The food was exquisite. Afterwards, Paul and Patrick took Bridget on a tour of the kitchen.
“It’s beautiful!” Bridget gasped, truly amazed at just how pretty the space was. She was expecting something much more industrial and Spartan. “Does your kitchen look like this, Paul?”
“You’ve never let her into your kitchen?” Patrick interrupted, with a laugh. “Or are you saving yourself for marriage?”
“Ha, ha,” Paul said, rolling his eyes.
They didn’t stay too late, begging off of sharing a bottle of wine with the chef after service. Paul claimed that they had to pick up his son- and Bridget didn’t try to correct the lie. She was anxious to get back to the hotel and try out the sumptuous sheets uninterrupted by Tad!
They slept in late the next morning, then ate Belgian waffles in bed before heading back to Centreville to collect their child and drop off the car. Bridget felt a little guilty for not arriving earlier. She knew that Stephanie needed more and more help these days- and Tom (an old man by anyone’s standards!) looked exhausted from trying to take care of his wife and his grandson both.
Paul was anxious to set off immediately, but Bridget coaxed him to stay until two hours before his flight. She was worried about his mother-and certain that he’d regret it later if he didn’t stay. After all, he hadn’t made it home in two years; who knew when he’d manage to get back again? Finally, around four o’clock, they left for the airport and touched down in New York a bit after seven.
Paul took out his cell phone to check the traffic report downtown (he didn’t trust the cabbies not to take the longest way!)- and that was when Bridget noticed something odd.
She hadn’t seen Paul on his cell phone all weekend- not to check with his sous, not to call a supplier, not to yell at the partners, not at all!
She started to ask him about it, but some sixth sense warned her to hold her tongue. She contented herself with snuggling next to him in the cab, while Tad curled up in her lap.
They were all nodding and yawning by the time that the cab dropped them off at Central Park West. Paul carried his son upstairs, where Bridget changed the sleeping child into his pajamas and tucked him into bed.
“Hungry?” Paul asked.
Bridget surprised herself by shaking her head. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. Amazingly, she hadn’t thought of food all afternoon. She wondered about it for a moment, and then realized something shocking. Being around Tad and Paul, playing happy family, had been like a dream. She didn’t want to stop reveling in it long enough to snack. Her stomach might be empty- but her heart was full.
Chapter 15
Back to the salt mines…
Paul slammed his hand down on the button to silence his alarm before it could wake up Bridget and then he slowly peeled himself out of bed.
He didn’t want to go to work. He’d been dreading this moment for days now, but there was only so long that he could let himself slack off.
While he might be sick to death with the restaurant itself, he was itching to run a service. He could always lose himself in the frantic bustle of the kitchen- even if he had to deal with the sous chef.
He figured that he ought to check on the seafood orders first. It was a Monday. Most fishmongers wouldn’t deliver until Tuesday, but his assistant was crap at ordering. He wouldn’t have enough left over to plate tonight. Besides, since Anthony Bourdain and his Kitchen Confidential the townies were suspicious of fish on Monday. He had to be able to say it had been brought in fresh.
Paul was annoyed when the other man didn’t answer. He let the phone ring fourteen times!
“Lazy jerk…” Paul muttered as he tugged on his clothes. He grabbed an apple and granola bar from the kitchen and then set off for his day, punching another number into the phone.
“Mitch?” he barked, when he finally got in touch with his saucier.
The tone of the other man’s voice was odd when he answered, “Chef?”
“Yeah…sorry to bother you at this time of day…listen, I can’t get through to Perry. Do you know if he’s been to Fulton today?”
“Uhm…yeah,” the other man answered, “I’m sure he has- the butcher too.”
“Really?” Paul was impressed. Maybe he should have gone away sooner. The other man was finally doing his job.
“Pretty sure,” Mitch answered, “Er…where were you last week?”
“Getting laid,” Paul answered bluntly- surprised when Mitch didn’t laugh.
