by Liz Crowe
She took a small bite, but couldn’t manage much, and watched Olivia’s reaction. “You don’t like it,” she said, pulling the plate away. “Tell me the truth.”
“It’s really good, but…something’s missing.”
Elle took a second bite but could barely taste it. She flopped back, the exhaustion wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket.
“Hang on.” Olivia touched her phone’s screen and put it to her ear. “Hi, good morning, Grammie. Listen, I’m wondering if you’d be willing to share your blueberry buckle recipe with me.” Elle watched as the other woman nodded, grimaced, rolled her eyes, played with a strand of her hair, then smiled widely. “Oh, that’s great, Grammie, thank you so much!” She hesitated. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. She’s right here. Hang on.” She held out the device.
Elle reached over the desk and took it, unsure what to expect. “Hello?”
“Hello there, how’re y’all this mornin’?”
“I’m…we…are fine, thank you.” She paused. “And you?”
“Well, I’m just right as rain, thank you kindly. I hear tell y’all need some help with the blueberry buckle?” Elle glanced at Olivia, who shrugged, and held up a piece of paper where she’d written It’s my grandmother down in Kentucky. She’s an amazing dessert maker. Sorry. But she’ll help, if you don’t mind listening to her.
Elle grinned and sat back, eager to learn, or just to talk about baking—her favorite form of cooking. A solid hour later, she had three pages full of notes, ideas and concepts. When she hung up, Elle found herself alone. Figuring Olivia had stepped out to deal with some issue or another, she stretched, relishing the pleasant soreness between her legs and trying to release some of the tension in her neck and upper back.
The job was a hell of a lot more than she’d bargained for—although to be fair, she had been warned by plenty of people familiar with its daily grind. The mornings were her favorite time here. The kitchen sparkling from the night’s cleaning, the tables bare, the chairs flipped over on top of them. The place still held a bit of mustiness from its many years sitting empty but they were overwhelming that with nearly three years’ worth of their own odors—drywall, paint, floor refinishing, which were all subsumed by the daily fact of food being prepared, served and eaten.
She and Ross had built this. It was theirs. And yet, now it was more ‘hers’ and a lot less ‘his’. She understood his need to get back to brewing and supported it but she missed his daily presence, supporting her, in ways she’d never thought she would.
She moved over to the secondhand couch, used by her and countless others for cat naps during down times, and closed her burning eyes, marveling at what a relief it was not to be looking at lists, recipes and spreadsheets.
Just for a minute. Just a quick rest.
She fell into a light sleep within seconds, dropping into an odd half dream-state, where she could still hear the prep staff talking, laughing, slamming things around. Music suffused her drifting brain, matching whatever had been dialed up on the streaming service behind her.
She felt Ross’ arms around her, cradling her, his lips at her ear, crooning to her in his country-boy German accent. As she relaxed in his embrace, he kissed her, sending a sharp spike of lust down her spine. Ross undressed her gently, stroking every inch of skin he exposed, following that with his lips, tongue and teeth. She shivered and reached for him, wanting more of him. Wanting all of him.
But now he was frowning at her, withdrawing. His mouth moved but she couldn’t hear his words. He was making that crazy-ass ultimatum again. They were fighting. Anger swirled around and between them, poisoning the pleasant eroticism of the moment before. It wasn’t as if they’d never fought. It was more like these arguments held an edge of real frustration as opposed to brief or imagined aggravation. She hated it. She hated herself for being so short, so tired all the time, so obsessed, as he liked to put it, by the damn restaurant.
“But it was your god damned idea, Hoffman,” she reminded him in her dream. “What do you think? I’d just open it and waltz away from the thing, letting it run itself?”
“No,” he said, his voice low, tight with unhappiness. “That’s not what I think.”
“Then what do you suggest? I mean, I’m sorry if you’re feeling neglected. But I can’t take my eyes off this. I can’t. You understood, once upon a time, but all of a sudden you’re being a total child about it.”
Ross reached for her, tugged her close, their naked skin warm as they wrapped themselves around each other and fell into their bed.
