The Saturday Night Supper Club Page 3

  “Six dozen.”

  “Okay, let’s do it. The early birds get lucky today.” Rachel dove back into the bun, tearing pieces off with her fingers and feeling a little better with every bite. While Melody technically reported to her, Rachel had given her carte blanche with the dessert menu and breakfast pastries, and she never disappointed. That was part of what made the brunch so popular at Paisley—the anticipation of what might be in the baked goods assortments placed at the center of each table. Rachel had done a prix fixe menu for that very reason—it limited the number of cooked-to-order items on the menu while allowing for some creativity, not to mention the fact it practically guaranteed a certain level of revenue for the week.

  “Was Carlos in when you got here?” she asked when she finally felt coherent enough to talk.

  “Yes. Already hard at work.”

  “Good. My Spanish must be getting better.” Carlos was one of the prep cooks—a machine really, preternaturally fast with a knife—but he’d gotten a little lax on his start times. “I’m never sure if he’s understanding me or not.”

  “I think Carlos chooses to understand what he wants to understand,” Melody said. “Language barrier notwithstanding, he’s probably the smartest guy in the kitchen.”

  No doubt. He worked the most hours, made the most money, and still had his evenings free to spend with his family, while the rest of them were toiling away in a stainless-steel box. “So, go ahead and ask. I know Ana texted you.”

  “Am I that transparent?” Melody laughed, then sobered. “What are you going to do? Are you going to give a statement?”

  “I already told Dan I have nothing to say. Espy or this Kanin guy, it’s the same response. Let someone else be the spokeswoman against sexism in the food service industry. I’ve got too much else to worry about.”

  Melody rose. “Okay. If that’s how you want to play it, I’m behind you.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I agree or not. This is your restaurant. I just don’t like the idea of someone else writing your narrative for you.”

  Rachel smiled. Melody did a good job of playing the laid-back bohemian baker, but every once in a while, she let her thorough and unconventional education slip out. “That’s exactly why I’m not responding. Because it’s my narrative, and this is a story I refuse to be a part of. Let them criticize my food. The rest is none of their business.”

  Fortified by Melody’s coffee and brioche, Rachel refocused on the specials menu, which was really two additional items derived from the leftover product in the walk-ins. A salmon-cake Benedict went on in addition to the standard crab cakes, and Tex-Mex steak breakfast tacos would use up the last of the New York strip. Done. She passed off the instructions to Andrew, who would be responsible for the specials prep; devised the limited cocktail menu, which would be handled by garde manger in the absence of a bartender; and changed into her whites for the day. Only then did she notice the flashing blue light on her cell phone that indicated a text message.

  From Gabby. On the way to the hospital. Afraid I might be miscarrying again. Please pray.

  The words hit her like a brick to the chest. Again? Gabby and her husband had been married for twelve years, and Rachel had assumed that they’d decided not to have children. But maybe it was more that they hadn’t been able to have children. Rachel sent a prayer heavenward for Gabby’s safety and that of her unborn child. That was all she had time for. It was now five minutes after ten, too late to call for a fill-in. She’d have to work the line after all. At least it would keep her from acknowledging the awful, shameful part of herself that hoped maybe she wasn’t going to lose one of her best cooks as she’d thought.

  Today was going to be a test of her experience, though, the combination of her work hangover and the caffeine stretching her nerves as thin as phyllo dough. Morning was different than dinner, where orders were expedited in courses. Brunch required everything to be cooked à la minute as it came in. Next to Andrew, who handled the eggs, Gabby had the hardest station for brunch, the rest of the protein.

  Rachel put on her game face as she strode onto the hot line, rubbing her hands together. “All right, boys. Ready to get rolled?”

  “Yes, Chef,” came the chorus of answers, not without a ring of excitement. She shook her head in amusement, but even she felt the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of anticipation like a drug in her veins. She could complain all she wanted, but some part of her still lived for the brutal challenge of working the line.

  One ticket followed another, the heat from the griddle blasting her like an Arabian desert and turning her skin hot and tight. The Benedicts went fast, followed by the steak tacos, so those were off her back, leaving the regular breakfast meats and the crab cakes to deal with. She took advantage of a brief lull while her bacon and ham were frying to grab another bottle of Gatorade from the lowboy and step away long enough to guzzle it in one gulp before she was back at her station.

  And then it was over. When the last plate went out at three minutes after two, Rachel figured they had done almost as many covers as the night before. That would make it a record Sunday for receipts.

  “I need you to supervise the close,” she murmured to Andrew before she left the kitchen in favor of the cool quiet of her office.

  Away from the line, the last dregs of adrenaline drained from her body, leaving only a bone-deep ache, that flu-coming-on feeling that had nothing to do with a virus. It was the natural result of pushing her body too long with too little sleep and nourishment. But she had no choice. She had the restaurant to think about, dozens of employees who depended on her, a steady clientele of hungry guests. Not to mention the fact that this was her dream. She’d sacrificed everything to get here, and this was part of how her debts were being called in.

  She fished her cell phone from her pocket and checked the messages—none—before tapping out a reply to Gabby: Any news?

