by Nancy Moser
Bailey snickered. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
“Whatever.”
“But since I know your roots, care to tell me more? All I know is that your parents were killed, and you ran away from your aunt and uncle, and—”
“I don’t like the idea of everyone knowing about me. It isn’t fair. I don’t butt into your business.”
“Go ahead. What do you want to know?”
Now that she had the chance, Sim wasn’t sure what to ask. “How come you have such a fancy restaurant in such a little town like Steadfast?”
“Why not?”
“And your clothes. People are pretty casual here. You dress up.”
“All to complete the image, my dear.”
“Image of what?”
“Success. You have to dress the part.”
“Even if it makes you stick out?”
“Especially if it makes you stick out. You should talk.”
She couldn’t argue with him. She liked looking different.
“Actually, different is fun. And Bon Vivant meets a need in Steadfast.”
“The need to be snobby?”
Bailey pinned her with a look. “The need to be discriminating.”
“You discriminate?”
“No, no. Discriminating. Refined, tasteful. A chance to treat oneself to something special and out of the ordinary. To feel pampered.”
“You probably charge way too much.”
Bailey shrugged. “You charge five bucks and serve a meal on a paper place mat, and people gobble down the food and go home to watch TV. You charge twenty and serve it on starched linen, and they take their time and relish it. The five-buck meal may be just as good, but the presentation—the ambience—affects the attitude as well as the stomach.”
“You trick them.”
“I don’t trick anybody. People want what I’m selling. It’s as if we have a contract. When you go for fast food the contract is for food that is quick and cheap—and you get it. When you come to Bon Vivant the contract is for a relaxed, elegant dinner—and you get it. Everybody’s happy.”
“Especially you, raking in the dough.”
Bailey shrugged again. “I like nice things, so I created a job that provides them for Jered and me. Is that a—?”
“Jered?”
“My son.”
Sim’s mind swam. Jered had talked about his father owning a restaurant, and she’d known that Bailey owned a restaurant, but why hadn’t she put the two together? Probably because the two didn’t fit. Oil and water. Beaches and snow. Reggae and opera.
She grabbed the car handle. “I can’t stay with you.”
“Why not?”
“Just ‘cuz.”
He studied her a couple seconds before looking back to the road. “Jered won’t bother you. You’ll be in the guest room. It has a lock, if it makes you feel better. Besides, half the time Jered isn’t home. I don’t know what he does with his time.”
I do.
Bailey pulled into a driveway. “Here it is. Home sweet home.”
That was yet to be determined.
Bailey started by showing Sim around the house. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside—just one among many houses in a row. It looked similar to Merry’s in age but didn’t have the curlicue woodwork on the porch. It was simple and homey. But inside it changed and turned sophisticated. There was a leather couch, oak antiques, and framed black-and-white photographs of mountains and canyons. Sim had to admit it was nice, but she could have done without the play-by-play. She wasn’t in the mood.
“And this piece I got at an estate auction.” Bailey pointed out a carved bookshelf. “I was willing to pay $400 for it, but no one else knew its worth so I got it for $110. It certainly pays to do your homework. And this painting over here is a genuine—”
Sim rolled her eyes. “Who am I? Someone to brag to?”
“What?”
“Is that why you volunteered to take me in? So you’d have someone to show off to?”
“No, of course not.”
“I want to be someone people brag about, not to.” She tapped her teeth shut, wishing she could lock her lips once and for all. Why did I just say that? He’s going to think I’m all weak and needy.
She was surprised to see Bailey falter and his cheeks redden. He lowered his arm. “Me too, Sim. Me too.”
This had gotten way too serious. Sim plopped down on the couch, liking the scrunch of the leather. “Don’t you have to go to the restaurant or something?”
“Not tonight. I commandeered one of the waiters to fill in as host. I’ll stop in later to check on things. But other than that, the evening is free.”
Goody. “So what’s there to do around here?”
