Romance Impossible

by Melanie Marchande

  Time started to slip by, quicker and quicker, and before I knew it, we were comfortably in the pre-dinner lull. Just then, my phone started to ring.

  "Lydia? What's going on?"

  "Well," she said, "first of all, take a deep breath, everything's fine. I finally got through. He's got a little bit of a fever, I think, but nothing too serious. He ended up sleeping most of the day without even realizing it, and I managed to convince him that he absolutely is not allowed to come in to work. You're doing just fine without him. Am I right?"

  "Of course," I said, feeling hours of tension melt out of my body. "You're sure he's okay?"

  "He's coherent, he's not hallucinating, and he's keeping down fluids. I don't think there's anything to be seriously concerned about. He managed to take his temperature, and it's back down to normal, but he's still got the shakes and feels like he got run over with a truck. Knowing him, he'll wake up absolutely fine tomorrow."

  I sucked in a breath through my teeth. It was pretty funny to imagine the great Maxwell Dylan down for the count thanks to a mere virus, but at the same time, I hated the thought of him being sick and alone, and no doubt worried about how the restaurant was faring without him.

  Lydia had been delayed more than she expected getting into town, but surely someone could go make sure he was still alive.

  "Can Beckett check on him before he comes in?"

  I could almost hear Lydia's shrug. "Apparently when he called, Chef absolutely forbade him to come over. Said it was more important for him to get to work. I don't think his brother wanted to argue it."

  Right on cue, Beckett came through the door. I gave him a thumbs-up to indicate everything was going okay on my end, then turned my attention back to Lydia.

  "Well, okay. If you talk to him again, just let him know we're doing great, and we all hope that he feels better soon."

  "Will do. Thanks for taking care of this, Jillian. It means a lot to him, having someone around he can trust."

  Out of everything that went on between Max and me, "trust" wasn't really the first word that came to mind. But Lydia probably knew him as well as anyone did, so she must be on to something.

  "Just doing my job," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.

  Beckett was surveying the kitchen when I hung up.

  "Like a Swiss watch," he said, nodding approvingly. "I knew Max was onto something with you."

  I was getting more complements from people on Max's behalf than he'd ever given me to my face. Trying hard not to blush, I went back to my station.

  "I do my best," I said, starting on the first ticket that came through. "Did he really tell you not to come over?"

  Beckett rolled his eyes. "Threatened me with violence, actually. I'm sure I could take him, in his current state - but you have to pick your battles."

  Didn't I know.

  Still, as the night wore on, I couldn't stop thinking about him. Someone should stop by, just to make sure he was all right. I kept thinking of all the stories you hear about someone who felt "under the weather" and ended up dead the next morning, from some mutant form of pneumonia or a brain aneurism or...

  He was fine. Of course he was fine. Suffering a little, but he was fine.

  But would I ever forgive myself if no one checked up on him, and it turned out that he wasn't?

  So Beckett was a lost cause. Understandable, but even with everything that had gone on between me and Max, we didn't have nearly the amount of baggage he must have with his siblings. If I showed up at his door, he'd almost certainly forgive me.

  Right?

  I let my mind run through the possible scenarios as I worked. He might be angry, he might be grateful, or he might be too out of it to care - whatever it was, I'd feel much better about the whole situation if I saw him with my own eyes.

  There was just one tiny obstacle, but I knew how to solve that.

  Or, at least I thought I did.

  Though I didn't know the address of Max's place in Boston off the top of my head, I knew it was written all over some of the paperwork in his office. There was only one problem - when I tried the door, it was locked. I immediately felt stupid. Obviously, he wouldn't just leave his office open for anyone to wander into whenever he was gone.

  Asking Beckett for his address directly was out of the question. He'd want to know why, he'd probably advise me not to go, and more than that, I had a feeling he was starting to clue into the...emotional developments between me and Max. I felt embarrassed just thinking about the way he'd look at me when I confessed I was worried about his brother.

