by Vivien Vale
"You're finally admitting defeat," a voice says.
I swing my body to see who it is, and my pulse increases. It's the last person on earth who I wanted to see.
It's Percy Whitman.
"What do you want?" I ask.
It's an unseasonably cold day in New York, and he's wearing a black coat that sits in start contract to his pale skin. He has both hands shoved into his pockets and he's rocking on his heels. The wind lifts the edges of his thin, pale hair.
"I just had to see it for myself," he says, a smile parting his lips.
I can't help but ball one hand into a fist. Who the fuck does he think he is?
That arrogant bastard has the gall to come here and rub it all in my face?
It's taking everything in me to not put my fist through his face right now.
"See what?" I growl, taking a step closer. "Your handy work? It's unbelievable how quickly you moved. But I guess you had help, with Nicole and all. Did you two plan my restaurant's demise over cocktails? Or was it over lunch?"
He looks at me, and there's a genuine surprise in his eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says.
I laugh. "Oh come on—spare me the bullshit. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"It's true that I've never liked you," he says.
"You've made that loud and clear."
"And I think you're a cocky bastard, and I am glad you aren't triumphant with this place," he says. "But Nicole had nothing to do with it."
"What?" Wait, is he telling me the truth?
Have I misunderstood this situation? Is Nicole innocent?
"It's true," he says, his lips still cracked in a smile. "She had nothing to do with it. I was the one who never liked you. And I've been genuine in the fact that I've never appreciated your style of cooking. You call it high-end cuisine, but I've seen it done better elsewhere. You cook without heart. It's like I can taste your cockiness through the food."
I'm trying not to roll my eyes. I'm in no mood to get a lecture from this food critic slash asshole. Here I am, standing on the street corner, taping a closure notice to my dreams, and Percy's feeding me a line of bullshit.
Percy continues, "Besides, your restaurant closing is well-deserved because you're an asshole for wanting to steal Nicole's grandmother's recipe."
Those last words catch me off guard.
"Wait, what did you just say?"
"Oh, don't play it off like you don't know what I'm talking about," Percy says. "Even Nicole knows. She saw it with her own eyes."
My heart leaps into my throat, and my head spins.
The realization sinks in—so that's why Nicole has been acting so strange and is refusing to speak with me!
I've got to act fast. I can't waste another minute.
"Thanks, Percy," I say, patting him on the shoulder.
He looks confused, like he wants to say something more, but shrugs it off and lets me walks away.
I stride away from the restaurant and take out my cell phone. I have a few calls that I need to make.
Maybe I still have time. Maybe it isn't time for me to lock my restaurant doors just yet.
Nicole
I'm zipping my purse and getting ready to leave when Kate shows up.
"You have to see this," she says. She reaches into her own purse and pulls out a small envelope. She hands it to me.
"What is it?" I say.
"Just open it."
Kate loves to keep me on edge sometimes, but I hate surprises.
Still, I give in and break the seal and open the envelope.
Inside there is a card the color of crème brûlée. The weight and texture of it in my hands tells me it was printed on high quality stationery. The paper almost feels like linen, the expensive kind. Its edges are lined in gold foil.
The card starts with a quote and I read it out loud:
"At one point in everyone's life, our inner fire goes out. If we are lucky, we find that fire ignited by an encounter with another human being whose flame shines as bright.
“We should all be thankful for all the people who rekindle our inner spirit."
That quote is followed by yet another one that reads:
"The finest steel has had to go through the hottest fire."
At the bottom of the quote, there's a gold-foiled image of a fire, the flames dancing at the edges of the card.
"Who gave you this?" I say, handing the card back to her.
"Turn it over," Kate says, refusing to take it back just yet.
So I turn it over and read it out loud again:
"Join us for a special evening at The Pearl on Park as we host our final dinner."
I look up at Kate. "You have to be joking, right?"
Why would she give me this? She knows how I feel. She knows how many pints of ice cream I've eaten my way to try and get over Palmer, and how my ass is now probably going to be wider than the state of Texas because of it.
"I think we should go," she says.
"Well, I was trying to leave when you showed up."
She shakes her head. "I mean that I think we should accept the invite and go to Palmer's dinner," Kate says.
"No way," I say, shaking my head in return. "I'm not going. There's nothing you can say to change my mind. I have to put my foot down because that would be like pouring salt into an open wound."
"No it wouldn't, trust me," she says.
"Remember that time you crashed a motorcycle and I met you at the emergency room and the doctors insisted they give you a shot right in the muscle of your ass—as an effective painkiller—and you resisted and tensed up so terribly that they had a hard time getting the needle in? I thought they were going to break that needle in your ass."
"Thanks for the reminder… but what does that have to do with anything?" she asks.
"I just mean that if I show up to Palmer's dinner, it will be like that—equally painful for me," I say.
"Oh come on, that's a little dramatic," Kate says rolling her eyes.
"Trust me, it's not. You've seen what a mess I've been over this."