  By the time she’d changed into her street clothes, there was a reply: Baby is ok for now. I think I’m going to be on bed rest. I’m so sorry. Call you when I have details.

  Rachel swallowed down the twin swells of relief and terror. Bed rest meant that Gabby had a chance of having a healthy baby. It also meant she would not be coming back.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against a prick of tears born of pure exhaustion, grabbed her tote bag, and headed straight from the restaurant without saying good-bye.

  Directly into a microphone.

  “Rachel Bishop? Would you care to make a statement?”

  Rachel squinted into the sunshine and shoved on her sunglasses so she could make out the overly made-up features of a woman shoving a microphone the size of a bazooka in her face. She recognized her, vaguely. She was some field reporter for channel nine. Or was it twenty-four? Was there a channel twenty-four in Denver? Rachel was so wiped out she couldn’t remember.

  “Make a statement about what?”

  “About the vicious attack on your integrity from Carlton Espy and the attention it received from the New Yorker. Did you know that Espy’s review has now gotten over three hundred thousand hits?”

  Three hundred thousand? How was that even possible? That was half the population of Denver. She blinked, momentarily stunned. She should simply tell the reporter that her publicist would issue a statement, but exhaustion had brought down her filter. “I don’t even understand how this is news.”

  “You don’t think the topic of sexism in the workplace is an important one to women?”

  “I think people need to stop taking Internet trolls like Carlton Espy seriously. If I were a more litigious person, I would sue him for libel.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. The reporter perked up. “Are you going to sue him for libel?”

  Rachel put her head down and headed for her car, hoping the reporter would take the hint. This time her only answer should be “no comment.”

  “Why do you think there are so few female chefs? Is it because women are ill
-suited for the profession?”

  Rachel whirled, her jaw dropping. “I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed every woman who has decided not to be a professional cook. Male or female, if they don’t have the dedication and skills to succeed, they shouldn’t be there. The guest doesn’t care if it’s a man or a woman cooking their food; they only care that it tastes good.”

  There. Let them air that little sound bite. Rachel unlocked her car door, plopped into the driver’s seat, and backed into the alley as quickly as she could manage, only marginally concerned with not hitting the cameraman who was following her car’s progress with his camera. Seriously, how was this even news? Was the media so low on shootings and natural disasters that they had to resort to talking to chefs about topics no one really cared about?

  She drove home in an exhaustion-laced stupor, almost surprised that she managed it safely, then parked on the street in front of her house, a charming but run-down Victorian condo conversion in the Wyman Historic District. Routine took her up the paved walkway to the lower unit, where she let herself into the sparsely decorated space, walked straight to the bedroom, and fell asleep with her shoes on before her face even hit her pillow.

  Chapter Three

  THERE WAS NOTHING like hanging off the side of a sheer rock face in high winds to put life into perspective.

  To be truthful, Alex Kanin’s only perspective right now was on how much it would hurt if he fell. He surveyed the expanse of red rock above him, looking for the handhold he knew to be there, assuming he’d followed the proper route up the side. He forced himself to relax his grip and save the strength in his fingers and forearms for the next move, however contrary to instinct it was when facing one’s own mortality.

  “Enough with the histrionics,” he muttered. He was clipped in to a bolt five feet below him. The worst the fall would do is give him a jolt through the climbing harness and some bruises as he banged into the rock. Assuming he didn’t die of a heart attack first.

  “You thinking about building a summer home up there?”

  The shout drifted up to him from his friend and climbing instructor, Bryan Shaw, then dissipated on the wind. Easy for him to say. Bryan was one of the top-ranked technical climbers in the country, whereas Alex had only been climbing for three years. This little 5.10-rated route in Colorado’s Castlewood Canyon State Park might be easy for Bryan, but to Alex it might as well be Everest.

  The taunting must have worked, though, because there was his next hold, a full foot out of his reach. A dyno. Alex gritted his teeth and coiled his muscles in preparation for the leap. For one sickening moment, he hung in midair, his hands and feet free of the rock face. And then his chalked fingers found the hold at the deadpoint, the zero-gravity pivot between jumping and falling. His hands, forearms, and biceps strained against the downward pull of his body weight while he felt for his foothold and secured himself on the rock.

  Bryan whooped triumphantly from below, and Alex laughed aloud. Now it was clear climbing to the top. Energy flooded his body as he scrambled up the last ten feet and levered himself over the edge. He clipped in to the top anchor and then flipped himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the forty-foot drop below.

  “Yeah!” Bryan pumped his fist in the air, and Alex laughed at his friend’s enthusiasm. “Now you have to get back down!”

  “Shut up!” he yelled back. “Let me enjoy this for a minute!”

  Alex flexed his hands and rolled the kinks free from his neck, the knots a sure sign he’d been climbing tense. Only then did he notice the raw patches on his fingertips. That would make typing difficult tomorrow, but it was worth it. This route was his hardest climb to date, something he’d been too chicken to try until Bryan forced his hand. And now he couldn’t wait to do it again.

  “All right. On belay?”

  “Belay on.”

