by Lisa Daily
“Do you remember what happened?” I ask softly.
“Somebody T-boned me,” he says slowly. “They were going really fast … Ambulance.”
“Drunk driver,” I say. “They brought you here last night. Your dad and Santiago have been here all night. Santiago just went to your house to get you a few things. He’ll be back soon.”
“Did you tell everybody what to do, harangue the doctors, redecorate the place?” he asks.
“I see your sense of humor fared better than your spleen,” I say. “I brought you your pillow. Maybe I should take it back,” I tease.
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes misty. “I wouldn’t be me without you.”
“Ditto,” I say. I might not be Michael’s wife anymore, but we’ll always be family.
“How’s my hair?” he cracks.
I give him the once-over. “You’re such a TV nerd. Never let it be said that you weren’t born to be in front of a camera. You know, you don’t have a scratch on your face. Not one. How is that even possible? And who gets into a life-threating accident without even messing up his hair?”
He smiles. “I can’t move my arms, but at least my hair looks good.”
“At least.” I laugh. “And on the plus side, I think you’re a shoo-in for that big anchor job. Those guys don’t need to move their arms, right?”
Fred stirs from the corner.
“You’re finally awake, pal. How are you feeling?” He rises and stands on the other side of Michael’s bed.
“Sore,” Michael says. “But glad you’re here.”
“You scared me there for a while,” says Fred, smiling, his eyes welling up with tears. “Try not to do that again.”
“I’ll do my level best,” says Michael. He begins coughing and I hold the cup of water to his lips again. He takes another sip. “Thank you.”
There’s a soft knock at the door, and then Darcy, Sam, Carter, and Santiago enter the room. Darcy is carrying a small green vase filled with white roses.
“Do you think Michael remembered me in his will?” cracks Darcy. She fills up every room she enters with her personality and presence.
“No, he’s leaving it all to me,” Carter laughs. “Except for that terrible red chaise. You can have that.”
“Nobody wants that ugly thing.” Sam laughs too.
“Oh good, you’re alive,” Darcy says to Michael. She sets down the flowers on the bedside table, leans over the bed, and kisses Michael on the cheek. “There’s still time to change your will.” Carter pats the top of Michael’s head gently, and Santiago sets down the overnight bag he’s carrying on the floor near the window, and then plants a kiss on Michael’s forehead.
“The gang’s all here,” says Michael, smiling weakly as we crowd around the bed.
“You’re the most attractive near-death patient I’ve ever seen,” remarks Darcy. “What did you do, call for hair and makeup the moment you got out of surgery?”
I laugh out loud. Michael and Carter do too.
“You look like a soap opera star or something,” she says.
“Do you need anything?” asks Fred.
“I’ve got everything I need right here,” Michael says.
There’s another knock on the hospital door, and a volunteer enters, awkwardly carrying a very large basket. She’s about seventy, no more than five feet tall, with curly white hair and hot-pink jogging shoes. The basket is almost bigger than she is.
“We’re going to need a bigger room,” cracks Darcy. Carter takes the oversize basket from her arms and sets it down on the table.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Carter says.
The basket is overflowing with food: long sandwiches wrapped in paper and tied with raffia, tall containers of salads, napkins, silverware, and small plates, all beautifully displayed.
“Who’s it from?” asks Darcy, digging through the basket. “This looks amazing.”
Carter reads the card:
MICHAEL—HOPE YOU’RE FEELING BETTER.
BEST WISHES, DANIEL BOUDREAUX
“Awww,” teases Michael, “Your boyfriend sent me a bouquet of sandwiches.” Everyone laughs and my skin flushes scarlet.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say.
“That’s not what I hear,” says Michael playfully. Darcy remains uncharacteristically silent. “Santiago told me all about it,” says Michael. “He says you two were steamy on the dance floor last weekend.” Santiago grins sheepishly at me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting quietly about now?” I ask Michael.
“I heard it too, from the man himself,” gushes Carter. “Daniel Boudreaux is smitten.”
