Taste: A Love Story

by Tracy Ewens

  Kara smiled. At the age of twenty-one, she had been called many things, mostly well mannered, or even elegant, but no one, let alone a breathless boy with golden-brown eyes, had ever told her she was beautiful. She believed him that day.

  “Thank you.” She felt an overwhelming need to be honest about something. “I like you too.”

  Logan had smiled a glorious smile that touched the sides of his face as he took his hand from her neck.

  “Do you want to go see a movie? The Bourne Ultimatum is playing tonight, I checked,” he asked.

  “I would,” was all Kara could say at that point. It was a perfect moment and she knew even back then she would remember it forever.

  “Thank God.” Logan let out a breath. “I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard or been so damn nervous asking someone out.”

  They both laughed and Kara kissed him again when he walked her home after their first movie in Paris.

  Sitting on her couch now, Kara was surrounded by the memory and was so grateful that in that moment when Logan first kissed her, she had no idea how things would unravel only a couple of months later. She was happy they had that moment and she would carry it in her heart forever. Things were different now, but if all it took was watching Matt Damon kick some ass for her to travel back to a time of firsts, when things were simple, she wasn’t going to complain.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Pasadena Tribune article hadn’t hurt Logan’s restaurant one bit. In fact, over a week later it proved a huge boost. People loved what they called the “romantic picture,” and started showing up for lunch and dinner hoping to see Logan and Kara together. It was bizarre, but Makenna was happy and Olivia was thrilled, so Kara went along with it. Olivia wanted the second part of the feature out as soon as possible, so Kara arrived at The Yard bright and early the following Monday morning to get pictures of Logan, the restaurant, and his staff before they had to start prepping to open. She had just finished helping set up the prep guys in the kitchen when she came around to the server’s station.

  “Great, can you pull your shirt out?” the photographer asked Logan who was set up in a mock exchange at the kitchen window.

  “What?”

  “Your shirt, we need it out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it looks better. It goes with the scene.”

  “What scene? This is my scene and it says tucked shirt.”

  The photographer brought his camera to his hip and appeared to be looking for Kara. She was now standing right behind him.

  “I’m not sure what you want me to do here, he doesn’t want to take his shirt out,” he complained to Kara.

  Logan started to laugh, and when Kara was about to say something, Jeremy, the lead photographer, walked over.

  “What’s going on over here?” Jeremy asked his guy who suddenly appeared a little less sure of himself.

  “He doesn’t want his shirt out?”

  “Okay, well this is his restaurant. The article is about him, not about your fashion advice. Go outside to the garden and take pictures of things you don’t have to interact with.” Jeremy rolled his eyes and swung his camera around to take over.

  “Thanks, Jeremy.” Kara stepped back prepared to watch him work.

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” He leaned forward and moved the stack of cloth silverware rolls out of his frame. “All right you crazy defiant shirt tucker, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  Logan and Travis, who was now on the other side of the service window, laughed and Jeremy got his shot.

  “That’s it.” He took a few more shots of the pizza counter and one of Logan’s tattooed arm, which Kara was sure he would keep for his own portfolio.

  “Really? We’re done?” Logan’s shoulders relaxed.

  “Piece of cake. Thanks for your time. That’s a great tat.”

  “Thanks, man.” Logan bumped Jeremy’s fist.

  Kara always wondered how men managed to assess each other and connect with such ease. She’d watched her brother and his friends and even men in a corporate professional environment. Her father even fist bumped some of his colleagues and voters. Why didn’t women fist bump? Why was her gender so in need of knowing everything about each other, sniffing around? Life would be so much easier, she thought, if women just fist bumped.

  “That’s a fleur-de-lis, isn’t it?” Jeremy asked as both men walked toward Kara.

  “It is.” Logan twisted his arm to see the back where Jeremy was pointing.

  “Kara, check out this tattoo.” Jeremy leaned in for a closer look.

