The Restaurateur

by Aubrey Parker

  Everything about the situation is a little off. The biggest thing is obvious: I want to keep my family’s mountain and build my academy, whereas Mateo has already bought it. I didn’t want him to snake the property out from under me, through my father, but he already has. I’m as at-peace with it as I can be, given the circumstances. We’ve talked about this a lot, both on the phone and in person, but Mateo and I agree that my dream scenario would never have worked out anyway. My connections are impressive, but not enough to meet my ambition. I have some money of my own and Dad would loan (or give) me money from the property sale, but even an awful lot of money isn’t nearly enough.

  As Mateo has abundantly heard these past two weeks, The Pike is more than a building. It’s almost a covert form of social engineering. The kind of thing that Anthony Ross used to do before he disappeared.

  Too much capital needed. Not enough breadth available. It’s a great idea with impossible execution — even if Mateo wanted to contribute, which I would never accept. I was upset when Daddy sold the mountain, but the truth is there was little I could do anyway. What Mateo said from the start is true: I would have kept planning and Daddy would have kept working the mountain every day, breaking his back into his golden years.

  My attachment, I guess, was mainly emotional. But now more than ever, I’m convinced that if the mountain had to be sold, it might as well have gone to Mateo.

  He won’t raze the trees and build some ostentatious playground, selling the lumber rights. He won’t rip away half the slopes to construct more homes than the bluffs can easily handle. He obviously won’t disturb my mother’s final resting place.

  He respects the land.

  He respects me.

  He respects my father.

  He respects our family’s intentions for the mountain.

  He’ll be an excellent steward. And as we’ve discussed, I can build some lesser version of The Pike somewhere else, in another way. It won’t be as good, but at least it will be something.

  “This is nothing,” Blake says when we go out for coffee, and I explain my new plans. “I thought you were going to find a way to get the mountain back?”

  “It’s more than just the mountain,” I tell her. Then I run through all that Mateo and I have already gone through: the lack of a network powerful enough to attract the talent and brainpower required by The Pike, the lack of funds, and a plan solid enough to incorporate the social engineering plan.

  “You can’t just change a few people’s minds. If I want to build a next-generation think tank that can shift the planet’s direction, then “fostering genius” won’t do dick. You have to pave ways for those geniuses to do what must be done. Nobody’s going to find a solution for climate change if the masses and politicians think it’s stupid and if it’s a perpetual loss for big business. You need a weird mass hypnosis to pull it off. You have to win hearts and minds.”

  “But it starts with the mountain,” Blake says, instinctively getting what no one else has. “If you don’t have something sprawling and majestic and isolated, it’ll be harder for people who attend and those outside the institute to take it seriously. Imagine the Ivy League if there were no ivy. Nobody’d consider Harvard an amazing school if it didn’t look all fancy and old and prestigious.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It isn’t,” Blake insists. “Think about it. A person with a charming British accent can tell you to fist your own ass, and it would sound like a comment you should thank them for making.”

  “If my father loans me money,” I say, ignoring her, “I can buy a big estate somewhere. On tons of land. With big gates and an enormous white house with pillars at the center. The fanciest boarding school you’ve ever seen. That’s strong enough branding, isn’t it?”

  “What, so now you’re going to build Professor X’s school from X-Men?”

  “Why does everyone keep talking about X-Men?”

  “Look,” she says, settling into Serious-Blake mode, “if you don’t need a mountain to stick this thing on, then it had better be the moon. Or the pope’s ass. Otherwise, you’re just another snooty school for upper-class white kids. Because that’s how people will see it, no matter what you say. You have to level up for what you have in mind. People need to be curious about what’s going on. You almost want people talking about The Pike like it’s a cult. Motherfuckers should talk about your place like they talk about Area 51. You get the idea.”

  Of course I do. These are my arguments. But thinking about them now makes me sad.

  “It’s dead, Blake.”

  “Not necessarily. What if you leap in and do as much as you can afford, right now with your existing network? Maybe the rest of the money and people will follow.”

  I scoff. Might as well play the lottery.

  “Well, you got any other great ideas?”

  “I told you. Buy an enormous estate. Cults can be on estates. Area 51 isn’t on a mountain.”

  Blake waves a dismissive hand, rolls her eyes, groans like a put-upon teenager, and gives me every other signal she knows that I’m a big stupid buttface to think my half-assed plan could work.

  “You’re just going to make another institution that collapses under its own weight. They all start with good intentions. Hell, look at the US government. I talked to Ben Franklin’s ghost in a dream last night. He’s mounting a campaign to summon the rest of the undead founding fathers and march upon Congress to punch our lawmakers in the dicks.”

  I don’t attempt to make this gender-neutral. Everyone untoward deserves a punch in the dick according to Blake, male and female alike.

  “Well,” I say, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Blake thinks. She paces. She’s tapping her chin with one hand. It’s a very academic pose — too distinguished for someone who says shit as much as she does.

  “Shit,” Blake says, lighting up.

  “What?”

  “I just realized. The guy you’re always with …”

  “Realized what?” But it’s the wrong question. I’ve fallen right into Blake’s trap. I try to save myself: “I’m not always with some guy.”

