Born at Dawn (14 page)

Her bath, which was really a masquerade ball to hide her tears in, left her feeling cleansed and rejuvenated. Crying was the last activity she wanted to engage in, especially over a man. She was trying to put that all behind her. Cynthia threw on a pair of gray and pink sweatpants and a pink tank top and started cleaning house. She cleared the dishes from the table, scraped the food in the garbage, all the while sucking her teeth at Cheo's voice in her head:
estas loca.

Maybe she was crazy. What else would cause a woman to abandon her home, her hope, and her children and then get involved with another man? The answer to the question didn't come; only more questions came, like maybe it was reverse. Maybe she'd been crazy to stay with Marvin so long. Maybe what she was doing with Cheo wasn't right, but men did this kind of thing all the time, right?

After the household chores were done, Cynthia sat at the dining room table with her legs folded and a cup of coffee, thankful that her present assignment at the Credit Union of Virginia had ended early. It would have been impossible for her to serve anyone with a smile today. The bank had contracted her for a month. After she'd flat out rejected the bank manager's request for her to stay late and take care of the evening deposits, Mitch called her up to let her know the bank would be fine without her services.

She picked up the card for Chef Sullivan and flipped it over and over in her hand. With every flip she attempted to coax herself into placing the call. There was nothing wrong with accepting help from a man especially since this involved cooking. There was potential nestled in the numbers printed on the card. A steady job had to be better than temping for dogs disguised as businessmen. A smile spread across her face as she imagined herself on the Food Network hosting her own show. Cynthia cradled the card in the palm of her hand until sweat caused its edges to wrinkle.

“I am not doing this for him. I'm doing this for me and for my boys.” She pulled out her Android and phoned the restaurant. The first time she called no one answered. She paced the floor a few times then dialed the number once more.

“Ummm, Sullivan Eatery, tickling the taste buds of Richmond for twenty-five years. How may I help you?”

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello,” a gruff voice barked into the receiver.

“May I please speak to Mr. John Sullivan?”

“He only answers to Chef Sullivan,” the voice on the other end informed her.

“I'm sorry,” Cynthia said adding a little sugar to her tone. “Please excuse me. May I please speak with Chef Sullivan?”

“If you wish to make a reservation, ma'am, please call the restaurant's main line. Do you need it?”

“I'm sorry; I'm not calling for reservations. I'm calling about the culinary arts school.”

“Then I recommend you call the school. Have a good day.”

And just like just her career as a chef was over before it got started. Cynthia drew back the blinds—she'd had enough of the light—sat down on the couch, hiked her knees up to her chin, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Cheo's words hung over head: “He could get you in the school, or at least get you a job.”

She rocked back and forth on the couch trying to dodge Cheo's words while her mother's words of encouragement swam in and out of her ears. “If you knew better, you would do better. That's why you got to learn to wait on the Lord, wait I say on the Lord.”

Either her imagination or her pride took over her senses as a vision of herself began to materialize. The scent of parsley filled her nostrils. She could feel the steam from the pots and pans on her skin and hear the faint sound of applause when she stepped onto the dining room floor of her restaurant. Cynthia entered into a dangerous conversation with herself.

Cynthia licked her lips, which had become dry in her brief moment of hysterics. She picked up the phone and pressed the talk button. No one was going to stand in the way of her second chance at life.

“Sullivan Eatery, tickling—”

“Chef Sullivan, please,” Cynthia said sharply, cutting off the gruff voice that attempted to deter her earlier.

“He's extremely busy right now. May I take a message?”

“Well, this call is extremely important. Please put me through, sir, or I will continue to call until you do.”

“This is Chef Sullivan.” He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“John Sullivan?”

“Yes, and I am in the middle of several catastrophes that are poised to ruin my career. My food orders for a major dinner party were mixed up, my secretary is out sick, and I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. This call better be of the utmost importance.”

“My name is Cynthia Hathaway, and I am a friend of Cheo's. Cheo Rivera.”

