“Dev, you know I—” Lou started to say.
Devlin held up a finger for silence, then a smile spread across his face. He turned to Lou. “Looks like I’ll be making some calls tomorrow. A merger is in the works. Now, what were you saying?”
Lou took a deep breath. “I want to try owning my own restaurant. Sue and Harley think I’d be great at it. I saved enough. I found the perfect place.”
“Why do you want to keep working in restaurants? I told you, I’ll take care of you. With your support, I’ll be one of the top attorneys in Wisconsin. That’s where our efforts should be focused.”
“Devlin, I need to try this. I’m sorry if you don’t understand.” He looked back at her, studying her face, her posture, as if she were a new car he might like to buy or a witness he wanted to break.
“Okay, Elizabeth, but I don’t want it to distract from our plans.”
End of conversation. For once, Devlin must have sensed her determination. But he’d ignored all her planning and had only eaten at Luella’s three times since she’d opened.
“Lou, you okay if I take a quick break?” Lou looked over at Sue to see blood dripping off her wrist.
“What the . . . ?”
“It’s just a minor cut, but I need to stop the bleeding,” Sue said.
“Go.” Lou waved her tongs at her, hearing Harley ask whether she needed help. Lou’s attention turned to another ticket for sole meunière. Lou started the fish at the sauté station, then returned to the grill.
“Chef?” a quiet voice asked from the window.
“Yes, Tyler.”
“Can you put a rush on the sole for table twelve? He’s been here a while.”
Lou saw red. She glared at Tyler.
“Fine.”
Four more orders arrived. Lou flipped the damn fish, started two more orders of sole, then rushed to the grill to turn all the items before she burned more food.
“Where the hell is Sue?” Lou shouted. She slammed a pan down on a burner and lit it to start the sauce for the fish. She tossed in the ingredients, but as she reached for the salt, her sleeve caught the cooking brandy, spilling it across the lit burners and sending flames whooshing to the industrial vents above the cooking area. Lou jumped back, but not before singed hair crinkled around her face and her sleeve caught fire.
Food first. She pulled the flaming fish and sauce off the stove and covered it with a lid to extinguish the flames. By the time she used a damp rag to douse her sleeve, the ignited brandy had burnt low, then flickered out. Before she could finish assessing the damage, Tyler’s face appeared in the window.
“Chef?”
She slid the rescued fish out of the pan onto a plate and dumped the butter sauce over the top.
Lou slammed the plate under the heat lamp and shouted, “Order.”
“And that’s enough,” said Sue from behind her, her wrist neatly wrapped in duct tape. She grabbed Lou’s hand and looked her straight in the eyes. “I say this as your best friend. You’re a raging bitch right now. While I’d like a little more sass from you, that’s not your thing. Go wash dishes until you can get your attitude under control. And what did you do to the food?”
Lou’s eyes widened as she stared at the sauté station. She saw one overdone and one half-cooked fillet, both charred.
“I grabbed the wrong one. Get that order back.” Lou peered out the pickup window, hoping to see Tyler holding it on the other side.
But it had already been served. Sue firmly pushed Lou toward the dishwashing area.
“I can handle it. The worst of the rush is over.” Sue turned back to the line of tickets and started a new sole to remedy the complaint.
• • • • •
And stop. Al pushed a button on his wristwatch. Thirty-three minutes since his salad. He looked at the plate. The fish looked wan, drowning in its sauce. The capers were scattered haphazardly. A pathetic wedge of lemon clung to the edge of the white plate as if for its life. He nudged the empty salad plate away from the silverware so he could pick up a fork. On his iPad under “Decent salad,” he typed, “Limp fish, poor presentation, slow service, no bread.” Al cut into the middle of the fish to take a bite. The inside looked underdone. Perhaps the edge would be safer. He took a bite and gagged. Somehow the fish was over- and underdone, with a heavy alcohol flavor. He wasn’t staying for soufflé.
“Check, please.”
• • • • •
Lou took over washing pots and pans for the night, embracing the heavy, repetitive labor. She scrubbed every pan immaculately, pretending each was Devlin’s lying face. Anger and hurt flooded her, blinding her to everything else. She scrubbed and scrubbed, expunging the indignation, the fury, the misery. Harley or Sue, she didn’t look up to verify who, put more pans next to the sink and she scrubbed. Then someone else put them away. She didn’t think, she just scrubbed, stopping occasionally to swab the damp off her face.
Devlin never supported her unless it aligned with his goals. His generous gifts, future plans, and lofty aspirations were always his, not hers. He made her feel safe, and sometimes sheltered, as if he stood between her and real life, as if she were a princess he wanted locked away in a tower, a beautiful but boring tower. But he had needed her, too, in his own way—needed someone to protect, to take care of, keep safe. Someone to help exorcise the demons left over from watching his mother deteriorate as she worked herself to the bone at restaurants. But this morning had shifted her understanding of their entire relationship. She held back tears as she tried to scrub him out of her life.
By the end of the night, she dripped from head to toe, every muscle ached, and her pots hadn’t looked this clean since they’d come out of their boxes. When no more pots and pans appeared, she staggered to the Lair and closed the door behind her.
• CHAPTER FOUR •
Al never, ever got sick. He had eaten dodgy foods from Shanghai to Mexico City, from food trucks and back-alley counters. One reckless evening he even drank tap water in a small Indian village an hour outside Mumbai. During a college trip to North Africa, every one of his friends spent some time locked in their hotel room bathroom while he explored the vibrant souks and sampled more of the fragrant foods, uninterrupted. He was quite proud that he could eat anything, anywhere without negative effects—so the unsettled stomach ruining his morning made him particularly cantankerous toward Luella’s.
His review was due to Hannah by three o’clock for the Friday edition. He’d mostly finished it last night while awake with stomach cramps. The discomfort sharpened his wit to a samurai sword; this was his most scathing review yet. A little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. After this review, he hoped no one else would have to endure indigestion at the hands of Luella’s inept chef. Serving undercooked fish should be criminal, outside of a sushi bar. And Luella’s was most definitely not sushi.
“Why’re you here so early?” asked John as he set his camouflage messenger bag on his chair, a perfect accompaniment to his shabby appearance. Then Al noticed the tiny print on the shiny silver buckles.
“Is that camouflage Prada? Where did you find that in Milwaukee?”
John looked pleased and guilty at Al’s observation.
“Chicago. Though I find a lot of stuff online.”
Al sniffed. “That’s where I go when I want good food. And a promotion.” He added the last part under his breath.
“We should take the Hiawatha down sometime. I can show you the great shops. You can show me the great eats.”
Al stared. “You want to go to Chicago with me?”
“You can’t be an ass all of the time. It might be fun.” John shrugged. “So, why are you here so early?”