by Tif Marcelo
“I have a proposal for you, if you have time. I’d like to apply for a loan.”
“Ms. Marino, I always have time for business. I can meet if you are available.”
“Yes. I’m actually heading to your side of town.” Jump with both feet. No regrets. “Let’s meet at Star Coffee in an hour? It’s right next to the Transamerica Building.”
“Perfect.”
Ben asks me for some of my business and contact information so his assistant can do research on the truck. Afterward, I get on the road. I’m blocks from the Transamerica building in thirty minutes, and spring the cash to park Lucianna in a nearby parking lot. I take my time walking to the coffee shop, envisioning the big number—the whole amount—and hoping he doesn’t laugh me out of the place like Bank of the Bay did.
After ordering a cappuccino, I find a seat toward the back of the coffee shop, next to the windows looking out onto Clay Street, where I know we won’t be bothered. The coffee shop is full, each table with at least one laptop open. The volume of noise is a low murmur, the air already charged with seriousness.
Ben arrives, spots me, and skips ordering coffee. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a fleece sweatshirt and carries a bottled water. Casual and unassuming, though he holds the potential fate of my family in his hands, he plops down in front of me, raking his fingers through his hair. “Afternoon.”
I launch into the speech I’ve been rehearsing in my head. “Hello again. Ben, I don’t want to take too much of your time. This is hard enough as it is, but I would like to discuss taking out a loan.”
“Oh, of course. Well, let me start.” He straightens himself so he faces me squarely. “Camille, I’ve always wanted to be a part of things that are growing. I like to be at the ground floor of great potential. So I started flipping houses, and then investing in businesses run by good people. Businesses that needed a little bit of help. I’ve been lucky. So far, every risk I’ve taken has paid out, and it’s allowed for me to be picky. According to my assistant’s research, Lucianna hits the markers in what I’m looking for as an investable business. I’m comfortable making a deal depending on how much you’d like to borrow. Here are my terms: I’d like to be a silent partner. I’ve realized that being an active partner is a relentless, somewhat painful venture. I don’t know anything about the food truck business, but I trust I can leave your success up to you.”
Ben opens a folder in front of me so I can read the terms of the contract. But I’m so grateful and surprised at how easy this has been thus far that the idea of actually having enough money is clouding my ability to decipher the legalese on these pages. A set of initials is all this man needs to loan me money. No credit check, no lecture.
Of course I’m going to take this deal. Both Ben and I know the only reason I’ve called him is because I’m out of options.
His fingers tap the paper. “It’s a standard contract. You’ll basically think of me as your personal bank. Tell me how much you need up to a negotiated cap and I’ll forward it, no questions asked. There’s interest added to the payment, but because I’d like to get paid fairly quickly, payments are broken up into smaller increments. Because you are a small business, I would prefer a collateral arrangement, rather than partial ownership. The collateral would be your only business asset—your truck.”
Low interest, no input. My heart lightens. “So you won’t tell me what to do with the truck?”
“That’s correct. Money is my forte, but the mobile food business? This is yours alone. However, I am firm on payment dates. There’s a reason I was in the bank the other day. I need the cash, too, for other projects I’m committed to.” He smiles. “If you don’t make any of the payment dates, the stipulations of this contract must be adhered to. There are no late terms. Understand?”
“Absolutely. I get it.”
“Great.” His smile is reassuring. He takes out a napkin and pushes it toward me with his pen. “Now, what amount are you looking for?”
We both lean forward, our heads meeting at the middle of the table. My hand hesitates. Lucianna is collateral. If I fail, this man can take my truck.
I raise my eyes to the window, take a breath to calm myself. A VW bug swerves into an open spot. It’s an old beater that could only be one person’s: Jaz’s. Sure enough, she climbs out and deposits a couple of coins into the meter. Hands in her pockets, she shivers from the cold outside and walks to the corner.
I decide against getting her attention, leaving this dirty part of the business to me. But before I look away, someone in a Spartan jacket approaches her. Blake.
What nerve. I scoot to the end of my seat, anticipating curse words or a left hook from my tiny best friend. Instead, they turn to each other and smile. Then Blake dips down and plants a kiss on Jaz’s cheek.
What the hell?
“Everything okay?” Ben turns in his seat. “Did I miss something?”
“No.” My voice croaks, startled with everything unfolding in front of me. Refocusing, I scribble the number with a shaky hand. “Is this good?”
He looks at the number I’ve written and grins. “Oh yeah. No sweat. You can have it in about twenty-four hours. I’ll have my lawyer contact you later this evening with the details. You keep that folder. That information is for you and for your own lawyer to look at, if necessary.”
I bite my lip. Little does this man know I don’t have a lawyer at my beck and call. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” We shake hands. “I look forward to your success.”
Twenty-four hours. In twenty-four hours everything should be perfect, my problem solved.
So why do I feel like I’ve got twice the amount of weight on my shoulders?
28
DREW
“What do we need to talk about?” Vic’s high-pitched faux-innocent voice whines through my cell, followed by a sigh that, had it come from another soldier, would have earned her a few push-ups.
