“Ha! This is my kitchen. I make the menu. Get your own kitchen.”
Lou gnawed her lip.
“Speaking of my own kitchen, I’ve been thinking about that.”
“As you should.”
Tom took another bite.
“Some of us don’t have buckets of money being thrown at us by abundant customers.”
“Yes, yes, your point.”
“I have my business plan written for a new restaurant. Could you read it? Give me your thoughts?”
“Of course. Bring it in tomorrow.”
Lou’s lips twitched.
“It’s already on your desk.”
Chef Tom sighed dramatically.
“Oh, fine—I’ll go read it. And get that dish ready as the small-plate special tonight.”
Lou glowed. Tom really was a great friend. She started breaking down whitefish into small pieces and making sample plates for the waitstaff to try, then worked on her regular prep. She cleaned up her station, putting the final touches on her mise-en-place. She turned to see Tom standing behind her with the business plan in hand. He was rifling through the pages.
“So?”
He looked up at her, his face serious. Lou was used to the jovial Chef Tom, not this one—the one reserved for his vendors and accountants.
“That bad?” she asked.
“No, this is really good. Great, actually. Are your numbers accurate?”
“I think so. That represents the money I owe and that one is the value of the equipment.” Lou pointed to a spot on the page. “I’m looking at a less expensive property, and my start-up costs will have to be smaller than with Luella’s, but those numbers should be right. If the bank gives me the loan I’m asking for, I can start a very small kitchen—just me, a waiter, and a dishwasher. Only four or five tables. Very intimate.”
“What if you had an investor?”
Lou’s face got dreamy, then frowned.
“I’d love the extra money, but not having to keep them happy. I’d rather do it my way.”
“What if that investor gave you one hundred percent control of his share because your idea is so great he just wants to be a part of it?”
She grinned, understanding Tom’s meaning.
“Don’t get too excited. It wouldn’t be a lot, but I’ve had a good year,” Tom added.
“It would be more than enough. I’ll call the bank.”
Lou bounced as she dialed, buoyant at the thought she could soon climb back into her own sandbox.
• • • • •
Snow floated down in big, fluffy flakes, creating white car and tree silhouettes, muffling sounds, and converting the city dirt to a heavenly white. The ethereal weather brought those who mourned them closer to Gertrude and Otto, lending their joy and serenity to the solemn occasion. Lou had no idea what to expect at their funeral. The two had paid for and made all the plans in advance. They even had arranged for a Spanferkel roast afterward.
Almost two weeks had passed since she had spent those few days in hospice. During that time, she’d worked at The Good Land, gotten her life back in order, and learned the Meyers had left their house to her—while not enough to open a new restaurant, the surprise inheritance brought her plans that much closer to reality.
Lou had unearthed her one dark suit from the back of her closet, ironed it the best she could, and walked the few blocks to the funeral home. She intended to be there from beginning to end. She owed it to them. Harley, Sue, and most of her restaurant staff would arrive later. When she entered the building a few minutes before the visitation, the funeral home director was already waiting by the door, somber and looming.
All funeral directors reminded her of Lurch from The Addams Family. It wasn’t fair, and this gentleman looked nothing like him, but the association always stuck and caused giggles to surface at awkward moments. While the thought was absolutely inappropriate, it kept her mind occupied while approaching the open coffins.
She cherished their final moments together. They had given love, support, and hope—gifts she could never repay, nor would they want her to. Lou would miss them, but she was ready for her second chance. She gave each hand a little squeeze.
“Auf Wiedersehen.”
Lou walked away to collect herself and read the cards on the many flowers. She knew Otto and Gertrude had a full life outside her restaurant, but she always felt she had them all to herself. The flowers were evidence of how wrong she was. She turned to see many people cautiously entering the room. Some distant great-nieces and nephews collected in one corner. Lou offered her condolences and introduced herself. She didn’t think they really knew much about their great-aunt and uncle, not beyond the chitchat at family functions.
Lou wandered the room to find some photo albums and posted pictures. In every single image, they touched each other: holding hands, a hand on a shoulder or knee, or a full embrace with cheeks squished together. That was her favorite, something you expected teenagers to do, and it was one of their more recent pictures. They ate food in a lot of pictures, too, sitting side by side at picnic tables or lounging on a blanket in the grass.
The room filled up quickly, so she settled into a back chair, hoping there’d be enough seats for any of her former staff that came. Sue and Harley eventually arrived, as did many waitstaff and busboys. They surrounded her in their corner of the room, a phalanx protecting their lost commander. It felt good to be with her family, even in this sad setting; she’d missed them.
When the service began, Lou felt a tingle at the back of her neck. She turned to see Al enter the back of the room with a very hairy and rumpled man. He glanced her way, gave a nod of acknowledgment, and turned toward the minister. Lou turned back, too, not sure what to think about the newest mourner.
• • • • •
Don’t look again. Don’t look again. Whew—she turned around. If he looked at her again, he wouldn’t be able to control himself; he’d be on his knees begging in an instant. He’d heard about Otto and Gertrude’s death in the office. Hannah had called him in to ask whether he knew them. Their obituary was written based on a packet of information the deceased had wanted included. They wanted it known they frequently ate at the remarkable Luella’s, owned by Lou Johnson. He’d only met them a few times, yet they’d left an indelible mark. The two together seemed unbeatable, impervious to the ups and downs of life. For them, it was only ups as long as they were together; they made sense. As a model of marital harmony, he could think of no better.
He intentionally entered just as the service began, bringing John as insurance. He meant to pay his respects, not harass Lou. But she looked so broken when their eyes met. Dark circles marked her face, and she looked too thin. All the chairs held bodies, heads facing the minister who talked about soul mates and shared happiness. Al didn’t care much for funerals; they reminded him of his limited time to prove himself.
His parents had stayed for two weeks after the incident. He’d spent that time discussing his future with them, sharing many of the places Lou showed him: the art museum, The Good Land, Sprecher Brewery, and Miller Park. Alas, Northpoint Custard was closed for the winter, but they had one at the airport. When he drove his parents for their flight home, they had left early to eat at the custard stand. He had ordered everything and set it on the table in front of them, a communal feeding trough for the family.
“That’s lovely. It smells just like the fish ’n’ chips shop by the house,” his dad had said.
“I know. But this is quite a bit better. Try the perch. So much tastier than cod.”
They had sampled in silence, with a break to mutually agree the deep-fried cheese curds represented genius—evil genius, but genius.
“So, you’re staying then?” his mum asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You seemed reluctant to come, and then with the misunderstanding.” Katherine waved her hand and continued, “We thought you might want to come back to England.”