Her heart did a traitorous little skip in her chest. He was alone. Why was he alone? She gathered the silverware and bread plate from the spot across from him. “Do you have any questions about the menu? We’re a farm to table restaurant,” she started. “The origins for the ingredients are noted on the menu. With the exception of the salmon, they’re all from Rolling Hill Farm, or other farms around Lancaster. The rib eye comes from a ranch up the road. We harvested the asparagus this afternoon, and the Brussels sprouts this morning.”
His gaze was no less piercing, six years later. “What do you recommend, Riva?”
He used her first name like he always had, like he had a right. The only reason she knew his first name was Ian was because she’d heard other cops call him that.
Assuming his tastes hadn’t changed in the last seven years, she knew what he liked well enough to answer that question. Nights sitting next to him in an unmarked police car often included a run through a drive-through window, so she knew he preferred grilled chicken to burgers, salads to fries. She’d spent enough time with cops to know their diets were frequently atrocious; the Eastern precinct smelled of sweat, gun oil, coffee, and fast food grease. “The steak is our specialty, and very good but tonight I’d recommend the salmon. Chef Isaiah developed the sauce. It’s a grapefruit and shallot sauce, very light, and it’s delicious.”
“Does it come with the asparagus?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have that.”
“Wine with the meal? Beer?”
He scanned the wines listed on the back. “A glass of the Shale white,” he said.
Dismissed. She hurried to the kitchen and put in the order, then poured a glass of wine. She left the glass with him, touched base with her other tables, and brought more bread and a second beer to the first-date couple, who had both set aside their phones and were leaning over the table, actively engaged in conversation. She watched them from the safety of the server’s station. It was an experience she hadn’t allowed herself in seven years, and the reason why was sitting at table fourteen. Any relationship more serious than a casual hookup would require her to either tell the truth about who she’d been, or found a relationship on lies. She couldn’t bring herself to do either.
With no appetizer, his meal should be ready in under twelve minutes. At the ten-minute mark she ducked into the kitchen. Isaiah meticulously wiped a dab of sauce from the edge of the plate, then presented it to her with a flourish. She gave the kitchen staff a thumbs up, took the plate from him, and carried it through the door.
On the way to the table she ran through the ways she could tell him he was wrong about her, that she wasn’t just a waitress—except there was nothing wrong with being a waitress—that she owned this building, the farm it sat on, and the tiny house hidden in the folds of the valley, too, that she’d been able to get loans, pay them back on time, help others. But in the end, she couldn’t change the past, and she knew perfectly well that of all people, Officer Ian Hawthorn had no reason to give her the benefit of the doubt.
She set the plate in front of him without comment. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No. Thanks.” He picked up his knife and fork.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”
The first-date couple ordered two bowls of ice cream drizzled with hot, dark chocolate and topped with raspberries. Head held high, she walked to the first-date couple’s table and set out their desserts. “Enjoy,” she said with a smile.
A couple of short yelps from the kitchen, an Oh fuck! audible throughout the dining room. The swinging door to the kitchen slammed against the wall. Her nose knew first, the stench of acrid smoke already filtering into the room. Three strides and Riva was through the door. A grease fire roared on the stove, spattering everyone in the vicinity with burning oil. Isaiah was on his knees in front of the big stainless stove. Beside him, Jake swatted at the fire with his dish towel, the surest way to injure himself.
“Stop!” Riva barked.
Jake stopped.
“It’s a grease fire,” she said. A small one, at that, but fire was fire. Her voice was calm, only slightly louder than normal, but it got the attention of every kid in the room. “Work the plan. Step one.”
Galvanized, Jake scrabbled at the knob controlling the gas heat and first turned it up. “Shit,” he said when the flames spurted for the range hood. He twisted the knob the other direction and the gas died.
Kimmy-Jean had a big water pitcher filled. Arm extended, Riva stepped in front of her. “Step two.”
“I’m on it.” Isaiah came up with the lid matching the cast-iron pan and slammed it down on the pan, effectively throttling the flames. Oily black smoke hung around the now-silenced stove.
“It was a small fire, so what else would have worked?” Riva said.
“Baking soda. Lots of it,” Jake said.
“Right. Remember that only works for small fires. What don’t you do?”
“Pick up the pot,” three of the kids responded. She had them now, back in their brains and bodies, connected to themselves, each other, her. “You’ll burn yourself,” Kiara added.
“Good. What else don’t you do?”
“Throw water on it.”
“Why?”
“Because water won’t put it out, and the splatter can spread the flames or burn someone.”