Bailey looked around as if he’d never considered having to do anything. “I don’t know…” His face lit up. “You like Monopoly?”
Sim tilted her head. Why not? “Only if I get to be banker.”
Bailey clapped his hands. “Ha! Boardwalk! With a hotel, that will be—”
“This is not fair.” Sim counted out the rent money.
“This is the epitome of fair. Can I help it if you land on Boardwalk or Park Place every time you come around the board?”
Sim looked under the kitchen table. “Do you have this thing rigged?”
“It’s only rigged by my dynamic presence and business acumen. Quit complaining. I’ve landed on your Marvin Gardens enough.”
“Not enough.” Sim straightened her meager piles of money.
“Care to sell something?” Bailey stacked his five-hundred-dollar bills. “I feel generous.”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”
The phone rang. Bailey looked from it to the clock, then his face flushed. “Oh no…” He answered it. “Stanley, I’m so sorry. I meant to stop by, but we got sidetracked playing…we got sidetracked. How did everything go?”
They talked a bit more. Sim felt kind of good—but guilty—that Bailey had been having so much fun with her that he’d neglected his duties. To be truthful, she’d been having fun too.
“I’ll be right there.” Bailey hung up and turned to Sim. “I’ve got to run to the restaurant to pick up the night’s proceeds. Want to come with me?”
“Nah. I’ve had enough of money tonight. I think I’ll turn in.”
Bailey grabbed his keys. “Be back soon.”
Sim slipped under the covers and turned on her side. The moonlight fell across the floor, spotlighting her dirty clothes. Another day, another place to lay her head. But no place hers. No place home.
She closed her eyes and was surprised to find herself thinking about God. Really thinking about Him. Was He actually out there somewhere, looking down at her? Claire believed in Him. So did Merry. Should she?
She thought of all the times Claire mentioned God. And yet Sim had managed to let all reference to Him skim off as though Claire were mentioning someone as unimportant to the moment as George Washington or Santa Claus. But now, tonight, to think of Him as soon as she closed her eyes…it was as if He had come to her, as if He had set Himself before her in such a way that He couldn’t be ignored.
She opened her eyes to see if the feeling of His presence faded. It did not. And somehow she knew He wasn’t going anywhere.
Might as well acknowledge Him then—though she had no idea what to say.
Uh…hi, God.
She felt a sudden swell, as if she’d inhaled a breeze. It filled her body with a freshness that tingled her cells while wrapping her in a warm embrace she never wanted to leave.
Wow.
The warmth seemed to appreciate her reaction and hugged her closer than ever. She closed her eyes and let it—Him—take over. Then she realized she didn’t need any more words. Somehow He was the Word and could handle both sides of the conversation.
Cool. Very, very cool.
When Jered came in, he found his dad putting the zipper bag of receipts on the desk in the kitchen.
“Where have you been?”
Hi. Nice to see you too. “What’s it to you?”
“Behave yourself. We have a guest.”
Jered looked around, his eyes resting on the Monopoly board. “Who?”
Sim.
Jered let out a puff of air. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not.”
His jaw tightened. “Why her?”
“You know her?”
“Probably more than you.”
His dad’s eyebrow raised, but as usual, he didn’t ask for details. “Ever since the fiasco at the library, the girl has had no place to stay. And her aunt—who wasn’t her aunt…Claire’s gone.”
“Good riddance.”
“Jered!”
He shrugged. He didn’t want to hear about Sim’s problems. He had enough of his own. He picked up the dice. “Why don’t you ever play this with me?”
His dad blinked. “I didn’t think you’d want to play anymore.”
Maybe not, but I’d like to be asked. Jered tossed the dice—and his moment of weakness—on the board. He headed for the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”
“Fine, but be quiet. Sim’s in the guest room.”
“Give it a rest, Dad.” He went upstairs, making his shoes pound on the wood.
Great. Just great. Competition.
Seventeen
If anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing,
he deceives himself.
