Holiday Magic

by Fern Michaels

  She paid her dues in other ways. Despite having attended a highly reputable culinary institute where French cooking was king, she soon learned that according to Y&S (as Yvette and Stephan were known), everything she had learned there was wrong. They were all too happy to school her in the “real ways of the French.” S was a tall man with a protruding Santa Claus belly. Y was tall and skinny. Every time Y made a crack about Americans being fat, Tara managed not to point out that S looked like he had swallowed a baby whale. Besides, he was the one who seemed to be rooting for her, spending numerous hours tutoring her until she got every one of their signature sauces just right. She knew she’d been paid the highest compliment the day S tasted her Steak au Poivre sauce, closed his eyes, and said: “I’d barely know you aren’t French. Not Parisian of course, but you’d pass for provincial.” It was good enough for her.

  The menu changed daily, and sometimes S would get a notion that he was going to decide what everyone was eating that evening, and if they didn’t like it, they could “crawl on their distasteful bellies to the yellow arches.” Like an actor who wouldn’t dare mention the Scottish play in a theatre, he would never, ever, utter the unimaginable word “McDonald’s.” New Yorkers, despite their reputations for being bossy, impatient, and cold, were all too happy to be bullied by S. No one ever turned a meal away. Tara was learning from a genius.

  And then Y&S decided they’d taken enough of a bite out of the Big Apple, and that they longed “for the sanity of Paris.” But instead of appointing her head chef, they imported a representative from France. Alain Costeau. Yes, like Jacques Cousteau, but no relation except for the fact that he treated Tara as if she were twenty thousand leagues under his sea. Alain hated all things American and that included sous-chef Tara Lane. He didn’t even half-smile like Y&S had eventually learned to do. And since Y&S smiled on opposite sides of their faces, on the rare occasion husband and wife stood together, they almost made a whole smile between them. But not Alain. Smiling would have interfered with his head-shaking, cursing, and pot-slamming. But all that was about to change. Tara had been given a Christmas miracle. Y&S had decided they missed crazy America after all, and so they were going to open a restaurant in the “Heart of the country.” Las Vegas.

  And Alain was going to run it. Tara was finally promoted to head chef. She couldn’t have been more proud if she’d been knighted by the Queen. And the best bit of all, she only had to put up with Alain’s cranky French ass for another few days.

  “You’re early,” Alain said when Tara walked in. He slammed the copper pot in his hand. Early, according to Alain, was just as much of an offense as being late. Tara took a deep breath and smiled. She put on her apron, washed her hands, and hummed, “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas.”

  “I’m early for a reason,” Tara said. “I’m going to decorate for Christmas.” Alain’s jaw dropped.

  “Christmas?” he said, as if he’d never heard the word. “Decorations?”

  “Nothing over the top,” Tara said. “A string of white lights outside, a few poinsettias—”

  “No,” Alain said. “We don’t do this.” It was true, they’d never decorated for any holiday. They were equal opportunity Scrooges. Once Tara had brought a tiny pumpkin in for Halloween, but before she could carve it Alain used it to make a puree for a soup. But Alain was leaving, he was leaving, he was leaving! She got to make decisions now; she was the head chef, and she was going to tastefully decorate La Fleur for Christmas.

  “You won’t even be here for Christmas,” Tara pointed out. “You’ll be in Vegas baby, remember?” Alain banged the copper pot, then picked up a silver sautéing pan and gave that a whack as well.

  “I am ’ere now,” he said, slathering on his accent like an overindulgent pat of butter. “And there will be no Christmas flooers.”

  “Flooers?” Tara said. Alain slammed the pot again.

  “Ze stupid red flooers!”

  “Oh. Flowers,” Tara said. No flowers in “La Fleur,” she thought. She waited for the familiar feeling of defeat and anger to drag her under. To her surprise, it didn’t come. Instead, she smiled. Alain frowned, then turned away. Tara wanted to whoop with joy, sing Christmas carols at the top of her lungs. That’s when it hit her. She should celebrate. She would celebrate. She would throw a good-bye party that really would be a kiss-my-ass party in disguise! It would look like the party was for Alain, but it would really be for her.