"You do have a point—the night I showed up to find you watching romantic comedy re-runs with wine stains all over your shirt I thought I was going to have to stage an intervention," she laughs.
"Ha ha, very funny… go ahead and laugh now," I say with a smile, "but the next time you go through some messy break up, I'll be the one laughing."
"You're over thinking this. Look at it this way," she says. "After what Palmer did to you, you should go there and watch him go down in flames. This isn't something you should miss. That's all I'm saying."
Maybe she has a point.
Palmer screwed me over, and it would be kind of satisfying to see him get what he deserves.
Because he does deserve this, that's for sure.
And although I'm not the kind of person who seeks revenge, it might be the closure I need. Like when you see someone’s corpse one final time and the realization sets in that they are no longer the person you loved, and you know that person is really gone, and everything is different.
Whew.
Maybe I do need to see that Palmer is gone from my life, instead of running from him.
"I'll think about it," I say, and Kate smiles.
Palmer
I'm more nervous than I've ever been in my entire life. The restaurant is packed.
The invitations were a success, judging by the sheer number of people who have showed up so far—friends, acquaintances, colleagues, and what seems to be nearly every restaurant critic in the city… even Percy Whitman.
It's exactly what I hoped for.
I shake hands. I smile. And I make my rounds.
As I walk around the restaurant, I pick up pieces of conversation. I get a personal peek into the lives of all these people.
I hear one man say, "It's been weeks, but I think I've made up my mind. I want her back."
The other man considers this, chewing the last b
ites of his crostini. "Did she get a haircut?" he asks.
"I think so, yes. Why?"
"Forget about her then," the man says. "I hate to break it to you, but you're out of luck. She doesn't want you back."
I continue walking, unable to hear the rest of that conversation, but it gives me some comfort to hear that not everyone's life is perfect.
I walk past a group of women holding wine flutes filled with champagne. They are all wearing short, pearl necklaces, and I wonder if it's in honor of The Pearl on Park. I overhear their conversation as well.
One woman says, "Can you believe the bouncer at the door asked for my ID?"
"You didn't bring it?" another woman responds.
"I totally forgot it, so I look the bouncer in the eyes and I tell him I'm 30. But he just stares back at me and insists that he still needs my ID. So I turn to him and say that I've just told him I'm 30. What woman lies about that?"
The women laugh at this, but one remains fairly quiet.
The woman telling the story turns to her and says, "Why are you so quiet, Heather?"
And in a nonchalant sort of way, Heather turns to them and says, "Oh, I'm fine. I'm just saving my personality for when everyone else gets here."
They all have a good laugh at that, and I have to admit, despite my nerves about the whole evening, even I'm amused.
I hear another group of women talking. They're eating the blue cheese and pear tartlets that I've prepared especially for this evening… and they're not just eating one, they seem to be eating them by the handful.
I love seeing that. People enjoying the food, and relaxing enough to have a good time.
One woman says, "Every psycho I've ever dated was an Aries."
The other woman replies, "Every psycho I've ever dated believed in astrology. But my new boyfriend Tom, well, whenever he travels internationally, he texts me the minute he gets WiFi."
The first woman puts one hand over her chest. "That's so sweet. That's all I want… to be someone's first thought when they have WiFi."
I move on and smile. But my smile fades when I see Nicole's table.
It's still empty.
What if she doesn't show up?
If she doesn't show up, this will all have been for nothing.
Just then, I feel a strong hand clap me on the shoulder. "I must tell you," the man says, "These Prosciutto-wrapped asparagus might be some of the best I've ever eaten. And that's saying something because I've eaten my way around the world."
"That means a lot," I say. "Thank you."
But as much as it does make me feel good to see people enjoying my cuisine, it doesn't fix the fact that Nicole isn't here.
Brit walks out from the kitchen and whispers into my ear, "We need to get started," she says. "It's time for the main course."
"Let's give it a few minutes," I say, hoping to buy a little more time. I don't want to start without Nicole.
"Fine, a few more minutes," Brit says. "But that's it. We can't keep stalling."
As she walks off, my heart's on fire. Maybe this was a stupid idea. I mean, if Nicole has refused to take any of my calls or even text me back, what makes me think she'll show up to this dinner?
I can feel my optimism fading faster than a phone battery on 20 percent.
Yes, this was definitely stupid. I never should've—
My thoughts are interrupted when I see who just walked through the front door.
She's gorgeous. Drop-dead gorgeous with her hair framing her face like a halo.
Everyone seems to turn in their seats when she enters.
It's Nicole.
She came.
Nicole
As soon as I walk through the doors of the Pearl, I'm taken by surprise. This doesn't look like a restaurant's final night.
Every critic in the city is here. There's Francis Ball, the food critic of the New York Times for the last decade or so. There's also Rachel Smith, a celebrity chef with over a dozen #1 cookbooks under her belt. I also spot Joe March, the obnoxious chef who tells it like it is and, in doing so, has won a Pulitzer for keeping every chef in the world on their toes.
