Cook the Books (18 page)

I missed all of it. Josh, too, used to talk in his sleep, rattling off lists of ingredients or details about scheduling. I knew that I should stop reading the blog, but I couldn’t help myself. The familiarity somehow made me feel close to Josh.

I checked another blog that I was nuts about, Chef’s Widow, where the CW (as she refers to herself and to other women involved with rarely seen chefs) chronicles life with her chef and their two children. She’d posted great videos of her kids and pictures of her few- and-far-between dates with her husband, and she wrote honest, raw, sometimes painful accounts of her life. Her whole world felt so recognizable, so much like mine—minus the cute kids—that I momentarily cheered up. Then I checked my cell phone, saw three missed calls from Josh, refused to listen to the messages, and deleted all three. Crap.

I slept miserably that night and must have done some mumbling of my own. I had powerful, horrible dreams about Josh, Digger, and Snacker, the kinds of blurry dreams that you can’t remember in detail but that sure as hell leave you with an awful, gut-wrenching feeling when you wake up. I hauled myself out of bed and tried to shower off the bad night’s sleep, but it took a few cups of coffee to shake off the residue of my nightmares. I always hated Sunday anyway, because it meant school and work were imminent. Still, I had to rouse myself: Hank and Kyle were coming for appetizers and drinks at five o’clock. Because I had a lot to do, I went out and did the food shopping early. I’d need plenty of time to prep the food and clean the house, which was even more of a mess than it had been on Friday when I’d left for the opening of the Penthouse.

I was tackling a few seafood appetizers tonight: seared scallops served on polenta cakes with red pepper and chive jam, and also baked oysters with heavy cream, turmeric, fennel, and Asian pear. But the one I was most eager to eat myself was the shrimp and Brie wrapped in puff pastry and served with apricot chutney. Any excuse to eat melted Brie, and I was all over it! I’d bought a very expensive bottle of dry Riesling and an equally pricey bottle of Viognier that had a subtle floral note. I put on the stereo and listened to music while I pureed red peppers. I added sugar to the peppers and cooked the mixture down to a thick consistency before I added chives. I whisked the polenta in a pot and then spread it out on a sheet pan to let it set before I cut out circles to panfry. I chopped the fresh apricots and cooked them with water, honey, vinegar, and onions until I had a chunky sweet-and-sour chutney. I then cut the store-bought phyllo dough and made little purses that I filled with shrimp and Brie and then brushed with an egg wash. At best, I’d have Hank Boucher’s attention for a very short time, so I wanted to have as much prep as possible completed before he arrived; otherwise, I’d waste my opportunity by disappearing into the kitchen.

Since I was trying to impress upon Hank that I was worthy of being a coauthor, I intended to look professional. Consequently, I put on a pair of straight-leg dress pants and a pale green linen shirt. My condo was white-glove clean, and candles burned in the living room. Wineglasses and the two bottles of wine were ready on the coffee table, and I’d set out small hand-painted ceramic plates as well as forks and carefully ironed cloth napkins.
Whew!
I was as prepared for the celebrity chef’s visit as I could be.

To my surprise, Kyle and Hank arrived precisely at five o’clock; I’d expected Kyle’s busy father to cause some sort of delay. When I opened my door, one look at Kyle’s face told me how stressed he was about this evening. I smiled reassuringly at Kyle as I said hello

“Hi, Chloe.” Kyle’s voice shook.

“Good evening, Chloe. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” said Hank with no hint of sincerity. “We can’t stay too long. We have dinner reservations later this evening.”

“Of course. I understand. Please come in and sit down.” I pointed to the couch as I took their coats.

Hank dumped himself onto the couch and sighed. “I hear you’re attempting to cook something for us? Something from the book?”

Attempting? What a jerk. “Yes. Appetizers. I just need a few minutes to finish them off. Can I pour you a glass of wine?”

Hank inspected the two bottles and raised his eyebrows, as if he were as amazed by my choices as he was pleased with them. “This one.” He tapped the Riesling, sat back against the cushion, and checked his watch.

“Kyle?” I asked as I poured Hank’s wine. He nodded, and since he looked in need of alcohol, I filled his glass high. “Give me ten minutes, and the appetizers will be ready.”

I walked quickly to the kitchen and was glad that I’d had the foresight to preheat the oven and to set out all the pans that I’d need. I stuck the sheet of phyllo purses and the tray of oysters into the oven. While they cooked, I quickly seared the scallops and the polenta cakes in a pan and hastily plated everything on serving trays. Well, I told myself, my presentation wasn’t as stupendous as a professional chef’s, but it wasn’t awful, either. I carried two of the trays to the living room. “Kyle, would you mind getting the other tray and the two small bowls with sauces?”

“Of course.” Kyle practically jumped out of his seat at the opportunity to escape his father. I wondered why he was so fearful of his father. Granted, Hank struck me as a pig, but I had the sense something else was going on, something new, maybe, or an exacerbation of something old, but I didn’t know what it was.

Kyle seemed to take forever in the kitchen. Although in most circumstances I’m more than capable of small talk, I felt intimidated, and Hank said nothing at all; the two of us waited in silence for Kyle to return. When he finally did, I glared at him in annoyance.

“All right, let’s see what you have here, Chloe.” Hank peered skeptically at my appetizers.

I succinctly described each dish and then poured myself a hefty glass of wine; if the food didn’t go over well, I could always get drunk and wash away the memory.

