6
I was starting to sense a theme. Since the last time I had seen him, Avery had made the leap from “cheapskate” to “indulgence king,” and I wondered if he had had professional help to make the transition. Thrill’s interior actually made me gasp when I entered the restaurant the next afternoon. I’d been up to my eyeballs in boxes, packing tape, and shopping lists, so by the time I entered the front of the house at Thrill, I was a walking, breathing target market for one of their famous mojitos. Omar had already recommended them to me twice.
The walls of the restaurant were inlaid with hundreds of planks of polished knotted wood, running the length of the dining room and only interrupted once by an enormous rectangular window. The paint colors were variants of white, and the floor was some kind of charcoal, veined slate. A long fireplace filled the better part of one wall. A tidy gas flame danced behind glass and bounced firelight off a sleek wood mantle. The low-lit chandeliers dotting the room gave off prisms of sparkle and glam. Tables were set for the evening, but I was alone in the room.
I picked up a menu, feeling the weight of the heavy cardstock, russet with faint white polka dots of different sizes sprinkled behind the white text. The savory menu made my mouth water with its emphasis on local seafood and innovative preparations of Northwest produce. The options for dessert, however, were yawnworthy. My mouth straightened into a line, and I stood taller. I could do better. I would do better.
Avery burst through the kitchen door, his shoulder cradling his cell phone, hands gesticulating wildly.
“We have gone over this before, Margot,” he was saying. “Either you trust me or you don’t. I need two weeks, and I’m not budging on that.” He seemed surprised to see me, but he quickly recovered and came toward me with open arms. “Listen, I must run. We’ll talk soon.”
Phone still in his hand, he pulled me in for a hug. “You’re here! What do you think?” He brandished a tanned forearm, gesturing to the restaurant.
“It’s stunning,” I said. “I love it.” Members of the waitstaff were beginning to filter into the dining room in a wash of black shirts, black skinny ties, and black trousers. Some were tying on long black aprons with THRILL printed down one side in crisp white lettering.
“Come meet everyone. We’ve just finished eating and are about to start the preservice run-down.” He slung an arm around my shoulder, and we walked somewhat awkwardly toward the group. They’d gathered by the picture window that overlooked a secluded, brick-paved courtyard on the cusp of a raucous springtime bloom. A flowering cherry tree stood in the middle of the space, knotty bark running down its trunk, its roots bumping up the brick pathway. Tiny purple flowers lined the branches heralding the shift toward warmth and longer days.
“What a tree,” I said.
Avery waved at a tall, slender man with rimless glasses on the far side of the room. “Hmm?” He glanced where I was staring. “What tree?”
I looked at him, wondering if he had become blind since we last saw each other.
“Oh, right. That tree. Nice.” Avery steered me toward the skinny dude with glasses and said, “I have someone I’d like you to meet. Vic Arteaga, meet our new pastry chef, fresh from Manhattan’s L’Ombre, Ms. Charlie Garrett.”
Vic’s hand was baby-soft, but his handshake was firm. “The famous Charlie Garrett. This man has sung your praises for a long time. Welcome.”
Avery just stood there, grinning and waiting for me to, what? Whip up a soufflé or something?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said. Vic was turned out in a starched purple-checked button-down and a tailored dove-gray suit. His attire stood in stark contrast to a room full of people clad entirely in black. “And what is it that you do here at Thrill?”
“I’m the—” he began but was cut short by Avery.
“Vic is new, too,” he said, his eyes widening a bit. “He is working in our newest department. Marketing. Marketing and communications.”
“Absolutely.” Vic’s voice was polished, relaxed. “I’m helping Thrill move into its next phase.”
I cocked my head to one side. “A ‘next phase’ so soon? You’ve only been open a few months, and you’re already changing pastry chefs. Surely that’s enough change for the time being?”
“Well, no,” Avery said. Then, “Yes. I mean, we are stretching and changing and growing all the time, Charlie. You know, all that dog-eat-dog stuff. It’s a different world with social media and branding …” Avery trailed off and nodded at a man who stood with hands on his ample hips in front of the group of seated servers and cooks. “Looks like we’ll have to continue this discussion another time. Chet is ready to begin.”