“Was it worth it?”
“Er…yes?” Paul responded, getting nervous- and wondering what the hell was up.
Mitch obviously didn’t want to be on the phone, so Paul finally let him go. He was halfway across the park. It was only another five minutes before he made it to the restaurant. He frowned at the front door. The glass hadn’t been cleaned, and the slats of the blinds in the window were turned opposite ways. He liked them slanting down- but the second set over was pointing up.
“…if you want something done right…” he muttered his breath as he fished out his key.
He slotted it into the lock and turned.
At least- he tried to turn the key, but it wouldn’t budge.
“What the hell?” Paul growled. He pulled it out again, checking to see that he had the right one, and more confused than ever to learn that he did.
The locks had been changed. Why? Why hadn’t anyone informed him about the alteration?
Paul winced, feeling a slight, very slight, pang of guilt. The answer to the latter question was pretty obvious. He had made it nigh impossible for anyone to get hold of him for the past week, but that didn’t explain what was going on with the lock. God, he really hoped that there hadn’t been a break in. That was all he needed to start off his first day back!
He banged on the door, hoping, rather than trusting, that some of kitchen staff would already be in prepping for service. It took a little while and a bit more hammering on the door, but one of the young kitchen hands appeared eventually to let Paul inside the restaurant.
Before he could get around to demanding answers about the locks (or even complain about how long he had been made to wait outside), the young cook blurted:
“Chef Devoe! What are you doing here?”
Paul frowned. It was becoming increasingly difficult to shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
“What do you mean, Hopkins?” he demanded. He had only been gone a week. All right, so it was the first week he had ever taken off, but people were acting as though they had never expected to see him again.
“I- ugh- I think you’d better go through to the kitchen, chef,” Hopkins stammered nervously.
Paul glared at the kid one last time, and then he did take himself off to the kitchen, to find out just what the hell was going on in his restaurant!
The second that Paul stepped into the kitchen he could feel that something was off. Little things had been moved, changed, altered… looking around at the staff, there were a couple of faces that he didn’t recognize, and the ones that he did recognize paled when they saw him.
“Okay.” Paul stopped beside one of the ovens. He took a deep breath, attempting to hold on to the majority of his temper. “So is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on here?”
Silence. Not even the sound of someone chopping garnish broke the painful quiet. At least not until the door behind Paul opened. He turned to see who had dared interrupt him while he was holding court in his kitchen, and a slow sickening sense of dread crept over him when Paul realized that he knew the man who had just entered, knew him, but hated him.
Shelton Barkley. He was head chef of the Ivy in L.A. At least Paul hoped that that was still his job. He didn’t want to even entertain the conclusion that he was reaching from all the oddities that he had encountered so far this morning.
“Mr. Devoe, can I help you?” Shelton asked, as he smiled an oily smile.
“Yes. You can tell me what you’re doing in my kitchen!”
“Your kitchen, Devoe?” Shelton laughed. “I think you mean my kitchen. Didn’t you get the memo?” he grinned. “You’ve been fired.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, but even when they did, Paul couldn’t believe them.
Fired?
He kept his head facing forward, but turned his eyes toward the sous chef he had so despised and the legions of chefs de parties and commis who were avoiding his eyes.
He reminded himself to breathe, and licked his lips, then opened his mouth, expecting a stream of sarcastic, eviscerating profanity to come pouring out- but there was nothing, only a horrible, hollow silence that seemed to grow with each passing second.
At first it was the shock that held him tongue-tied, but that subsided after a moment- leaving humiliation in its wake. Barkley and the sous looked as if they were enjoying the interlude, but everyone else looked stricken.
They’re all feeling sorry for me…Paul thought, mortified by the way that the tables had turned. One week ago, he could have had any one of these men in tears. Now, they were feeling embarrassed for him.
“I think you remember the way out,” the chef snarled in an oily tone, breaking the tense stillness.
