All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  Once again, Susan forces herself to smile. “Of course, Dan. That’s why I’m here, to take over the boring things, like number crunching, so you can focus on the food. Together, we can lift this place back up.”

  His eyes narrow as he considers what she’s just said. “Lift it back up?” he repeats. “You think it’s fallen, then? And you’ve come swooping in to save it?”

  “Let’s be realistic, here—we have an overstaffed kitchen and only twelve covers for dinner. We can’t keep going at this pace; we’re hemorrhaging money. I don’t want to come in here and start firing people, but economies will have to be made somewhere. Maybe we’ll close on Tuesdays, if they tend to be slow. Maybe we’ll reconsider staff hours or renegotiate with suppliers. This is what I’m here for. I’m not here to tell you how to do your job, Dan, I’m here to help you with it. I promise. I want us to work together. Do you think we can do that?”

  She holds his gaze and also holds her breath, wondering what he’ll do. He might just leave—he’s well trained and could probably find another job. She really doesn’t want to have to recruit for a new head chef right now.

  “All right,” he says at last.

  Susan breathes out, relieved, and hopes he doesn’t notice. “Good. I’m glad to hear we’re on the same page. I’ll start working some numbers, and why don’t you and Paul put your heads together over the menu?”

  Now she’s done it. She may as well have just called one of his children ugly. He bristles, sensing encroachment on his territory.

  “What’s wrong with my menu?” he demands, drawing himself up so he’s just a little taller than her.

  Susan, too, sits up straighter and looks him dead in the eye. He’s hardly the first chef she’s faced down.

  “The food here is very good,” she tells him, “but I think the menu would benefit from a refresh. It hasn’t changed in years; some of the dishes are the same ones my grandfather was serving when we first opened.”

  “Those dishes made this place famous.”

  “Innovation made this place famous,” she points out. “But now everyone is doing these dishes. We need to be better. Diners are more discerning than ever. We need to give them something they can’t make at home or get anywhere else. It’s the only reason they’ll come here.”

  He shakes his head. “You’ve been in Edinburgh for—what? A few hours? Let me fill you in on a few things you probably don’t know yet. You own a restaurant on the Royal Mile, which means that about eighty percent of the customers who come through the door will be tourists who just want ‘something Scottish.’ They don’t care about innovation; they just want to go home and tell their friends they had shortbread and haggis. That’s as adventurous as they want to get.”

  “Thank you,” Susan says coolly. “I’ll keep that in mind. There’s no reason we can’t have those things on the menu. I just want them presented in a way people can’t get at a dozen places between here and Edinburgh Castle. We have to distinguish ourselves so we get both the tourists and the locals, who actually live here and might come back. But they’ll only do that if there’s something here that entices them.”

  “Fine,” he grunts, swiveling his desk chair away from her and back toward his paperwork. “I’ll talk to Paul.”

  “Good.” Susan takes a deep breath. “I really do want us to work together, Dan. We both want the same thing, right?”

  “Right.”

  She presses her eyes closed and counts to ten, to calm herself. Otherwise, she might yank that paperwork away and smack him over the head with it. You catch more flies with honey, she reminds herself.

  Dan will take some work, definitely. But they’ll get there. They have to. Susan stands and extends her hand. He pretends not to see it for several long seconds, then glances over, takes it briefly, and says, “I’ve got the payroll to do.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Susan makes her way back through the kitchen and up the stairs. The dining room is empty now, the soup-and-salad pair having already left. She pauses by the bar and looks around, taking the place in.

  She doesn’t like what she sees.

  Like many buildings along this part of the Mile, it’s fairly dark, only having windows at the front. And the interior design doesn’t help. The woodwork is deep walnut, the carpeting and upholstery maroon. Lighting is low, atmospheric, some might say, but Susan knows that most people like to at least see what’s on their plates. And this would do no favors for those who like to Instagram every last bite. The brass trim and fixtures make the place seem dated. She feels overwhelmingly like she’s in one of those pubs that try to make people think they’re getting some sort of authentic Victorian experience, minus the typhoid. People might like that sort of thing with their pints, but not with venison medallions and velouté.

