Born at Dawn (16 page)

Rolling out of bed, Cynthia cracked her neck, stood up, and stretched. She rolled her eyes at her reflection upon spotting the bags beginning to form beneath them. Another night of sleep had escaped her. The meteoric rise to the top of the food chain at Sullivan's Eatery didn't come cheap. She'd been clocking fourteen-hour days for the last six months and getting two to three hours of sleep when she wasn't being haunted by the life she'd left behind or tormented by the huge hole not speaking to Cheo had created in her life.

It was a silly fight that resulted in nothing but her feeling embarrassed, confused, and frustrated by her own doing. She'd decided that Barbara was right; she didn't have time for frolicking with the “foreign exchange student down the hall.” Of course, now she regretted that decision and wished she had just accepted his Post-it apology. At least she wouldn't feel so alone.

A small voice inside of Cynthia suggested she return home.

“Can I?” she asked her reflection. “Should I?” She imagined the greeting she'd receive from Marvin: some choice words that could be spelled with four letters and a few jabs.

What about the boys?
the voice inside of her countered.

Every day she promised herself she'd go back for them, but with each passing day, she established another reason why she couldn't, and today was no different. She, along with the rest of the staff, had been summoned to Chef Sullivan's home in Chesterfield for an early morning meeting.

Chef Sullivan usually held a staff meeting the first of every month to set goals, celebrate birthdays, and plan future menus. For whatever reason he'd decided that the November meeting would take place at his home.

Cynthia put on a coral-colored fitted tee and slouchy leatherette sweatpants and hopped into her car. She used the time in standstill traffic on the highway to put on her makeup. Based on Chef Sullivan's reaction when she stepped out of her car, the makeup application skills she'd acquired while covering up Marvin's handiwork had begun to wane.

“Did you sleep with the devil?” Chef Sullivan asked, making circles in the air near her eyes as they stood in the driveway of his five-bedroom gray and white brick home. Chef Sullivan was way too observant for it to be Sunday morning.

Spreading his arms open wide to embrace her, he asked, “What's going on, honey?”

“I can't even begin to explain it to you.” Cynthia feigned a smile in an attempt to dodge the barrage of questions she could see forming in Chef Sullivan's eyes. Cynthia was excited to see the home Chef Sullivan. She'd developed a close affinity with him after working side by side with him for six months. The liberties he'd given her in the kitchen made her feel welcome and capable of anything. Nevertheless, her lack of sleep wouldn't allow her to enjoy the moment.

“An early morning mimosa will get rid of whatever is ailing you.”

“Chef. It's eight a.m.” Cynthia balked.

“Didn't I say early morning? Come, come, hurry up and get inside before one of my neighbors sees us.” Chef Sullivan wrapped his arm around Cynthia's and began walking. “They're always trying to get in here. Susan says I'm paranoid. I don't buy any of that ‘we just want to welcome you to the neighborhood' stuff. I think they're nosy and want to scope the place out.”

Cynthia wobbled up Chef Sullivan's cobblestone walkway in her wedges using the chef as a crutch to keep from falling down. When they reached the steps, Susan pulled the door open and shouted, “Good morning. I love that dress, Cyn. Turn around.”

Smiling at the compliment, Cynthia spun around in slow motion. She'd also gotten quite close to Susan in the past six months.

“That dress is gorgeous. Cheo is going to die when he sees you in that.” Chef Sullivan picked up the porcelain tray that was resting on the table near the door. “Mimosa, hors d'oeuvres, mademoiselle?” He bowed slightly while offering her some fruit kabobs.

“You didn't tell me Cheo was coming. I can't stay. I have to go,” Cynthia cried fanning herself. She didn't know whether she should be happy or nervous about seeing Cheo again after so long. Panic was the first emotion to set in when she thought of being in such close quarters with Cheo. She hadn't planned what she was going to say to him. She'd done so well at avoiding him.

“Don't be silly. You have to stay. We're having a meeting and I'm not even sure I understand why you're not speaking to him.”