Paul took another breath. He reached again for something cutting to say, but words refused to come. He decided to gather what little dignity he could and storm toward the door, glaring at anyone who looked as if they might come close to getting in his way.
He stormed through the empty dining room, and didn’t slacken his pace when he stepped back onto the street. He pushed angrily past the tourists loitering on the sidewalk and didn’t pay any attention when he stepped out into traffic. A taxi nearly clipped him as it whizzed past, horn blaring. Paul swore back at it- and then continued across the street, moving aimlessly, nearly running as he tried to work off the horrible rage that was building in his chest.
How dare they? Paul thought as his partners jumped into his mind. Sniveling little cowards…They hadn’t been man enough to tell him what they were doing to his face- and Barkley! Paul wished that he had given into his instinct and punched the smug bastard in the face. He deserved it. They all deserved it. Pathetic losers…His name was the only thing keeping the restaurant in business anyhow! They wouldn’t last five months with Barkley! Backstabbing asshole…
Paul muttered under his breath as he continued to walk, fuming at his mistreatment, finally realizing all of the things that he wished he had thought of to say.
He didn’t look up for at least fifteen minutes- and was surprised to find that he had wandered fairly far uptown.
He didn’t feel like catching a cab, and so he turned around and headed back- but the distance eventually began taking a toll. He was still angry, furious in fact, but other emotions were starting to surface. He was embarrassed, of course. Obviously this was what Patrick had been talking about down in D.C. He wondered if every chef on the East Coast knew about the change before he did. More than that, he was afraid. He was unemployed for the first time since he’d graduated culinary school. He had some money trickling in from his cookbook and television appearances, but that wouldn’t pay his mortgage for long. He was going to have to find something new fast- but who would want to hire him? He poured over a list of names in his mind, finding a flaw with each, until he looked up and realized that he was back at home.
“Morning, Mr. Devoe,” the doorman said, giving him a quizzical look. The black frown that Paul returned quickly banished it from his face.
Paul didn’t linger to glare at the doorman. He jumped onto the elevator, anxious for the security of his own apartment. He wanted to hole up for a little while and lick his wounds. He’d think of his next step later. He wasn’t willing to deal with it right now.
He whispered a tiny prayer of thanks that he didn’t encounter anyone else on the ride up. He slotted his key into the lock, rushed inside- and then crumpled at the sight which met his eyes.
Bridget and Tad were home. Until that moment, he hadn’t given a thought to his son and the nanny. They were both in the living room, dancing around and laughing along with a show on the television. He tried to sneak past them- but couldn’t escape Tad’s notice when the little boy spun around.
“DADDY!” he exclaimed, launching himself forward, scampering up Paul’s body, even though he didn’t grab hold.
Paul firmly put him back on the ground.
“Paul?” Bridget tilted her head in confusion. “You’re home…early?” she flashed a tentative smile, but it died in the face of Paul’s stony expression.
“I’m home,” he said simply, hoping to leave it at that.
“But…don’t you have to go into work today?”
“I don’t have to go into work today,” Paul admitted, shoving his hands into his pocket, trying to fight the horrible bubble of fury that he could feel welling up in his chest, but helpless against its power, “And I don’t have to go in to work tomorrow or the next day, or…!”
“I…I don’t understand,” Bridget said in a small, frightened whisper.
“Well, I’m not sleeping with you for your brains,” Paul responded acidly, lashing out without thinking.
Bridget flinched.
“Paul-?”
“I’m fired,” he spat and then added meanly. “And guess what, sweetheart? You are too!”
Bridget could only stare dumbstruck at the man that she had believed she knew so well. She had seen Paul angry before, furious in fact, but he had never been so vicious. His words lashed her in the cruelest ways, but she fought desperately to hold herself together. She couldn’t let him see how much he had hurt her; that would mean giving him too much power over her.
