The Saturday Night Supper Club

by Carla Laureano

  The thought of Alex brought with it a bittersweet pang of longing that so fully enveloped her, she didn’t notice Mitchell Shaw arrive until he was standing in front of her.

  She blinked dumbly at him and he gave her a patient smile. “May I join you, or are you waiting for someone else?”

  A self-conscious laugh slipped from her lips. “Of course. Sorry. I was just thinking how different downtown looks in the morning.”

  He seated himself across from her. “Too many years locked in a windowless kitchen?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then we’ll make sure you have windows in your new one. There’s nothing that says the kitchen has to be located in the back.” He spread his hands wide. “But this is your show. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Rachel turned the presentation folder toward him and flipped it open. “If you know Paisley, which you likely do, you’ve got a good idea of my culinary point of view. My tasting menus have consistently sold out, so this time I’m proposing a menu composed almost entirely of small plates.”

  “Plenty of restaurants are using that concept already.”

  “Plenty of restaurants don’t have me as a chef.” Rachel smiled, but she held his eye so he didn’t think she was kidding. This was not the time for false humility. “I would make everything available à la carte, as well as within thematically arranged tasting menus.”

  He flipped the menu card over and his eyebrows rose. “That’s interesting. Familiar, but still a unique hook. There’s no one doing it quite this way in Denver. I see you’ve got one menu that’s completely comprised of unusual dishes.”

  “Since we’d be sourcing our meat and vegetables locally from organic farmers, I’d take a nose-to-tail, root-to-stem approach. Special tasting menus are a good way to do that, giving adventurous eaters a story to tell while not alienating more timid guests. The clientele who will eat pork jowl and offal are not necessarily the same as those who want scallops and hanger steak. There should be something for both groups.”

  He began skimming the business plan. “I’ll want to take this with me and look over the numbers, but it seems to be in line with what I had in mind.”

  “If I may ask, what did you have in mind?”

  “Lower floor of my Seventeenth Street building, prime location. You’ll have visibility from the street, potential to build out the space to your specifications.” He smiled. “Including the kitchen on the window side. It would be a novel take on the exhibition kitchen idea. I contribute the space and the build-out; you contribute the rest.”

  “In return for what?”

  “Fifty percent.”

  “Gross?”

  “Net.”

  Rachel carefully let out a breath. It was generous. Rent on that space would easily be in the six figures per year. If he took his cut from profit and not receipts, and she had reduced overhead from not having a traditional lease, she could see a return on her investment in months, not years.

  She reined in her excitement. “I want full creative and administrative control. Menu, staff, seating hours.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll have input, but I still reserve the right to make a final decision. That space would command nearly $175,000 in lease income. You’ll be making back your investment long before I do. Should you make any decisions that hurt the restaurant, I’d be the one taking the hit. Remember, I’m not the only one affected here. My shareholders, my tenants, even the foundations I support rely on me to make wise business decisions. And if you’ll excuse my bluntness, you have somewhat of a flawed track record here in Denver.”

  Rachel’s thoughts spun while she processed Mitchell’s words. What he was asking wasn’t unreasonable. He was putting up a big investment between lost income and out-of-pocket construction costs. Besides, this wasn’t a quiet opening in some revitalized neighborhood. This would be a high-profile return to Denver’s food scene. She would be in the same class as the other award-winning chefs with their own places in Union Station and Larimer Square. A destination for travelers and locals alike.

  And yet, this conversation felt all too familiar. This was how her relationship with Dan and Maurice had begun, reasonable caution against potential risk. She’d had to compromise little by little, until the restaurant barely resembled her initial vision. She’d been afraid to stand up to them, afraid that they would pull their support and Paisley would go under. Afraid that without their help, she would reveal herself to be a failure. If she were completely truthful, she’d lost her restaurant long before they’d bought her out.

  “Rachel?”

  She folded her hands atop the table and let her gaze roam around the restaurant. “Every time I come here, I think, ‘If I had it to do over again, I might have a place like this.’ It’s on trend and yet it has a sense of place in the community. I like that it’s accessible to everyone for the cost of a pastry.” She pulled her eyes back to the man across from her. “Admittedly, it will cost you fifteen bucks, but that’s a low-enough entry fee to a beautiful spot in a historical landmark.”

  Mitchell’s brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

  Rachel swiveled her menu toward herself and looked it over like it was the first time. It was excellent, both technically and creatively. But she had no more connection to it than she did to any of the dishes she’d created in other people’s restaurants. She was confining herself to what would appeal to the Denver foodies and their expectations for high-end dining. In some ways, Alex’s Russian dinner was a better meal than her own. Truly good food had to do more than fill the stomach. It should touch the heart, tug on memory.

  The realization flew in the face of everything on which she had staked her career.

  Ana’s words came back to her: “Independent. Determined. Willing to hold out for what we really want, whatever that is.”

  And now, what she really wanted was a chance to do things her way. It would be on a smaller scale. It would probably be regarded by her fellow chefs as a big step down, a cautionary tale of what poor judgment could bring. But she couldn’t go on indefinitely, too afraid to try.