“Well, he’s something, all right,” says Darcy. I shoot her a stern glance across the room. She gets the message and doesn’t say another word on the matter.
“He’s a client,” I say. “Nothing more.”
“Well,” says Carter, “I’ve known the man for ten years and I’ve never seen him fall this hard for anyone.”
“Look at this, there’s shrimp and crab salad, po’boys, this one looks like ham and Brie,” says Darcy digging through the basket, mercifully changing the subject. “Who’s hungry?”
“I am,” says Fred, heading toward the food. Sam starts pulling plates, napkins, and silverware out of the basket, laying them out on the table. Fred selects a fried oyster po’boy.
“Mmm, delicious,” Fred says as he bites into the sandwich.
“Michael, do you want anything?” I ask.
“No, I’m not hungry at all. Maybe leftover from the anesthesia or something. You all dig in, though,” says Michael. He groans a bit as he shifts his weight in the bed.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Do you want me to call a nurse?”
“I’m just really sore all over,” he says, “the pain seems to be getting worse.” He smiles. “I feel like I’ve been in a car accident or something.”
“You’re hilarious,” I say, pushing the nurse call button on the TV remote.
“I love this bread,” says Darcy, biting into a shrimp salad sandwich. “Crunchy on the outside, light and melty on the inside.”
“Daniel makes it himself, traditional New Orleans style,” I say.
“I’ll say one thing,” says Darcy with her mouth full, “that boy can cook.”
Carter and Santiago each help themselves to sandwiches. Carter chooses the ham and Brie, and Santiago picks something that looks like roast beef.
The seven of us perch in various places around the room, me at the end of Michael’s hospital bed. Darcy hands me a crab salad sandwich, one of my favorites. The room goes silent as we enjoy the food.
“Okay, okay, give me a bite of that,” Michael says to me. I move nearer to the head of the bed and hold the sandwich out for him to take a bite.
“Ooh, that’s good,” says Michael. “That’s maybe the best sandwich I’ve ever had.” He takes another bite. “Don’t break up with him just yet, Alex. I think Santiago and I might need him to cater a housewarming.”
I almost choke on my salad when he says that, but before I have a chance to ask Michael what in the hell he’s talking about, a stout nurse with gray hair pulled into a severe bun enters the room. She makes her way through Darcy, Sam, Santiago, and Carter and disconnects Michael’s IV line, without so much as a greeting. She hangs a new IV bag on Michael’s stand, pushes a few buttons on the monitor, and then begins taking his blood pressure.
“Would you like a sandwich?” I ask. “We’ve got plenty.”
“No thank you,” she answers curtly. “Mr. Miller has been through a severe trauma and an extensive surgery. He needs to rest. No more than one visitor at a time for the next day or two.” She’s like a drill sergeant. “Say your goodbyes.”
“I’m fine, really,” says Michael, who seems to get woozier before our eyes.
“Your IV bag was empty,” says the nurse. “For some reason it wasn’t connected to the monitor when they brought you back from post-op.” Michael’s eyes are closed
before she finishes her sentence.
“Is he okay?” asks Fred.
“His pain medication will make him drowsy,” says the nurse. “He was alert before because it was wearing off. His body needs to heal. He needs to sleep.”
Darcy, Sam, and Carter stand up to leave. Darcy gives Michael a quick peck on his forehead.
“Feel better,” she says.
“We’ll be back later,” says Carter. They hug Fred and me, and Carter hugs Santiago. Michael is out when they leave the room.
I hate to even think about leaving when Michael is hurt and in the hospital. Where else would I be but at his side? But I don’t want to slow his healing either. And if the nurse thinks Michael should only have one visitor at a time for the next few days, we should probably listen to her.
“Fred,” I say. “Do you want me to stay, or do you want to stay and I’ll come back and sit with him later?” I ask. Pausing for a second, I consider Santiago’s feelings. “What about you, Santiago? How should we do this?”
