“Submitting my review from last night.”
“Wasn’t that your first visit? Don’t you normally go a few times?”
“After last night, there’s no need.” He took a meaningful sip of tea and turned back to his monitor. His eyes settled on an e-mail he’d been avoiding. With a sigh, he opened it. It had arrived last week from his mother, but he hadn’t had the stomach to open it then. Now on a high from writing his review, he was ready. Attached was a scanned article from the Windsor Observer, his hometown newspaper. Ian, his perfect older brother, had donated several million pounds to build a new library at Eton.
During their schoolboy days, Ian had always fit in effortlessly with the much wealthier families, comfortable with the sleek private jets, castle-like country homes, and watches worth more than most cars. He had embraced the privileged world of high collars with coat and tails while Al squirmed, drowning in the school uniforms, more dork than dashing. Everyone had expected him to come from the same Golden Boy mold as his brother, but he could never quite fit, never quite found himself. Instead, he was the awkward teacher’s son who squirmed in the back of class, avoiding notice. Ian acted as if he belonged, so he belonged. Al had just counted the days until he could be free of his brother’s long shadow.
So Ian would now be immortalized at Eton—fantastic for him. He was even putting Dad’s name on the building, earning him another hash mark on the “best son” scorecard. He must have had a great year in investment banking. Al looked at the time—8:44. He moved his fingers, counting—2:44 in London. He dialed Ian’s office number and heard the familiar ringback tones.
“Mr. Waters’s office, Margie speaking.”
“Hello, Margie. This is Al Waters. Is he available for a moment or two?”
“One moment, please.”
The Muzak version of “Yellow Submarine” played as Al waited on hold. He sipped tea, watching John’s back as he worked. From behind, he resembled a caveman fumbling with a computer, an image at odds with his elegant cube.
“Al! You saw the article, didn’t you?” Ian’s voice broke into Al’s thoughts. He sat up and turned back to his desk.
“Mum sent it. Congrats, mate. Now Eton can never forget you.”
“Thanks. Dad’s a bit overwhelmed at the mo. They would have named a building after him sooner or later—I just made it happen while he could still savor it.”
“You’re such a good son,” Al muttered.
“Don’t be a twit. So, when should I come visit you in Milwaukee? I haven’t seen you in ages. You can show me the sights.” Al could hear papers shuffling in the background, Ian managing to work and be kind to his little brother at the same time.
Al thought about his first impression of Milwaukee—the gray lake, the boarded-up shopwindows down Wisconsin Avenue, the Milwaukee River, frothy like a bitter, dark beer. He imagined walking Ian past the graffiti-covered alley walls and up the dark, narrow stairs to his apartment. His view was of the busy street in front of his building, not the grand views Ian had in his many homes.
“There’s nothing to see—trust me. And I won’t be here much longer. Wait until I’m someplace better.” Al took another gulp of now-cold tea. He never had anything that he felt was worth sharing with his brother, so their conversations dwindled into awkwardness. “I better be off. Just wanted to say congrats.”
“Thanks, mate. See you soon, I hope.”
Al set down the phone and rubbed under his too-tight collar.
• • • • •
Everything hurt, inside and out. Muscles on her back twitched from sleeping on the office cot, her hands were rubbed raw from the hot water and harsh soap used to wash the dishes, and her face hurt from fighting back tears. She remembered staggering into the Lair and tumbling onto the cot the night before, her aching body a testament to her hard work. Lou knew Sue had capably finished the night as the sole chef. Sue could run any kitchen, but she shouldn’t have to run Luella’s.
With a deep breath, Lou sat up, smoothed her hair, and opened her eyes. Her cluttered office surrounded her, giving her comfort. The shards melted a little; her heart reinforced itself. She told herself Devlin was no longer important. It didn’t matter if she was alone. Her restaurant and, more importantly, her employees needed her. A pan clanged from the kitchen. Lou glanced at the round clock hanging on the wall—the little hand hovered near the ten. Sue must have come in assuming Lou would be useless again. Not today. Not ever again. A coffee-scented breeze wafted into the Lair, and Lou followed its trail out of her office and into the already-bustling kitchen.
It wasn’t just Sue. Harley’s bandanna-covered head bopped to a Katy Perry song as he vigorously chopped onions. All the busboys and dishwashers washed floors and walls. Lou grabbed Tyler’s arm as he walked by with a stack of freshly laundered napkins. He jumped a little when he felt her hand.
“Sorry about last night,” Lou said, and looked him straight in the eye. Tyler moved his shoulders.
“We all have bad days.”
“But I’m the boss. I should have known better.”
Tyler smiled. “We’re cool.”
Lou smiled back. “Is there a health inspection I don’t know about?” She pointed at the bustling kitchen.
“No.” Tyler shook his head. “We just wanted to do something to make you feel better. Harley wouldn’t let us go after your fiancé. This seemed the next-best option.” He continued out to the dining room, where the entire waitstaff were cleaning everything, from the light fixtures to the coffeepots. New tears misted her eyes.
“You gonna help or just stand there leaking all over the clean floor?” Sue noticed her late arrival and knew just how to get her moving. Sentimentality had no place in the kitchen. Her staff’s actions showed her they’d forgiven her meltdown; they didn’t need to say anything. Back to work as usual—exactly what she needed after the turmoil of yesterday. She lost herself in the kitchen; the smell of fresh bread and simmering veal stock, the hum of the kitchen vents over the stove and grill, the chatter of her staff as they worked—they were a healing salve on her still-throbbing wounds. She wasn’t better yet, but she would be.
“Did Chris drop off the Bordeaux he promised?” Lou asked Sue, knowing her sous had stood in her place with all the early-morning vendors to pick out the best produce, meats, cheeses, or whatever hard-to-find morsels they might have unearthed. Sue’s jaw clenched and her eyes tightened in response to Lou’s question.
“No,” she said. “He claimed he didn’t have any in our price range.”
“But I already paid him for it,” Lou groaned.
“I know—that’s why I told him he’ll give us something better to make up for the inconvenience. Billy’s putting the cases of wine in the cellar right now.” Sue’s smile implied her convincing involved unveiled threats, her favorite kind to make.
“You shouldn’t have done that. He’ll think we’re cheap. I’ll have to pay him the difference.”
“I don’t give a damn what he thinks, and we shouldn’t pay him any extra. He’s trying to screw you like he always does. It’s time to find a new wine vendor who won’t try to take advantage of your Midwestern good manners.”
“You’re probably right.” Lou chewed her lip. “Anything good on the trucks?”
“Some beautiful lake salmon, fresh asparagus, and new potatoes.”
“New enough their skin is peeling?”
“Yes.”
“I know what we’re going to do today!” Lou felt the excitement surge. This was why she loved cooking: getting amazing fresh ingredients and making something extraordinary. Luella’s traditional French menu didn’t leave much room for creativity, so the daily special had become Lou’s canvas, where she was limited only by her imagination and whims.
“We’ll keep it a simple spring dinner. Roast the potatoes in butter, salt, and pepper. Maybe some thyme or tarragon, too. We’ll top the salmon fillets with hollandaise and roast the asparagus.”