Hungry for More

CHAPTER 25



What’s he doing here?” Madame Prizzo asked, scowling at James. She was wearing her white Chanel suit and a diamond bracelet around her wrist. If it weren’t for the fact that they were in her filthy, skull-filled trailer, she could have been a customer at Les Fleurs.

“James is okay,” Troy supplied.

James knew there was a reason he liked that kid. He flashed him the three-finger salute, and Troy returned it discreetly. It was the day after he had skated with Amy, and he had held firm on his need to come.

“He’s gadje. If he’s here, the voice won’t come,” Madame Prizzo insisted. She checked her BlackBerry irritably. “I rushed here from the club. I don’t like when people waste my time.”

“Aunt Alex, it’ll be fine,” Roni implored. Poor kid was at the end of her rope. Her hands were shaking again. “We have to work this out. Now. Please?”

Troy slumped in the chair, a study in teenage detachment, the black cat purring on his lap.

Madame Prizzo harrumphed and sat herself at the card table. “Okay, but I’m not putting on a show for him.” She closed her eyes, and Roni sighed with relief.

James whispered in Amy’s ear, “Shouldn’t we all hold hands or something? Turn down the lights at least?” They were next to each other on the tattered couch. The early afternoon sun streamed in through the filthy windows. It was the second day in a row he’d left Manny in charge of the kitchen, and he didn’t care.

I don’t care.

Amy was taking him over.

“Shh!” Madame Prizzo scolded.

Amy patted his hand. “Don’t believe what you see on TV.” She had picked up a nail file, or maybe it was the bone of a small animal, and started in on her left thumb. Despite her attempt at calm, James could tell she was nervous.

Madame Prizzo began to rock.

Amy and Roni sat up straighter. Roni leaned forward. James looked from face to face, confused.

“She’s here,” Amy whispered to James. “I can feel her.”

They all stared at Madame Prizzo. Even Troy glanced up from the cat, his eyes passing over the old Gypsy, then darting away as if he couldn’t care less.

“Shouldn’t someone say something?” James whispered after what seemed like a whole minute had gone by.

Amy raised her hands over her head. “Oh, speak to us, great spirit from the beyond!” she boomed.

Troy chuckled.

“Amy, you’ll ruin it,” Roni scolded. “Be serious.”

Amy shrugged. “Just messing around. Sorry.”

Troy continued stroking the cat. He must have gotten fur in his eyes, because he shook his head, rubbing his eyes irritably. He sat forward, wincing as if in pain. Maybe the kid was allergic to cats.

Madame Prizzo’s eyes rolled back in her head. In a flat, soft voice she said, “Prove to me your worth.”

“Is that her or the spirit-voice?” James whispered.

Amy ignored him. “Maddie, I’ve been proving myself. I’ve been taking care of Troy. And Roni. Plus, I’ve been working . At a job.”

James nodded. “She has. I’m her boss. Two jobs, really.”

Amy kicked him and whispered, “I don’t think my work as menu planner counts in the ‘good’ category.”

“Prove you’re worthy,” Madame Prizzo said louder.

“How? What do you want me to do? Does the kid need money? Is that what I need to help him with?” Amy asked. She whispered to James, “I feel Maddie’s presence. The spirit is here.”

“The boy,” Madame Prizzo said. “He needs your help.”

All eyes went to Troy, who still had his head in his hands.

Amy jumped up. “Yeah. I got that. But how? Because I have been taking care of him, Maddie. What else do I need to do?”

“You have not,” Troy said, not looking up. “I take care of myself.” He looked like he was suffering a migraine. The cat jumped off his lap and marched away, tail swishing, ears upright, flicking in annoyance.

“Are you okay?” James asked Troy.

Madame Prizzo shuddered. Then opened her eyes. “Well? Did she come?”

James looked puzzled. “That’s it?”

“Did you want the smoke machine and light show?” Amy asked.

“I think I would have liked a few special effects,” he admitted. He was having a hard time understanding what these people thought had just happened. An old lady told Amy to take care of Troy? Why had they thought it was a spirit? Why couldn’t Roni tell everyone what the spirit wanted if she was the one it possessed?

Roni hugged herself gleefully. “Maddie will leave me. She’ll go back to you! She basically said as much. We just have to figure out how you’re gonna help Troy. Since you’ve already helped him by staying with him and taking care of him, Maddie must want something more. Oh, this is great. I’m so happy! We can make this work, Amy. We have a chance of getting the voice to leave me! To go back to you. She all but said it, didn’t she? She’ll go back to you.”

Troy scowled. He shook his head as if he was also coming out of a trance. “I don’t need help.”

Madame Prizzo was already half out the door, her cell phone to her ear and a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. “I’ve got a lunch date. Good luck. And someone feed Louie on their way out.”



An hour later, they were all back at Les Fleurs, except for Louie, even though James was reluctant to leave him behind. The cat would be better off with the alley cats than with that odd old Gypsy.


Troy had finagled the rest of the day off school, claiming his head was killing him. Of course, once the boy was back in the restaurant, he was begging to get into the prep kitchen. James let him dice with Denny.

