Lisa paged through the papers.
“The last thing the bank wants to do is seize and take back collateral, then try to sell it. I like that you’re here, fighting for your business, and your plan seems viable. And having one of the most successful chefs in the city on your side doesn’t hurt.” Lisa grinned at Tom. “While I can’t lend you additional money, we do want to see you succeed. If the numbers work and your new business plan is sound, we should be able to work out something. We’ll review everything and call you in a few weeks, but from where I sit, it looks good.”
Lou exhaled slowly. Lisa looked from her to Tom.
“Don’t you want to add anything?”
Tom’s smile expanded.
“I’m the silent partner.”
After so much rejection and disappointment, Lou let the sweet relief spread. Her numbers were accurate. She would get the loan restructured. She would get her kitchen. She would get her second chance.
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN •
Lou spread the last of the frosting onto the cake. She could never get it as even as Harley did, but that’s what the toasted coconut was for—to hide the flaws. She pressed the crunchy topping onto the sides and top of the cake, pausing to toss a pinch into her mouth.
She boxed up the cake and attached the note, her heart thumping with worry that her plan wouldn’t work.
She poked her head down the hall and shouted.
“John, are you almost done? It’s ready to go.”
“Almost,” he shouted back.
Lou poured herself a cup of coffee and flipped through a stack of papers on her counter. She pulled out Al’s review of The Good Land. She’d reread it a few weeks ago. He described the food lovingly, taking the time to explain why it excelled, not just that it tasted good. No wonder he had found such success as a food critic. The beginning reminded her how much Al had changed since they first met:
Milwaukee is all too often the butt of a joke, derided as a northern suburb of Chicago, the dreaded fly-over country. The streets are paved with cheese, rivers flow with beer, and cows run wild in the streets. Every native Wisconsinite can milk a cow, wears overalls, and drives a tractor. It’s a blue-collar town of simple tastes and simpler hobbies.
And in many ways, it is all of those things, but if you stop there, you’d be selling the city (and state) short, as well as denying yourself a true pleasure. As Alice Cooper explained so patiently to Wayne and Garth, mee-lee-wah-kay is Algonquin for “the good land.” And it is.
He really wasn’t the same man who had eviscerated Luella’s almost a year ago, who’d written all the biting critiques before that. After the funeral, she spent time with John and learned Devlin’s role in A. W. Wodyski’s review. John had confirmed her realizations. Al—the man who had fallen in love with her and her hometown, who had confessed to his complete asshattery, and who took a punch to the nose for her—deserved a second chance.
John walked into the kitchen and Lou gave a soft whistle.
“You look lovely,” Lou said, smoothing his hair a bit. “Make sure to call when you arrive so I know you got there safely. And remember, I’m a size ten.”
John’s smile distracted her a little. He looked so handsome—great hair, sparkly eyes, even his teeth impressed her.
“What do you think of the outfit?” John asked, crinkling the shirt in his hands.
“Stop wrinkling everything. You do that all the time.”
“Sorry, old habit.”
“Your clothes match your look perfectly. No need to mess them up.”
“Really?”
John’s brow furrowed.
“Trust me. I love the way you look.”
“I’m not used to having a female opinion.”
“Get used to it, because I can’t give any other kind. We could call up Harley to ask his opinion if you’d like. I’m sure he’d be flattered and full of useful dressing tips.”
“Funny.” John checked his watch. “Oops. I should get going.”
“Okay. You have the box and know what to do?”
“Fear not, dear lady.” John picked up the kelly-green box, pecked Lou on the cheek, and headed out her apartment door.
She’d better hurry or she’d be late, too.
• • • • •
The spring sun lit up the newsroom, forcing the pallid writers to squint at their screens. But after the long winter, no one wanted to suggest closing the blinds. Al noticed people escaping on coffee runs just to get outside on the first warm day in months.
“So, will you visit?” Al said into his phone.
“You really want me to come? To Milwaukee? You seemed quite against it last time,” Ian said.
Al smiled. “It’s grown on me. A lot.”
“Brilliant. I’ve been reading your reviews and I want the grand tour.”
“You read my articles?” Al sat up straighter, like he did during school when he answered a question correctly.
“Of course I do. It’s the only way I find out what you’re up to. Speaking of, I like that you’re using your real name now.”
“Me, too.”
“So, when should I visit?”
“How about mid-August, for Irish Fest? You’ll love it.”
“I can’t wait. I’ll let you know when I make the arrangements.”
“And you’re staying with me. No hotel.”
Ian laughed. “Perfect.”
“Later.”
Al set the phone down and smiled, thinking of all the places he wanted to show Ian. He glanced at his Brewers schedule to see what home games fell during his brother’s visit.
With a happy sigh, he looked toward the sun-filled windows and started his electric kettle; no outside runs for him today. He’d been working on a feature article for the last few months, the idea planted by Lou on one of their nondates. He’d researched how the different ethnicities within the city influenced the growing food culture, with an emphasis on the ethnic fests, his favorite part of Milwaukee’s summers.
It had been over three months since he saw Lou at the funeral. His eyes slid to the cast-iron pan now hanging in his cubicle, covered in magnets, one for each special memory with Lou. He brought it to the office now that he spent more time here. It tracked not only his love for her but his love of the city.
He looked at the clock: four hours until deadline. He should make it. He stood, bent over to touch his toes, now covered in clean black Converse sneakers. He wore blue jeans and a T-shirt with a sport coat covering the back of his chair. His Brewers cap sat on the edge of his desk; he usually wore it when he went out to restaurants or bars, unless it was a nicer place. His polos and khakis were buried in his full closet, all his suitcases unpacked. Al sat back down to finish his column.
He heard a noise behind him and assumed John finally showed for work. He rarely arrived so late in the day.
“Hey, John,” Al said without turning. “Everything okay?”
“This is for you,” John said. He saw John’s arm set something green on his desk, elegant black-and-silver cuff links blinking at the end of an Italian wool sleeve. Al barely registered what the arm held because he struggled to merge the posh clothing with John’s voice. He spun around to confirm it was actually John. Al’s mouth fell open.
In front of him stood an impeccably dressed man: crisp Italian suit, subtle lavender dress shirt, matching pocket square, creased trousers, and polished black leather loafers. His honey-brown hair was cut neatly, emphasizing the solid, beard-free jawbone and strong facial features. Al’s first instinct was to ask where John had gone.
“Are you going to see who it’s from?” John said, pointing at the box.
Al’s mind started clunking into motion, and a smile emerged in anticipation of the entertainment to come.