“I want to get married, Elisa,” he demanded when she straddled his hips and eased herself down his long, thick shaft with a sigh. “I want that one simple thing. Why won’t you give that to me?”
His deep blue eyes were wide, his breathing shallow. She rolled her hips in silence, giving them the friction they both sought.
“God damn it.” He yanked her down.
The ropey strands of her dreadlocks curtained them when he jammed his tongue into her mouth, before rolling them so he was on top, the way he preferred to come, buried deep inside her.
She reached back and grasped the headboard, lifting her lower body up, wanting him deeper, groaning as she came in a glorious burst of energy at the same moment she felt him join her, releasing into her with a hoarse cry of pleasure. This was her man, her Ross, her life. It was all she wanted, nothing more. She opened her eyes and pressed her hand to the tight red curls of his beard.
“I love you,” she said in a whisper.
He frowned. “Then marry me. Today. Tomorrow. This weekend. I’m sick of waiting.”
She opened her mouth to say “yes, anything you want. Just please never leave me.”
Someone was shaking her shoulder, yanking her out of the half-dream, half-memory. She hadn’t been able to say “yes” that night, either. She’d been so overwhelmed at the thought of planning a wedding she’d started crying, so he’d held her until they’d both fallen asleep, still skin-to-skin, sweaty and sticky. The next morning they’d had their first massive, ugly fight. And that had been, what, a month ago now? It felt like a million years, but also just yesterday.
She’d reeled from it, horrified at the things she’d said to him, furious at the things he’d flung back at her in return, unable to focus the entire day, recalling how he’d punched a hole in their wall like some kind of child. And after that same night’s awful scene with Liesl after dinner, she’d been ready to say anything to make him happy. Anything to avoid the creeping tension and nastiness between them.
But as she’d undressed quietly, watching as he’d stood with his face raised to the hot water, the tingle of anger at him had begun zinging around her brain. He was feeling left out, she understood that. But he had his own shit. And he’d just spent an outrageous amount of money on that silly, over-built pilot system to spite her. It had been his choice to step away from the day-to-day running of Komfort and she’d been fine with it, for the most part. But he had been the one to draw away from their dream business, for reasons he’d never iterated to her, “leaving you to it,” as he’d flippantly remarked on his way out of the door to his next brewing consultation.
This was his fucking fault.
She’d frowned and had been about to leave the room and ignore him some more when he’d turned off the water and stood in front of her, water rolling down his muscled arms, shoulders and torso. Her heart had seemed to jump into her throat as she’d stared, tongue-tied and useless until he’d shouldered past her to grab a towel. The night had ended pleasantly—no, that wasn’t a good enough word for the way Ross always made her feel. But the distance that had taken hold between them widened, even as they’d made love on a night she should have made him wear a condom.
“Elle! Wake up!” The hand that had been shaking her released her shoulder as she sat, yawning and rubbing her face. “Holy crap, woman, do you have a clean shirt around here somewhere?”
“A clean…what?” She stared
down at her chef jacket, with its smear of blueberries and splash of coffee. Confused, she blinked up at Olivia, who was bouncing on the soles of her feet in excitement. “I took a delivery of them at six this morning, why?”
“Did we ever get some with your name on them?”
“No, why? What is wrong with you?” She stood, still trying to shake the Dream Ross and the Just-Last-Night Ross out of her foggy brain while Olivia pursed her lips and kept looking down at her phone. “I’ve got to get going. There’s—”
Olivia grabbed her arm and held in her place. “Okay, Elle, I need you to listen closely and carefully and then help me put this place together in, oh, about twenty minutes.”
“Together? What? It’s only seven-thirty a.m. Speak sense, please.”
Olivia stared at her then smiled. “Remember I told you I submitted us to that show on the Food Network? The one where they pop in unannounced and feature you—or flame you, depending on their experience?”
“Um…” Elle scratched her nose, still fuzzy from the partial nap. “Yes. I think. I remember you made me watch it once. I thought it was asinine. A way for Bill Anderson to pretend he’s relevant.” She waved her hand, ignoring the tiny tickle of anxiety blooming in the center of her chest. “He’s a washed-up nobody. Never was a serious chef. Just in it for the limelight.” Not unlike her former tormenter. Which was why she’d had such a viscerally negative reaction to the man when she’d watched about ten minutes of his stupid TV show.
