The Way Home (20 page)

Jack walked into the kitchen. He still looked glum, his chin hanging down to the edge of his apron bib, but he was doing his job. Avery's heart went out to him. She knew how it felt to be dumped and try to keep up the pace in a busy job.

“Jack, I have a special mission for you,” Gena said pulling him aside. She was scribbling something on her order pad. She tore off the check, folded it in half, and handed it to him. “I want you to take this note down to the Lazy Tuna and give it to Mike Rossi. Only Mike, okay?”

Avery was running up and down in front of the burners and broilers, trying to turn out five more entrees.

“Gena, what are you doing? What did you write on that note?” Gena shrugged. “Just what you told me to say. What's the worst thing that can happen? He'll say he's sorry but he doesn't have any extra food, right?”

Avery glanced over her shoulder but didn't answer. She wasn't afraid of that at all. She was more afraid that Mike would come to her rescue and make her like him even more.

A short time later, Jack returned to the kitchen toting several giant bags of frozen shrimp, a box of beef patties, and two giant bags of wings. Nothing that was on her menu, Avery noted, but she was good at improvising. In culinary school, she had always done well with assignments where students were given random ingredients to combine and cook together.

Along with the bags of frozen food, she found a little note:

Don't think, just cook. Hang in there.—Mike

Short and sweet. But the advice gave her more of a boost than she would ever admit. She wasn't sure why, but she tucked it into her apron pocket, storing it in a safe place.

As the night wore on, the dining area became even more hectic. And the customers became surly. Some had waited too long to be seated only to discover that the dishes they wanted were no longer available. Others waited too long to be served or flat-out hated the menu changes. Nearly all of them were rude to Teresa and Gena. Some walked out. One table was so angry, they didn't pay their bill.

A bit after nine, the fireworks show started out on the beach. Some customers got up from their tables to go outside and watch, their dinners left half eaten. It was impossible for Gena and Teresa to tell if they were coming back again. Meanwhile, another wave of customers, who didn't care about fireworks, were waiting impatiently to sit down.

Avery popped out of the kitchen to help. But she couldn't bear to watch the chaotic scene for very long—or catch sight of the stunned looks on the faces of her mother and sister. Besides, if she stayed out of the kitchen too long, the food suffered and there would be even more complaints.

Back in the kitchen, she heard the fireworks explode. She felt as if she were cooking in a battlefield. She kept her head down and worked furiously. “Don't think, just cook,” she kept repeating to herself.

She smelled smoke and thought a little grease had splattered in the broiler. When she finally turned to check, tall flames were shooting out of the grill. A large piece of meat had fallen through the grate and caught fire.

Avery tried to smother it with a big pot cover then threw a wet towel on top, which only made it worse. She finally grabbed a ten-pound box of salt and managed to douse it.

Gena walked into the kitchen, waving her hands in the thick clouds of smoke. “What in the world is going on in here? Did you have a fire?”

“Just a bit of meat. But it didn't go quietly.”

“I'm surprised the alarms didn't go off.”

“Yikes, they still might.” Avery turned the exhaust fan on full blast and pulled open the back door. All she needed now was a fire alarm, causing the diners to stampede out of the restaurant. And a fire truck to come racing along.

“It's all right. I'd better get back to cooking,” she told Gena. Avery got back to the stove, wondering if her mother and sister were still out there. What were they thinking, dining in this disaster area? She couldn't even imagine.

Actually, she could imagine. That was the problem. She could already hear her sister insist that Avery do the right thing and try to salvage some of their mother's investment. Avery just hoped her mother wasn't swayed. But Christine always spoke with such an air of authority; she could be very persuasive.

Can't worry about that now. Don't think, just cook,
she kept telling herself.

Finally, she dolloped the last swirl of cream on the last dessert order, and handed the order to Teresa.

“You don't look so hot . . . I mean, you look too hot. Oh, you know what I mean. Just sit down or something,” Teresa advised.