“Ahh, yes, he did mention he knew a little firecracker who liked to cook. Unfortunately, at this time all of my classes at the institute are full.”

“I could work with you . . . I mean, for you. I don't know if he told you this, but I'm in my thirties already. School is the last thing that I'm interested in. I love to cook, but I've never done so in a professional setting. I just need a chance, a stepping stone, a diving board, a—”

“Enough with the metaphors. I get your point, young lady. Cheo said you're good. Let's see just how good you are. Help me salvage tonight's dinner and we'll go from there,” Chef Sullivan said.

Fifteen minutes after getting off the phone with Chef Sullivan, Cynthia pulled in to the parking lot at Sullivan Eatery in the used Camry that Cheo had convinced her to buy a few weeks ago. The restaurant was alluring in a nostalgic kind of way. A red carpet and gold stanchions led to the front door. Cynthia knocked on one of the glass panes in the door. Slowly it creaked open. A young pimpled-faced, awkward redheaded girl opened the door.

“Daaad,” she hollered through the restaurant. “Daaad!”

Cynthia fixed her eyes on the big bronze P in the P
LEASE
W
AIT TO BE
S
EATED
sign in order to avoid the eyes of Chef Sullivan's awkward teenage daughter. Her pensive gaze and her oafish stance reminded Cynthia of her own awkward teenage days. Cynthia feared looking into her icy blue eyes to discover she hadn't gotten far from those days. Luckily, as the girl began her inspection of Cynthia's skin for a single blemish, Chef Sullivan burst through the heavy black velvet curtain that concealed the dining area. The curtain hung open a bit, dangling from Chef Sullivan's broad shoulders.

Cynthia managed to get a glimpse of the gold ceiling and three-tiered chandelier in the center of the room.

“Susan, use the telephone to call me next time. That incessant howling is causing the chandeliers to shake.” He paused, directing his Mad Hatter glare to Cynthia. “So, you're the firecracker,” he said, petting his goatee while looking down at Cynthia.

“Hello, Chef Sullivan, I'm—”

Chef Sullivan placed his finger in front of his lips, silencing her. “There's no time for formalities or cordialities.” He turned his back on her and disappeared behind the velvet curtain. Cynthia pranced behind him.

As he walked and talked to her, his hands swung back and forth as he elaborated on his problem. “There was an accident on the interstate. My delivery of halibut won't be here until five o'clock, which is absolutely unacceptable since the guests are scheduled to begin arriving at that time.”

“Serve something else.”

“Something else? What else? Every dish on the menu is centered around the halibut. Mrs. Tailor specifically requested a seafood dinner for her and the mayor's twenty-fifth anniversary, and I don't have anything else in stock in large enough quantities to serve the whole party. I am ruined,” Chef Sullivan moaned. “Ruined!”

Cynthia looked at the rounds of tables already set with place markers for the Richmond elite, from members of congress to Cheo's boss. The gold-trimmed white plates glistened on top of the burgundy and gold tablecloths. She rubbed the tables with her fingertips to feel the starch and grazed the centerpiece filled with lilies. Cynthia snapped her fingers. “Let's start with a coconut shrimp mango salad medley and a grilled shrimp lying on a bed of cellophane noodles propped up on a pillow of sugar snap peas and baby corn covered in oyster sauce,” she said, using her fingers to illustrate her vision.

“Tilapia. I know where we can get some fresh tilapia.” She clasped her hands together and held them near her chest. “Tilapia sautéed in a rich velvety cream of mushroom sauce accompanied by asparagus almondine and artichoke hearts stuffed with crab meat. Bread and roses! Fill the dining room floor with rose petals; stuff the baskets with warm bread. They'll have sea scallops and pineapples on skewers for appetizers.”

As she walked in a circle around the table rattling off seafood dishes they could prepare in a moment's time, Cynthia noticed that Chef Sullivan was tracking her with his glacier blue eyes. Smoothing the hair at her temples, she assured him everything would be fine.