  She tried to contact Y&S. After all, they should chip in. She kept reaching their voice mail. She thought it was strange they weren’t answering; they should be in Vegas now, setting up shop. She turned to the other employees. Since it was a small restaurant there were only three servers, a hostess, and a busboy. None of them wanted to chip in. They all used Christmas as their excuse, but Tara suspected that like her, they didn’t think Alain deserved a going away party. She was tempted to tell them it was actually a party for her, but she didn’t want them to think their new head chef was too big for her chef’s hat. Instead, she used good old-fashioned guilt. They eventually coughed up ten dollars each. Not exactly the budget of the stars, but it was enough to buy a cheap bucket of flooers.

  She waited until the next day, when Alain wasn’t due until much later, to decorate. In addition to the BON VEGAS-AGE! banner, there were twinkling white lights, poinsettias, and early New Year’s noise accoutrements. Noise blowers, hats, and the cheapest champagne she could find, except for one bottle of Dom, which she was saving for an after-party of one. She picked up the nearest pot and banged it on the counter. Alain’s last day had arrived.

  At Tara’s urging, they hid in the walk-in refrigerator. Three slim, brunette waitresses, a jittery busboy from Ecuador, a tall African American hostess-slash-model, and Tara. They all had pots to bang, and cheap champagne to spray the minute Alain entered the walk-in to pick up his meat. Life was coming full circle, and it was a beautiful thing.

  “He’s late,” Sahara, the hostess-slash-model pointed out. They were all shivering, and Sahara’s nipples were poking out of her low cut dress. Tara didn’t want to be known as the boss who gave them frostbite.

  “Sorry,” Tara said. “Let’s get out of here.” It was just like Alain to be late on his last day. Sahara marched over to the freezer door and pulled. It didn’t budge. Tino, the busboy, stepped up with a smile and flexed his bicep. He put his hand on Tara’s shoulder and gently pushed her out of the way. He flexed the muscles in his arm again as he pulled on the handle.

  “It’s locked,” he said. All heads turned to Tara.

  “It can’t be,” Tara said. “It only locks from the kitchen side.” Tara tried the door next. She could feel the glares from her employees, and they were colder than the sub-degree temperatures. Yep, it was definitely locked, and there was only one person who could have locked it.

  “I told you he’d hate a party,” one of the brunettes whined. Tara pounded on the door. Soon, everyone joined in. They threw their bodies into it. When they heard the click of the door unlocking, it was too late to move back. It swung open with a groan and sent them all hurling toward the newly mopped kitchen floor face first. Their cheap champagne bottles dropped, rolled, burst, and drizzled across the floor, and the pots they’d been holding landed with disappointing pings and thuds. Alain towered over Tara. She looked at him through champagne-soaked bangs and tried to figure out what was different about him. When she realized what it was, she opened her mouth in a silent scream. He was smiling.

  “Zurprize,” he said. He had a string of her little white lights bunched in one hand and a large poinsettia in the other. Tara lurched out of the way as he dropped them on her. Enraged, she looked up to find him holding her prized bottle of Dom.

  “No,” she screamed. It was too little too late. He popped the cork. It rocketed to the ceiling and champagne burst out of the top. He upended the bottle over Tara’s head. Furious, she fought the urge to lick it off as it ran down her face. It was so expensive! Alain laughed, held his iP
hone out, and snapped her picture. Tara pulled herself upright, slipping as she did, on the wet floor. She’d never been so furious and so humiliated.

  “We did this for you,” she said. She pointed her index finger at Alain’s long, thin, nose. “You, you, you, you—French asshole!” She heard gasps behind her. Nobody had ever stood up to Alain, let alone called him names. (Except for the ones they called him behind his back, which everybody knows don’t really count.) Tara didn’t care. Years of culinary abuse had taken their toll. “You’re the biggest baby I’ve ever met in my entire life. You’re an ungrateful snob. You’re mean, you’re rude, and—your sauces are flat!” That one hit its target. Alain sucked in air and bellowed like a wounded animal. His hands flew up to his mouth. Tara ducked in case he was going to swing one of his pots at her head. Instead, he dropped his hands to his hips, shook his head like he pitied her, and smiled again. Holy Christmas, that made three in a row. Dread flooded her.