But since she’s the baby of the family—never mind she’s of legal drinking age—I speak to her oh so nicely. “Vic, you need to ease up on those posts.”
“Your dad told me to post at least three times a day. I’m simply following boss’s orders.”
“Totally get it, but don’t spam the whole feed.”
“Who says I’m spamming? You don’t even have an account, kuya.”
“I don’t need an account to read it.” I harrumph audibly. Though it’s not just because I’m trying to squelch the social media throwdown Vic’s incited.
My neck, craned for the last few minutes talking to Vic, is stiff trying to deftly balance the phone on my shoulder. Besides the phone in my ear, I’m also holding a box of pasta, a bag of tomatoes, and a sleeve of French bread. Clipped under my chin is a bag of chocolate chips. And somehow, basil has to make it with me to the register. I stare at green leaves in the vegetable section. They tell me what a stupid idea this is going to be, to attempt a meal I’ve never tried for a professional chef. Me, a guy who is a proven genetic anomaly, the black-thumb cook of the family.
They also tell me I won’t be able to decipher what basil is with this drama in my ear. The public social media fight has to be squashed, pronto. It has to ease up from True North’s end. I conjure a command voice. “And all the bullying you’re doing with Lucianna? It’s got to stop.”
“What do you mean?” Vic’s voice turns angelic.
Right. Upon checking True North’s account earlier today, my nightmare was realized. An example:
@TrueNorth: Hey, we won’t be selling out of food when we open, unlike some people.
* * *
And another:
@TrueNorth: Get in from the cold of the Ocean Beach air. We have heat!
* * *
And another:
@TrueNorth: @KayaBanks was just here, you all. A real food blogger, in a real restaurant.
* * *
<
br /> And that was all before noon today.
“Promise me, Vic. Enough. Focus on what the restaurant is up to. On how the restaurant is coming along. Don’t start a war with Lucianna. Quit mentioning their name. Quit responding to their posts.”
She murmurs, “Fine. If your dad asks, I’ll tell him you made me.”
“You tell him that.”
After hanging up, I allow the blood pounding in my ears to quiet, then get back to the mission at hand: cooking for Camille. When I saw her in her element this morning, flushed and proud, it inspired me. She owns a restaurant and that lifestyle, in every sense of the word. And what better way to start a date, and maybe grease the skids of a serious discussion, than to try to impress her.
So after my quick check-in with my new unit at Fort Pershing, I looked up a recipe online, which was a fiasco in itself. A million and one pesto sauce recipes exist in cyberspace, all claiming to be the easiest and best. I’m hoping against all my past attempts at cooking that the recipe I chose will deliver.
If I can follow it. If I can figure out which of these bunches of green leaves is basil.
And now, besides not having space in my arms for one more item, a somber realization has hit me in the middle of the grocery store. My feet won’t take another step. They root to the floor, as if Earth’s gravitational pull has increased a hundredfold. I’m reminded once again that beyond having to get everything bought, brought home, and cooked, I’m going to explain the predicament we’re both in. Tonight’s date may not have a happy ending.
And now, finding basil feels like the stupidest thing I have to do.
“Iho?” The soprano of my mother’s voice draws me out of my thoughts. Her petite frame materializes next to me, clutching an empty basket. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking up basil,” I answer. I’m not sure how much I should say. My mother has the Force stronger than Luke Skywalker and it draws the truth out like a siphon. I won’t be able to stop.
“You’re looking at spinach.” She disappears down another aisle for a moment, then returns, shaking a bunch of leaves in her hand. She puts it up to the obviously larger leaves I was looking at and shakes it again. “See the difference?”
Eyes are on me as other customers stare. I swear one even sneeze-insults loser. “Oh sure, Ma. Make a guy feel worse.”
She drops the basil into her basket, then pats my cheek. “It’s called tough love, iho. Man up. Now . . . will you tell me what you’re doing here?”
My body deflates. Dammit, I can’t resist. As if me in a grocery store isn’t odd enough, but lying on top of that? It’s asking for trouble from the one person who can actually help me through this problem. “I have a date. Tonight.”
“Ah. The mystery woman.” Beaming, she pulls the bag of chocolate chips from under my chin and unloads the food from my arms into her empty basket. It’s a relief, both physically and mentally. Taking stock of my goods, she says, “Looks like you’re making pasta and pesto. Why not make her something from our family? Afritada or piccadillo with rice?”
“I wanted something easy,” I say, defending myself.
Ma clucks her tongue. “It’s all easy and simple, if you break it down into little steps. Naku, anak.” Oh, child. “If this is the woman you are choosing to cook for, then you have to make her food that says something about you. Something about your life. Make something that will tell her where you came from. And you come from us, iho, from a country of over seven thousand islands.”
Soon I’m trailing her around the store as she puts everything but the chocolate chips back on the shelves. “For the brownies, because I know you love them, too,” she says. She fills the basket with ingredients I’m intimately familiar with—potatoes and carrots, red bell peppers, tomato sauce, and chicken from the meat section—but lack the skills to cook.