GALATIANS 6:3
“COME ON, LET’S GO!”
Sim heard Bailey’s call from the kitchen but didn’t answer because she was right outside Jered’s bedroom door. She quickly slipped downstairs, hoping to be gone before Jered woke up.
Bailey held the door open. “Ready to see the sights of Bon Vivant?”
Sim stopped with one foot on the threshold. “I can’t go with you, Bailey. I have to work at the library.” It was a lie—Merry had told her she didn’t have to work—but spending the day with this man was not what she had in mind.
“Au contraire, mademoiselle.” Bailey shooed her out. “It’s Sunday morning. The library doesn’t open until one. Besides, Merry gave me free rein to do with you as I will. And today you are mine.”
“A scary thought.”
Bailey rushed by her and opened the car door with flourish. “You have no idea.”
After he got in the car, she eyed him. “You like Merry, don’t you?”
The ignition ground against itself; the engine already engaged. He blushed. “A lot of good it’s done me.” He turned in his seat to back out of the driveway, flashing her a look. “Now be quiet. Aren’t children supposed to be seen and not heard?”
Bailey pulled into the parking lot behind Bon Vivant. He got out of the car. Sim did too, reluctantly. “Why are you going into work in the morning? Nobody comes to eat until lunch.”
“To make a meal look effortless, you must expend effort.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“What?”
“You must expend effort, or I must expend effort?”
Bailey paused before going inside. “Are you a lazy bum?”
“Not usually.”
“Then you should have nothing to worry about.”
Sim put a hand on Bailey’s arm. “Just remember the child labor laws, all right?”
“I’ll keep them in mind.”
They entered a huge kitchen. Stainless steel was the norm. A Hispanic man wearing a white cook’s uniform stirred a pan on the industrial-size stove.
“Morning, Sanchez.”
The man’s eyes touched on Bailey, then landed on Sim. “Got yourself a new partner, Bailey?”
With a hand on Sim’s back, Bailey urged her forward. Sim moved away from his touch and held out a hand. “Hi, I’m Sim. Bailey’s slave.”
“Welcome to the club.” When Sanchez grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkled.
“Hey, you two. Quit acting like I’m Simon Legree.”
Sanchez leaned toward Sim. “He keeps his whip in the pantry.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Sanchez resumed stirring. “Why are you in here so early, Bailey?”
When Sim saw Bailey blush, she knew their early-morning outing had been another ploy to show off. But feeling she had an ally in Sanchez, she didn’t rub it in.
“There’s a good chance we’ve got a food reviewer coming tonight. Everything has to be perfect.”
“A food critic?” Sim looked at him. “My uncle—”
Bailey raised an eyebrow. “Your uncle what?”
Sim shrugged. Her uncle wrote about food for a magazine, but she sure wasn’t going to tell him that. “Nothing. I always thought reviewers came on the sly.”
“They do. Usually. But I have connections and found out they were coming tonight. I don’t know what they look like, but I’m going to be prepared.”
“That’s why I’m here too,” Sanchez said. “I wanted to perfect the sauce for the Chocolat Bordeaux.”
Sim peeked into the pan of melted chocolate. “It smells great.”
“Only because it is.” The chef’s eyes lit up. “It starts with a macaroon and caramelized sugar crust with layers of strawberries soaked in Bordeaux wine alternating with a thin white cake that has been baked with chunks of chocolate. On top is the sauce.” He lifted the spoon and the smooth chocolate flowed from it into the pan. “This recipe came about because my grandma broke her hip. I was only twelve, and my mom was baking—”
Bailey waved his hands, stopping the story. “I don’t care how you came up with it, only that you did—and that it’s perfect.”
Sanchez made a mock bow. “Anything you say, oh mighty master.”
Bailey looked toward the other room. “Help Sanchez a few minutes, will you, Sim? I have things to do in the dining room. I’ll come get you when I need you.”
Sim made her own bow. “Anything you say, oh mighty master.” She was glad to be rid of the man.