  Rachel took a deep breath. “I’m honored by your confidence in me. It’s a generous offer. It’s better than what I thought I could command after what happened at Paisley. But ultimately, I think I need the freedom to explore what kind of chef I want to be.” She looked him in the eye, thought she saw a spark of growing respect there. “I might succeed or I might fail spectacularly. But I’ve let other people tell me who I am and what I should be for far too long.”

  Mitchell nodded slowly. “I’ll admit I’m a little disappointed. I was there on Paisley’s opening night, while we were still under construction on the building, and I told Kathy I was going to steal the chef for our flagship restaurant.”

  Rachel stared at him. “You didn’t come to the supper club as a favor to Alex?”

  “I came because it was a chance to see what kind of person you are away from the restaurant. I like to know who I’m doing business with. Talent only counts for so much if it’s not matched by character.” Mitchell chuckled. “Plus, Alex is like a son to me. I wanted to see this woman he was so taken with.”

  She rose and held out her hand. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Shaw.”

  He rose as well, but instead of shaking her hand, he took it in both of his. “You didn’t waste anything, Rachel. I’ll be watching to see what you do next.”

  He strode away without a backward glance, and Rachel lowered herself to her chair on shaking legs. She’d just turned down the offer of a lifetime.

  And she didn’t regret it.

  As the adrenaline seeped from her body, a weary, helpless laugh welled up in its place. Mitchell had known about her long before the supper club existed. All that striving and worrying and determination to make something happen, and it would have come about on its own one way or another. She might as
well not have done the supper club at all.

  She would never have gotten to know Alex and gotten her heart broken.

  Wouldn’t have broken his in the process.

  And yet God had used him to help open her eyes, help her see that maybe she wasn’t just a name above the door of a restaurant, that she had something to offer just by being herself. Yes, he should have talked to her earlier, told her what he was doing, but earlier she might not have been ready to hear it. Maybe she’d needed to first let go of one dream to embrace another.

  Before she could embrace him.

  She pulled out her cell phone and, heedless of the restaurant full of people, dialed. It went to voice mail on the first ring.

  “Alex, it’s Rachel. I read your manuscript.” She swallowed and reordered her thoughts. “I need to see you. I wasn’t fair to you. Call me, please? That is, if you can forgive me?”

  She set her phone down in the center of the table where she’d be sure to see it ring. Then she went to the counter and ordered another coffee, daring to dream about what might come next.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “JOHNNY, PULL THE GRATIN out of the oven, will you?”

  Rachel threw the question over her shoulder as she ran her knife through the pile of walnuts on her cutting board. She scooped up the pieces and transferred them to the salad bowl.

  Melody appeared at Rachel’s elbow. “What can I do?”

  “Slice up that beautiful miche you brought and put it on the table with the butter?”

  Melody immediately pulled a serrated bread knife off the magnetic strip while Rachel finished tossing the salad.

  “Wait, the soup. Behind you . . .” Rachel wove around Johnny, grabbed two towels, and lifted the enameled cast iron pot from the range top. This kitchen wasn’t designed for more than one cook, and yet somehow the inefficiency didn’t bother her. No one was watching or judging here. No one was anxious to get out and on with their evening. Tonight there was no agenda beyond food and conversation.

  She placed the pot on a trivet in the center of the table and called, “Dinner’s on, everyone!”

  Slowly, guests made their way from the living room, cocktails and glasses of wine in hand. Chairs scraped the wood floor while they seated themselves. Rachel remained standing at the head of the table.

  “Welcome to the Saturday Night Supper Club, take two. It might be a little less fancy than the first version, but what we lack in refinement, we make up for in volume.”

  The guests laughed, sending knowing looks at the crowd of dishes at the center of the table. No plated meals, she had decided. No fancy design or rare ingredients. Just good hearty food and plenty of it, served family style like the staff dinners she had loved. Appropriately, half of the guests were friends and coworkers with some connection to Paisley: Melody, Ana, Camille, and Johnny. The rest were newcomers to her table: Johnny’s roommate, Regan, a medical student who kept as odd hours as the cook; Camille’s friend Vanessa, who was a hairstylist at a downtown salon; and Melody’s bakery coworker, Hugo. It was a friendly, outgoing group that had found commonalities from the moment they walked in the door.

  And yet Rachel couldn’t help but feel one conspicuous absence. It had been eight days, and Alex hadn’t returned her call. After she’d moped around for four of those with her phone glued to her hand like a permanent appendage, Ana had taken her by the shoulders and demanded that she pull herself together.

  “Find something to do, Rachel,” she had said. “If he’s going to call, he’s going to call. But I swear if you’re that anxious to talk on the phone, I’m going to put you at the reception desk at my office and make you field the incoming calls. While wearing a business suit.”

  Melody had shushed Ana, but the silly threat had been enough to snap Rachel from her melancholy, even though she feared Alex’s silence was an answer she didn’t want to hear. She’d asked Alex to call her back if he could forgive her. He hadn’t. Seemed like a pretty clear answer.