  Thankfully, there was another option. And all it involved was a little white lie.

  "Beckett," I said, as we passed each other in the back hallway at quitting time, "you don't happen to have a key to the office, do you?"

  "I do," he said, reaching into his pocket without hesitation. "Everything okay?"

  "Oh, yeah, yeah," I said, in the most casual tone I could manage. "But I really need to update my W-2 before he sends them back on Monday, and I'm not working then. If I don't do it now, I'm definitely gonna forget."

  It didn't make any damn sense, but I was banking on the fact that Beckett wouldn't question it, so long as I sounded sincere.

  "Sure," he said, sliding the key into the handle. "I don't know where he keeps anything, though."

  "Don't worry, I've got it," I said. "You can go home if you want. I'll lock up behind me."

  "All right," he said. "Cheers."

  Beckett left me alone in the office. The hardest part was over.

  It only took me a few minutes to find a form that referenced his local address. I punched it into my phone, and found it was just a few T stops away.

  On my way to catch the subway, I stopped at the CVS and grabbed an assortment of juice, tissues, cough drops and aspirin. I figured it was likely he didn't even have basic things around, judging how little time he seemed to spend at home. He probably wasn't even completely unpacked yet.

  I didn't really start to question myself until I was standing in front of his door.

  Too late to turn back now.

  I pressed the buzzer.

  It was chilly outside, and I started to shiver as I stood on the front porch. The buzzer was loud enough for me to hear, and probably some of his neighbors, too. It was late. Hopefully they wouldn't hate me.

  Against my better judgment, I buzzed again.

  The cold had officially seeped through my coat, and I was seriously thinking about just hanging the CVS bag on his doorknob, when I suddenly heard it rattle.

  My heart jumped into my throat as the door slowly opened.

  He looked like hell.

  Pale as a ghost, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair sticking up in all directions...I wondered if it had actually taken him this entire time to shuffle to the door.

  "I brought you some things," I said, shoving the bag towards him. "I just...Lydia said nobody had checked on you, so I wanted to make sure you were okay."

  He looked at me with dull eyes.

  "I've been better," he half-whispered.

  Sense of humor intact. Well, that was a good sign.

  He wasn't taking the bag, though, and the cold air was seeping into his apartment, which couldn't be good for him. I stepped inside and shut the door behind me, which didn't seem to faze him at all.

  "Really," he said, still standing in the same spot, but swaying a little. "I'm...I'm fine."

  "Go get back in bed," I said. "I'll just, uh...I'll just leave this stuff somewhere."

  "Can't," he said, his voice growing a little fainter with each word. "Sheets are...too sweaty."

  I couldn't hold back a snort of laughter at that.

  "Okay," I said. "So lie down on the..." I scanned the dimly lit room, looking for a sofa, or an armchair, or...anything...

  "Uh," I said, "okay, new plan. Just...sit down on something for a minute, okay?"

  He wandered over to the wall, leaned up against it, and then slowly sank d
own to the floor. None of it seemed deliberate, but it worked out all right.

  It was a small place, so finding the bedroom was a simple enough task. He wasn't kidding about the sheets. I remembered the last time I'd woken up with a fever in a pool of my own sweat, and felt a stab of sympathy for the guy who was currently curled up on his own bare living room floor, amongst a lot of open cardboard boxes.

  I stripped the sheets carefully, tossing them in a pile on the floor temporarily while I searched for replacements. By the time I'd found the linen box and re-made the bed, carrying the lump of old sheets under my arm back into the living room, Max was asleep on the floor.

  Please let there be in-unit laundry.

  I peeked into the small room off the entryway hall - score. It was a tiny washer and dryer, but it was enough.

  After I started a load with the sheets, I went over to Max and shook him on the shoulder, gently.

  "Come on," I whispered. "The bed's ready. You can't sleep here all night."