Avery did feel hot and exhausted. Her curly hair had practically come completely undone from its bun and was falling all round her face and shoulders. She staggered out to the dining area and stared around at the empty tables, finally catching sight of her mother and sister, who were practically cowering in a corner. She couldn't believe they were still here.

“Hi, honey! We were waiting for you!” her mother called out gaily.

Christine just turned and stared at Avery. She looked too overwhelmed to speak.

Avery struggled to summon one last spark of energy, a drop or two of gas left in her tank. She forced a smile and walked toward them.

“So how was your dinner? I don't even know what you ordered,” Avery admitted. She had meant to take careful note of their meals, but had been in too much of a rush to keep track.

“I had the shrimp and pasta,” Christine reported. “It was . . . interesting.”

A slapdash concoction of ingredients pulled out of the cold box and off the seasoning shelf—some exotic mushrooms and sundried tomatoes and the frozen shrimp Mike sent over. All things considered, Avery didn't think it had turned out half bad. Most people had said they liked it. Christine, of course, was a master at backhanded compliments.

“My dish was very tasty,” her mother insisted. “I think it was pheasant, or something like that. The sauce was sublime,” she told Avery. “Was there wine in there?”

“Yes, Mom. Some white wine . . . and lots of butter . . . and some chicken wings,” she finally admitted.

Of all people, her poor mom had to get the chicken wings?

“Really?” her mother looked surprised but even more pleased by the admission.

“I knew that. I was just wondering if you would admit it.” Christine looked smugly satisfied.

“No wonder you spent years studying cooking. I could never make wings taste like that,” her mother countered.

“Glad you liked it. We ran out of our usual specials and had to improvise. We were a little crazy in here tonight, with the holiday crowd.”

And we're down a waitress and had a small kitchen fire,
she added silently.

“I thought it was a lovely dinner. We could see the ocean and the fireworks,” her mother said. “Quite a show, wasn't it, Christine?”

Christine stared at Avery. “I've never seen anything like it,” she said dryly.

That was not a compliment, Avery knew by now, and there was more to come.

But her mother saved the day with a huge yawn. “I'm sorry, girls. All the fun and sun today just wore me out. I think we had better head back to the inn. Avery still has work to do here, don't you, dear?”

“Yes, Mom, I do,” Avery replied, grateful to her mother for whisking Christine away before her sister could critique the evening.

Christine rose but gave Avery a
this isn't over yet
look.

Avery watched them go then and finally collapsed in a chair. Teresa, Gena, and Jack had started cleaning up, but they all looked so exhausted, Avery didn't have the heart to make them stay.

“We'll get the rest of this tomorrow. I think we should just all go home and get some sleep. The weekend isn't over yet,” she reminded them.

Her crew groaned in unison, and everyone thanked her for letting them leave. Gena lingered, following Avery into the kitchen as she gathered her purse and shoes.

“Want me to wait until you lock up?” Gena asked.

“Thanks but I'm fine. I'm just going to check the broiler one more time, make sure that fire is totally out.”

“Good idea.” Gena nodded. “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

Avery poked around the bottom of the broiler and extracted the charred bits of meat with a pair of long tongs. Then she managed to clean out the ashes with some rags and a spatula.

She heard a knock and thought it was one of her crew. Jack was always leaving his phone and car keys somewhere. But when she pulled the door open she found Mike.

Another survivor of the kitchen wars,
she thought. His chef's whites were covered with food stains, his baseball cap was on backward, and his strong jaw showed more than a shadow of dark beard.

Unfortunately, these signs of wear and tear looked pretty good on him,
Avery thought.
Too good
.

On the other hand, she was sure that she looked like an unholy mess and instinctively reached up to do something with her hair, which was apparently shooting out in all directions around her head.

“I just stopped by to see how you're doing,” he greeted her. “Looks like the Peregrine was hopping tonight.”

“We had the customers, just like you predicted, but . . . it was sort of a disaster. I don't think anyone will come back. Even my own mother . . .”

