Hungry for More

CHAPTER 9



Amy had her head deep in a kitchen cabinet when she heard Troy wake up. It wasn’t even six in the morning, the day after she quit, but she hadn’t been able to sleep. Her body knew when it was time to go. And now she must have woken up the boy, as here he came padding down the hall, still half-asleep.

“What are you doing?” Troy asked. He was in his sweatpants, his hair tousled from bed. Amy snuck the pen she was holding into her sleeve. “Nothing.” She stood, moving away from the cabinet she had been rifling through.

Troy pushed past her to the cabinet and threw it open. He knelt down. “Then what’s that?” He pointed to a small upside-down horseshoe with an A in it. “Are you tagging our apartment? I found one of these in the bathroom, too.” He looked around. “Hey, you’re dressed. You’re packed. You’re leaving.”

Amy shook her head. Stupid observant kid. She ignored his accusations. She had spent the last hour searching the apartment for clues as to where Roni might have gone, and, yes, leaving her mark with her trusty black Bic permanent pen. It was an old habit, leaving a sign that she had been somewhere. It was what she did before she split. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe all her wandering made her want to leave some kind of proof that she had existed.

“Yes, I’m leaving, Troy. I’m going to get your mother.”

Troy rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Because of that guy? Bob? The guy at the restaurant? You think he’s after you?”

“No. I’m not scared of him,” she scoffed. “I just think it’s time your mother came back, that’s all. And I’m not the type to hang around and wait. I’m going to get her.”

“But you told her you’d stay with me,” Troy said. It was the first time since their conversation in the alley that he sounded like a little kid. He sat down at the kitchen table and ran his hand through his bed-headed hair.

Yeah, well, that was a lie. I’m a liar. Deal with it. “ I’m only leaving so I can get her back faster, Troy. It’s better than me waiting around.”

“But you said—”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I’m going back to sleep. Search the apartment all you want. Believe me, I’ve already been through it. There’s no clue where she split to.” He met her eyes straight on. “I don’t know why I believed you when you said you knew where she was.”

“I do know. I just—”

“I don’t care,” Troy said. “Split. I never asked you to be here. I don’t need you any more than James does.”



From the front seat of her old beat-up Chevy Malibu, Roni watched Amy leave her apartment. She sank down low in the seat, pressing a magazine to her face in case Amy came her way. Her hands were shaking with fear.

Amy Burns is after me.

She tried to stop her shakes. Everything was going fine. This was the plan. Step one complete: Roni had carefully let out word through the Rom network that she had Amy’s spirit-voice, which was a lie.

And Amy had come.

Roni took a huge breath and pulled herself back up so she could watch the retreating Gypsy. She wished she could race inside and tell Troy where she was and what she was doing for him and why. Or even just give him a big hug and then run away before either of them could speak.

She felt nauseous.

Her hand went to her stomach, where the tiny new life had started to grow. The moment she had realized she was pregnant, she knew her life had to change. She had to quit being the nice guy and be tough, be brave, be ruthless. She had come home from the Gypsy midwife with her folic acid pills, a worn copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and the most important thing of all from the used bookstore on Market Street, The Art of the Con.

It was time for the new Roni. The one who wasn’t sweet and good, the one who went after what she wanted.

And she didn’t want Amy’s spirit-voice, that was for sure. This con game lifestyle wasn’t her style. She put her hand to her throbbing heart. How anyone could live like this was beyond her. Between the nausea and the fear, she could hardly sleep.

No, she didn’t want the voice. She wanted money—real money, stay-home-and-raise-two-kids money—and this was her one chance. Roni had seen Amy on Oprah . She had seen pictures of Amy’s movie-star brother-in-law, Josh Toby. She had read about how he routinely gave away money—big money—to people in need.

Roni reached for The Art of the Con . She flipped to a dog-eared, much-read page: You can only make a person do what they want to do already.

Step two of the plan was working beautifully. Now that Amy had been lured here by Roni’s lie, Roni had to disappear so that Amy would bond with Troy. Then, Amy would want to help him.

Only Roni hadn’t expected step two would be so hard on her. She felt awful leaving her son with that woman, but it was just for a few more days. It was all for Troy. Troy and the new life inside her.

This was the chance of a lifetime. The con of a lifetime. She couldn’t believe her good luck so far. But, then, hadn’t she deserved it, being good and nice her whole life? Didn’t she deserve something? Didn’t Troy?

She caught a glimpse of Troy in the window, watching Amy disappear around the corner.

Roni sank back down in the seat; it was too dangerous being here. She couldn’t tell Troy what was going on. Not yet. And he was sure to spot their car if she lingered.

She couldn’t wait much longer for step three: to return, mild and meek, and tell Amy that the Gypsy she had run to for advice told her that the voice would go back to Amy if she helped Troy. And Amy would want to because she would be fond of Troy. Who wouldn’t be fond of Troy? Of course, since Roni didn’t really have the voice, she couldn’t give Amy anything. But by then, they’d be long gone, the three of them, to a new life.