  He groaned, but with me urging him up by the arm, he was able to pull himself upright and stagger into the bedroom. He collapsed on the bed, seemingly without looking - it was a miracle he hit it - and I covered him with the blanket before making him drink a little of the juice.

  "Have you taken anything recently?" I asked him.

  He shook his head.

  "Want an aspirin?"

  He nodded."

  I helped him prop his head up a little to swallow the pill. By the time I let him back down, I was pretty sure he was already asleep.

  "Goodnight," I whispered. "Feel better."

  As I closed the door, I heard him murmur something, but it didn't sound like actual words. Most likely a dream, I thought.

  He wouldn't even remember this.

  ***

  The next morning, on my day off, I got a phone call from the restaurant. I'd half-expected this, so I didn't let myself get too disappointed. It wasn't like I had any plans.

  "Jill." It was Max himself, sounding a little hoarse. "Can you come in today?"

  "Absolutely," I said. "Feeling a little better?"

  "A little," he said. "But I can't be around the food if I'm contagious. I'm quarantined in my office. I need someone to run the kitchen."

  "Be there in a bit."

  I hurried to catch the next train, and jumped into work as soon as I arrived, not bothering to stop into the office and see if he even remembered my visit. Lunch service had to get off the ground.

  In the first lull, I went to the back hallway and tapped on his door.

  "Come in," he called out. "But keep your distance."

  "Don't worry," I said, opening the door. "I'll sanitize myself before I go back into the kitchen."

  He smiled. He was still looking a little ghostly, but certainly not like last night. I sat down in a chair in the corner, honoring his wishes to stay as far away from him as possible.

  "Why are you even here?" I wondered aloud, as he huddled deeper inside the fleece he was wearing.

  He shrugged. "Better than not being here," he said. "At least, I feel better being here."

  "Well, okay," I said. "But if you need to go home, it's fine."

  "I know," he said. "Thank you for handling everything yesterday."

  "Of course," I said, unsure if he was just talking about the restaurant.

  We were both quiet for a few minutes.

  "I suppose this is the downside of the culinary business," he said, glancing longingly towards the door. "Garbage collectors don't have to worry about spreading germs."

  I laughed. "I think there are a few other downsides," I said. "But maybe not if you're a workaholic."

  "And none of them were enough to stop me," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Is 'stubbornness' a positive personality trait, do you think?"

  "It is if you call it 'determination,'" I pointed out. "Did you always want to be a chef?"

  He nodded. "Long as I can remember. Everybody I grew up with wanted to be a firefighter or a cop, and then there was me."

  "Anybody ever make fun of you for it?"

  "A bit," he admitted, smiling. "But you learn to ignore it."

  He was putting a brave face on it now, but I wondered how much it had bothered him at the time.

  "I suppose I was meant to feel intimidated that it's 'women's work,'" he went on. "But my mother commanded her kitchen like a four-star general. I'd love to see anyone try to tell her that handling knives and open flames is a position of weakness." He was grinning, but I could see the hint of sadness in his eyes. He still missed her. Of course he did. Both his parents had passed away, his mother most recently - just a few years ago, if I recalled correctly.

  "She must've been very proud of you," I said, instantly hating how cliché it sounded. I'd never been good with grief.

  Max nodded, chuckling a little. "Yeah - not of the profanity, so much, or the yelling. But she always understood where it came from. We spoke the same language, in a lot of ways. She was even more passionate about food than I am. It was almost spiritual for her."

  "Not really so much for the 'spiritual' part, are you?" I was stifling a laugh. It was such a funny idea, Chef Dylan voluntarily admitting to a supreme being other than himself.

  "No," he said, looking more serious than I expected. "No, I was never blessed with the gift of being able to believe in the unseen. My mother prayed on her rosary every night, but she spent Sunday mornings in the kitchen. I think for her, it was a sort of replacement, when she lost faith in the church. But I never had that, so for me - it was different."

  There was a loud rapping at the door.

  "Jillian?" It was Liam. "Tickets."