  “So, Rachel, why do I think you’ve got something important to tell us?” Camille leaned forward hopefully, her eyes sparkling.

  “I do,” Rachel said slowly, “but it’s probably not what you think.”

  Melody and Ana looked at her in puzzlement. She’d told them that she’d turned down Mitchell Shaw’s offer, but even they didn’t know about her most recent conclusions. Now that it was time, jitters danced in her stomach. It was one thing to make a decision privately, another to say it aloud and make it true.

  “I was recently approached by an investor who wanted to open a restaurant with me near Union Station—” Johnny and Camille grinned in anticipation—“but I turned him down.”

  “What?” Johnny asked.

  “I have decided that I want to go a different direction for my next restaurant.” She took a breath. “In the meantime, I have applied to CU Denver for the winter semester and I’m going to be teaching at a culinary school in the fall.”

  Ana and Melody looked as stunned as Camille and Johnny.

  Camille voiced what they were all no doubt thinking. “Why?”

  “I always felt like I missed my chance by not going to college. I want to better understand all the disciplines I’ve been missing—marketing, accounting, economics—so when I do open my restaurant, I have all the tools I need to be successful. I won’t need to take a partner to fill in the gaps. And as for the teaching . . . I wouldn’t have the life I have now if it weren’t for cooking. I like the idea of passing my knowledge on.”

  “I can’t say I’m not disappointed,” Camille said. “Johnny and I were kind of hoping when we walked away from Paisley, we’d be going back to work for you.”

  Before, those words would have spiked guilt in Rachel, but not now. She could only follow the path before her and trust God would send her the right people to join her at the right time. She had no doubt He would be there beside her. “I know you’ll find the perfect place. And if you two need a recommendation, you know where to find me. For what it’s worth.”

  She seated herself and held out her hand. “What are you waiting for? Dig in.”

  The lids came off dishes; bread was passed; wine was poured. Vanessa turned out to be an enthusiastic home cook, and she peppered Rachel with questions about the meal: ingredients, timing, technique. Rachel didn’t mind. She’d done the same thing in her days as a food runner, until they put a knife in her hand to shut her up.

  Down the table, Camille and Melody were debating the respective merits of the music scenes in Austin, Nashville, and New Orleans, while Regan and Ana were talking about Manila. It turned out Regan had been an Air Force kid who spent his early years in the Philippines while his dad was stationed at Clark Air Base.

  Rachel smiled and took the bread board as it was passed to her, warmed by the experience of strangers becoming friends over a table full of food. Wasn’t that what she’d always wanted, both as a child and at her restaurant? To be part of the warmth, the particular intimacy that only came from sitting down and sharing a meal with people who were important to her?

  A knock rattled her front door. She excused herself and rose to answer it. When she opened it, she blinked in disbelief.

  “Alex? What are you doing here?”

  He was dressed as always in jeans and a T-shirt, a week’s worth of growth covering his face. He looked more rugged than usual but every bit as handsome. She couldn’t quell the leap of her heart at his unexpected presence.

  “I got your message.” He looked past her at a sudden spill of laughter. “Are you having a party?”

  “Saturday Night Supper Club, part two.” She stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her, her heart thumping a drumbeat. When she crossed her arms over her chest, it was as much a barrier against him as the night’s chill. “I had begun to think you weren’t speaking to me.”

  “No! I was in Breckenridge and I forgot my phone charger. I didn’t even think to check my messages until I got home—” He broke off as if he rea
lized that wasn’t really what mattered anyway. “I’m sorry. I never meant for you to think I was angry with you.”

  “What were you doing in Breckenridge?”

  “Working. Finishing my proposal.” He grimaced. “Rachel, it’s not what you think. I know I should have told you what I was writing before I sent it to Christine, made sure you were okay with it. I truly never meant to hurt you or betray your trust—”

  As much as she was enjoying seeing him flustered, he looked so miserable she couldn’t let him continue to think the worst. She stepped forward and stilled his words with a finger to his lips. “I read it.”

  “And?”

  “It was beautiful.” Even now, she had to fight the prick of tears. “I never imagined when you were writing about me, it would be something like that.”

  “Then why did you turn down Mitchell? I almost didn’t believe him when he told me. That was your dream.”

  “I realized that I’ve spent so many years trying to prove I could be successful, I never stopped to wonder what I should be successful at. I figured if I calculated my risks, played the odds, executed everything perfectly, no one would know I felt like a fraud.

  “But your words that night, your essay—they made me realize I’m not going to be happy trying to be something I’m not. God made me this way for a reason, and it’s time to embrace it. See what else He has in mind for me.”

  He captured her hand. “Does that mean I haven’t ruined everything between us?”

  She stepped closer and looked up into his face, so filled with hope. “Not if you can forgive me. I said I trusted you and then immediately thought the worst of you when you’ve done nothing but support me. I’m sorry.”

  He threaded his hand through her hair and tilted her head back so he could look into her eyes. “I love you, Rachel Bishop. I have for longer than you realize. And whatever we do from this point on, I want to do it together.”