Bridget struggled for something to snap back at him, but her struggles were in vain. She couldn’t overcome the pain that Paul had inflicted upon her before he walked away. She stared after him, embarrassed and pained, and reeling from his attack.
He had fired her? Was he serious? Bridget had to soothe herself with the theory that it was just the anger talking. Paul couldn’t get rid of her! He couldn’t take Tad away from her! Bridget thought she might die without the little boy to brighten her life. As for what Paul had said about her- about them- she tried to block it from her mind, concentrating on Tad as a form of self-defense.
Still, she should have known that getting involved with Paul would only lead to heartache. She had been available and humiliatingly willing. Those were the only reasons she had found herself in her boss’s bed.
Bridget bit down on her knuckles in an effort to hold back a sob. It wasn’t fair! Why could life never give her a break?
“Nanny?”
Tad’s quiet voice penetrated Bridget’s own private hell. The little boy slipped his hand inside hers and gave an urgent tug.
“Nanny, what does ‘fired’ mean? Does it mean you have to go away?” he asked, sounding panicked. “You can’t go away, Nanny! You have to stay with Daddy and me forever!”
Bridget swallowed hard, struggling to keep the tears at bay. A day ago- an hour ago- she would have agreed with Tad that she wanted nothing more than all three of them to be a real family, but she no longer knew where Paul featured in such a desire. More upsetting, possibly, she no longer knew how she fit into Tad’s life!
“I think- I think your daddy was just cross and saying things that he didn’t mean,” Bridget said slowly, because maybe saying the words aloud would make them true.
“So he won’t make you go away?” Tad sniffed.
“Well, certainly not right this second,” Bridget managed with a little smile.
Smiling made her feel sick, but she didn’t want to terrify Tad. Paul might have meant what he said about getting rid of her, but she didn’t believe that he would toss her out onto the street right this second. She wouldn’t let him if he tried it! Tad needed her and Paul was obviously in no fit state to look after the child on his own! She would work without pay if that was what it took to make sure Tad had someone to take proper care of him. Besides, the more ti
me she focused on Tad, the less time she focused on her broken heart.
Bridget turned down the TV and tried to get Tad to listen to a book. She thought that any excess noise might make Paul’s temper worse, and she hadn’t yet decided if that was a disaster that she wanted to court or avoid.
She was still stinging from her lover- former lover’s- cruel words, but was comforted a little by Tad. He was so warm and snuggly, so real as he sat on her lap, one chubby hand in his mouth while the other pointed at the pictures in the story that she was reading, before he asked if they could play outside.
“Perhaps in a bit,” Bridget answered, “It looks like rain.”
It didn’t, really. The sky was hazy and overcast, but nothing beyond the ordinary for an October day. The truth- which she wouldn’t dare admit to herself- was that she was giving Paul a chance to make things right. She could hear him moving around in his bedroom, talking on the phone. Any minute she expected him to hang up and come inside.
…any minute.
“Nanny, I’m hungry!” Tad whined.
Bridget blinked, surprised to find that nearly twenty minutes had passed. Tad was sitting on the floor, pushing one of his trucks across the carpet, looking bored.
She heard the handle of Paul’s bedroom door twist open.
“In a minute,” she puffed, barely able to breathe. Her brain felt dizzy from anticipation and lack of oxygen as she heard Paul’s footsteps march down the hall- and right past them.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Tad called out, hopping off the floor and darting after his father before Bridget had a chance to stop him. “Will you make me a croak-mushyour sandwich?”
“NOT NOW!” Paul boomed, his voice so loud and cold that the little boy promptly burst into tears.
Paul’s jaw twitched, but he otherwise failed to react. He ignored the child completely and continued out the door.
Bridget’s mouth dropped open- and then a little of the hurt and shame that she’d been feeling galvanized into anger. Paul could say whatever he wanted to her. She’d find a way to survive- but it was inexcusable to treat Tad so cruelly, even if Paul had lost his job.
Hungry for More (2012) Page 13
