“Yes, by the time she leaves here tonight, she’ll be only too happy to leave Solange. She’ll be cursing my name, too.”
“What exactly are you planning to do?”
“I’m going to break up with Joy publicly, in front of the entire staff.”
“Does it have to be that brutal?”
“Hating me is the best thing for her,” Tommy said. “And I want the best for your daughter. Don’t you?”
I closed my eyes, steeling myself against the pain and shame in store for Joy.
“Believe me, Clare, in cases like these, the cleanest cut is the best.”
Fourteen
“You what?!”
“Calm down, Matt.”
“What did I tell you, Clare? Did I not tell you to stay out of the man’s cheese cave?!”
“I know you did. I know. But it was my one chance to speak with Keitel privately…”
I was on my cell phone with Matt, pacing Solange’s back alley. There’d been no more talking with Tommy after we returned to Solange’s kitchen. The second he hit the back door, he went into extreme chef mode, shooting orders to cooks, tasting sauces, checking and rechecking ovens, and taking call after call on his cell phone—from vendors, colleagues, and the occasional VIP.
I hung around for another hour, waiting for Joy to return. I’d tried her cell phone and home phone, and got her voice mail on both. So I waited some more. Then I could tell I was in the way, and I ducked into the alley to make the call that I was dreading—to my ex-husband.
“I never meant for Joy to see us,” I told Matt. “She wasn’t even scheduled to arrive for another hour.”
“Obviously, she got there early to talk with Tommy.”
“Well, now she’s over an hour late.” I checked my watch again. It was almost three thirty. “I’m worried about her. Are you sure you checked your cell’s messages? She hasn’t tried to call you?”
“Believe me, she hasn’t. And if she does, it’ll have to be from a pay phone. Salinas confiscated her cell phone last night, don’t you remember?”
“Of course, right…” With so much happening, I’d forgotten. “Well, if she does call you, let me know, okay? And it’s important that she report back to the restaurant. I just found out that Brigitte Rouille’s been fired so she’s no longer a threat to Joy—”
“Wait, slow down. Brigitte’s been fired? That’s good news, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I still want our daughter out of this kitchen altogether, and that can’t happen until Tommy fires her.”
“What do you mean fires her? Run that by me again…?”
I brought Matt up to speed on Tommy’s intention to break up with Joy—and not with roses and a farewell poem. It was going to be ugly. Matt swore a few times upon hearing the plan, but he calmed down when I pointed out that the result of all this was getting our girl out of Solange’s kitchen and over her infatuation with Tommy Keitel in record time.
“Tommy’s going to give her high marks for her work under him—” I closed my eyes, choking for a second on my own Freudian phrasing. “Anyway, she can finish her internship at another great New York restaurant. That’s not a bad ending.”
“No,” Matt grudgingly admitted. “It’s not.”
“You just have to help me with Joy. You have to explain to her that you and I agreed to pitch Keitel on a coffee contract with the Blend. She’ll believe you. And hopefully she’ll understand what was going on wasn’t anything more than my helping the man create a pairings menu.”
“If I were you, Clare, given what she saw, I wouldn’t put Keitel and you and pairing in the same sentence.”
Oh, God… I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please, Matt, if she comes back down to the Blend, let me know.”
“I’m not at the Blend.”
“Where are you?”
“The top of the Empire State Building.”
“Excuse me? You’re not jumping, are you? You can’t miss Breanne that much.”
“Koa Waipuna is here with his wife and kids for a shopping and sightseeing excursion,” he said flatly. “I promised to show him and his family around New York today. I mentioned it to you earlier—”
“I guess I was distracted. You can’t get out of it?”
“No, Clare. You know very well the Waipunas’ coffee farm is one of our best sources for Kona on the Big Island. Don’t you remember how well Koa’s parents treated you and me on our honeymoon—”
I gagged. “You mean back in the Paleozoic?”
“I know it’s ancient history, but I can’t bug out on them—”
“Okay, okay. You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just upset. But please phone me if Joy contacts you.”
“Will do.”
“Ms. Cosi?”
A man had called my name. I closed my phone and turned in the alley to see a familiar face. It was René, the waiter who’d served Madame and me the previous evening. He was standing in the back door of Solange’s kitchen.
“Yes, René?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Cosi, but Monsieur Dornier would like you to pack up your French presses. We are preparing for dinner service.”
“Of course! Of course!”
I walked through the busy kitchen and into Solange’s dining room. Waiters in white aprons and black jackets were bustling around the room, shrouding tables with linen, putting down place settings, arranging fresh flowers.
I quickly packed up my presses, beans, grinder, paper cups, and electric hot-water pot into my carrying case. I was just crouching down to zip up the little Pullman when I heard Tommy Keitel coming into the dining room.
“Nappy? What is it? René said you wanted to speak with me?”
“You got another one of those notes, Tommy. I found it in our mail slot.”
Another note? I repeated to myself. I was still crouched down with my Pullman case, but I wanted to see what was happening, so I rose up just enough to peek up over the edge of the cherrywood table.
Napoleon Dornier was handing Chef Keitel a glossy black envelope at least eight by eleven inches large. Tommy examined the outside label a moment, then ripped open the end. He glanced at the single white page inside and swore.
“That son of a bitch! It’s him again. Just burn it, Nappy, like all the others.”
Keitel tossed the envelope to Dornier then strode away and slammed back through the doors to his kitchen.
What the hell was in that envelope? As I watched Dornier walk off with it, I tried to come up with a way to finagle a look at its contents or persuade Dornier to tell me what was going on. But I never got the chance to do either, because my cell phone went off.
Hoping it was Matt, I quickly flipped it open. The digital screen said the Village Blend was calling. Praying that my daughter had gone down there and was now trying to reach me, I answered.
“Hello?!”
“It’s me, boss.”
Damn. “Esther? What’s up?”
“Houston, we’ve got a problem!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Gardner’s not coming in. He’s stuck on the road between D.C. and New York.”
“Is he okay?”
“His friend’s piece of crap car broke down outside of Philly, and I can’t find anyone to take his shift. Tucker’s long gone, and Dante’s due to leave at four. I’m fine flying solo for a little while, but a very thirsty NYU Law study group just came in, half of a Dance 10 class is waiting for their lattes, and pretty soon it’s going to be a zoo here with the after-work crowd.”
Crap.
“I need backup, boss! You know what those people are like in the afternoons. Most of them haven’t had their caffeine fix since lunch. They’re animals!”
“Calm down, Esther. I’ll be down there in thirty. Just hold the fort alone for now.”
With a sigh, I snapped closed the phone. Joy hadn’t shown up yet, Napoleon Dornier and that black glossy envelope had disappeared, and one purse-lipped waiter, holding an armload of folded linen, was now giving me that look of strained politeness that clearly said: Excusez-moi, Madame. But would you mind getting the hell out of my way!