The thought made Roni weak with fear. She hoped she could pull it off. She had to learn to control her shaking hands.

Roni could tell from the way she walked that Amy Burns was nobody’s fool.



A half hour later, Les Fleurs was dark and empty as Amy pushed silently from the alley into the kitchen, careful to keep the circling cats out. Someone had fed them recently, and they purred against her legs, hoping for more. Thankfully the key had been where she’d seen the kitchen boys stow it: third brick up, fourth brick over behind the trashcans.


Not a soul stirred in the deserted kitchen. The transformation from last night, when it had been filled with slop-slinging, bellowing barbarians, was remarkable. Now it was like a gleaming chrome temple, shining and silent as if she had imagined the chaos. Ghost chefs.

She had come to get something worth pawning before she split to find Roni. She made her way through the dark dining room and straight to the three jade flowers in their decorative alcove. She’d been eyeing them for days. She slipped the largest flower off its stem and into her bag.

Her stomach growled. Maybe the walk-in downstairs would be unlocked. Might as well get some provisions while she was here.

She stole carefully down the dark back steps.

Someone was in the basement prep kitchen, the secondary kitchen that was outfitted with expansive chrome counters and enormous stockpots. She could hear the chopping of a single knife, could see it flashing in the slash of yellow light that spilled into the dark hallway. Hear its rapid beat as it hit the cutting board.

She crept toward the walk-in. It was open. She grabbed a few apples and a hunk of plastic-wrapped cheese. Then she took out her Bic and left her mark on the wall, low to the ground. The horseshoe with an A .

Okay, now she could split.

But the rhythmic chopping seemed to call to her. Maybe the early morning crew would have some information as to where Roni had gone. Anyone who worked at this hour just had to be a low-paid sucker, willing to spill for a price. Plus, just thinking about going back out into the freezing morning with no leads made her toes ache with anticipated cold.

She hesitated in the hall, then peeked around the doorframe into the kitchen.

James.

He was stooped over a cutting board, his profile to her, chopping carrots.

She ducked back into the shadow, breathing hard. The scene made her think of those pictures in the National Gallery in D.C. where she had gone sometimes to pick pockets when she had lived in Baltimore. They were small oils with varnished surfaces where people stood by windows, thinking thoughts so personal you had to look away. The people in those pictures were always alone, doing menial tasks, but in the presence of something holy. Vermeer was the name of the guy who painted them. Or something like that. Johannes Vermeer. Johannes. Some language for “James,” maybe?

“I smell you, Amy. Cinnamon and clove.”

Damn foodies. Why was she constantly underestimating this man?

She peered around the doorframe. He didn’t look up but kept his head down, chopping. “I was just—” She paused. Just pilfering your restaurant, just rooting around for free info, just lonely in a strange town . . . “Leaving.”

Without stopping his work, he eyed the apple in her hand with narrowed eyes. “Thought you quit.” There was a hardness in his voice, the same one from the previous day.

“I did.” She came into the room and leaned against the counter next to his chopping board. Her heart was pounding madly, as if she cared about getting caught by this dark chef. “Just had to get something I forgot.”

“My designer, citron-scented, New York State Arpeggio apples? Those babies are grown only in one orchard outside Albany. I have them FedExed down in a brown, unmarked box so the spies from Le Bec Fin can’t steal my sources.” He was transforming the carrots into tiny, diced squares like a machine, his hand moving independent of any conscious effort. The effect was remarkably sexy, a craftsman at work. What else can you do with those hands?

“Hmm. I thought they were pretty good. For apples, anyway.”

He scowled, as if considering something grave. “Can you handle a knife?”

“I guess.”

“I don’t suppose you have a knife?”

“In my boot,” she said. “Right next to my handgun.”

His eyes traveled down the length of her. Was she imagining it, or did they travel slowly, lingering? They stopped at her high-heeled black boot.

Chop, chop, chop a wee bit faster.

“Kidding,” she said, pleased that she was arousing him.

His eyes traveled back up her body and stopped at her chest. They definitely lingered. She inhaled and straightened, feeling his gaze like a caress.

He stopped chopping, and the room fell silent. He didn’t smile. “Sammy, my prep guy, should have been here twenty minutes ago. You want a new job? A job away from the customers?”

“I don’t know.” He was offering her a second chance. What if she stayed? If even for just one more day? Maybe she could get something right. She was obviously better suited for the manic, obscenity-laden kitchen than for that stuffy floor job.

“If you take it, you can’t quit on me again. If I teach you how to use a knife, you’ll owe me. Big time. There are people who would kill to have a lesson like this from me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You want help or not?” Please say yes. She wanted another chance to be near this man. She didn’t want to go back out into the freezing morning searching for a woman she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.

What if Roni hates me for lying to Troy? What if Roni wants to keep Maddie? What if my one goal in life—getting Maddie back—is impossible? What if this is my future? Being awful at everything I try and owing strangers more and more?

Could she chop? Could she learn something new? She’d never been taught anything in her life, except how to con and steal. Maybe it wasn’t her fault that she stunk at everything else.

