Hungry for More

CHAPTER 29



Somehow, James and his remaining staff had stumbled through the rest of the night at Les Fleurs, Stu locking the doors at eleven on the dot, ignoring the angry couple on the other side, their breath freezing against the glass, hollering that they just wanted a drink at the bar.

The cooks who had stayed through second service left one by one as the last order was fired and ferried out of the kitchen by a delighted Dan or a morose Stu. No one hovered to joke and drink and decompress like they usually did.

When Amy got back from the hospital to see the last of them go, she had the sinking feeling that she wasn’t going to see some of the cookies ever again. Once you knew the name of your soul mate, it was impossible to ignore it. Almost always, the name rang a bell from the past, awoke old, buried passions. Confirmed what you already knew, deep down, but had ignored for years. Life, as most people suspected, wasn’t completely random. True Love usually struck early and locally, but it was rare that a person believed they had reached the limits of love so early. People wanted to believe their whole lives were ahead of them, because, of course, once you found your True Love, that was as good as it would ever get. It was human nature to hope for more, no matter how good it was.

Amy swiped a slice of peach pie from the dessert cart and sank into a chair at the back table closest to the kitchen. It hadn’t been bused, like most of the restaurant, which was usually spotless and ready for the next night’s service by now. She glanced around the room at all the tables still covered in used dishes and half-empty wineglasses. Just three diners remained, lingering over chocolate tortes and handmade pistachio ices, oblivious to the drama that had taken place earlier in the kitchen.

Stu was slumped over a drink at an unbused table for two. Amy wondered if he recognized his True Love’s name. From the looks of the man, he did. His table was littered with the detritus of a couple’s multi-course, satisfying meal as if it were the remains of life as Stu had known it.

He didn’t look ready to talk.

Amy sampled the pie, closed her eyes, and focused on her own situation for the first time that night. James . She might still have a shot at getting Maddie back if she left now. But where would she go? What would she do? She didn’t want to leave, but staying with James meant she had James and nothing else. Was that enough?

“Hey.” James sat down across from her. He was disheveled but loose, like a runner who’d come in from a workout. He was still in his chef whites, which were stained and spotted with evidence of the hard night’s work. He sat back in his chair, watching her closely.

“Hey,” she replied. She stuffed another bite of pie into her mouth.

“They told me Roni lost her baby. Poor, poor kid.”

“Yeah. They say she’ll be okay, though. Physically speaking, anyway. She was taking some kind of pills to calm her nerves. She didn’t know. So stupid.” Amy picked at the pie. “And speaking of stupid, James, she was totally conning me. She never had the voice.”

“Oh. Hell. I’m sorry. You came here for nothing.” His eyes searched hers.

“I know you still don’t believe in the voice,” Amy said. “But—”

“Actually, after tonight, I do believe. That was a pretty awesome display. Even if it did wipe out my staff.” He leaned forward, his voice grave. “John-John was outed pretty harshly. He just called to quit. My guess is he’ll leave town. Manuel, Raul, and Pablo already hit me up for plane fare so they could go back to their native villages to reunite with their soul mates. Dan was out of here so fast it made my head spin. Roni and Troy, well, who knows? Look at this place—it’s a mess.” He raised his arms to take in all the unbused tables. His eyes rested on Stu, and his hands fell. He shook his head sadly.

Amy looked to Stu. “He’ll be happier in the end.”

“Yeah? I hope so. He sure doesn’t look happy now.”

“No one is at first.” She snuck a look at James. Did he really believe? “Are you?”

“That depends,” he said carefully. “Are you leaving?”

“I was,” Amy admitted. “But I’m thinking now, I might hang around. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Amy”—James took her hand, his green-brown eyes flashing, his gaze intense—“you have to really want this. I don’t want to be your consolation prize. I don’t want you to regret choosing me when what you really wanted was that voice.”

“I want you, James.”

“I need you to be sure. Totally sure. I don’t want you to decide now. I want you to really think it through. Because I want you.” He hesitated. “I love you. But you have to think about what you’re giving up to be with me. Don’t make any decisions tonight. I’m shutting the place for a week so I can restaff. Water damage, I’m telling everyone. Let’s let this all sift out and see where it falls.”



Amy helped James clean up the restaurant with Charlie, the night porter who mercifully wasn’t in the kitchen when Troy changed everyone’s life.

When the last table was bused, she sat down with Stu, who still hadn’t moved. He was staring into an empty water glass.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I know the woman Troy named. My soul mate? God, that was the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“Yeah. People usually do recognize the names.” He was staring so intently into the water glass that Amy looked into it to see if there was anything there. It was empty.

“I loved her—but from afar. We went to grade school together. I never dared even speak to her. God, I’m such a putz.”

“We all make mistakes in our lives. That’s why the voice lets a lucky few people know how to fix their mistakes.” Amy paused. “But only if they want to.”