“Well, you’d better figure out a way to be nice to him, fast.” Olivia had the phone to her ear and was barking orders at someone, telling them to get their asses in to the restaurant, now, and bring friends who’d be willing to stand in for real customers in exchange for a free meal.
Elle watched her as her mind slowly wrapped itself around what was happening. She put a hand to her neck—her reflex when she was stressed or about to do something she didn’t want to do. Even though the long-ago inked collar on her skin was only that—ink—it always felt hot to her fingertips. It grounded her and reminded her that no matter how god-awful the next few hours might be as they attempted to fake-open and cook not-fake food for Bill and his traveling band of washed-up assholes, nothing was as bad as what she had actually lived through.
“Why…? I mean…” She sat when her legs threatened to give out beneath her.
“The place they were going—they wouldn’t tell me where—made itself ineligible when the crew showed up at six-thirty and spotted a rat running out the back door, or something like that. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Holy Jesus on the cross, Elle, this is it! This is going to make us!”
“But…you told me he ruins as many places as he—”
Olivia waved a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Go on. Change your shirt and decide what we’re serving Bill and his crew. Last time I saw it, he was making fun of fake homespun Italian so maybe the reverse lasagna? That’ll blow his tiny little mind.”
“Yes,” Elle said as she stood in the doorway between Olivia’s office and her kitchen. “All right, everyone, I need your attention. We have to make some meals while Olivia gets the front of the house set up.”
“What?”
“Why?”
“It’s only seven-thirty in the dang morning.”
“I’m only a prep cook, I don’t know how to…”
The excuses and other nonsense rolled around in the air. Elle set her jaw and took a quick mental inventory of the larder, the fridge and the staff she had on hand. All thoughts and worries about Ross flew from her mind as she began barking orders and her staff, to their credit, stopped whining and got to work.
“Oh shit, Elle, I’m here. What can I do?” Gina, her sous chef, ran in from the back, her damp hair yanked up in a ponytail, her large, dark-skinned face sweaty from her bike ride.
Elle pointed to the area where she’d put the prep staff to work assembling the reverse lasagna, using her printed instructions.
“You got it, boss.” Gina stuck her arms into a clean chef jacket then grabbed Elle and pressed her to her warm, ample body. “This is gonna be it, lady. I can feel it now!”
Elle nodded but had to put a hand on the stainless counter for a few seconds to catch her breath and think about her next move—what else? From which culture they’d been featuring? They changed it out every six to keep things fresh and interesting, always keeping her German schnitzel that she had pounded near paper-thin before breading and serving with a mix of wilted greens. They’d kept the American menu too, adding Southern-style barbeque for the coming summer months to the Mama Never Made It Like This Meatloaf and The Best Damn Mac ‘n’ Cheese Ever menu standards.
Holy shit. What else could she make?
She gnawed her lip a few minutes, then decided to go for broke. Two plates of reverse lasagna—it was called Inside Out Lasagna on the menu but ‘reverse’ was a better term for it. Two plates of the melt-in-your-mouth schnitzel with wilted greens. Two plates of the meatloaf with sides of smashed potatoes swimming in garlic and crispy roasted Brussels sprouts. And for the vegetarians—a nice, rich paella made with the freshest in-season veggies. Loaves of their herb-infused bread could be managed too, since she’d already put a dozen of them in the oven this morning.
She glanced around the room as more of the regular kitchen staff raced in, all breathless, all excited, all hugging her before they got down to the business of having their restaurant featured on national television. Dessert was going to present a problem. She’d meant to make some more sherbet but wasn’t sure she could spare the time or employee power. She’d spent too much time on that huge pan of blueberry mess. Her eyes burned but her brain remained laser focused as she jumped into the fray and started slicing the day’s freshly delivered vegetables alongside a large, quiet African American woman—one of her newest hires. The woman glanced at her then averted her gaze.