  The tattoo again, as if she hadn’t noticed, thanks for bringing it up, Jeremy. Believe me, I’d like to see that tattoo and everything else it’s connected to, she thought, but did not say. Instead, she gave her best neutral face as her eyes settled for Logan’s beautifully defined swimmer’s arm.

  “The fleur-de-lis is crumbling and look at the heart with the lock on it. Really cool, man.”

  “Thanks. I got that one before I left Paris.”

  Kara followed the design on Logan’s arm, and then she met his eyes, which were on her, but not willing to give any answers. The fleur-de-lis was a famous French symbol. Usually represented the kings, queens, and . . . princesses. There were strands of curling hair swirling around the crumbling symbol. It was beautiful. Before she could say anything, Logan was walking Jeremy and the rest of his crew out to their cars.

  As he walked back from sending them off, Makenna ran up from the back office.

  “Are they gone?” she asked looking out the bar windows. “Shit, I wanted them to get a picture of the two of you.”

  Logan wrinkled his brow. “What?”

  “Since we are getting such a great response from that article, I thought we could play it up a little, maybe even put a picture on our upcoming Valentine’s Day menu. You know that’s going to be a huge night for us, we’re nearly sold out already.”

  “Without the picture? We are nearly sold out without the picture, huh, it must be about the food then.” Logan ruffled Makenna’s hair. “You’re nuts.”

  “Well of course it’s about the food, but people genuinely like you two. When are you guys going to accept what’s going on and be a thing?”

  Makenna looked at Logan and Kara, both of them expressionless.

  “Did you want to take this one?” Logan turned to Kara.

  She shook her head. “Nope, it’s all yours.”

  “We’re not a thing,” he said.

  Kara thought it was well delivered, even a little stern, until Makenna started laughing in his face. After a few seconds, she patted him on the back and then disappeared into the back room without another word.

  Logan shrugged. “She’s sleep deprived.”

  Kara smiled, still wondering if she, or rather what they used to be, was somewhere in the swirling colors of Logan’s tattoo.

  Kara returned to the office after the photo shoot for some afternoon meetings and to look at the proofs. She was back at The Yard later that evening and stole a few opportunities to speak with Logan’s pizza guys and even some of the now regular patrons. Her story was shaping up, which was good because Olivia wanted to see a draft in her e-mail first thing in the morning.

  After closing, Kara sat at the pizza counter while Logan went into the kitchen. Neither of them had eaten dinner, and her stomach growled when he came back with his hands full. She’d accepted that she was hungrier and eating more these days. Logan sliced a loaf of crusted bread, poured olive oil in a dish, and put the combination up on the counter in front of her.

  “Okay, we have chicken left over from lunch and these green beans need to be used, so it’s cold chicken and my green beans. Any takers?”

  “Sounds good.” Kara pulled apart a piece of bread.

  “Did you hear Makenna bought Paige a bike for Christmas?”

  “I did.” She finished chewing. “Handlebar streamers and all. God, bike Christmases were always the best.”

  “C
hristmas is better when you’re a kid. I think it’s the toys. Once you start moving into clothes and electronics, it’s just not the same.” Logan sliced the chicken and layered it on the small platter.

  “That’s so true. I’m not sure when my childhood ended and I moved into that, but I think it was my swing set. I remember I used to live on the swings in our backyard. Always with bare feet. Oh, and I never wanted my hair brushed back then, never had the time.” Kara cradled her teacup and crossed her legs. “I can still feel it. The grass on my toes and the sound of the chain swinging back and forth. The whoosh on my face as I pumped higher and higher.”

  She shared her story and somehow never felt foolish around him. Something about Logan, when they were alone and not volleying back and forth, made her comfortable, as if she was wrapped in a blanket. He walked around to her side of the counter, put a piece of bread in his mouth, and sat down with a bowl of green beans. He began pulling the ends off and looking at her, listening as if she were the most interesting person on the planet.

