“Hi, Charles,” I said as he gathered me in a big hug, squeezing tight. He towered over me: I was about level with his abs. “How are you?”
“I’ll be better once we tuck into that buffalo,” he said. Dave and Deb, standing at the bar, watched him, both wide-eyed, as he reached over with his impressive arm span to pluck a pickle from the plate in front of them.
“Chuckles just invested in a bison ranch,” my dad explained to me. “He brought ten pounds of steaks with him.”
“Which your dad is going to cook up as only he can,” Chuckles said, gesturing to Tracey, who was behind the bar, for a wineglass. “You’re joining us, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “But I need to go home first and change. I’ve got model dust all over me.”
“Do it,” Chuckles said, easing his huge frame onto a bar stool next to Opal as Tracey reached over with the wine bottle, filling his glass. “I’m just going to hang here with these gorgeous women until my food’s ready.”
My dad rolled his eyes, just as Jason stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Gus,” he called. “Phone call.”
“I’ll see you in a half hour or so?” he said to me as he got up. I nodded, and he walked back to Jason, taking the phone from him. I watched him say hello, and a grimace come across his face. Then he turned, and walked back toward his office, the door swinging shut behind him.
“I should go, too,” Deb said, zipping up her jacket. “I want to get home and whiteboard my ideas for the model while they’re still fresh.”
“Whiteboard?” Opal said.
“I have one in my room,” she explained. “I like to be ready when inspiration strikes.”
Opal looked at me, and I shrugged. Knowing Deb like I did, this made total sense to me. She slid on her earmuffs, then pulled her quilted purse over her shoulder. “I’ll see you guys.”
“Drive safe,” I told her, and she nodded, ducking her head as she stepped out into the snow and walked away. Even her footprints were neat and tidy.
“These pickles are really good,” Chuckles said to Opal as I gathered up my own stuff from the bar. “But what happened to those rolls you used to give out here?”
“The rolls?”
He nodded.
“Actually, we, um, decided to do away with them.”
“Huh,” Chuckles said. “That’s too bad. They were really something,from what I remember.”
“Have another pickle,” she said, pushing the plate closer to him. “Believe me. Pretty soon those rolls will be a distant memory.”
I glanced at her as she lifted her wineglass again to her mouth, and she smiled at me. My dad had been right. Thirty days, give or take, and she’d come around.
Dave and I said our goodbyes, then walked down the corridor to the back entrance. We were just passing the kitchen door when we saw Jason, rummaging around on a shelf for some pans. “Be careful out there,” he said. “It’s still really coming down.”
“Will do,” I said.
“Hey,” Dave said to him, as he stood up, the pan in hand. “Did I see your name on the Brain Camp Listserv the other day?”
“I don’t know,” Jason said. “If it’s there, it’s not my doing. I haven’t been in touch with them in ages.”
“You went to Brain Camp, too?” I said.
“He didn’t just go there,” Dave told me. “He’s, like, a Brain Camp legend. They pretty much genuflect to his IQ scores.”
“Not true,” Jason said.
“Order up!” I heard Tracey call. “Salad for the big boss, so make it good!”
“Duty calls,” Jason said, then smiled, walking back toward the prep table. Dave watched him go as I pushed open the back door, a bit of snow blowing in.
“So Jason was a big geek deal, huh?” I asked as I pulled on my gloves.
“More like a rock star,” he replied. “He went to Kiffney-Brown and took U classes, just like me and Gervais, but he was a couple of years ahead. He went off to Harvard when I was a sophomore.”
“Harvard?” I glanced back at Jason, who was pulling a pan out of the walk-in. “It’s a long way from there to prep cook. What happened?”
He shrugged, walking out the door and pulling his hood up. “Don’t know. I thought he was still there until I saw him upstairs the other day.”
Strange, I thought as we passed by the half-open door to my dad’s office. I could see him inside, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the desk.
“. . . been pretty busy, with the new menu and some corporate meetings,” he was saying. I heard his chair creak. “No, no. I’m not, Lindsay. I promise. And lunch . . . would be good. Let’s do it.”
I looked out at the snow. Dave had his head tipped back, looking up, the outside light hitting the flakes as they fell down on him.
“Your office, city hall, eleven thirty,” my dad continued. “No, you pick. I’m sure you know the best places . . . yeah. All right. I’ll see you then.”
The door at the other end of the hallway, which led to the restaurant, suddenly opened. Opal was standing there, her wineglass in one hand. “Hey,” she said, “is your dad still on the phone?” she asked.
I nodded. “Think so.”
“Well, when he’s done, remind him we’re waing for him to join us. Tell him Chuckles is insisting on it.” She smiled. “And, um, so am I.”