I felt my face get hot as a nervous laugh escaped me. “Yes, well, it’s been a long time. Nine years or so?” I pulled away but not before patting his forearm as if I were his geriatric nurse and off to get an afghan. Social skills! Social skills! I reprimanded myself. Pretend you remember how to talk to men! Pretend your best friend isn’t your Hobart industrial mixer!
Avery motioned to the open seat but paused to check his hair in a mirrored wall behind me. I narrowed my eyes, remembering suddenly this exact image of Avery admiring himself. I cleared my throat, and he snapped to attention once more. “Please sit. Do you have a moment?”
“No. I mean, yes. I do have a moment. But I shouldn’t sit down.” I gestured to my whites, then to the high-backed chair covered in navy blue Ukrainian linen. Alain had just started letting the staff sit on the chairs during family meals, but only because we were still clean at that time of day.
“Oh, come on,” Avery said. “Just for a few minutes. With an old friend.”
His eyes were still remarkably blue and remarkably persuasive. I considered, then unfolded a napkin from a nearby table and smoothed it over the chair. I sat gingerly, hoping no butter crumbs had adhered themselves to my butt and were now melting into Alain’s precious fabric.
“How are you?” Avery said brightly. “Things are good, right? You look like you’re doing just what you said you would.” He swept the room with one open arm.
“I’m doing well, thanks.” I nodded in time with my words. “I’ve been here at L’Ombre for five years now. I’ve learned a lot.”
Avery rolled his eyes. “You’ve crushed it, Charlie. I read Savor. Congrats on the great press.”
“Thanks,” I said, sitting straighter. “It was nice to get that kind of affirmation after all the work.”
“I totally hear you.” He nodded, suddenly solemn. “This business does not suffer fools. It can thrash a person’s soul, you know?” He searched my eyes with his, and I nodded, though any self-respecting New Yorker did not talk about souls and thrashing in the context of one’s career. This man had definitely been living in Southern California.
“And listen,” he said, pointing to where his plate had rested during the meal, “that puff pastry box filled with chocolate truffles and orange zest kicked my ass.”
“Fantastic,” I said, feeling a bit like a culinary student again, anxious for the full-throttled approval of her peers. “I struggled a bit with rolling the pastry for that recipe. You know, the humidity in spring is so inconsistent, and the moisture content of butter can be—”
Avery took my hand. “You have beautiful skin. And your eyes are absolutely fantastic. They really pop.” He squeezed my hand on pop.
I stared, mouth open. “Thank you.” It was all flooding back now, the reasons we hadn’t worked out a decade ago: the flirting with other women, the inability to stay focused on any conversational topic that veered away from Avery himself, the time near the end when he missed a lunch date because he lost track of time at the self-tanner. Right. Manda would be bummed, but I was tired and this was going nowhere.
“I should go.” I stood so abruptly, I hit my thigh on the edge of the table. Gritting my teeth against the bruise that was surely purpling, I winced. “Thanks for coming by, Avery. It’s great to connect.”
“Wait! Don’t go!” Avery pulled on my hand with both of his. His eyes were big and intent on my face. “We have to talk. I need to ask you a very important question.”
I looked around, relieved to find the dining room empty. What’s with Mr. Intense, I wondered? I mean, if he wanted to ask me out, that was fine. I’d say no, but there was still no need to get hysterical. Avery tugged me gently toward my chair.
“Charlie,” he began and then paused to fiddle with the open buttons on his shirt. “Charlie, I’m so, so glad I came by.”
“Right,” I said slowly. We’ve covered this.
“What I’ve seen, what I’ve tasted, how you look,” he said, his glance taking in my face, “well. You’re everything I was hoping to find.”
I felt my eyes bug a little. “I am?”
“Yes. Charlie, I want to propose something to you.”
“You do?” My voice had gone squeaky.
“Yes.” Avery’s jaw tightened, and his eyes shot Lasix-corrected laser beams into mine. “Charlie Garrett, I think you should quit your job and come work for me.”
I opened and closed my mouth like one of the tuna Carlo had filleted a few hours prior.
“Now, before you shoot me down,” Avery continued, one manicured hand held up in warning, “let me tell you why I’m right. First, you’re sick of New York. Am I right?”
“Well, I don’t—”
“You are. The nasty, urine smell on the subway, the constant noise even in your ‘quiet’ apartment, the pathetic lack of trees and grass—”
“We do have Central Park—”
“No. No, you don’t, Charlie. You think the park belongs to all New Yorkers, but that’s only if you go between the daylight hours of ten and six and you bring pepper spray.”
He had a point.
“Second, you are sick of this restaurant.”