“I’m going to stay either way,” says Fred. “I want to be here if he wakes up again.”
“Would you like me to bring you a change of clothes, or some toiletries?” I ask Fred.
“I’d appreciate it,” he says.
“I’ll go now,” says Santiago, “I can come tonight and stay here if Fred wants to go home to sleep later.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” I say. “I have to go to Daniel’s opening tonight to make sure everything is in place, but I’ll stop by the hospital before I go. And I can come back afterwards if Michael is up to it.”
Fred nods.
“I need to swing by the restaurant to make sure the setup is on track, and I’ll pick up your things at your house and drop them back here in an hour or so if that works,” I say.
“Thank you,” says Fred. I kiss the top of Michael’s head as he sleeps. He doesn’t move at all. The nurse finishes checking Michael’s vital signs and leaves the room, apparently satisfied that we’re clearing out. Santiago kisses Michael again and we both hug Fred before leaving the room. We don’t say a word as we walk together down the hallway toward the elevator.
71
I need a shower, but I want to check on the Boudreaux project first, so I head up Bayfront Parkway toward the marina. The midday sun is shining brightly and the water sparkles in the distance, embellished by the collection of large sculptures that dot the waterfront, on loan from all over the world.
As I pull in to the marina parking lot, my mind is abuzz with nervous energy. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Or an adrenaline hangover from the fear and stress of Michael’s accident. But most likely it’s because just twenty-four hours earlier, I ran off that boat in a state of semi-undress, humiliated and ashamed, as a strange woman screamed at Daniel. It will be a giant relief when the project is finally completed and I can be done with it. Just one more night. I only have to make it through one more night.
I step across the gangway and the deck is bustling with workers finishing preparations for opening night. I’m happy to see the red event binders I provided to all the staff members are in use across the restaurant.
Nicky, my greenery artist, has already been to the site and worked his magic—lining the dock and walkway with fragrant potted white magnolias, and creating a more intimate environment inside with feathery palms. It’s perfect, just as I envisioned. The magnolias are not just beautiful and fragrant, a lush cue of the experience to come; they’re an homage to Daniel, and the old Southern home with the magnolia tree he spoke of so often. The environment is not only primed for patrons of the restaurant, but for Daniel as well. On board, workmen are busy securing the silver frames for the black-and-white photographs of Daniel’s family and culinary legacy inside. Timewise, it’s too tight for my comfort, but the framers were unable to come until today. So today it is.
“Alex!” says Tina, Daniel’s headwaitress. I spin around to find her behind me—in her arms, a box containing an eclectic mix of silver candlesticks.
“Can I help you with that?” I ask. She shakes her head.
“I’ve got it,” she says. “I’m blown away by the transformation here. This place is going to be gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s coming together. Is the staff having any questions with the event book? It looks like your crew is a bit ahead of schedule, which is always nice. It seems we’re right on track.”
“We’re all pretty clear on what you want,” Tina says. “The photos and diagrams in the red binders really helped a lot.”
“Great work,” I say. “I’m going to do a quick walk-through, and then I’ll be back later tonight.”
“Chef’s in the kitchen,” she says. “Do you want me to let him know you’re here?”
“Uh, no, thanks,” I stall. “I’ll check in with Daniel after I’ve had a look around.” I’m hoping to get out of here as quickly as possible. If I can avoid Daniel, all the better. It’s not exactly professional, but it is self-preservation.
The starboard side of the boat, which is what you’d see when you first come on board, is finished to perfection. The tables are set with vintage white linens, mixed in with pale blues and aquas at scattered tables. Smaller tables are adorned with mismatched silver candlesticks with pale blue tapers; larger tables have sea-blue vases and white hydrangea blooms.
Black-and-white photos are grouped artfully along the freshly painted walls where foot traffic will flow, a revealing combination of historical photos from the Boudreaux family’s grand restaurants, to more whimsical snapshots, such as the one where Daniel, his brother Gabriel, and a slew of young cousins were photographed at about four years old, sitting all in a row at a prep station in one of his family’s kitchens, all decked out with chef hats and little neckerchiefs.
