“This is the Hideaway,” an alto female voice answered his call. “How can I help you?”
In the background, Adam could hear the expected sounds—the clinking of clean dishes being put away, the chop, chop, chop of the prep work, the murmur of a few conversations lowered for the sake of the phone call. Soon they’d be plenty loud.
“Hello,” Adam greeted her heartily. “Could I please speak to Mrs. Weeks—Mrs. Ellis Weeks—or either of the Mr. Weekses?”
“This is Mrs. Weeks.”
“Great. Hi. My name is Adam Kopecky, and I’m calling you on behalf of the show The Great American Food Trip.”
He waited. Sometimes it took a minute to sink in. He wondered if Mrs. Weeks was a screamer or a gasper. Maybe a crier.
“Yes,” Mrs. Weeks responded in a cool tone. “What can I do for you?”
Adam coughed out an awkward laugh. It happened sometimes. Not everyone was familiar with the show, though it really was a household name these days.
“Well, we’re a cuisine-focused reality show that follows the food journeys of Chef—”
“Yes, I know the program.” There was a hint of impatience in the voice now. “And what can I help you with?”
Adam was a bit thrown. There was the strangest sort of suspicion in her reaction, like she thought this was a scam. Or maybe something worse. Adam couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
He hurried to set her straight. “I’m calling because the Hideaway has been chosen for our show. Our spies”—he laughed lightly—“came home raving about your menu and your entertainment. We hear you’ve become quite a local hot spot. We’d love to profile your establishment—get the word out to anyone who hasn’t heard of you yet.”
Surely now it would click for her. As one-third owner of the restaurant, she had to be adding up the financial possibilities in her head. He waited for the first squeal.
Nothing.
He could still hear the clinking, the chopping, the murmuring, and in the distance, a couple of dogs barking. Otherwise he would have thought the call had dropped. Or that she’d hung up on him.
“Hello, Mrs. Weeks?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Well, then, um, congratulations. We plan to be in your area the first part of next month, and we can be somewhat flexible within that time frame to work with your schedule. I’ve heard that Friday nights are a highlight, so we might want to plan for that—”
“I’m sorry—Mr. Kopecky, did you say it was?”
“Yes, but call me Adam, please.”
“I’m sorry, Adam, but while we’re… flattered, I don’t think it will be possible for us to participate.”
“Oh,” Adam said. It was half gasp, half grunt.
He’d had a few instances where schedules could not be made to fit, where exigent circumstances of the most weighty kind—weddings, funerals, organ transplants—had gotten in the way, but the dream had never died without a major effort on the part of the owners and major disappointment to follow. One poor woman in Omaha had sobbed into the receiver for a solid five minutes.
“Thank you so much for thinking of us…”
As if this were no more than an invitation to a distant relative’s backyard birthday party.
“Mrs. Weeks, I’m not sure you realize what this could do for your business. I could send you some statistics—you’d be amazed at what a difference in your bottom line a spot on the show would mean.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Kopecky—”
“What is it, Ollie?” a voice interrupted. This one was deep, and very loud.
“Excuse me a moment,” Mrs. Weeks said to Adam, and then her voice was slightly muffled. “I’ve got it,” she said to the loud voice. “It’s that show—the American Food Trip thing.”
“What do they want?”
“To feature the Hideaway, apparently.”
Adam took a slow breath. Maybe one of the other owners would respond appropriately.
“Oh,” the deep voice said, and his tone reminded Adam of the woman’s first response. Flat.
How was this bad news? Adam felt like he was being pranked. Was this Bess and Neil’s idea of a joke?
“Really?” someone called out from a distance—another deep voice, but this one more enthusiastic. “They want to put us on their show?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Weeks responded. “But don’t—”
A few cheers interrupted whatever she was going to say. Adam didn’t relax. He couldn’t feel any change directly on the other end of the line.
“You want me to talk to him, Ollie?” the loud voice asked.
“No, go deal with them,” Mrs. Weeks said. “Nathaniel might need a stiff drink. Maybe the waitstaff, too. I’ll take care of this.”
“Wilco.”
“I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Kopecky,” Mrs. Weeks said, her voice clear again. “And truly, thank you so much for the offer. I’m very sorry it won’t work out.”