“Absolutely.” She nodded earnestly. “You have my blessing to order me around and have me do your bidding. I will not be offended.” She put up her hands as if to plead guilty.
“How long have you been at Thrill?” I asked. I liked the openness of Tova’s face and the fact that she seemed to have parked her ego at the door. We were a long way from chefs inflicting knife wounds here at Thrill.
“Two weeks,” she said. “Just moved here from L.A. And not missing the traffic one bit. Can I get an amen?”
Vic said a stilted “amen,” but I just laughed. I liked this girl so far and hoped her pastry skills were up to par.
“Well, we should get going,” Avery said, clapping his hands as he turned to face me. “I’ll walk Charlie out.”
I let Tova hug me again and reciprocated an air kiss with Vic. Avery steered my elbow toward the front door and handed me a sheath of papers waiting by the host’s station.
“Here’s your request for the last inventory of the pastry kitchen, but I can’t vouch for its accuracy. You’ll probably want to stop by and check it out yourself.” His eyes sparked with mischief. “Bring your label maker.”
“Oh, I surely will,” I said, already flipping through the papers.
Avery stepped toward me and leaned in. I felt his breath when he whispered, “Thanks for being here. I’m, um, really glad you took the leap.”
I nodded and should have been touched by the sentiment, but I could see Vic just past the window, squinting at us and nodding, his eyes narrowed and arms crossed. Something about the way he was watching us made me uneasy.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said, stepping away. “Tell Tova to get ready to work.”
Avery let out a sharp laugh. “She’s ready and willing, I assure you.” He walked toward the kitchen but said over his shoulder, “We’ve all been waiting for you, Charlie.”
I took a deep breath and felt the warm rush of being wanted, wooed, appreciated. Only a few days in, and Seattle was turning out to be a lovely fit.
7
THE following afternoon I decided to celebrate, having unpacked the final box in my apartment, with a walk to the Queen Anne Farmers’ Market. I wiggled into a tank, my favorite cardigan, and, in a burst of springtime hopefulness, a new pair of shorts from the Gap. I hummed as I made my way across a handful of city streets. I passed dads toting children in backpacks, hipsters from Microsoft snort-laughing about someone’s cerebral joke, and four women walking abreast, yoga mats slung over defined deltoids. My thoughts meandered as I recalled images from the last few days spent in my new apartment, and I found myself making a mental list of my favorite things about it:
? The walk-in closet, too large for the size of my wardrobe, but headily efficient and now color-coded with my shirts, dresses, sweaters, and pants all hanging perfectly.
? The kitchen. Oh, the kitchen. All of my tools, knives, pots, cutting boards, which had been so carefully puzzled together in my tiny New York galley kitchen, could not fill even a third of the available space in my new digs. Thinking of this particular perk made a giddy lump form in my throat.
? The soaking tub and standing shower with dual jets. I found myself wandering through the tall glass doors and into that sanctuary of tile and pristine grout even when fully clothed.
? The neat stack of broken-down cardboard waiting next to my door. All done, all done, and God bless America, all done.
A shiver of organizational victory pulsed through my fingers as I turned a corner and came to the entrance of the market. I was out of breath, and my ponytail was drooping after a walk that had turned out to be much longer than it had appeared on GoogleMaps. I stood for a moment, catching my breath and gathering my thoughts. Now that I’d tidied and established my personal space, all my attention and energy could focus like high-wattage spotlights on Thrill and the dessert menu there. I felt a shot of adrenaline just thinking about it: I was finally the head of pastry at a top-notch restaurant. It was finally my turn, my gig, my shot at making a name for myself as the best pastry chef in the city. No Felix, no broken promises, only the chance to prove what I could do. I took a deep breath and faced the market. Time to investigate what Seattle had to offer in the way of fresh, local, and inspiring.