  “I loved that swing set, flying through the air, up near the trees in our backyard, but still holding on.”

  Logan smiled and her heart thumped in her chest. The man could smile.

  “Anyway, I seem to have lost the point of the story.”

  “What happened?” Logan asked, still trimming the beans.

  “What?”

  “What happened to the swing set? I mean, is it still there, in the backyard?”

  Kara watched his hands move from bowl to bowl and remembered the point of her story.

  “It was just gone one day. They took it down because it was rusting and we were getting too old and whatever other perfectly adult reasons my parents came up with. I got home from school, I must have been in the 5th grade, and it was gone. Dead grass outlining where my childhood used to be. I guess I grew up after that. Started shaving my legs, wearing dresses.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, I’m sure it wasn’t just like that, like the same day.” She gave an unnatural laugh. “But when I look back on it now, it sure feels that way. Strange how something like a swing set can change things?”

  “It is.” Wiping his hands, he took both metal bowls back into the kitchen. “I guess my swing set was a dump truck.”

  Kara sipped her tea and waited for him to share himself.

  “It was yellow. One of those real metal ones. You know, before they started making everything plastic for safety or whatever?”

  Kara nodded and Logan took a frying pan, brown and black from use, off the stack next to the range top, lit the burner, and added a large swirl of olive oil. Watching him cook or do anything in the kitchen was like watching a dance. At some points his movements were slow and easy; at others, frantic and passionate. He added shallots and swirled the pan over the flame.

  “I think I got it for my fifth birthday. Brand new and shiny. My Pop Pop, Dad’s dad, gave it to me.” He watched as the pan sizzled. “I loved that truck. I took it everywhere. It was dented and repaired, and I remember putting tape on the plastic windshield over and over again.” Logan laughed.

  Kara finished her tea and went into the kitchen.

  “Do you still have it in a box somewhere?” she asked, sliding behind him to get more hot water.

  “No.” He added the green beans to the pan. “My mom, she was . . .” Logan seemed reluctant, eyes on the pan. “She threw it against the wall when I was six.”

  Kara put her hand to her mouth. Logan paused for a minute, let out a breath, and then returned to the rhythm of his pan.

  “Why?” Kara finally asked, returning to the counter.

  “She was vacuuming. Not exactly the domestic type.” He smiled. “She must have been pissed my dirty truck was in the house.” He switched the flame off.

  “Anyway, at least it dented the wall before it broke into three pieces,” he said eventually, turning the beans out onto a white oval dish. “I cried. She threw it out. It was all very poor-baby tragic.” He laughed, sort of.

  “How old were you when she,” Kara hesitated, not quite sure how to get the word out and equally confused about why she needed to know, “died?”

  “Garrett was eight.” Logan’s expression seemed strained, as if he wasn’t sure what to say.

  Of course, she didn’t know what it was like to lose her mother in grade school, so she just listened.

  “I was almost seven and Makenna was five,” he continued.

  “So . . . right around the same time you lost your truck?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened, had she been sick?”

  He put the beans and the sliced chicken up on the counter and walked around to take a seat again. Logan put a small plate in front her and gave himself one. He served the beans, with tongs, onto each plate and then the chicken.

  “Dad bought me a new one, a truck, with a new windshield and plastic body.” Logan reached over the counter for two wineglasses. He poured a deep, rich burgundy wine. “Yeah, I never touched the new one. Wasn’t the same.”

  Kara pushed her tea aside and took one of the glasses from him. He handed her a fork and then picked up one of the beans off his plate and took a bite.

  “Does that mean you don’t want to talk about it?” Kara asked with a small smile as she sipped her wine. “I’m pretty well versed in the art of the dodge, so I recognize it.”

  Logan smiled, not giving in. “I’m sure the truck was donated or given away at some point. I moved on to my bike and baseball cards. That time was over.” He took another bite and Kara dropped it. He didn’t want to talk about his mother or her death and she couldn’t blame him.