Even Percy Whitman is here. Why is he here if he hates Palmer so much? Maybe he's here for the same reason I am… to watch him go down in a ball of flames.
But sitting here now, that's not the impression I get. It doesn't feel like Palmer's going down at all. In fact, it feels like the opposite is true; it feels like he's on top.
This room is filled with the most impressive culinary group of people ever gathered in a single room.
I get the sense that something big is coming.
A waiter comes by and offers me a glass of champagne. I thank him and take a sip. I recognize the variety right away.
It's Champagne Collet Brut Art Deco. One of my favorites. Did Palmer know that?
I take another sip and am overcome with the flavors of raspberry and apricot, and even candied lemon peel. Everything about it is perfect.
"Can I have your attention please, everyone," Palmer says, and my eyes dart to the front of the dining room.
"First, I want to thank each and every one of you for being here tonight—even my most outspoken critics."
Palmer looks directly at Percy as he says this and I hear some low murmurs in the crowd.
He continues, "I have a very special evening planned tonight."
"This should be good," Kate whispers into my ear. She promised to join me tonight, and I'm glad she came. If she didn't, I'm not sure I would've been able to muster the courage to come here alone.
"I'm excited to present a dish to you this evening that I've worked long and hard on," Palmer says to the crowd. He then lifts the silver lid off of a dish and everyone's necks are craning to get a good look at it.
"Tonight, I present to you a Bodacious Bucatini Bolognese with heirloom tomatoes," he says, and the entire dining room erupts in applause. I hear whispers from the table next to me. "I didn't know he had a dish like this," one woman says.
And my heart sinks. It's sinking faster than the Titanic.
I've been tricked. Again.
If I weren't already so emotionally spent, I'd cry. But I can't even cry right now because that emotion has turned into anger.
I'm angry and shocked.
He adapted my grandmother's secret recipe and he invited me here tonight to rub it in my face and use it as his own.
My face is hotter than a campfire. "I told you," I say to Kate. "I never should've come here tonight. This was a huge mistake."
Kate doesn't say anything, but instead tenderly places her hand on top of mine.
Waiters are bringing this dish to every table and diners are smiling. Critics are taking notes and their faces tell me just how impressed they are.
I'm astonished as I look around the dining room.
I've never felt so bad in my life. There's this blackness in the pit of my stomach. It's like I don't want to die, but I don't exactly want to live, and I feel lonely… but I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want to crawl into my bed and hide away from the world.
I feel lost. I'm disgusted with myself. My limbs feel heavy, like they're weighed down with lead anchors. It feels like I'm on a bus and I'm ringing to signal the driver to stop because all I want to do is get off this ride, but the bus just keeps going, and all I can do is watch the world move by through the windows.
I think I've hit an all-time low.
Great. Just when I thought I wasn't going to cry, I feel hot tears well up behind my eyelids and they're threatening to spill over.
I beg my body to not betray me like this. I can't cry. Not now. Not in front of this crowd.
I gather my purse and turn to Kate. "I'm sorry, but I have to leave."
But just as I'm about to stand up, Palmer makes another announcement.
And it's so surprising that I'm frozen to my seat.
Palmer
There are murmurs building louder through the crowd and my heart is beating so fast, I f
eel as if I might die right here, in front of the world's most powerful culinary critics.
That would be embarrassing.
I tell myself to breathe. Just breathe. Everything is going to be OK.
I hear a song play in my head:
"Everything's gonna be alright, everything's gonna be okay."
Right. It's now or never.
This is the moment I've been waiting for.
"I'm glad you are all enjoying this dish, but I have a confession to make," I say to the room, and every table goes silent. I'm talking silent enough to hear a fly land on a napkin. Every single set of eyes is now fixed on me.
"I invited you here tonight to help me surprise Chef Nicole," I say, and everyone is turning in their seats, looking for her. She seems genuinely surprised.
"You see… one night she cooked this most amazing dish for me. It transported me to another time and place. The place of her ancestors. It was authentic, and so full of depth of flavor and love and creativity… and it told a story.
“More than that, it showed her genius as a fellow chef. I was planning to surprise her with this new dish tonight."
There are now murmurs rumbling through the room again, but I continue on.
"This new dish was supposed to be a blend of my style and hers… a collaboration, if you will."
My eye's lock on Nicole's and I can't decipher what she's thinking. But she still seems to be in a state of shock.
"I did this as a way to say that I love her—I love this woman—and sometimes different things come together, combine, and become something beautiful."
Now Nicole's holding one hand to her mouth and she's crying. Even from this distance, I can see the tears streaking down her cheeks.
The entire room is clapping.
"Bravo—congratulations!" I hear the crowd shout. But I raise my hand to silence them.
"Please don't clap for me," I say. "Clap for Nicole. Congratulate her instead, because she's the only reason I managed to do something like this. She has elevated the way I approach cooking and my own cuisine."
The crowd grows louder. The clapping has now reached a fevered pitch and everyone is on their feet, turning to Nicole.
I watch as the major food critics approach her table. Rachel Smith reaches her first.
