I glanced at the clock and saw we were ten minutes into the start of service. I ran through a mental checklist, knowing the first orders were only minutes away. My late start had followed me all day to this point, and I worried that my double-checking would not be enough, considering how distracted I’d been. The hair, the makeup, the lights, the noise, and the movement were foreign and irritating. Adding to the mayhem, Margot and Vic had come back to the kitchen every five minutes to pepper me with questions about which angle would be best to film garnishing (the east wall), and if I had any objections to opening my coat a few buttons (I did), and if I could “pop out” to the main house a few times each hour to interact with the clientele (give me a break). So when Avery rounded the corner midway through the first hour of service followed by a gaggle of lights and microphones, I had to force my face into a semblance of sanity.
“How can I help you, Chef?” I asked in the most polite voice I could muster, doing my best to ignore the artificial light glaring off the surface of my counters. I had five desserts going out to the pass, four of which still needed my attention that very moment. I gritted my teeth and looked questioningly at Avery.
“Heeyy, Char.” His voice sounded absolutely bizarre, like cotton had taken up the space between his vocal chords and his tongue. “How’s it going back here?”
I raised one eyebrow. “Just fine. I have five desserts coming your way.” This was my hint. Go away. He did not take it.
“Sweet. That’s really great. You’re really great at your job.”
I nodded slowly, a trace of concern poking through my annoyance. “Thanks, Avery. You don’t sound, um, like yourself.”
His eyes widened, pleading. Mouth still stuck in that trembling smile, he looked like a fish with really great hair. I glanced over at Margot, who stood next to the cameraman. She had both hands on her diminutive hips, or where her hips might have been if she’d had any. She looked highly irritated. Vic stood next to her, biting his lower lip with his teeth, his eyes bulging slightly behind his glasses.
I returned my gaze to Avery. He looked utterly lost. He’s tanking, I thought. The poor guy was absolutely crashing and burning. He wanted this so badly, but he was crumbling under his own expectations.
I leaned up against the counter and wiped a fine layer of perspiration from my forehead. Locking eyes with Avery, I smiled. “Being an executive chef is stressful, right?” I hoped my voice was calming, like those people in the movies who try to talk the terrorists into letting the hostages go. “Remember how we used to deal with stress in culinary school?” I walked toward him, grabbing two rubber spatulas off the counter as I moved. “Remember Julian Lennon? That one song of his we always sang?”
Avery smiled, a slow and cautious smile. “His only song, as I recall. But I could never remember how it started.”
“Well, it’s much too late for goodbye,” I sang, tugging his arms into a corny dance posture, forcing him to join me in a clumsy two-step. He laughed, nerves still making his vocal chords strike a higher pitch than normal. I mimicked his white-man’s overbite, and I felt his arms relax a bit when he laughed again. He sang a line with me, totally off-key, but he did appear to be regaining control of his faculties.
“You okay?” I said into his ear when he remembered our signature and only real dance move, a low dip with jazz hands.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his lips lingering by my cheek.
I waited for him to pull me into a standing position, and when he didn’t, I cleared my throat. “All right, then. Back to work,” I said, scrambling as I pulled myself up.
“Back to work,” Avery said, his voice now rid of the cotton strangle, but moving into some sort of dream sequence. The sappy expression on his face was a perfect match.
I heard Tova sigh behind me. I whipped my head in her direction. She looked like I probably looked after watching any film involving Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. I retrieved a baking sheet from storage and let it clang unceremoniously on the countertop. “Final garnishes on the rhubarb and the Key lime, Tova. I’ll take the other three plates.”
Turning back to my work, I hunched over the desserts, hearing the shuffle of the film crew as they moved to another part of the kitchen. Avery hung back a few steps, and I looked up to meet his glance.
“Perfect!” he mouthed and gave me an effusive thumbs-up. “Charlie to the rescue!”
I shrugged and looked again at the plates below me, unsure whose script we were all so busy following.
12
EVEN the patient, lingering daylight hours of spring were giving up on me by the time I jogged up the walk in front of Jack and Manda’s house later that week. I looked again at my watch and sucked in my breath. I was late. Very, very late. After much discussion and calendar checking, we’d finally found a dinner date that would work for the Henricks, Kai, and me, but even after all our efforts, I was the kink in a great plan. And I was late.
Reaching the wraparound porch, I tiptoed through an obstacle course of toys and bikes, jump ropes, sidewalk chalk, and a line of dolls, several with at least one eye poked out, perched in a line leading to the wide porch swing. I heard laughter from inside, and I pushed open the screen door. The squeaky hinges announced my arrival, and Manda came around the corner with a glass of red wine in her hand.
“She lives! Those text messages were not from some other Charlie Garrett,” she called over her shoulder. I could hear Jack and Kai echo her surprise.