  “Climbing.” He moved himself off the edge of the rock, ignoring the quiver of nerves as he got his hands and feet into position. He could have rappelled or walked back around, but Bryan insisted he be as comfortable with downclimbing as he was with the ascent. It was a slow process of finding his footholds and pausing to remove his quickdraws—the webbing-linked carabiners—from the permanent bolts.

  When his feet finally hit the solid ground and he called off belay, Bryan greeted him with a hard, affectionate slap on the back. “Nicely done. I was sure you were going to bail for a second.”

  “I almost did. I thought I was looking for a crimp and started doubting my route.”

  “Now that you’ve led a 5.11d successfully, are you ready to try some easy multi-pitch climbs with me in California this fall?”

  Alex laughed. That easy multi-pitch climb was a three-day ascent up Yosemite’s Half Dome. “Not remotely. Wait, what do you mean 5.11d?”

  “I might have understated the difficulty of this one,” Bryan said. “But you were ready.”

  Alex shook his head at his friend. He’d known Bryan since their high school days, and back then he’d already been a world-class junior climber. It was only when Alex started feeling the toll the writing career took on his body that he took Bryan up on his offer of lessons. He should have known he’d be pushing him every step of the way.

  “I blame the fact you made it look easy,” Alex said. “I don’t think I have one more in me today, though.”

  “I need to go anyway. I promised my parents I’d make an appearance at their thing tonight.”

  The “thing” was more than likely a fund-raiser or a party that rivaled the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, but Bryan tended to regard the black-tie affairs like Alex would a potluck. The side effect of being the black sheep of a wealthy family, he guessed, or maybe his friend’s way of showing his gratitude that his father hadn’t disowned him when he became a professional climber rather than following in the family’s real estate business.

  “Who are you bringing?” Alex began to remove the chalk bag and quickdraws that hung from his climbing harness.

  “Kirsten.”

  “Which one is she? The blonde?”

  “They’re all blonde. She’s the yoga instructor. I fully expect her to ask my mom if she’s ever tried a juice cleanse before the night is up.”

  Alex chuckled. So maybe Bryan didn’t toe the line completely. “Ah, the vegan health nut. Think your mom will go for it?”

  “I think there’s more chance of my mom getting Kirsten to eat meat than doing anything remotely like a cleanse.” He shrugged. “It makes for good entertainment on a boring night. Don’t suppose you’d like to drop by?”

  “Not with that kind of resounding endorsement. Besides, they didn’t invite me.”

  “You know you’re like family. You don’t need an invitation.”

  That was true. Maybe he’d dust off the tuxedo and drop in. The evening might be slow, but the food would no doubt be amazing. He’d been to more than one of those events in high school, during the long periods he’d lived in one of the Shaws’ spare rooms while his professor parents were off at a conference or doing a research sabbatical in Europe. Bryan’s dad and mom had never balked at Alex’s presence. They’d simply put another plate at the table, signed his permission slips, and bought him new school clothes when he’d outgrown his own but run out of the money his parents left in his account.

  “If I don’t show up, tell your dad I’m in for the fall gala.”

  “I will.” They hoisted their gear and started up the far gentler ascent toward the parking lot where they’d left their cars. With every step, Alex’s rubbery legs complained even more. He’d be feeling this climb for days. He’d thought he was in pretty good condition, but he was going to have to add another weight day into his workout schedule. Bryan seemed determined to make a respectable traditional climber out of him, even though Alex had barely graduated from artificial terrain at the gym.

  The clouds were beginning to mound overhead when they reached the parking lot, and the first big drops of rain spattered down around them
, raising the musty smell of damp concrete. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

  “Tuesday at Red Rocks?” Bryan asked.

  “I’ll be there. We’re running the steps first?”

  “You know it.” They heaved their gear into the back of their cars, then slammed the trunks. Alex slipped into the driver’s seat as the clouds let loose.

  Rain drummed on the roof of the car and poured down the window. They were out of the flash flood range now, but had they been a few minutes later, Alex would have been stranded on the slab while Bryan bolted for safety. The gullies and ravines that made up the park’s climbing areas could turn into deadly rivers in mere minutes.

  With visibility so bad, he had no choice but to wait it out. He reached for the cell phone he’d left in his cup holder and saw the blinking green light that indicated messages.

  The first one was from his literary agent, Christine. “Alex, have you been on Twitter? Call me as soon as you get this.”

  The next three were from Christine as well, various permutations of the first. What exactly had happened to cause the usually sanguine agent to turn so twitchy?

  He tried to open his Twitter app, but the state park was located in a sketchy cell zone south of Denver, so all he got were connection-error messages. Might as well hear it directly from Christine then. He dialed her number, and after a couple of seconds of deciding whether to connect or not, the call rang through.

  “Christine?”

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning!”

  Alex blinked. She was nothing if not brusque and businesslike; this note of excitement in her voice was completely foreign. “I was climbing. I left my phone in the car.”

  She didn’t even acknowledge the comment. “Have you seen Twitter?”

  “I don’t have data out here.”

  “It went viral.”

  “What went viral?” By the sound of her voice, he was thinking a contagious disease.