“I’m dialin’,” Jerry said.
Al watched Lou teeter to the bathroom, feeling the folded paper in his hand and the hope it represented. For the first time since getting off the plane and seeing the snow-blasted airfields, he thought Milwaukee might not be so barren. After this last review, he knew his stay would be short—phone lines and inboxes already beeped with positive feedback. Soon he’d have the numbers to prove he could build a following in any city he chose.
Al sipped his cider. With his exit in view, Al felt more kindly toward the city. It might be nice to get a different perspective on the Milwaukee scene. Maybe he could end his brief tour of duty here on a positive note—find the one lone culinary gem and tout it to national fame.
Maybe he could take John’s advice after all, then move on to bigger and better markets. Al’s mind wandered toward images of pillow talk and pastries. It had been a long time since he’d had a pillow-talk-worthy partner.
He’d call Lou tomorrow to begin his education on all things Milwaukee. Al finished his cider and set two twenties on the counter, then told Jerry, “One is for her cab home.” Jerry nodded, and Al pushed his way back out the doors into the warm evening. With the smack of crisp cider fresh on his lips, he looked at the number scrawled on the lined notepad paper. Lou’s wobbly script was like a secret code he could decipher, the missing link between his writing success and a little personal happiness.
• • • • •
In the bathroom, Lou avoided her reflection. The black-and-white tile wavered around her. She rubbed the back of her hand. The hand that felt numb from cider ten minutes ago tingled with sensation. She hadn’t tingled in years. Probably just the effect of the day’s emotions—and all the cider.
She set her hands on the white porcelain, leaned forward, and banged her head on the smudged mirror. The cool surface provided a focal point for her thoughts.
What am I going to do?
Still leaning into the mirror, she pulled out her phone and dialed the restaurant. Two rings and she heard Alison say, “Bonjour, Luella’s. How can I help you?”
“Hey, Alison. It’s Lou. Transfer me to Sue, please.”
“One second, Lou.”
Lou tried to push herself off the mirror before Sue picked up, but couldn’t.
“Why are you calling?” Sue asked.
“How bad is it?”
“We can talk tomorrow.”
“I need to know.”
“How many ciders have you had?”
“Four. No, five. No, four. I don’t know.”
Sue paused for ten seconds.
“Two canceled, three didn’t show. A lot fewer walk-ins than normal. I sent Tyler home early.”
“He only came once, Sue.”
“I know.”
“He said Grandma Luella was the wicked stepmother.”
“He’s the lowest of the low.”
Lou scrunched her face in frustration, smearing the mirror more.
“He’s a twat-waffle. A candy-coated asshattery douche bag. The douchiest of all douche bags.”
“I know.”
Lou moaned into the phone. Sue continued, “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
Lou whimpered. “I gotta go. Thanks for everything.”
Lou pushed back from the mirror and looked at herself. The drunk look never worked for her. Her cheeks were red, hair like a haystack after a tornado; even her clothes looked as if she’d slept in them. Was that cheese on her shoulder? Lou took a wet paper towel and vaguely scrubbed at it. Her hand-eye coordination lacked the accuracy necessary to remove the stain. Tears of frustration and humiliation rained fast and furious on her hot cheeks. With her phone still in hand, she pushed the voice mail button and listened again to the message Devlin left earlier that day.
“Lou, I saw the article. I’m so sorry you had to experience such a negative review. Call me and I’ll help. I can help you.”
Lou held the phone to her mouth and said to the recording, “It’s your fault. You aren’t a hero—you don’t get to help now that it’s doomed.” Lou punched the Delete button and used her sleeve to sop up the tears. It wasn’t fair, but it didn’t matter now. Time to focus on reality.
The tiled floor shifted under her feet.
Maybe reality could wait.
She wondered if Al would call. That caused her stomach to do a flip—a drunken, sloppy flip, but a flip nonetheless. She vowed not to discuss work or jobs with him. He’d be her escape from reality. Never mind that her lungs had stopped when he’d caught her and her hands itched to feel what hid under his neat, preppy appearance. She’d always kept her impulses grounded, but tossing her cautions in the air with Al might keep her occupied while life as she knew it blew away.
• CHAPTER SEVEN •
Al smoothed the wrinkled paper on his desk with his right hand as his left cradled his phone close to his ear, the thud of his heart threatening to drown out the ringing. With each trill, it beat harder. He held his breath as he waited for an answer. The clock on his laptop said 12:15 p.m.—more than enough time for Lou to have slept off her cider.
His throat didn’t work properly when the voice mail kicked in, as he scrambled to find the words that wouldn’t make him sound like a bumbling fool.
“Hello, Lou. It’s Al . . . from the pub . . . and the newsstand line. Anyway, just wanted to set a date for you to reveal Milwaukee’s good qualities. My number is 414 . . .”
Click.
“Hold on—I have to turn off the machine.” Lou’s voice interrupted his message. He heard a click, followed by a beep, followed by a “Crap.” Then Lou continued, “Sorry, I was getting out of the shower.”
“Excellent. I mean . . . good for you . . . I mean. When would you like to start?”
“Start?” Lou asked.
“My challenge. You promised to prove Milwaukee’s greatness last night. Please tell me you remember?”
“No. I do. I just didn’t think you were really serious.”
“Oh no, I take challenges quite seriously. Reneging will bring shame on you and your city.”
“Okay, fine.” Lou chuckled. “How about in two weeks? That Monday? That’s the earliest I can do it. I’ll text the details when I have them.”
“Fantastic.”
Al hung up the phone and circled the date on his desk calendar.
• • • • •
Two weeks postreview and Lou still struggled with the bad news.
“You okay?” Sue asked over the flush of the toilet, forehead wrinkled in concern.
Lou wiped her face with a damp brown paper towel, the wet-paper smell nearly sending her back into the stall. She threw it away and tried to get the faucet sensors in the bathroom to acknowledge her existence. She finally managed to splash cool water on her face and gave Sue a weak nod.
“You should go. We aren’t even open today.”
“I’m not letting you do this on your own.” Sue frowned at her.
“Fine, let’s get back to the books.”
“How about a coffee break?”
“No, I need to know how bad it is.”
“Well, Harley and I agreed, we aren’t leaving, and Gertrude and Otto promised to be here, too. So at least we’ll have one steady table.”
Lou smiled, but it melted into a frown. Business had declined more. Lou and Sue worked the numbers every possible way. The restaurant closed on Mondays to give the staff a break, but now they’d close on Sundays, too. While they still had a few regulars and a scattering of new customers who either didn’t read the paper or didn’t care, it wasn’t enough. There were even a few who visited to experience the same awfulness as A. W. Wodyski and seemed disappointed with the considerate service and perfectly prepared French food.