Next, I walk through the inside area, near the bar. The framers are nearly finished, and will move to the rear deck to install the last of the black-and-white photos when they’re finished inside. The photographs are stunning, and the framers have done an excellent job. I numbered and color-coded all of the pictures with accompanying diagrams to show them exactly where each photo was supposed to be hung, and they’ve followed my instructions exactly.
Maddeningly, the tables inside the bar area are nearly all covered with tablecloths and centerpieces, but the configuration is all wrong. Someone has pushed many of the smaller tables together, creating fewer, larger tables in one big island in the middle of the room. I go outside to the rear deck in search of Tina, and ask her to send a couple of staff members inside to help me relocate the tables.
“What happened here?” I ask.
“It’s a standard bar setup,” says a waiter whose name I can’t recall. Exhaustion, I guess. Usually, I’m very efficient at remembering names.
“Let’s stick to the event bible, please,” I say. “We’re going for a very specific environment here, that’s not exactly business as usual.” I open the red binder to the bar setup diagram, and point to the layout. “We need this setup exactly.”
“Sure thing,” says the waiter. “Sorry about that.” They pull the linens and centerpieces off the massive center tables and reconfigure them as I’ve requested.
“Thanks, guys,” I say. “I need to check out the back deck and then I’ll be back to make sure everything in here is as it should be. Let me know if you need anything.” I’m a bit frustrated. I spent the entire last week arranging and rearranging those tables for the ideal configuration. And I’m in no mood for rogue furniture movers. Less than twenty-four hours earlier I was fired, publicly, from a high-profile job. If I’m going to redeem myself, everything, and I mean everything, for the Boudreaux opening has to be perfect. And I’m already off my A-game.
After tweaking the placement of a few palms, I leave the waiters rearranging chairs and resetting the tables, as I move to the rear deck. The port side of the restaurant is completed, with the exception of the addition of the framed photos. It’s breathtaking, and I couldn’t be prou
der.
It’s then I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Alex?” says Daniel. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
72
I spin around to face him and my heart skips a beat. He’s wearing black pants, his chef’s coat, and a toque blanche. He pulls off his toque as I turn to face him.
“Nice hat,” I say. “You look like a real chef.”
“My family is down for the opening tonight. Chef, my father, is old school. I usually just wear a black skullcap. But he gave me this toque to wear tonight. It’s the one he wore when he opened his first restaurant.”
“That’s really sweet. Very sentimental.” I say. “Look, I was just heading out. I wanted to stop by and check to make sure everything was going to be ready for tonight.” He nods, wordlessly, and I continue, “I only got a few hours of sleep last night, so I’m going to go home, take a quick nap and a shower, and I’ll be back before the opening starts.”
“How’s Michael?”
“He’s in pretty rough shape, but he’ll be okay,” I say. “Thank you for sending the basket of sandwiches. It was really thoughtful.” It was. Here he has his first restaurant opening in just a few hours and he takes the time to make a basket of food for someone he barely knows.
“I cook for the people I care about,” he says. “I wish I could have done more.” His deep-blue eyes are serious. Tentatively, he moves another step closer to me. My breath catches in my chest and it’s agony. I wish yesterday hadn’t happened at all.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “But you didn’t have to be. I understand.”
“You’re my client. Your opening is important to me.”
“Your client,” he repeats slowly, shaking his head. “Could I please just explain about yesterday…” Unwelcome tears begin filling my eyes, and I wipe them away quickly, embarrassed for Daniel or anyone on the staff to see them.
“Can we not have this conversation now, please?” I whisper. “I’m exhausted, I’m wrung out, I just want to get through tonight. After that, we don’t need to see each other again.”
Daniel’s expression is crestfallen, and he slowly takes a step back. I turn quickly and walk away, leaving him standing all alone on the deck of Boudreaux.