  “Did you not get the mammo?” Alain asked. Mammo? Tara absentmindedly touched her breast. Could he see a lump through her apron? She was too young for a mammogram. Especially since they had raised the age to fifty, which was still causing raging debates—

  “Memo,” Sahara whispered in her ear.

  “What memo?” Tara asked. Alain shook his head and made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound.

  “Y&S went to Vegas ahead of me. Zey discovered zey like to gamble. Zey gambled ze restaurant. Zey lost.”

  “Zey did?” Tara said.

  Alain’s frown deepened. “Zey did!” he shouted. “Zey lost ze restaurant. So zis French asshole, zis biggest baby, is back!” He leaned in and stared at her. His blond hair was full of static, flying away from his angular face as if he were coming in on a trapeze. His light blue eyes flashed with anger. “I am back,” he said, “for ze rest of my life.” He straightened himself out. Smiled again. “And you can call me ze Donald,” he said. He waited for her to ask why. She didn’t. She already knew. He said it anyway. “Because you are fired!” Tara looked around for support. Sahara hurried off to the hostess desk, Tino began sweeping up, and the brunettes flew to the tiny back patio to share a single cigarette. Tara squared her shoulders, picked up her poinsettia, lights, and near-empty bottle of Dom.

  “Elf you,” she said. He raised his right eyebrow quizzically and just stared at her. Definitely not as satisfying. She lifted her head, and waltzed out, resisting the urge to grab tablecloths and yank the place settings off the two-seaters as she exited. She waited until she was standing out on Irving Street to bust into tears. There was only one place on earth she wanted to be now, only one person who could help put a little bit of order back into her world. Thank God for her bartender-boyfriend.

  Chapter 3

  Pete Hillerman was the world’s best bartender-boyfriend. He was sexy, courteous, and funny. Some said he made the best cocktail in town; others said he was the best cocktail in town. Tara took a seat at the bar, trying to hold back her tears for his strong shoulders and understanding eyes. A tall, busty redhead appeared in front of her and plunked down a coaster.

  “What can I get you?” she said with a slight, ambiguous accent.

  “Pete,” Tara said. “You can get me Pete.” A loud cry went up from the other end of the bar. Tara looked over to see a young girl, hunched over and sobbing.

  “Pete’s gone,” the redhead said.

  “Gone,” the sobbing girl echoed. “Gone, gone, gone.”

  “Gone where?” Tara asked. Just her luck. He was probably skiing in Vermont, or visiting his grandmother in Florida.

  “Hollywood,” the redhead said.

  “What?” Tara asked.

  “He moved to LA,” the sobbing girl said. “Some wench told him he was wasting his talent in New York and should go to Hollywood. So he did. He landed the lead in a new pilot.” Tara froze. A month ago she’d come into the bar after a horrific fight with Alain. Pete listened to her go on for hours, even gave her a couple free drinks. She remembered being grateful, slightly tipsy. She had felt guilty she’d hogged the whole conversation, so she asked him about himself.

  “I came here to be an actor,” he said. He wiped down the counter and removed a couple of empty beer bottles. “Look at me now,” he said, holding them up. Tara knew what it was like to fight for your dream. Pete, of all people. He was so gorgeous and funny. He should be a star. He was loved by all the Upper West Side women. Tara stood on the legs of her barstool.

  “You should move to LA!” she cried.

  “You think?”

  “I don’t think, handsome, I know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m telling you—they’ll eat you up out there! Do you know how sexy you are? Do you? I swear to God, Pete—you have to move to LA! You’ll be a movie star!”

  Tara put her elbows on the bar and rested her head in her hands. He listened to her? He actually listened to her?

  “If I ever find that bitch I’m going to kill her!” the girl at the end of the bar screamed.

  “What can I get you?” the redhead repeated.

  “Did he leave anything behind the bar for me?” Tara asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a letter? Or a small gift?” A freaking plane ticket to LA? Tara stood on the rails of her barstool and tried to peer behind the counter. “Does anything back there say ‘Tara’ on it?”

