Felix smoothed his hair and removed his apron. “I will come at once.”
“Actually,” Alain said, his hands clasped behind his back, “the gentleman has requested audience with Chef Garrett. He came to meet the woman who was featured in this month’s Savor.”
Felix sputtered a bit, but Alain was no fool and immediately pivoted backward toward his comfort zone at the pass. My eyes followed his departure, and I glimpsed an eavesdropping Carlo doing some sort of celebratory neck dance for my benefit.
“It appears you are on your own this time,” Felix sneered. He stepped within my personal space, and I had to work not to cringe. “For some patrons, a shiny magazine photo and les nichons are enough to impress.” His gaze roamed in a slimy insult over my chest.
I clenched my jaw. “Chef, I believe my work speaks more eloquently than my appearance.”
He snorted. “There you are probably right.” He walked away, pulling his coat off the hook as he left. His final jab ricocheted off the back wall. “You might want to pay attention to that disgusting nest on your head before you go meet your fanboy.”
The door slammed behind Felix, and I spun to take a look at myself in the reflection of the convection oven.
“Holy sweet Moses,” I said aloud. My hair was still just past my shoulders, still rimrod straight, and still dark brown and in bad need of highlights. But the scope. The size. The breadth. Had I been drinking heavily? Sleeping under bridges? Avoiding vitamin D? My arm plunged, elbow-deep, into my bag to retrieve a brush, a comb, a rake—anything to make sense of my tangled mop. I should never have sat down, I thought. “One should never sit down and let one’s sixty-five-pound head drop into one’s arms until one is home and in bed.”
Carlo came to stand in front of me and put two beefy hands on my shoulders.
He shook. “You’re talking to yourself. Crazy people talk to themselves, and you are not yet crazy.”
I silenced.
“This is the exhaustion speaking,” he said in his best Montessori teacher voice. “Comb the hair, do something girly to your face, and get out there. Just because Felix usually handles the fans doesn’t mean you can’t do it, too. The dude just liked his dessert. He’s not going to propose marriage.”
A sudden pierce of a laugh escaped me. “No danger there!” My arms felt weak as I pulled the nest into a neat bun and coaxed every stray hair into place. I looked at Carlo hopefully.
“Much better.” He pulled on his coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Garrett. Soak up the praise.” He started out the door but stopped, his foot propping it open and letting in a chilly spring wind. “And don’t do that thing you do. It’s so annoying.”
I made a face. “What? What thing?”
“Where you tell people how many times you had to change cacao producers and the differences between American and European butter and why measuring cups are the spawn of Hades.”
“Those are all very, very intriguing topics of conversation, Carlo. Maybe you need to get out of your area of the kitchen more often and—”
“’Night!” He shouted and let the door slam behind him.
I huffed, patted the back of my hair, straightened the cuffs on my chef’s whites, and pushed through the door to the dining room. Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the low light, I scanned the empty tables, all of them fresh, pressed, and set for the first service the following evening. Richard passed me on his way through the kitchen door. He carried a small mountain of crisp white napkins and peeked around the pile to catch my eye. He nodded discreetly at a table along the orchid wall. I squinted as I approached, finding something familiar about the man but not quite settling on it until I remembered my conversation with Manda that morning.
“Avery Malachowski.” I offered my hand as I came to stand at his table.
“Charlie,” he said with a full-wattage smile. I remembered him telling me his dad was a dentist in Ohio and how, if I wanted, he could score free bleaching trays for me any time. He pulled me into a bear hug, and I hastily ran my tongue over my teeth, searching for a miscellaneous almond skin or rhubarb thread. My dad was an accountant.
He continued to hold me, my rumpled whites pressing against an Italian suit and starched dress shirt. His hair was neatly trimmed, his neck warm against my cheek.
Avery stepped back, hands still around my waist, and appraised me. “You look fantastic,” he said, his tone suddenly hushed. With a roguish grin, he added, “Even better than I remember. And I remember it all.”