He stood staring at him for so long, he forced himself to turn away, feeling like a pervert.
But….
Should he simply walk on? Go home?
Kade hadn’t said a word to him since that night after graduation on the beach.
“I dare you,” Kade whispers, leaning back against a boulder, his skin alabaster by the light of a nearly full moon. His erection rises up in the darkness, making Henry’s mouth dry, filling him with an inexplicable need. “I dare you to suck it.”
Henry leans forward, eyeing Kade warily, testing to see if he’s joking, but the lust he feels inside, he sees mirrored on Kade’s face. Henry touches the cock, wrapping his hand around its shaft, feeling his own dick twitch and jerk in response. The skin of it is just more satin, stretched over steel. Henry’s afraid he’ll shoot right here on the beach. Too soon, too soon.
Henry breaks eye contact long enough to lean down and kiss the head of Kade’s dick. Kade lets out a gasp, and his hand touches the back of Henry’s head, harder, harder, urging him forward. Henry’s never done this before but feels almost born to the act as he opens his mouth and takes the full length of Kade’s cock inside. He gags and pulls back. He looks up at Kade and laughs.
But Kade doesn’t laugh. He only whispers, “Please, please.”
Henry drops to his knees.
And this time, he doesn’t gag.
Henry shook his head to free it of the recollection, which made him hard. He had a fleeting memory of how Kade’s cock felt in his mouth, spasming as he shot his seed into his throat. He remembered the taste of it, so sweet with just a hint of brininess.
Henry wanted more.
He drew in a deep breath, feeling a potent cocktail of longing and shame. He moved up along the little street running parallel to the beachfront k
nown as Sheridan Square and stopped just a few feet back from where Kade lay, oblivious to his being there. Henry wondered what music he was listening to, what book he was reading. Only last summer, they had read The Hunger Games trilogy together.
Because he felt a little weak in the knees, he sat cross-legged in the grass and leaned back on his elbows, letting the sun warm his face, forcing his gaze away from Kade. Watching him like that made Henry feel like a stalker, like the kind of guy who’d stand outside a schoolyard, clinging to the chain link of the schoolyard fence.
He forced his thoughts away from Kade and considered instead the prospect of working at Fiorello’s. What would it be like? Would he discover food was his passion, or would he scurry back to the material comforts of the North Shore?
“Henry?”
Kade’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.
Henry opened his eyes to see Kade staring at him. The wire-and-wood temporary fence separated them, like some sort of barrier, however flimsy. Kade’s hair was wet, as if he’d just taken a quick dive into the water. Droplets shimmered as they coursed down his neck to dribble between his pecs….
Henry forced himself to stand. “Hey,” he said softly, trying to find his voice, trying to disabuse himself of the notion that Kade could somehow read his thoughts. Or see the hard-on in his pants that had yet to go down.
Kade laughed. “What are you doin’, dude? You’re wearing dressy shit to the beach now?”
Henry looked down at his pink shirt and gray pants, pressed, the hard shoes. He swallowed, glad at least the two of them were talking.
“I was just down in Rogers Park. Interviewing for a job.” Henry reached back to wipe away a line of sweat on the back of his neck.
“Cool. Summer work?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I thought you were gonna clerk or something at your dad’s?”
“Ah, I have all my life to work at a law firm, right? I wanna do something different this summer.”
“So what’s the gig?”