“Pretty exciting stuff,” Elle said as her knife flew across the bright orange carrots.
“Yeah,” the woman said, giving her a shy smile. “I hope they like it. I sure don’t want to embarrass you on that TV show.”
Elle noted that the woman chopped almost as fast as she could so she handed the whole thing over to her.
“No matter what that windbag narcissist Bill Anderson thinks of me or of Komfort, you will never be an embarrassment. Don’t ever think that.” She patted the woman’s arm. “You handle this, okay? Here’s the recipe.” She pulled it up on the computer tablet screen and propped it on the counter.
The woman’s eyes widened. “No, ma’am. I’m just the morning prep. I don’t think I’m…”
“Nonsense. I can tell you’ve done this before.” She pointed to the woman’s expert use of the knife that she’d not stopped even during their brief exchange.
Gina caught her eye from across the kitchen. Elle raised an eyebrow by way of a question. Gina nodded and pointed at the woman, who’d already made short work of the carrots, celery and broccoli and was now breaking off the tender ends of the asparagus spears with the sort of efficiency of movement that belied any of her protests about ‘only being a prep cook’.
“Okay, that’s in good hands. Now, the meatloaf…” She rubbed her hands together and sensed her spirits lifting. She adored this kind of a challenge. And this day had just presented itself as one of the biggest in her career.
She was elbow deep in the meatloaf mixture before she realized what was missing. “Hey, Olivia, will you do me a favor and let Ross know what’s going on?” Olivia waved at her from the service line where she was drinking a big glass of water. “Tell him I need him here.”
“You got it,” Olivia said as she pulled her phone from her pocket.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” a voice called from behind her, prompting a room full of chuckles. “Get your handsome Viking in here, boss lady. He’ll make all this go faster.”
Elle rolled her eyes. Ross was a favorite of her kitchen staff, always quick with his compliments, jokes and ove
r-the-top flirtation. She’d told him to watch it— somebody might be offended and report him for sexual harassment. ‘Please, Elisa, if anyone needs to report harassment it’s me, your poor, handsome and innocent fiancé. Those ladies would chew me up and spit me back out whole just for the pleasure of doing it again.’
He was right, but she did love how he took it all in stride, encouraging the women to joke with him, to try new recipes, to make Komfort’s kitchen the best place in Detroit to get a great meal. Her Ross—her Viking hero. A wave of remorse washed through her as she strong-armed the meatloaf, using her fingers to mix it. She had to close her eyes as a wave of dizziness hit her hard.
“Holy shit, Becca, catch her before she pulls that meatloaf down on the floor with her.”
Someone grabbed her arm but she opened her eyes and nodded. “I’m fine. Sorry. Just…tired.”
“Like hell you are. Now I’m really jealous.”
“What? Why? Pass me those loaf pans. Oh, shit, Gina, cornbread. Do we have time to make yours?”
Becca, one of her first hires from the prison, gave her a close look when she passed the loaf pans down the counter and held the bowl while Elle ladled helpings into each. The dizziness hit her again, making her sway on her feet. She set the bowl down so she could grip the counter’s edge for balance.
“Oooo-eee, I wish I had me a Ross bun in my oven,” someone called from the recesses of the kitchen.
“Girl, that man looks at me and bam! I’m pregnant, I’ll swear it.”
“Y’all shut your stupid mouths,” Becca barked.
The room fell silent, all eyes on Elle.
Becca put a warm hand on her arm. “You okay, hon? Need to sit? Some water? A bucket to puke into?”
Elle shook her head. “No time for any of that now.” She met every set of eyes in the room one by one, hoping she appeared to be a hell of a lot more confident than she felt. “We have some blowhards to impress with our down-home German, Italian and American cuisine.” She smiled but it felt forced and fake. She shoved the meatloaf pans into the oven then glanced around the room again. It was still silent, everyone bent to their work. She leaned toward Becca’s ear, impressed by its many creative piercings, since she herself had half a dozen in one ear and four in the other. “I’m going to check out front and get some air. Do me a favor and tell them not to say anything to Ross about this. I’ll…I’ll break it to him when I’m ready.”