  “Hmm . . . not bad, but you’re the expert,” he teased.

  Kara rolled her eyes and took another bite of the most delicious green beans. Crisp and cooked perfectly, but she would keep that to herself.

  Logan held up his wineglass for a toast and Kara joined him.

  “Okay, so here’s to the sad tragic demise of our childhoods. May there be enough olive oil to ease the ache.”

  They sipped and Kara laughed. There was a glimpse of pain in Logan’s eyes that she had never been given access to before. They held in that moment for a breath and then it was gone. She saw him as a child with his truck and the fear of losing not only his favorite toy, but also his mother.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kara was at the restaurant early the next morning, mainly to show Logan the photographs she’d selected and to ask a few more questions Olivia had e-mailed her last night. She wanted them added to the article, and even though Kara felt she had finished the second article, she knew better than to argue with Olivia. The Yard didn’t open for lunch for a few more hours, so she’d agreed to ask while Logan started the prep work. She went to grab the folding chair under the clock in the kitchen and noticed a Daniel Tiger lunch box. She recognized him from the PBS show Eloise watched.

  “Is this your lunch box?” she asked, smiling at Logan who had started sharpening knives.

  “Nah, although it is pretty sweet.” He smiled. “That belongs to Paige. They must have left it. Just set it on the floor.”

  Kara did and then scooted the chair closer to where he was working.

  “Okay, so tell me about people who have inspired you in the industry, mentors?” She held her pencil at the ready.

  “Wow.” Logan put the sharpener away and wiped down the knives. “That’s a broad question. When I was in high school I worked at Subway one summer with a manager who told me a sandwich worth making was worth making right. He also taught me that tomatoes tasted better at room temperature. Both valuable lessons I still use today.”

  Kara stopped writing. “You want me to go back to my editor with a Subway manager as your culinary influence?”

  “Not fancy enough? Fine. My father has taught me everything I know about hard work. Get up early, sleep hard, and don’t whine. No one is coming to save you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “O
h, that’s the Rye family fight song.” Logan laughed. “All right, I’ll get serious. Chef Trevor Brant at the Fairmont taught me about cooking good food fast. He told me to create it and then let it fly. Also to take responsibility if what I made was shit. Madame Auclair, who I know you remember, taught me sauces, how to cut meat, and the importance of presentation. And then I guess, Greg Rast from Tableu. He was an incredible all-around chef. I learned braising and that a salad dressing should be simple. I mean this is a crazy question. I’ve learned from everyone I’ve worked with and I continue to learn. Just last week, Bernie, our pizza guy, showed me that our sausage had too much fennel seed and not enough pepper flakes. He was right. We changed it, and that was only a few days ago. I guess that’s why I love this job. It’s constantly changing and I’m never going to know everything. It keeps me on my toes. I like that.”

  Kara was no longer writing anything. She didn’t need to; she would remember this conversation. Logan was fun to watch in the kitchen. His hands continued to move as he put pasta through a press and laid out sheets for what she assumed would be some kind of ravioli.

  “Christ, I need a nap after that question. Are we almost done? Can I get an easy one next while I cut these out?” He held up what appeared to be a cookie cutter.

  “Sure.” She glanced down at her questions, none of which looked easy. She noticed Daniel Tiger looking up from the lunch box next to her with his sweet little eyes. She had her next question. “Did you have a lunch box when you were a kid?”

  “I did.” Logan didn’t seem fazed by the change of topic as he turned the large strips of pasta into disks. “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you make your own lunch?” he asked.

  “What do you think?”

  At that, Logan looked up.

  “Your mother?”

  Kara gave him the “try again” look.

  “The cook?”

  Kara touched her nose indicating he got it right.

  “Ah. Yeah well, I made the lunches. Actually, Garrett had hot lunch, but I made lunch for Kenna and myself. After a while, I made lunch for Dad too. Now, he had a cool lunch box. You know the metal ones, they’re like a blue color, with the matching Thermos?”