Stu shook his head. “You know what, though. I’ve been thinking this through all night. I don’t want to. I’m not going after her. She might have been my One True Love as destined by fate, but Carol is my One True Love as decided by me. Isn’t that worth something?”

“It’s worth a lot. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” This was why Amy never told good people the names of their soul mates if she could help it. It was information for the desperate, for people in need of transformation.

For her?

“Carol is my rock. I couldn’t leave her. Ever. I love her. She’s not second best. What we have isn’t second best.”

Amy smiled at Stu. “True Love is what’s destined. We don’t have to accept our destinies. We can change them.”

“Yeah? I won’t get struck by lightning?”

“You might. But if you do, who do you want at your side? Carol?”

“I better get going. Carol’s waiting. She’ll worry. Even if I am her second-rate love.”

“Any love isn’t bad,” Amy said. “Most people would kill for their second-best love. Or their third. Number one is so overrated.”


“You got that right,” Stu said, pushing out of his seat. He patted Amy on the shoulder. “Guys like me, we do fine without the medals and the stars and the excitement.” He looked around at the empty restaurant. “Good luck with James. You two really were meant to be together. I’m happy for you both.” He stopped and looked at her. “So don’t you blow it!”



Amy went out into the alley to get some air. She felt melancholy and wanted to talk to Oprah. She was sad for Troy and for Roni and even for herself. To never hear Maddie’s voice again felt like losing something precious. Was James right that she would end up resenting him? She thought back to the first day she had set foot in Les Fleurs. She had acted cocky and confident and sexual, when really she felt lost and scared. But then she thought she was on to something, thought she had figured out how to get where she wanted to go.

Now, she just felt lost. If she stayed with James, what would happen to her for the rest of her life? Would she wait tables? Bus in his restaurant? Was love enough, or was she like Stu and needed something different?

“Hey. Don’t you have a job or something?” James opened the door to the alley.

“Nah. Some chef dude pays me, but he’s a sucker ’cause I sleep with him.”

James stepped into the alley, glistening with sweat like an athlete just off the field. “Whole place is closed up for the week. I’m actually looking forward to a vacation. Haven’t had one in years.”

“You’re gonna die of pneumonia,” she said.

“Does that mean you care?”

Yes. She imagined nursing him, toweling his forehead, feeding him chicken soup. The scene was strangely appealing.

What if she chose James? Lived with him and nursed him if he fell ill. Joined his crew. Learned to stir counterclockwise. Staring at him, the faint stirrings of the possibility of the alternative life that Oprah had been pushing her toward seemed possible.

He slid his back down the wall so that he was sitting next to her on the empty crates. He knocked his knee into hers.

She let her head fall to his shoulder. Sitting with him made her feel better. The warmth of him was comforting. “Think the menu’s done?”

“A menu’s never done.” He reached out and brushed a stray piece of hair off her face. “But we’re ready for Scottie, if that’s what you mean. Every dish is perfected except that braised duck. We did awesome, Ames. We’re ready to knock him dead. Once I can restaff, that is.”

“Do you think . . . ?” Amy’s voice caught in her throat. What was she doing?

James turned to her, his eyes light and curious.

She gulped. God, this was dumb. But she couldn’t form the words.

“What’s wrong? More bad news?”

She sucked in the frigid air. “Do you think I could ever be any good at this restaurant thing? Maybe in the kitchen,” she blurted. Her eyes darted to his, then closed tightly. “Forget it.”

He didn’t say anything. She didn’t dare look at him. Instead, she put her elbows on her knees and let her head fall into her hands. She hoped her cascading hair hid her face. Could this be any more humiliating?

He still didn’t say anything. What could he say, after all? Look, I enjoy getting naked with you, and you’re doing fine with your one table and busing with Troy and chopping with Denny, but I can’t let you touch anything important in my restaurant just ’cause we’re good in bed and are soul mates.

Why didn’t the jerk say something?

She dared a glance at him, and the insufferable man was smiling.

She hid her face back in the cradle of her arms. “Forget it.”

“You wanna learn to cook? Really cook?”

“No. I said forget it.” But she didn’t want to forget it, despite the hot red blush she could feel creeping up her face.

More silence.

Another snuck glance.

Another unbearable shit-eating grin.

She kicked him hard in the shin. What had she been thinking? He wasn’t going to let her cook.

James put his face next to hers, startling her. His cheek warmed hers; his condensed breath mingled with hers. “You could cook. I mean, not just chop or sling salads. I mean really cook. I wasn’t laughing at you. I was happy. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me that you want to do this. With me. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Almost since the beginning.”

She raised her head and met his gaze. His brown-green eyes had never looked so sincere. “Since before we slept together?”

“Since the minute I laid eyes on you, I knew you had the balls for my kitchen.”