  “Or Melody?” the girl said, also standing on her barstool.

  “Sit down, ladies,” the redhead said. “He’s gone. He’s never coming back. And there are no ‘Dear Tara’ or ‘Dear Melody’ or any other letters back here. Now what do you want to drink?”

  “Cyanide,” Tara said. The redhead glared.

  “I’ll buy,” Melody said.

  “Forget it,” Tara said. “I’m going home to my doorman.” Melody put her head down on the bar and resumed sobbing.

  Men never listened to her. Leave it to Pete to actually follow her drunken advice. Move to LA. Well, she’d done a good deed. He had the lead in a pilot. So what if she was out a boyfriend? Oh, who was she kidding? It was awful. The thought of meeting a new bartender she liked just as much, taking the time to let him get to know her, what drink she ordered depending on what mood she was in, knowing when to make her laugh, when to compliment her, when to offer real advice, and when to tell her she looked absolutely gorgeous, exhausted her. How many times was she going to have to go through this? At least she still had Henry.

  Henry Roulston was never going to abandon her. He’d been a doorman at her building longer than she’d been alive. He never took sick days. He always smiled. His uniform was always pressed, the door was always wide open, and he always had a cheery comment to throw at her. Always, such a comforting word at such a trying time.

  “I was wondering,” he’d say. “Did you poach anything today?” Henry could converse on a wide range of subjects. With Tara, he usually stuck to cooking. He confessed to watching cooking shows in his free time. He’d been encouraging Tara to sign up for Top Chef. Weekly, he’d inform her on the latest episode. “The secret ingredient last night was boar,” he’d say. “Now what would you have done with that?”

  “Hmm,” Tara would say. “Roast it over a flaming pit and serve it with a mango-chutney.” It didn’t matter what her response was, Henry would clap his hands in delight, then rub his stomach. Finally, he’d pat her on the back as if thanking her for being such a good sport. Just thinking of his kindness infused Tara with hope. Who cared if Pete flaked off to LA? Henry was her true love, the one man she’d always be able to count on.

  “Good evening, Tara,” he said. “Did you sauté anything this evening?” Tara torpedoed herself into Henry’s arms. He was stiff at first. But when her tears started, he let go of the door and hugged her back. Then gently, he pulled away, and handed her a handkerchief.

  “A handkerchief,” Tara said. “A real handkerchief.” Henry went over to the concierge desk and picked up a large yellow envelope. He handed it to her. Nadine’s mass C
hristmas letter. Of all times to get this. Tara dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

  “What’s wrong, darling?” Henry asked. Darling. He called her darling. Tara cried harder.

  “Do you know how hard it is to get even a cheap Kleenex off a man these days?” Tara said. “But you. You gave me a real handkerchief, Pete.”

  “Henry.”

  “What?”

  “You called me Pete. I’m Henry.”

  “I’m so sorry. Pete’s my boyfriend.”

  “The bartender across the street?”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s your boyfriend?” Now why did Henry sound dubious?

  “He was,” Tara said. “But he’s up and left me for a pilot!” Henry made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound and shook his head.

  “What airline?” Henry asked.

  “What?”

  “American? Jet Blue? United?”

  “A television pilot.”

  “Oh,” Henry said. “Good for him!” He clapped his hands in the air. And held his fist out to Tara for a bump. Instead, she poked it with her finger. For the first time ever, she had ill feelings toward her doorman-boyfriend.

  “But bad for me,” Tara said. “I was sacked today, and all I wanted was a pomegranate martini and some sympathy!”

  “You were sacked?” Henry said. “Fired?”

  “Can you believe it?” Tara said. “Tonight was supposed to be the best night of my life. I was going to become head chef. Then Alain locked me in the walk-in refrigerator, and when I finally escaped he announced he wasn’t going to Vegas because Y&S lost it gambling and I was a goner!” Tara really had to hand it to Henry. He looked horrified. His mouth flew open in protest. He clutched his heart as if it were breaking for her. Good old Henry. “I know,” Tara said. “Can you believe it? Can you believe how much my life sucks?”