“You wouldn't understand,” Cynthia barked back.

“Please take a sip.” Chef Sullivan shoved a mimosa into Cynthia's hand. “Susie, go to the kitchen and finish plating the fruit kebabs please.” Once Susan turned the corner, Chef Sullivan continued, “Cynthia, are you all right? You've been snapping at people a lot in the restaurant lately. I can't tell if you're coming or going.”

“It's . . .” Cynthia hesitated. “No, I'm not all right. I haven't been sleeping because I'm a monster.”

It occurred to her that she could reveal her secret now and be freed from her burden, but she didn't want to let Chef Sullivan down.

“Whatever it is we can work through it.” He held her free hand tightly. His eyes were full of sympathy.

“I just haven't been able to sleep lately,” she said between sips of her mimosa. “I've got a lot on my mind.”

“Listen, I know an excellent doctor who can help you with your insomnia, and there will be plenty of people here to keep you and Cheo separated.”

Chef Sullivan led Cynthia to the living room. The sunlight cast a resplendent glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The contrast of the white crown molding set against the azure blue of the walls made it seem as if they were outdoors.

“Anything you want is at your fingertips.” He pointed at the large banquet table set against the wall.

The scent of sage and bacon dragged Cynthia over to the table. Freshly baked banana bread, seared scallops flanked by bits of bacon, sage, and almond fritters, and a pot of peach-coconut and pistachio quinoa porridge greeted her. “Chef.” She gasped, looking back at him.

“Susan said I went overboard, but I wanted you to feel at home. I want everyone else to be inspired. I was thinking we could go bigger than our usual give-a-gift donations to charity for Christmas this year. You already know how much I love giving to charity, so I thought we could try something new for Thanksgiving: Adopt-a-Family.” Chef Sullivan smiled warmly as he revealed his plan to Cynthia. “We'll all invite a family who's struggling, or someone that we know who might be spending dinner alone this year and I'll invite the families from the Home Again family shelter to celebrate Thanksgiving.”

“That sounds great.”

“It gets better. We're all going to work together to plan the menu, which will feature dishes made by every chef or cook in honor of one of the families or people we've invited. My hope is that today we'll be able to start brainstorming together.”

Cynthia groaned, pained by the thought of having to collaborate with her peers who had been less than welcoming since the first day she stormed into the kitchen of Sullivan's Eatery.

“This meeting will be fine, I promise you,” he said, squeezing Cynthia's hand. “Since the whole staff will be here, I'll make sure everyone is in check.”

The doorbell chimed, announcing the arrival of two line cooks and three waiters. Each of them had a mimosa in their hand, their eyes fixed on Cynthia, and their mouths curved like the spout of a teapot prepared to shoot off some steam before Susan could escort them to the living room.

Cynthia ducked out of the room through the dining room and into the kitchen. She helped Susan plate the honey coconut couscous and sundried tomatoes and basil toast. She garnished the platter with rosemary and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar.

“Where's the back door, Susan?”

A tidal wave of laughter took over Susan.

“I'm serious,” Cynthia whispered, looking over her shoulder for the chef. “I'm not going to make it through this meeting. By the time it's over your father will fire me.”

“What are you talking about? He loves you like you're his own,” Susan replied.

Cynthia brushed her side bang out of her face. “This meeting is going to be awkward as it is with the other cooks and me in the same room, and then add . . .” Cynthia's voice trailed off.

All of the breath in her body left when she caught a glimpse of the seasonal blond wait staff handing Cheo a fruit kebab and mimosa. His skin glowed against his charcoal gray linen button down. His smile was warm enough to illuminate the room and melt her heart. Her gaze followed him as he walked arm in arm with the waitress into the living room.

“What's going to happen with the other cooks around?” Chef Sullivan asked creeping up beside Cynthia.?”

The sound of Chef Sullivan's voice caused Cynthia to jump. She hoped Chef Sullivan had only caught the remark about the other chefs and not a whiff of her longing for Cheo.

“I was saying I can't stay. Between Cheo and the other chefs, I'm not going to make it. What is he doing here anyway?”