“You can use my knife today. But tomorrow you’ve gotta bring your own. And promise me you’ll never, ever, put it anywhere near your boot.” James rooted around in an enormous drawer that had a set of keys hanging out of its lock. “No chef shares his knives lightly,” he said. He pulled out a canvas cloth that looked like the kind of case her grandmother used to hold paintbrushes. He pulled a tie and unrolled it to reveal gleaming knives of every shape and size. He handed her an identical knife to his: long with a straight blade and a wooden handle. He watched her take it as if he were entrusting her with Baby Jesus.

It was surprisingly light.

He picked up his own knife and a carrot. “The carrot is round, but you must produce perfect squares.” He paused and leaned toward her. “Perfect squares. Called a brunoise . I’m not messing around about how good they have to be. Each square has to be like a tiny orange die. With numbers carved in the side. Weighted to roll six every time.” He proceeded to chop the round edges off the carrot in four swift movements. “It’s like harvesting wood. The tree becomes flat planks. Then two-by-fours, then—”

“Lumberjack analogies are lost on me,” Amy interrupted. “You were on the mark with the dice, though.” She picked up the knife.

“Wait—protection!”

“Are we cutting tubers or having sex?”

“It’s the same thing.” He tossed her a towel. “Technique, technique, technique, and good hygiene. Wash the hands up to the elbow.”

“Remind me never to sleep with you.” While she washed her hands in the enormous sink, her stomach coiled in disappointment. How could a man who kissed like James equate sex with root vegetables and hygiene? It was like James was two men, the Iron Chef on the surface, the wicked pirate buried beneath.

I could get below his iron surface, expose the real man begging to get out.

When she came back to the counter, he pulled out a huge wooden chopping board and laid it before her, a shield for battle. She stood beside him and grabbed a carrot. Trying to imitate his swift strokes, she cut off the round edges and ended up with a sapling of still-roundish carrot. She glanced up at him, but he continued chopping, not saying a word. She chopped the carrot into thinner slivers, not nearly as regular or thin as his.


A door slammed above, then footsteps stumbled down the stairs. A blond, bed-headed, gangly man with a five-o’clock shadow and an untucked shirt barreled into the room. “Sorry, boss.” He stopped short when he saw Amy. “I’m twenty minutes late, Chef. You’re not gonna can me for less than half an hour?” He was panting, his face still red from the cold outside.

“Twenty-five minutes. Which throws everything, Sammy. You should be here twenty minutes early . This is the third time this week. Get lost.”

A chill went up Amy’s spine. You’re part of the team until you f*ck up, James had said. Guess he meant it.

Sammy came to the counter. “My dog can do better brunoise than that, dude. Er. Dudette. That’s like, a chop, not a dice.” He pulled out his knife roll and unwrapped his knives. Amy wondered if the general public had any idea there were an army of cooks out there, armed with gleaming, razor-sharp knives roaming the city. “I won’t be late again.” He stank of beer and cigarettes. “You want me to trash those, Chef?” He nodded at Amy’s carrots.

“Why are you still here?” James was chopping again, his back to Sammy.

For an instant, Amy thought James might be referring to her and her awful chopped carrots. When she realized he was talking to Sammy, a brightness rose within her so brilliant, she was afraid if she opened her mouth, her teeth would glow. He’s on my side. Again.

Sammy stared at her with building hatred. Then he relaxed. “Hey, you’re the new temp server for Roni.” He sneered and leaned in close to Amy. “Heard you’ve been f*cking Troy.”

James’s knife stopped.

Her internal light snapped off, throwing her into darkness. Amy turned instinctively, raising her knife to Sammy’s throat. “Heard you’ve been f*cking your mother.”

Sammy jerked away. His hand flew to his throat, as if to test if the flesh was still intact. “You slept at his place,” he fumbled. “She did, Chef. At Troy’s. Manuel saw them fix it up and split together like three or four nights now. She told the kid she knew Roni. Which was, like, a total lie.”

“I thought the man told you to split.” Amy was tickled that Sammy looked so scared. Like she’d really slit his throat. This guy was obviously a moron. But she really had to shut him up. She snuck a look at James. He didn’t look like an idiot. He looked like he had a lot on his mind—anger, confusion, questions .

“Go,” James said.

Sammy and Amy glanced at each other, not sure which one of them he meant. But when Amy looked back at James, his eyes were blazing at Sammy. Relief and gratitude filled her. I’m back on the team.

And I want to sleep with the coach. Uh-oh.

She could kiss James.

She really could.

She really should.

Sammy backed out of the room, away from her knife and James’s icy stare. “Cradle robber,” he muttered as he made for the stairs.

She lunged forward with the knife, as if she planned to come after him.

He upped his retreat. “You couldn’t fine-dice if your life depended on it,” he shouted back at her. “You, you—chopper!” He fled up the stairs and out of sight.





When all is said and done, it’s time to cook.

—JAMES LACHANCE, The Meal of a Lifetime