  More than the menu needs to change. Much more. They need to make a splash—no, they need to explode back onto the scene—if this tired place is going to regain any attention in a restaurant scene as crowded as Edinburgh’s.

  Susan Napier is going to have to blow some shit up.

  But first: family.

  Chapter Four

  All Happy Families Are the Same

  “Thank God you’re here!”

  Before Susan can react to this unusual greeting, Meg has pulled her inside the house, closed the door, and pointed to a spot just below her chin. “Feel there. Is there a lump? I swear I feel a lump.”

  “Hi, Meg.” Susan obligingly leans forward and probes her sister’s neck. “I don’t feel anything. I think you’re fine.”

  Meg emits an exasperated yawp, turns on her heel, and marches toward the kitchen at the back of the house. “It’s there, I swear I feel it!” she insists.

  Susan closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. From the family room to the right come the sounds of video game gunshots and theatrical deaths. She pokes her head in and finds her two older nephews, seven-year-old Andrew and three-and-a-half-year-old Alisdair, engrossed in a first-person shooter.

  “Hi, boys,” she greets them.

  “Hey,” Andrew grunts, without looking away from the screen. He frantically punches a few buttons on the controller, and the person in his sights seems to explode, spattering the screen with gore. “All right! Got ’im!” Andrew cheers, punching the air triumphantly .

  Alisdair turns away just long enough to reward his aunt with a sweet smile. “Hi, Auntie Susan,” he says, waving, before turning back to the game.

  Susan continues on to the kitchen, dropping her overnight bag by the door.

  “Isn’t that game a little … old for them?” she wonders aloud.

  “Oh, don’t you start,” Meg snaps. “It keeps them out of my hair for a little while, okay?” She leans against the wooden countertop, engrossed in a tablet. Her youngest (“And last—I mean it this time!”), Ayden, is nestled in a bouncy chair near the propped-open French windows, gurgling up at the moon and stars dangling from a mobile just out of his reach.

  “See?” Meg shoves the tablet, which displays the WebMD symptom checker, into Susan’s hands. She jabs at the picture. “See? Lump on the neck—thyroid or throat cancer.”

  “Or swollen glands,” Susan points out, indicating the list of nearly ten conditions all associated with a bump in the neck.

  “Yes, and swollen glands can be associated with cancer!”

  Susan sets the tablet aside and begins gently but thoroughly checking every last inch of Meg’s neck while her sister holds her chin up, sniffling and biting her lip.

  “Meg, I really think you’re okay,” Susan reassures her once she’s done. She switches to rubbing her sister soothingly on the back. “I honestly don’t feel anything.”

  “That’s what William said this morning. He said I was just dreaming things up because I don’t want him to go golfing tomorrow. Like I care if he goes golfing! Though, of course, it does leave me here, alone, with the three little hooligans to deal with.”

  “You’re not alone,” Susa
n reminds her. “I’m going to be here.” Meg’s generously agreed to house her sister until the furniture arrives at Moray Place later in the week. “And Russell and Helen are just around the corner,” she adds.

  Margaret rolls her eyes at the mention of her in-laws. “I can’t send the boys there. Helen spoils them. Gives them candy all day long and then sends them here to bounce off the walls for hours. Oh, the noise, noise, noise, noise!” She groans, squeezing her head between her palms.

  “Why don’t I make us some tea?” Susan offers. “Maybe something herbal.”

  “Just not peppermint,” Margaret implores. “It was all I could drink when I was pregnant with Ayden, and now I can’t even think about it without my stomach turning.” She nevertheless turns to smile at her youngest, who drools a little and smiles back.

  “Oh, he’s got teeth now,” notes Susan.

  “Four. All came at once. They do come on fast,” Margaret sighs. “I only hope I get to live to see the next stage.” She reaches up and massages her neck again, making fretting noises.

  “Meg”—Susan catches and clasps her sister’s hand—“it’s okay. You’ll be here to see them grow up.”