“I know we just met but in case Cheo didn't inform you, this is what I do.” His eyes widened and he latched on to every word she spoke. Cynthia could tell that his impression of her was changing.

“I don't know how comfortable I am with these ideas. I can't just give you free course in my restaurant, dear,” Chef Sullivan said nervously.

Ignoring Chef Sullivan's worries Cynthia continued, “Ah-ha! Flounder or sea bass. That's it.”

“Bass.”

“Yes, bass. Citrus-grilled sea bass garnished with rosemary swimming in watercress and splashes of red and purple onions.”

“Cheo was right, you know your stuff, but where are you going to get all of this from on such short notice?”

“I'm sure that a few of your regular vendors would be willing to help us out in a jam. If you have a computer with Internet access that I can jump on, we can take care of this in a minute.”

“In the office,” he said, pointing to the ceiling. “It's upstairs. Susan can show you where it is.”

Cynthia shuffled through the velvet curtain. Susan was leaning over the hostess podium with her arms dangling over the top snapping her fingers to “Love in the Club.” Cynthia grabbed her arm, jerking her headphones out of her ears.

“I need your help. I've got to use the computer in your dad's office.”

Susan perked up and flashed a dry smile. She led Cynthia to a door to the far left of the main entrance and up the steps.

“Downstairs is for storage, freezers, and champagne. You need a key if you want to go down there; my dad has the key.” Susan shot Cynthia a raised eyebrow stare.

Either Susan was trying to feel her out or squash any thoughts Cynthia might have about taking advantage of Susan's eagerness to help and her father's gullibility. Cynthia wasn't mad at the girl.

Chef Sullivan's office was a stark contrast to the pristine and elegant dining room he presented to his patrons. Heaps of paper covered his desk; crumpled receipts littered the ground like rice grains after a wedding. The right side of the office wall was covered by a bookcase that resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa and housed a collection of cookbooks from Ellie Krieger to Gordon Ramsay.

There were books on meals from Japan to Timbuktu. The fourth shelf down was home to multiple copies of the same book,
Southern Cuisine,
by Chef Sullivan. Cynthia took a copy off the shelf and stroked the glossy embossed smiling face of Chef Sullivan in a quaint country-style kitchen with the windows open and black-and-white tiled floor. He held a pan of honey-glazed ham over a counter of fresh vegetables.

“That's Dad's book. As you can see by the many copies he still has, it didn't do so well. I told him no one wants a white man teaching them how to cook Southern dishes. He should have cashed in on the diet craze. Everyone in America is obsessed with weight loss; just write a cookbook about healthy eating or diet foods and we'll be featured on
Extra.
Noo, he couldn't do that. He's a real chef.” Susan plopped into her father's high-back chocolate leather swivel chair. “What do you need me to help you with?”

Cynthia picked up a receiving paper from the floor and pulled a pen from her silver hobo bag. She jotted down a couple of ingredients. “Okay, Susan, go to goodtimegro-cers. com and order these things. I order stuff from them when I'm cooking at home. They're fast and efficient. Be sure to select in-store pickup for today.” Cynthia leaned over the desk to toss her list to Susan and then she darted down the steps.

Chef Sullivan met her at the foot of the stairs. Every vein in his neck was popping out.

“Chef, don't worry; everything is going to work.” Cynthia stroked his arm gently. “Do you have some petty cash or something for me to get this fish?”

Chef Sullivan reached into his apron and pulled out his expense card. He stuffed it into the pocket of her jeans. “This is not a black card. Don't think about running off with my card or there will be serious repercussions,” he explained. “We're expecting two hundred guests. Can you handle that?”

“It's handled.” Cynthia saluted Chef Sullivan, ran out the restaurant, and into her car.

She peeled out the parking lot headed to the Broad Street Fish Market where she got the tilapia and bass. Once she secured the fish, she phoned the restaurant.

“Chef Sullivan, begin the appetizers. I'll be there shortly with our main course options and the roses.”