The self-register dings as Ma swipes boxes and bottles across the clear panel, and the bags fill as she packs them. “I’ll have Bryn email you the recipe. I still have shopping to do,” she says nonchalantly, though she looks amused. “Don’t worry. You’ve watched me cook for years. I have faith you can do this. You’re a Bautista, and we are all cooks in our small way. Your date is going to love it, you’ll see.” Her hands are chilly as she pats me on the cheek, freezing the moment.
In true mom fashion she casts a spell with her touch. She’s right. I can do this. Cooking is in my blood. Maybe the effort will earn some understanding. Cool points for when I do the reveal.
She fixes the collar of my shirt. “I’m so glad you found someone special. I’ll have to meet her soon, okay?”
Her eyes rake my face, but I can’t even look at her.
“Is something wrong, anak? Whatever it is, I can help.”
My mother always has impeccable timing, because right now, the load in my arms, on my shoulders, in my heart, is an anchor. Camille is that someone special. She’s the girl I thought I lost so many years ago. The girl I wanted closure from but who’s given me so much more. But my father—my father is everything to me, too. He’s bigger than this whole family. Probably more than life itself. “I’m not sure you can with this.”
“Try me.”
“My dinner date. You know who she is.”
“Oh?” Her face lights up, making me wince. Her next expression surely won’t be as good.
I say the truth before I can retreat. “It’s Camille. Lucianna.”
The expression on my mother’s face changes from wonder to recognition. It’s topped off by the appearance of a crease in the middle of her forehead.
Yeah, Ma. Her.
An eyebrow plunges downward. “Lucianna. The truck.”
I nod. “Camille Marino.”
“Her name sounds familiar.”
“We went to high school together. She moved away, freshman year.”
“She was the beautiful girl with the long black hair.” The corners of her mouth turn down.
“That’s her.”
My mother shakes her head. “This is why you’ve been avoiding us. Why you pulled the appeal. Why you fought with your dad earlier this week. Not convenient, is it, iho?” But the faraway tone of her voice tells me she’s not wanting an answer. Her hands rub against my shoulder like she used to when I was a little boy, when I needed bolstering. Then she nods. “Well, you’ll have to make an even better meal. You go. I’ll have Bryn bring the recipe and extra food. And she’ll help start the dessert for you.”
“Thanks, Ma.” I’m dumbfounded she didn’t have more to say. I watch my mother walk away, still chatting to herself as her heels clink on the linoleum. I raise a hand to stop her. I should probably tell her not to tell Pop.
But my mother’s swallowed by hordes of shoppers. Outside, the bells of Saint Peter’s ring, and it’s a tug on my conscience, a reminder of Camille’s and my first night together. I lower my hand. It won’t matter if my dad is pissed. Not if I don’t end up with the girl in the end. Not if there isn’t a reason for all of this mess I’m creating.
There’s no point unless Camille decides she’s willing to stay.
Part 5
BAKE
When you cook under pressure, you trade perfection.
—Gordon Ramsay
29
DREW
I roll some rice between my thumb and pointer finger, squash and examine it. It feels done. It looks done. My fault for not keeping track of how long it has been boiling on the stove. My bad for not thinking of borrowing one of my mother’s rice cookers. Looking up against the gleaming tile backsplash, I throw the rice at it—because if it works for pasta, it should work for rice, too, right?—but it remains stuck on my fingers.
There’s only one thing left to do.
Scooping up a ladle of rice, I take a bite, only to have a delayed reaction to its scalding heat. My mouth hangs open as I panic. Should I swallow or spi
t? I choose the latter, dribbling rice into a kitchen towel. I gulp down a glass of tap water faster than it takes Bryn to burst into laughter.
My eyes water. “Not funny.”
“Um, I object. This, I’m going to have to tell your mom about.” Bryn cackles, one hand on the oven door and the other clutching a pan of brownie batter.
“I knew there was a reason for you helping me,” I say, realizing she offered to make brownies so she could watch me humiliate myself.
The pan slides into the oven with a squeak. “All set. Eighteen minutes and they’re done. All you have to do is take them out, cool, and serve.” She removes her apron and hooks it around my neck. “And no, I’m not here for blackmail. Can’t believe you would assume the worst, pogi. I’ve always got your back.”
“Yeah, after a swift kick in the ass you do.”
“Maybe . . .” She meets my smile with hers. “Truthfully, I also wanted to catch you alone.”
“Ha. There’s a but. I knew something was up.” I stop everything I’m doing, turn all the burners down to low. Growing up with Bryn, I learned real quick: listen when she wants to talk. As the eldest child in the clan, she has the clout, the wisdom, and, dare I say, the keys to the kingdom.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
“Okay. Is this good or bad? Should I sit?” My words come teasingly, but inside, I’m as serious as my burned tongue. “Because this date is going to be the death of me as it is.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Yes. No. I mean, stand. You’re making me nervous. Whew.” She inhales deeply.
Is that worry I see in her eyes? My cousin might be intense, or stressed, but worry is rarely her MO. “I swear. You’re scaring me. If you don’t tell me right now—”
“I’ve contacted a real estate agent. And I’ve decided on a location to open my business—in the wine country.”