Sanchez laughed. “I promise I won’t bake, broil, or fry her.”
“If you do, don’t make a mess.” Bailey left the kitchen.
Sim sighed. “Is he always so hyper?”
“Oh, Bailey’s a good guy. He just likes things the way he likes them. His whole life is this place. He wants it to succeed.”
“Is it?”
“Succeeding? As far as I can see. He had the bucks to hire me, didn’t he?”
“You’re not a cook, you’re a real chef.”
Sanchez bowed. “Chef Sanchez Sanders, at your service.”
“You went to school for this?”
“Good food is more than measuring cups and turning on the oven.” He scraped the sides of the pan. “Bailey has his dream and I have mine.”
“What’s yours?”
“To create one perfect recipe that is mine alone.”
“The chocolate stuff?”
Sanchez laughed. “Stuff is not exactly the word I was going for.”
“You were telling me how you came up with the recipe.”
Sanchez dipped a spoon in the chocolate and held it to Sim’s lips. Sim blew on it and then tasted. “Wow. I’d eat this plain.”
“And only get half the experience.” Sanchez turned off the burner and moved to a white cake on the counter. He took a long serrated knife and began to slice it into thin horizontal layers.
“The story?”
“Ah yes. I was twelve and my mother was mixing the batter for a white cake—just one of those cheap mixes—when the phone rang. It was news that my grandmother had fallen and broken her hip, so Mom had to leave. The last thing she told me was, ‘Finish up, Sanny, and don’t make a mess.’”
“I bet you made a mess.”
“An act of God would have left less debris. Of course, turning the mixer on high didn’t help. Batter was everywhere.”
Sim pulled a stool near the counter. “How did you go from a cheap white cake to Chocolat Bordeaux?”
Sanchez put a fi
nger to his lips. “My mother left behind her glass of red wine and—”
“You got drunk and created the recipe while in a stupor?”
“Whose story is this, anyway?”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, it was spring and we’d just picked some fresh strawberries from our garden, and I dunked one of them in the wine and tasted it. It was good, even to my twelve-year-old taste buds. In the pantry I found chocolate chips and poured a bunch in the batter. I topped the cake with some chocolate frosting from a tub. When Mom got home from the hospital, I cut her a piece of cake, sliced through the middle so I could slip in a layer of the wine-soaked berries, and put a berry on top.”
“Did she like it?”
“She thought it was wonderful, but she forbade me from ever making it again—the mess, you know. But when Bailey wanted me to create a new chocolate dessert that could be exclusive to Bon Vivant, I remembered the experience. I’ve been working on it for a month now.”
“I’d like to eat the rejects. I bet they’re good too.”
Sanchez patted his belly. “I do my own testing, thank you.” He started to layer the strawberries and cake on the bed of crumbled macaroons. “So that’s my story. What’s yours, little lady? Why are you hanging out with the likes of Bailey?”
“I’m a runaway orphan living in the library.”
He stared at her. “That’s you?”
“That’s me.”
“The waiters were talking about you.”
“I hope my fifteen minutes of fame is up.”
“You might have a few seconds left.”
“Lucky me.”
“So Bailey took you in? Sorry, but that doesn’t sound like—”
“He’s trying to earn brownie points with Merry Cavanaugh. After the library, I was staying with her, but she left because her mom’s having an operation.” She twisted the stool back and forth.
“Wasn’t Claire involved in all that?”
“You know Claire?”
“Sure. She worked here one night as a server.”
“She told me that.” Sim squinted at the chef “What did you think of her?”
“Unflappable. Nothing fazed her. On a busy night, it’s like recess at a grade school in here, everyone running around, yelling for something and wanting it now. She’d stand still with this little grin on her face as if she alone recognized the absurdity of the situation. Dave— he’s the salad man—said he was so impressed with her calm that he’d make her salads first. As a reward, I guess. There was something about the lady that made all of us want to please her.”