“You think I could be a chef? You’re not just teasing me?”

“Nah. I didn’t say chef. I said a cook. A lineman. Woman. A line stud . You’d be great. If there was ever a woman who could take the heat of a professional kitchen, it’s you.”

Amy let the distinction settle over her. A cook. It was better than being a chef. Chef was intellectual. Uptight. French. But a cook had balls. Had fun.

“You gotta start from the bottom,” James said. “Work like a dog. There’s not a single thing that’s easy about a professional kitchen. It’s shit work with shittier hours in the most god-awful shit conditions. The hardest job in the world.” He paused. “The best job in the world.”

She considered what he was offering her, imagined the chaos of his kitchen—the shouting, the cursing, the moshpit steam bath. It was sweaty and hard and . . . possible ? The small animal of hope that had stirred earlier raised its head again. Not bussing or waiting tables but cooking real food. Real fire. With James.

“The kitchen is the last place in America where sexual harassment is still the rule,” James went on. “A woman in a kitchen is a dangerous thing. You’ve got to give it and take it and swing it over your head like a cowboy. You’ve got to get burned and slashed and then get slashes on your burns and burns on your slashes and love it so much you come back for more. My boys will rib you extra hard, because they’ll know you’re sleeping with me. And you’ll deserve it, because in the beginning, you’ll suck. You’ll screw up. And every screwup will ruin some server’s night on the floor and four cookies’ nights on the line and cost me hundreds of dollars—”

“The idiots I can handle. It’s the food . . .”

James smiled. “Oh, the food’s the easy part. Anyone can learn the food. Professional cooking isn’t about food. It’s about having cojones. Oh, and it’s also about speaking Spanish, but you’re getting good at that.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I know you can do it. I knew the instant I saw you. Cook with me, Amy. It’ll be even more fun than sex.”

“God, you’re a sicko.”

He grinned. “Exactly. We all are. C’mon. Join the family. Well, what’s left of it.”



They made love that night so softly it was like starting anew.

The next day, James disappeared at the crack of dawn, reappearing with bagels and a brown package just after ten. He tried to pull Amy out of bed.

“Can’t we finish perfecting the braised duck before we eat?” Amy asked. They had been working on the duck last night by making love in the shower to test if it needed more salt. Braising, as James had explained, is the careful, steady application of hot liquid to flesh.

Indeed.

“Nope. I got you a present. Come into the kitchen and open it.” His eyes were shining.


The package James had put on the kitchen table between them was wrapped in brown butcher paper.

“What are we celebrating? The destruction of your staff? The closing of Les Fleurs?”

“Temporary closing. We’re celebrating the prophecy. And your new career. And the menu. That was it, partner. We got the final entrée last night—braised duck. I figured out the sauce. We did it, Amy. You and me.”

“And to celebrate, you got me pork chops?” She turned the brown package over.

“Open it.”

Amy tore through the string and paper to reveal three gleaming silver knives.

“They’re Japanese,” James explained. “The best.”

Amy was speechless. She picked up the biggest knife and weighed it in her hand. It was solid and satisfying. Like James.

“I want you to take the idea of cooking for me seriously.” James pushed the knives aside and drew her into his arms. He leaned in and kissed her, warm and soft, his lips brushing hers. “Amy?” James was staring at her intently.

“Hmm?” She rested her head against his chest.

“Will you promise to stick around? Will you really stay? Because I don’t want to waste time training someone who’s just gonna split on me.” He rested his chin on the top of her head.

“I’ll stay.” She knew he wasn’t talking about just the kitchen. And neither was she. She took a deep breath. This was it, now or never. Good-bye, Maddie. I’ll miss you.

I love you, James .

She couldn’t say it.

She braced herself. James, I love you. The words wouldn’t come out.

He wrapped her in his arms. “Are you okay?”

If she said the words out loud, she could never get Maddie back. So she was going to say them. She was going to commit.

Except that she couldn’t get the words out. Roni was lying and Madame Prizzo was lying. It was all a great big con, and now I have no power, will never have psychic power ever again. The urge to flee pulled at her. Why would she want to learn to work in a hot, brutal kitchen? She’d be beholden to James, and then he’d leave her, too, one day. Just like Maddie and Amy’s mother and then she’d be back to square one with nothing.

He held her tighter. “What’s wrong?”

She pulled away from him. “I can’t do this, James. I just can’t. It’s not enough. I don’t want to be trained. I don’t want to play second fiddle. I just can’t. I need things to be even. I’m sorry. I thought I could do this. But I can’t.” She handed him the knives. “I know I suck. But I can’t help it. It’s the one thing I can’t help, you know? I have to go.”





Dessert





Sometimes you just don’t feel like eating. Even chocolate.

Well, maybe still chocolate.

—AMY BURNS