Unfortunately, Manuel had managed everything so well, again , while James was gone that James felt at loose ends. Two hours to service, and he wasn’t even needed.

Which gave him time to talk to Amy about that crazy channeling. She had hardly said a word the whole way back, but she kept grinning, practically exploding with excitement. James loved to see her so happy, and yet, he wanted to tell her that he thought the whole thing was a load of crap. He had to choose his words carefully.

“Ames, you wanna learn how to take stock in the walk-in?” James figured he could get her alone.

She gave him a knowing smile. “Sure, James. Show me how to take stock.” She could pack the most innocent phrase with the most sexual intent.

He shook off the effect she had on him. “No. I mean really take stock. C’mon. I’ll show you where the clipboard is.”

They went down to the walk-in together. As soon as they were inside, she threw her arms around him. “James. Kiss me. I’m so happy I could dance!”

He ducked out of her arms. “I want to talk about that channeling.” He searched his mind for gentle words. “It was a load of crap,” he blurted. Oh, well. Careful was for floor staff, not chefs. “I have a bad feeling about Madame Weirdo. I don’t think she was telling the truth.”

Amy took the clipboard from him. “Don’t ruin my mood, James. I’m too happy to let you rain on my parade. I’ve been searching for months for Maddie, and now I’m so close I can taste it. I know you’re annoyed she says we’re not soul mates. But we can still be lovers. True Love is way overrated, believe me.”

“I’m annoyed you listen to a spirit-voice instead of your own feelings.” He didn’t understand how she could be so cold about this.

She ignored him and studied the clipboard. “So I go down this list? Check off what’s here in this column, how much of it in this one? What’s to learn?”

“Forget the stock. I don’t think that lady was telling the truth,” he said.

Amy lowered the clipboard. “Maddie was there. I could feel her.”

“Okay. But all the same. I think that lady’s conning you. She tells you to help the boy. What does that mean?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have taken you. It’s impossible for an outsider to understand. It felt fake to you, but that’s because you couldn’t feel the spirit’s presence and I could.” She looked down her list. “So I check off the artichokes here, then write in”—she counted—“twenty-two.” She scribbled on the pad.

“Why do you trust that woman?”

“She’s my people, James. We con outsiders but not each other. It’s like a code. Why isn’t this lettuce unpacked? Do I count it?”

“Sometimes there’s an overdelivery. Count what’s in the pans first, then the crates. Anything there’s too much of, we’ll make a special with.” He was pacing, taking boxes off the shelves, looking into them, putting them back. He couldn’t get through to her.

She counted the lettuce containers on the shelves, then went to the crates. “Sorry, James, but I am who I am. You couldn’t possibly understand that. You and your uptight restaurant and your fancy life are all solid and real, but my world is murkier. More mysterious. You can’t count up spirit visits and check them off on lists.”

“Fancy and uptight? Is that what you think of me?”

Her back was to him, and she didn’t speak.

“I’m not an uptight snob, Amy. My life was privileged in some ways, but in others it sucked.”

She had stopped moving. He couldn’t see her face.

“I’m not the snob you think I am,” he insisted.

Nothing.

“Ames? You okay?” He touched her shoulder and she flinched.

She pointed at the crate.

“What?” He looked at the lettuce. “Was there a bug?” He pried open the crate and took out a head of lettuce. “It’s good stuff. Flown in from New Zealand. See the deepness of the green . . .” He looked at her face, which had gone completely white. “Ames?”

She was still pointing at the crate. “Read what it says.” Her voice was low.

His stomach sank. She thought he was an uptight snob. Well, this should change her mind. He took a deep breath. He had never told anyone this before. “I can’t.”

Her eyes didn’t stray from the words on the crate. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I’m dyslexic.” His heart was beating hard. Why was he telling her this? His deepest secret. If his staff found out, he’d lose face in his kitchen forever.

She turned to him, distracted. “Dis what?”

“I have difficulty processing written letters and words.” A pain jabbed through him, as sharp as it was when he was seven years old and his teacher had sat his mother down and explained the situation to her. Don’t let’s ever tell your father, she had said. And James, even at that age, understood. My father doesn’t accept weakness. He runs from it without looking back. “Remember when we were cutting carrots way back when down in the prep kitchen? I told you I don’t blame people for what they can’t control. That’s what I can’t control. My secret.”

Amy opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again.

James realized that she had no idea what he was talking about. He could still back out. Not tell her.

But he wanted to tell her, because he wanted to know if she’d stay. This felt like a test to him, making his heart hammer even faster. “I can hardly read,” he explained. “If I concentrate, go real slow, I can get it. But it gives me headaches to even try. I got through school only because people owed my dad favors, and our household help did most of my work.” Now that the words were flowing, they wouldn’t stop. “I might not believe in broken-down old Gypsies pretending to hear spirits, but I’m not a snob. I can’t ever be a snob. No one knows like I do what it’s like to have a huge gap in your abilities that you can’t control.”