  “We used to think that about Mum,” Meg retorts. “And then she got a cough—a cough!—and that was it.” She and Susan know, better than most people, how horrifyingly fast someone can be there—and then gone. Six weeks they’d had. Barely enough time to arrange hospice care, let alone say or do everything that needs to be said and done. They all sat and watched, helpless, as their mother was devoured. Because she didn’t get a cough checked early enough.

  Julia had coped (if you could call it that) by partying twice as hard as she ever had and existing seemingly on nothing but champagne and cocktails. Her fledgling interior design business foundered. Meg, at first, escaped from home and traveled, embarking on expensive trips to Thailand, New Zealand, and Kenya. When she was finally persuaded to return to her studies at Edinburgh University, she’d done the same thing Susan had and found someone to cling to. Someone she felt could offer comfort and stability. Unlike Susan, she’d stuck with him.

  “If it worries you, call your GP,” Susan suggests, filling the kettle and hunting for teabags in the cupboard. “I’ll watch the boys while you go.”

  “I did call. They don’t have any appointments until next week, and they didn’t believe it was an emergency.” Margaret huffs. “I swear, no one cares if I’m alive or dead!”

  “You know that’s not true.” Susan retrieves a box of chamomile teabags and accidentally closes the cupboard with a bit more force than she means to. The sound of it slamming startles Ayden, who jumps and begins to wail.

  Meg rolls her eyes again. “Thanks, Suze,” she says, turning to unbuckle him from his seat. “Thanks so much.”

  Susan closes her eyes. Surely something will go right today? Eventually? “I’m sorry. Why don’t we have our tea outside? It’s a nice afternoon.”

  Meg gathers up Ayden and a rabbit-shaped soother and steps through the French doors, jiggling him on her hip and talking baby talk to him. Susan can hear him laughing again as she fills the teapot, gathers mugs, and joins them outside.

  * * *

  Two cups of tea and a relaxed chat about London and how the boys are getting on are enough to distract Meg. She forgets about her imaginary lump (for the time being), allows herself a single biscuit, and goes to fetch a hat for Ayden.

  Susan cups her mug and settles back in the chair, closing her eyes and turning her face to the sun. The baby laughs and there’s a distant rumble of traffic, but otherwise it’s fairly quiet. The stillness, after the rush and noise of London, both astonishes and soothes her. It creeps in and pokes at the hard knot in her middle, the wrapped-up anxieties of these past years. There is peace here.

  She opens her eyes and looks at Ayden, now playing with a plastic caterpillar that lights up and plays music when he presses buttons. He seems particularly fond of the blue button, which plays “Old MacDonald.” His face brightens as he makes it work again, and he waves the toy at Susan, who grins back and thinks of how much he resembles his father.

  Meg mollusked herself onto William Cox with a ferocity that made any escape seem impossible. William, a member of a patrician family that could trace its lineage all the way back to John Balliol, met with Bernard’s wholehearted approval. The couple married as soon as Meg received her degree (in music, but never used). He took over the family’s investment firm, and soon enough the boys came along.

  Now, watching Ayden, Susan can’t help but wonder how things would have been if she’d held on to Chris the way Margaret had William. Would she be sitting in a garden, watching her own baby playing?

  Probably not, she tells herself. Not here, at least. Meg lives in Stockbridge, one of the plushest areas of Edinburgh. Guidebooks keep bafflingly referring to it as “bohemian,” which suggests the word is as meaningless as “artisanal.” The high street is populated by chic boutiques, cafés, and high-end specialty food shops. On Meg’s street, Inverleith Row, tidy stone Victorians look out over the Royal Botanical Gardens. Three of the city’s most expensive private schools are within easy walking distance.