  She’s smiling a little, shaking her head. “I knew you had a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have a—”

  She cuts me off. “Oh, please. You look all laid recently. And you actually smile. I didn’t know your lips were capable.”

  “Of course they are!” I try to smile, but this one is forced.

  Blake winces. “Looks like you’re having a stroke. But when you’re not trying, I keep catching you happy. And I mean, I know you’ve always been happy in theory. A good challenge makes you happy, being with your dad makes you happy … okay, fine. But that looks like this.”

  She attempts to mimic my neutral expression.

  “Whereas recently, you’re more like this.”

  And now she’s skipping around the room, pretending to throw flowers.

  “I so am not like—!”

  Blake holds up a hand to silence me. “Look. I’m insightful. It’s the curse of being me. I know you have a guy. Have had one for a while. About the length of time you’ve been running up to the mountain to check on this deal with Mateo.”

  “So?”

  “Checking on that deal a lot, aren’t you?”

  “I want to make sure he doesn’t steal anything.”

  Blake laughs. Hard. Because we both know the multi-billionaire owner of the hottest fast casual restaurant chain in America needs to steal my father’s deer-antler chandelier to survive.

  “Okay. Liz. Seriously. Don’t insult me. You’re fucking Mateo, aren’t you?”

  I form my mouth into a “no” shape, but then I surrender. Blake is impossible to fool. It’s one of the reasons we’re friends.

  “Fine.”

  “Score. He’s dreamy.”

  “Did you just say dreamy?”

  “Shit yeah, I did. You've seen his naked back, from climbing? Who am I kidding? Of course you have. Next
time he climbs shirtless, photographers will have to Photoshop your claw marks right out of there.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “You’re into him, though. Don’t lie.”

  I’ve thought a lot about that. There’s no reason to hesitate. The answer is obvious. I’ve been in throwaway relationships, and this isn’t that. Mateo makes me feel like a princess. He listens to everything I say. I think he even thinks I’m smarter than him. And I mean, I am. But for a man to admit it? That borders on love.

  But I don’t like admitting such things out loud because what we’ve been doing feels so unsustainable. Is Mateo into me like I’m into him? Are we together? The conventional signs point to yes. It’s only the objection of absurdity pointing to no.

  In no way do we make sense as a couple.

  Except that in every way I can count, we do.

  “Fine.”

  “You love him.”

  “I like him a lot.”

  “And he loves you.”

  “He likes me a lot, I think. What’s the point, Blake?”

  She shrugs. “Ask him for the money.”

  “I’d never do that. Besides, he doesn’t have enough. And the networking issue remains.”

  “He has billions!”

  “Tied up in various ventures. You think he has one big savings account?”

  “How much could he get his hands on? Half a billion, do you think?”

  “We’re not discussing this.”

  “I just want to know. Forget about The Pike. Now I’m just curious.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “He can invest in The Pike, whatever it is. Invest, not give, if that bothers you.”

  “You said to forget about The Pike!”

  Blake shrugs again. “I say a lot of things.”

  I sigh and walk away.

  “Okay, fine. Screw the investment. Just ask him not to buy the mountain.”

  “He’s already bought it.”

  “So you keep going up to the mountain to visit him?”

  “Well, no,” I say. “It’s in escrow. Technically it’s still my father’s.”

  “So the deal’s not finalized.”

  “It’s only a matter of paperwork. Believe me; it’s final.”

  Blake is pacing again. Her ideas in fragments are coming together. “It’s not final until it’s final. Maybe your dad can’t kill the deal anymore, or he’d be in breach of contract. The escrow will side with the buyer and the contract’s stipulations.”

  “Like I said. Final.”

  “But Mateo?” Her head bobs, thinking. “I think he could still kill it. Money’s not transferred until closing. Technically, your father could sue him if he doesn’t honor the contract, but I think the guy can afford it. And if you talk to your father, too …”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not fair. Mateo and I have talked about this. At length.”

  “What’s Mateo’s length like, anyway?” Blake asks.

  I just stare at her.

  “Okay, fine. But my point remains. Mateo could kill this deal if he wanted to. He’d lose whatever money he put in, but who cares? And if you were hell-bent on making things right, I guess you could give him that money back.”

  “We’re not discussing this.”

  “Oh,” Blake says, opening a bag of potato chips on my counter and crunching one as if to make a point, “but we are.”

  I shake my head. Then I snatch the chips, like robbing a fire of the oxygen required to burn.

  “Not anymore,” I say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ELIZABETH

  BLAKE’S STUPID SUGGESTION STICKS INSIDE my brain like a virus.

  I’m not remotely considering asking Mateo to back out, but I know how my mind works, and if I don’t fully explore a notion in the safety of my own skull, it’ll never let me go.

  I don’t have to say anything, but my gray matter turns the question, studying its many edges and sides. It wants to know. And understand.

  “How do you like your pasta?” Mateo asks.

  “It’s gross.”

  Mateo looks down. My plate is filled with what look like miniature green footballs. This isn’t pasta, and we both know it. I’m sure the kitchen is messing with us. Fancy restaurants always do that. How else did eating snails and fish eggs become a thing?