“I want Cheo to take photographs of the event. I think it would make great publicity for the restaurant. As for the other chefs, would it make you feel more comfortable if I have a talk with everyone?” Chef Sullivan offered, stroking Cynthia's shoulder.

“It won't change their mind about me, and it certainly won't change mine. I don't belong here in more ways than one,” she said, picking at her cuticles.

“You're right, Cynthia. With your skill level and passion, you belong in your own kitchen, but until that happens for you, Sullivan's Eatery is your home. Anyone who disagrees with that is going to be on their own.” Chef Sullivan pierced the carving board with a knife, punctuating his sentence.

Chef Sullivan grabbed her hand and dragged her back out into the living room. A few staff members were seated on the ombre green sectional, some at the banquet table, and others stood marveling at the view the floor-to-ceiling windows provided.

Clanging his fork lightly against a champagne glass, Chef Sullivan signaled for everyone's attention.

“Good morning, everyone. I called this meeting to discuss our plans for our Thanksgiving program and menu. First I must address an issue that has been troubling me for quite a while now, and I cannot take it any longer. I like to have a certain atmosphere when I'm working as I'm sure you all do, but the conditions under which some of us have to work right now are totally unfair.”

“Tell me about it,” someone said from the banquet table.

Cynthia rolled her eyes at the jeer, which she knew was intended for her. “See what I mean?” she whispered into the chef's ear.

Still clutching Cynthia's hand, Chef Sullivan walked over to the banquet table and delivered the rest of his chastisement from there. “It has been brought to my attention that some of you do not wish to work with Cynthia and have been making her feel unwelcome in my kitchen. Well, let me remind everyone that this is my kitchen and whoever does not approve of my hiring decisions can find another restaurant to work in because my money is on this little firecracker right here.” Cheo and Susan began to clap and cheer from the back of the room. Chef Sullivan waved at them to knock it off, wrapped his arm around Cynthia's shoulder, and pulled her in close to him like a proud daddy at an awards ceremony. “If you want to oust her then you better out chef her because she is not going anywhere.”

 

 

The scent of anise and curry powder emanating from Cynthia's door and the sound of her singing dragged Cheo to her apartment. He stood there poised to knock, listening to her belt out “Superwoman.” Singing was as much a part of her cooking process as chopping an onion. Cheo lowered his arm at the thought she could be working on something special for Chef Sullivan. His head hung so low his chin touched his chest. Paciencia.
Be patient.
His bones longed for her, and this morning was no different.

He heard through Chef Sullivan that she was thriving at the restaurant. According to Chef Sullivan, she'd brought in new flavors and used her office manager skills to whip things into shape at Sullivan's Eatery. Yet she had nothing to say to Cheo in the six months and two days that passed since he walked out on her. He had walked past her apartment door the next day so he knew she'd received his Post-it apology, but she had not responded yet.
Maybe she didn't think it was as cute as I did.

He marched back to his apartment, plopped down on his chaise longue, and called his old buddy Chef Sullivan for some advice and another little update since he didn't have the heart to intrude on her.

“Cheo, what's going on, man? Why don't you come down here and sample some of tonight's menu? You know your girl created it,” Chef Sullivan said.

“That's why I called you. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Is this off the record, Mr. Rivera? You reporters are always trying to get the scoop.”

“I'm no reporter. They only let me write one article. Seriously, it's a personal question. How long do I have to wait for her?”

“Until she's ready. You can't rush a woman into anything she doesn't want to do or you won't want to do it either. How serious is it?” Chef Sullivan inquired.

“I think I have a heart condition,'” Cheo sighed, “and I only began showing signs once she was out of my life.”

“What I recommend is you come by. Let's talk about this thing in person because I can't sit down and talk to you on the phone. I'm in the middle of World War III ever since I brought her in here. Every chef in here hates her guts right down to the line cooks. That speech I gave during the meeting didn't go over well either. Now I have to keep an eye on everyone and everything because they'd do anything to sabotage her.”