  No, this is not Chris’s sort of neighborhood, Susan decides. He’d hate living here, among the bankers and solicitors and professors. She remembers how uncomfortable he was the one time she took him home for a family dinner. Like he was afraid to touch anything. Or say anything. And she remembers how Greg and the other chefs used to mock him for his rough Leith accent

  “Oh, aye, ye braw wee bairn,” they’d bray nonsensically. On Chris’s first day at Regent Street, they dubbed him Oour Wullie, after the comic strip character. He’d smile, pretending to go along with the joke, but Susan could tell it bothered him. When they all gathered for drinks, and Greg really got going, Chris would clasp his hands under the table and clench them rhythmically. Susan guessed he was imagining he had a good grip on Greg’s throat as he did it.

  His accent and cheap clothes hadn’t played any better at the Napier home. Susan’s mother, of course, was warm and kept him engaged with food talk, but Julia and her father sat by, keeping out of the conversation and oozing contempt and disapproval.

  “Jesus, Susan,” Julia hissed once Chris was gone. “A line cook? Are you kidding me? Why not the dishwasher while you’re at it? Why not a plumber?”

  Even Susan’s mother sighed and said, “He seems like a very nice boy, Suze, but beware of anyone in the restaurant business. Their hours are … not always conducive to a healthy relationship.”

  What about someone who does nothing? Susan thought sourly. Is that the recipe for a happy marriage?

  But she bit her tongue. Her mother was already so frail.

  * * *

  Meg emerges from the house, a blue sunhat in one hand and Andrew close behind, dribbling a football. He gives it a good kick as soon as he’s clear of the door, and it sails past Ayden, who’s briefly distracted from his caterpillar.

  “Mind your brother!” Meg hollers after her eldest, who leaps down from the patio and goes after the ball. He pauses long enough to pat his baby brother on the head as he passes. Meg sighs and good-naturedly shakes her head as she bends and jams the hat onto Ayden. He squeals in protest and then begins to wail as she smears him with sunscreen.

  “I know, I know, love, but you’ll thank me for it, believe me,” Meg soothes. “A big red bus, a big red bus …” she sings in a bell-clear soprano.

  “Aunt Susan, what’siss?”

  Susan turns and sees that Alisdair has dragged her overnight bag to the door, rummaged through it, and found the photo album, which Susan had brought so Meg could see the old family pictures. Susan’s clothes and underwear are strewn about the floor at his feet.

  “Oh, Ali, don’t go through Aunt Susan’s things. That’s not nice, is it?” says Meg, now massaging sunscreen into Ayden’s arms. “Say you’re sorry and tidy up.”

  Instead, he repeats, “What’siss?” and holds the photo alb
um aloft.

  “It’s pictures, darling.” Susan joins him, shoving her things back into the bag. She pauses long enough to open the album to a picture of herself, Julia, and Meg when they were small. “That’s me, your Auntie Julia, and your mummy,” she explains, pointing to them each in turn.

  He looks skeptical. “No, it’s not,” he says, wrinkling his nose, grinning, and vigorously shaking his head. “That’s Mummy,” he adds, pointing to his mother.

  Susan smiles. “Yes, it is,” she agrees, patting him on the arm. He drops the album on the floor and joins Andrew. Susan reaches for her last pair of scattered panties just as her brother-in-law, William, comes in.

  “Hiya, Suze,” he greets her, quickly looking away from the underwear in her hand.

  She shoves the pants into her bag and rises to hug him. “Hi, William, how’re things?”

  “Oh, you know.” He shrugs, grins, gestures to his family. “Is she still on about the neck lump?” he asks sotto voice.

  “I think we may have moved on.” Susan pats him on the arm.

  He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re all coming up here. Especially you. Good to have some sense around.” He strips off his suit jacket and tie, tossing both over a nearby chair, and unbuttons his collar.

  “Is she getting worse, do you think?” Susan asks, nodding toward her sister.

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe she’s just frazzled. It’s a lot with the three. We have a nanny, but she’s only part time. And Dad’s talking about standing in the next National Election, which he’s pretty sure is going to be called soon, so he and Mum have been busier than usual. And work’s been a bit mental because of all the upheaval in the Asian markets, but never mind all that.” He grins again, this time at Susan. “It’ll be fine—it always is. And having all of you nearby’ll help, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he walks out onto the terrace. “Take the shot, Ali—you’ve got him!” he calls.