Mike stared down at her, his expression confused but warmly sympathetic. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Avery took a deep breath and tried to describe the night's horrors as calmly as possible. From Courtney's no-show to diners walking out on checks to her mother getting the chicken wing special.

Mike listened with a serious expression, though she spotted a mirthful spark in his dark eyes. “Sounds like a rough night,” he said finally.

“It was more than rough . . . it was horrible. Everyone who ate here is going to think this place is the worst restaurant in the entire universe. Some people asked for their money back. I'm surprised all of them didn't . . .”

“Come on, Avery. We've all had bad nights. I'm sure you've had a bad night like this before . . . somewhere?”

“Not like this,” she insisted. “Not in my very own restaurant. While I'm trying to build a good reputation so I can get more business . . .”

She had her head down as she rambled, embarrassed that he had caught her at such a weak moment. She didn't want to cry, but once she started she couldn't seem to stop.

“Aw, come on now, don't cry.” Mike took hold of her shoulders.

“I had all these fantasies about running my own café . . . how great it was going to be . . . But it's not great. It's not even good.” She was wailing now, and Mike pulled her closer and patted her back.

“It is good. It's very good,” he insisted.

“No, it's not,” she argued with him through her sobs. “Whatever made me think for one stupid minute I could do this? I'm going to lose my mom's entire investment . . . and the poor woman insisted that her chicken wings tasted like pheasant . . .” She pulled back for a minute and met his confused gaze. “She had to know it wasn't. She was just saying that to be nice to me.”

Mike didn't seem to know what she was babbling about but nodded thoughtfully. “I've had pheasant. It's no big deal. Give me a good old honest chicken any day. I bet your mom feels the same way.”

“Oh, Mike, I'm such a failure,” she said as another wave of sobs overcame her.

“Avery, don't even say that. You're very brave. You're a trouper. You're a hero,” he insisted. “But you're just tired and upset right now.”

Avery took deep, heaving breaths, trying to collect herself. She sat on a stool near the worktable and wiped her eyes and nose on some tissues. When had she ever been such a blubbering mess before? She couldn't remember. But somehow, she was glad Mike was there. She would have felt embarrassed acting so loony with anyone else. Even her mom. Somehow it felt fine to let Mike see all her sadness and insecurities. She felt so—so safe with him. It was really quite remarkable.

“I still have my sister to deal with. She doesn't think I'm such a hero. Believe me.”

“Who cares what she thinks? Is she Jacques Pépin or something? Even if she was, I thought you said this was your dream, opening your own café. Are you going to give up just because you have an annoying sister? And you didn't buy enough halibut? And you hit a few nasty bumps in the road?”

“More like potholes . . . the size of swimming pools.”

“All right, potholes the size of swimming pools. Things aren't working out the way you hoped they would. You have to keep at it. Pick yourself up, brush yourself off. There's an old saying that I tell my students when they get discouraged, Avery. ‘Knocked down seven times, get up eight.'” He paused, letting the words sink in. “You want to win the fight? There's no magic to it. You just have to get up off the floor one more time than the other guy.”

Avery nodded. The metaphor seemed a little macho to her, but he made a good point. She wasn't a quitter, even though she sounded like one tonight. Even though she was terribly tempted to be one and stay on the floor, just this one time in her life.

“Have a little faith in yourself,” Mike added, cutting into her rambling thoughts. “You're a great cook. Honestly. I wouldn't tell you that if it wasn't true,” he insisted. “Other people will figure that out, too, trust me.”

Avery sighed. He was staring down at her, and she managed a very small smile. “Thanks, Mike. Thanks for the frozen shrimp and the wings . . . and the pep talk. Again,” she acknowledged.

“You're welcome again. Anytime,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry, but that part about your mom saying she thought she was eating pheasant was pretty funny.”

She laughed with him. “My mom's really sweet. You ought to meet her. She would like you.” Avery felt embarrassed blurting that out, though in her heart she knew it was true. Her mother would find Mike absolutely charming.