Part 9 (1/2)

She smiled at the cameraman as she dunked the sheet pans under the running faucet in our deep sink. ”Oh, the dessert lady? Absolutely not. She'd never let a hostess anywhere near her part of the kitchen.”

I realized the camera dude had trained his lens on my face, and I quickly pulled my mouth shut from its gaping position. A Spago hostess! A very pretty, well-endowed, lusciously lipped Spago hostess! An Avery hire, and blessed, I was sure, by Margot and Vic. Oh, well, I thought. She's all I have. She cried out from her spot by the sink and then showed the cameraman her fingers, scalded red from the hot water. If she had been paying attention to her job and not the cameraman-and that was a big if-she would not have sustained first-degree burns. My first day in front of the cameras, and my B-Team sidekick was whimpering about her acrylic nails.

This was going to be a very long day.

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 garnis.h.i.+ng (the east wall), and if I had any objections to opening my coat a few b.u.t.tons (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 pa.s.s, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 gla.s.ses.

I returned my gaze to Avery. He looked utterly lost. He's tanking, I thought. The poor guy was absolutely cras.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s 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.

”I'm so sorry,” I gushed and dropped my bag on a comfy velvet armchair before leaning into Manda's ready hug. ”I kept trying to leave for the last two hours, but Avery had a mile-long list of things we needed to discuss and the TV people had their own lists and, well.” I forced a tired smile. ”I'm here now.”

”No worries,” Manda said, though I could tell by the eyes I had known since the years of N'Sync that she was disappointed I had missed dinner. ”Your roasted b.u.t.termilk chicken and garlic mashed potatoes are keeping warm in the oven.”

”Mmm,” I said in concert with my rumbling stomach. I tried keeping the disbelief out of my voice. ”It smells amazing.”

Manda narrowed her eyes at me. ”You sound surprised.” She pursed her lips. ”Okay, fine. The chicken and the potatoes are from Whole Foods, but!” She lifted one finger in triumph. ”I made, with my own hands, a spaghetti squash ca.s.serole with kale and edamame. It's delicious. Even Jack liked it.”

We'd entered the Henricks' cozy dining room. Manda had painted one wall a deep, oceanic blue, and it pulled the s.p.a.ce together like a cozy blanket. The long oak farm table where the men sat had been her grandmother's. Jack had Zara and Dane on each of his knees, Kai was across from them, and Polly sat in queen position at the head of the table. She appeared to be trying to kill something on the tray of her high chair.

”I did like that ca.s.serole. She's right,” Jack said.

I watched to see if his face would betray the sure and utter lie, but the man was a professional. He'd been married to Manda and her cooking for a very long time. ”But, babe, please don't start in about going alkaline,” he said, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. ”Or paleo. Or flavor-free. Or whatever nonsense that woman at the co-op keeps proselytizing about.”

”Baby steps,” Manda said quietly to me as she went to retrieve my plate from the oven.

Kai stood from the table and pulled me into a hug. I felt myself relax into his arms, and I took a deep breath of his clean smell: soap, fresh air, maybe a touch of cinnamon from his day in the kitchen. He kissed me quickly on the cheek. A growth of new whiskers brushed my skin.

”Hi,” he said, his smile reaching me from his lips and his eyes. ”It's good to see you.”

”You, too,” I said, lingering with his arms around my waist. ”Sorry I've been texting more than calling.”

It was true. My communication efforts had been repeatedly thwarted as the show and the restaurant absorbed all my time. Since our starry night three weeks ago, Kai and I had met each other for a single rushed coffee date at a spot just down the street from Thrill. He had met me between takes and had been patient and gracious about several other failed attempts to get together since then. Our texts had been sweet and sa.s.sy, but I felt a rush of adrenaline to finally be in the same room with him again.

Jack snorted. ”Texting is to modern couples what love letters were to previous generations, don't you know that, Char?” I could hear him ramping up for one of his favorite topics: how technology depletes the human spirit. ”The thing about technology,” he said, bouncing Dane and Zara on his knees and making them laugh hysterically, ”is that it saps all the human out of the human being.”

”I'm okay with the texts,” Kai said into my ear. ”As long as I can see your actual face as much as possible. You're much more beautiful than emoticons. Except for maybe the flamenco dancer.”

I laughed, but I really wanted to purr. ”That flamenco dancer is a looker,” I said, feeling lovely even after twelve hours spent in the company of lights, heat, and grease.

”Sit.” Manda returned with my food and ordered me to the empty chair and the only untouched spot at the table. ”Kai, please, if you would, pour Charlie some wine and enjoy adult conversation while we put our offspring into the baths they desperately need. Who's stinky?”

”I am!” Dane announced with a sense of pride that many men never relinquish.

”I am not,” Zara said. ”But can I go first? And use bubbles?”

”Perhaps,” Jack said as he stood. He carried both the older kids like sacks of potatoes while Manda followed behind with a sleepy Polly. Before hitting the stairs, Manda stopped by the table and lowered Polly's head to my level. I kissed her repeatedly on top of her fine blond hair, behind the ears, on the one spot of her plump cheek that had escaped pureed carrots.

”Love you, Pol,” I said as Manda ferried her away. ”Can I read the other two some stories before they go to sleep?”

”Hallelujah and yes, you may,” Manda called. ”I'll call down when it's time.”

I turned to Kai and speared my first bite of b.u.t.termilk chicken. ”You in for story-time?”

”Absolutely,” he said. ”But I don't want to embarra.s.s you when they like my voices better than yours.”