  “Oh …” Mateo says.

  My eyes click into focus, my brain back from its field trip. I’ve been mulling again, and Mateo’s caught me not paying attention.

  “I mean, it’s just a little strange,” I say, trying to recover. In the weeks I’ve known Mateo, I’ve discovered him to be oddly sensitive. He puts on a great badass front, but more than once, I’ve seen his softer side. This is a quirk I’ve discovered; he takes responsibility for things he buys for me or leads me into. If he suggests a movie to watch in his screening room and I don’t like it, he’s bothered. Or when we go to a nice restaurant and he’s paying, he wants me to love the food. But what the hell; he didn’t make these miniature monstrosities.

  “You could order something else.” He raises a hand as if to summon our waiter.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Come on. I’ll bring him back over and you can yell at him, at least.”

  I return his playful smile. Somehow, Mateo making fun of me about the waitress incident at our first lunch has helped with some self-work of my own. I was in a thin temper that day, and rude as all hell. I felt terrible. Mateo making light of my foibles makes them easier to address.

  Maybe what I told Blake was wrong. Maybe we do make a good couple.

  I look at Mateo and wonder if I love him. Then I banish the thought.

  “Let me try.” He reaches across the table and uses his fork to bisect one of the pasta balls. It’s solid dough in the middle. He eats it with some of the sauce, then smiles and nods.

  “Just as I figured.”

  “What, my palate isn’t sophisticated enough to appreciate this dish?”

  “No. The chef is fucking with you. Like they fuck with people when they serve sweetbreads.”

  I laugh. But this strange mood is still dogging me.

  Just ask him not to buy the mountain.

  I’d never do that. It wouldn’t be fair. We’ve exhausted the topic. Turned it upside-down and inside out. When I told Mateo about my mother, her legacy, and The Pike, he seemed intrigued. He’s become a believer. He understands, truly gets its many tangled pieces. Mateo said what I’d been thinking, about how it was an Anthony Ross sort of plan. And so together — on and off our many dates, in and out of bed — we’ve lamented that there seems to be no real way to make it happen. There isn’t the money. Or the direct connection to all the change-makers and thinkers we’d need to pull it off.

  But is Blake right? Technically speaking, was there always the mountain?

  I try to push the questions from my head, just as I’ve done a hundred times over the past few days and nights.

  The mountain doesn’t matter. Even if you could build The Pike on your father’s mountain, you don’t have the resources to execute the plan.

  Blake’s voice: If Mateo wanted to kill this deal, he could.

  “Let’s get you a steak. I told you, the steak here is amazing.”

  “I don’t want a steak.”

  Mateo raises his hands. He’s trying to get our waiter’s attention, almost as if he intends to start snapping.

  “If he’d just look over here …”

  “Seriously. I don’t want a steak.”

  Still waving. “It’s no big deal. I want you to eat something you enjoy.”

  “I’m not even hungry anymore.”

  “Then we can take it home.”

  “Please. No. Put your hand down.”

  “I know the owner. They can be quick.”

  “I don’t want steak, Mateo.”

  “Another pasta, then.”

  “It’s fine.”

&n
bsp; “It’s not fine, Elizabeth. I know you want—”

  “How are you so sure about what I want?”

  It came out too harsh. He stops waving his arm, and it lowers slowly. He’s watching me, clear that there’s more here than steak and pasta.

  Looking into his eyes, I realize: Yes, I’m going to do this. Not all the way, but just enough to put the lingering questions that have been bothering me to rest.

  “The deal for the mountain,” I say. “It’s finished, isn’t it?”

  “Why are you asking about that now?”

  “I’m just curious. We’ve gotten so wrapped up in our own stuff that I’ve lost track of the deal that started it all. But it’s done, right? You own the land?”

  His face squirms as he searches for subtext. It’s clear that I’m not asking what it sounds like. It looks like he can’t quite figure out where this is headed, or where the landmines might be lying.

  “I don’t own it quite yet.”

  I act fake-surprised. “Oh.I thought it was signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  “Not until the 18th.”

  “I see.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Like I said. Curious.”

  He’s squinting, trying to figure me out. I’ve been off all evening. This thing is a splinter, and damn Blake for putting it there. She didn’t make me want to ask Mateo for charity or a favor but she made me consider something I hadn’t: that we could have talked through one final possibility and rendered it useless. But he never so much as raised it.

  “What is this, Elizabeth? Your mind is a steel trap. You remember the day of the week you first tried beef jerky. You know it’s the 18th.”

  “So, two more weeks. Two more weeks until you actually own it.”

  My tone is unfair, and I hate it.

  “Officially, yes,” he says.

  “Hmm.”

  There’s a long silence at our table. The waiter comes toward us, then turns around and walks the other way.

  “What? Jesus!”

  “Could you kill the deal, Mateo? Could you call it off if you wanted to?”

  His mouth opens, surprised. His eyebrows bunch. “No. We have a contract.”

  “There must be an inspection contingency.”

  “Are you asking me to call it off?”