  Well, that lull went by in a hurry.

  ***

  "You know," said Shelly around a mouthful of tortilla chips, "he's not going to stay here forever."

  We were at our favorite Mexican restaurant again, catching up. I'd been absorbed at work and she was in her busy season, or something - it had been too long since we giggled over margaritas and bottomless free chips.

  I considered her statement for a moment. She was right, of course. What with his other restaurants, his hectic TV filming schedule, and all his other obligations, Max wasn't going to stay head chef of the Trattoria for very long. Somehow, that thought hadn't occurred to me. All his other restaurants had a head chef that he'd hand-picked to run the show whenever he couldn't be there - which was most of the time.

  "I don't know if I like what you're implying," I told her, seeing the sly grin on her face.

  "Come on," she said. "You said he seems impressed with you so far, right?"

  I'd told her about the broad strokes of his illness, leaving out the part where I showed up at his door like a creepy stalker. "Yeah, but-"

  "And," she went on, holding up her hand to stop me from demurring, "he picked you in the first place, right? And then he promoted you to sous chef right after you opened? Didn't that surprise you?"

  "Well, yes, but Shelly-"

  "And he hasn't even looked for a head chef yet. Doesn't that strike you as a little suspicious?"

  "Yeah, yeah, okay!" I threw my hands up. "All right, Mr. Columbo, you've made your case. But I can't let myself think that way. I've got to focus on what my job actually is, right now. It's distracting enough, just working for a guy like Chef Dylan. I don't need to be thinking ten steps ahead."

  "But you need to be prepared." Shelly shoved another handful of chip crumbs into her mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch. "What if he offers you the head chef job? Will you say yes? All that pressure?"

  Of course I didn't have an answer for her. How could I? Sure, like every kid in culinary school I'd dreamed of one day heading a restaurant like his. Something that would be a big deal, something you could really write home about. Yes, there'd be pressure, but on the flip side...running a restaurant of Chef Dylan's was the kind of career move you could live on forever. Nobody would turn you away, with that on your résumé.

  Then again, being his
sous chef was nothing to sneeze at, either.

  "Seriously," I said to Shelly, who was still staring at me with a questioning smile on her face. "Stop it. How would you feel if I started cross-examining you about...whatever it is that accountants aspire to be in their wildest dreams?"

  "Well, it's not as sexy as working for a celebrity chef, that's for damn sure." Shelly polished off her margarita. "You need to think about these things, Jilly. Doesn't he seem like the kind of guy who'd be offended if you wanted a week to think about it?"

  "He'd be offended if I turned it down, too, so I might as well just say yes." I shook my head. "Why am I even considering this? You have got to stop. You're going to drive me nuts with this."

  "Fine, but don't come crying to me when you get blindsided by a job offer you didn't expect," Shelly said, breezily. "Again."

  Maybe she had a point. A teeny, tiny, infinitely small point. I mean - I still couldn't really explain why he'd hired me in the first place. Clearly, Max wasn't as predictable as I liked to pretend he was. He trusted me. He relied on me enough that he didn't feel he needed to look for a head chef right now. That felt...okay, that felt pretty good.

  But I wasn't at the Trattoria to have my ego stroked. I was there to earn a living. I couldn't let myself lose sight of that in crazy ambitions that would probably never come to pass.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Apéritif

  The purpose of an apéritif is to relax before dinner, to open the senses in preparation for the flavors. Any sort of alcoholic drink may be served, though champagne is often chosen for its lightness on the palate. A small amount of alcohol warms the stomach, heightening anticipation for the coming attraction.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Max

  ***

  There's a lot of rumors about me. Some of them are true. Some are just mostly true. Some, of course, are made up completely - but not as many as I'd like.

  Yes, I once challenged a food critic to a boxing match. He put up a valiant fight, but I won. And yes, it's true that beating him doesn't prove that my food isn't "pretentious, bland and overpriced," but it felt damn good anyway.