“Can you write?” Amy asked, her voice the softest he’d ever heard it.

“Sure. It just looks like a five-year-old’s scribble. The woman who lives across the hall, Jules, writes notes and stuff for me if I ask her to. She thinks I have eye trouble.”

Amy stared at him. Then at the crate. Then back at him. The look on her face was a mixture of horror and joy.



Amy stood mute, staring at James, then at the crate. Then back at James. This was too much to take in at once.

Okay, deep breath. Les Fleurs had no sign. Practically no menu. No order tickets fluttering over the chefs’ stations like in a normal kitchen. And those breakfast instructions James had left her, they weren’t written by him but by a kindhearted neighbor.

He was a lousy reader! Dis-whatever-he-had-called-it. She hadn’t heard anything so joyously excellent since she’d heard the first rumor of Roni’s existence weeks ago.

But then there was the news on the crate. Which she’d sort of known all along but had been ignoring.

Okay, she’d get her head around that next. Amazingly, it seemed less important than the news James was telling her now. “What about all those books in your apartment?” she asked him.


He shrugged. “None of them are mine. The chef who lived there before me split for a gig in Paris. I’m just staying in his place till he gets back. Knowing Paris, he may never come back.”

Oh, joy! Oh, happiness! He had no home. He was a Gypsy wanderer just like her. She had to contain her elation.

Which was easy. She looked again at the words on the crate. Shit. She had known and yet not known. But now she knew. Her stomach tied itself into a knot.

Okay, focus on the good news: This accomplished, rich, beautiful, intelligent man had a flaw the size of the Grand Canyon. She let days of frustration at feeling like a first-class idiot around him pour into the gap and disappear. Then she looked back to the crate. “So you can’t read that?”

“Well, sure, if I really focused. But what I do instead is compensate. I know that says romaine, because I can see the leaves inside, and I can get the R . They call that contextual reading. Us dyslexics figure stuff out pretty well. You’d be amazed. I get the N and the Z, so I know it’s New Zealand Romaine without giving myself a headache. But the rest of the letters are twisted; they’re swimming, moving. If I really concentrated, I could work them out. But it would be hard—too hard to do before needing to cook for five hours. It would suck me dry.”

“How do you get through life?”

“When I was a kid, I’d convince our cook to read my schoolwork to me in return for doing his prep work. Our chauffeur loved history. He’d write my reports. Multiple-choice tests are easy to pass, if you know the tricks. Plus I had a tutor, who was basically a reader. It was easier than you’d imagine. Now I control my world. I have an accountant to handle everything bookish. Staff to do the rest.” He nodded at her clipboard. “Like take stock.”

Happiness alternated with terror inside her. “The tassels?”

“Tassels?”

She looked back at the crate. This was so good and so bad at the same time. She felt pulled in two. “The tasseled pillows? They’re not yours either?”

“Hell no. I hate those things.”

That was it. The happiness won out, bursting through every pore. She threw her whole weight into James, almost tackling him.

“Whoa, hey!” he protested.

She knocked him hard in the chest with the clipboard. “That is so great!”

“It’s great that I barely graduated high school?” She had him backed up against the shelves.

“Yes!” She shoved him again. “Me too!”

“Why is that great for either one of us?” He braced her shoulders to stop her attack.

“Oh, James! It’s great because I knew a fancy guy like you could never love a woman like—” She stopped, realizing her slip.

The world fell still around them.

His grip on her shoulders lessened.

Amy cursed her big mouth. Now he was going to think she wanted him to love her. Gah.

And that stupid crate. She tried to keep her eyes off it.

He stared at her, long and hard. “I can’t believe you thought I’d buy pillows with tassels,” he said, pulling her into him.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d give a shit about something dumb like reading.” Her face rose toward him of its own accord. Forget the crate. Pretend you never saw it. Let this go on forever. Just like this.

“If I knew my illiteracy would make you this happy, I’d have told you right away.”

“As far as pickup lines go, that would be an original. ‘Hey, good-looking, I can’t read words, but I can sure read in your eyes that you’re gonna love me.’”

Oops. There went that love word again. She looked to the crate. She felt dizzy.

The distance between them vibrated. “Hey, gorgeous, I can read in your eyes that you’re gonna love me.”

He pulled her against him, and she melted into him and thought, This is it, the end of my life as I know it, and it feels divine .

She looked to the crate. It read, “Romaine lettuce. Gladysville, New Zealand.” Gladysville. Gladys. Romaine. Roman. Gladys Roman. Roni was lying about James’s soul mate. She had made up that name right here in the walk-in, staring at those crates just the way Amy was staring at them now.

If she lied about the name, she may have lied about more. Amy had to talk to Roni and find out what was going on. Because if James was Amy’s soul mate, she had to choose—him or Maddie.

She looked at James, long and lean, his brown eyes watching her with—dare she say it?—love.

She had to talk to Roni. Now.





When considering a main course, the simplest dish on

the menu will always be the best.

—JAMES LACHANCE, Meal of a Lifetime,

THE MENU: BETWEEN COURSES