Hank helped himself to an oyster. When I’d put a few appetizers on my own plate, I watched nervously as he lifted the shell and slid the oyster into his mouth. Now I knew how those poor Iron Chefs felt waiting for the judges’ decisions!

“Outstanding,” Hank proclaimed. “The turmeric and cream are spot on with the fennel and pear.” He nodded thoughtfully. “And perfectly cooked. Nothing worse than an overcooked oyster, for God’s sake.”

As Kyle beamed at me, the muscles in his face relaxed a bit. “How about this scallop, Dad? Want to try that next?” Kyle took a gulp of wine and then sampled the scallop.

“What did you say this was, Chloe? Red pepper jam? It’s very nice.”

I froze mid-bite and silently willed Kyle to shut up. Didn’t he understand that as the presumed writer of the cookbook, he should know exactly what the dishes were and precisely what ingredients they contained? How could he fail to realize that, in asking me questions, he was giving himself away?

“Wow! And that little doughy thing looks nice,” he continued. “Cheese and shrimp, right?”

When Hank caught my eye, I knew that the inevitable would happen, and I quickly looked away. Oblivious, Kyle rambled on about how delightful the appetizers were and how sure he was that his father’s book would be a best seller.

I drank more wine. “Yes, I think the book will do very well,” I agreed, trying to keep the conversation moving while depriving Hank of the opportunity to speak. “We still have some blanks to fill in, but I know that you have a number of chef and restaurant leads, right, Kyle?”

“Oh, yes. Dad, I haven’t had a chance to tell you about some of the most recent contacts I’ve made, have I?”

Hank was finishing a scallop. He set his fork and napkin down. “No, Kyle, you haven’t. But there is something else that concerns me more.” He looked pointedly at his son. I winced. We hadn’t fooled Hank. “You don’t recognize these appetizers, do you? They aren’t the least bit familiar to you.”

Kyle coughed and set his plate down. “What? Um . . . what do you . . . ?” he stammered.

Hank stood up, marched across the living room, and came to a halt, his back toward Kyle. “I should have known. You stupid, incompetent, lazy ass!” The chef spun around. His face was red and his eyes full of anger. “These are from the cookbook, moron!” he shouted. “The book that you are supposedly writing! Remember that one?”

I hung my head in embarrassment for Kyle, who obviously hadn’t even glanced at the recipes or the chapter that I’d sent him. I couldn’t look at either of the men.

“No, Dad, that’s not true,” Kyle started. “I just forgot. I didn’t recognize them at first. I mean, there are so many dishes in the cookbook and—”

“Shut up! Shut your mouth!” Hank barked. “I should have known. Really. I shouldn’t have expected you to do a goddamn thing! Chloe here did all of the work while you did shit. She is the writer, not you. I might as well just rip your name off of this project and hand the whole book over to someone who is actually willing to lift a finger and do something with her life!”

Okay, yes, I’d wanted to worm my way into becoming an official coauthor, but my plan had spun out of control. Kyle had no excuse for having failed even to read what he was supposed to have written, but he certainly didn’t deserve this humiliating excoriation.

“No, Mr. Boucher, really!” I protested, willing to forgo my shot at being a coauthor. “I’m just a research assistant. Kyle has collected so much information, including most of the recipes, and he’s made a lot of chef contacts. I’ve just put everything together.”

Hank glared at me. “Nice try, but I’m not buying it. God, Kyle, after all the opportunities I’ve given you? You’ve had your miserable life handed to you on a platter, and yet you somehow manage to screw up even the most menial job! Do you think I got where I am today by acting like a tool? Do you think that beautiful women will get within ten feet of a cheat like you? God, no wonder you’ve never been married,” Hank screamed, laughing viciously. “I try and I try and I just get nowhere with you. I’m disgusted!”

As the chef continued his onslaught, I tried to block out the barrage of insults. The painful scene pointedly reminded me of my client Danny and his abusive, controlling, condescending father. I thought about my classmate’s comment that Danny’s father had spent so many years foretelling his son’s failure that his predictions had become self-fulfilling prophecies. In Hank Boucher’s eyes, Kyle had failed over and over. I suspected that he’d left me stuck with most of the cookbook work not because he was lazy, but because he assumed that nothing he produced would satisfy his demanding father.

“And if you think for one minute that I’m buying this crap about your intense involvement in this book, then you better think again. Idiot!”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Kyle pleaded pathetically. “Let’s just leave.” He started to look at me and then quickly turned away.

“Yes, of course we’re leaving, dumbass!” Hank shook his head at his son and then walked slowly over to me. Suddenly his voice was soft and calm. “Chloe Carter, you have done remarkable work. You should be proud of yourself. The chapter I read was outstanding. Crisp, clear, engaging. The recipes were formatted precisely, and the directions were easy to follow. Good work.” He stuck his hand out, and I had no choice but to shake it. The monster! I was too flabbergasted and too sorry for Kyle even to mutter perfunctory thanks.

I silently retrieved Kyle’s and Hank’s coats, and then opened the door. Hank held his head high as he walked out and continued to lavish unwanted praise on me. “Fabulous, my dear. Nicely done! I’ll be in touch.”

I touched Kyle’s arm as he left. He turned his head slightly my way. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’ll be fine. This will blow over, and we’ll keep working on the cookbook. You’ll see,” I tried to reassure him.

“No. You don’t get it. It’s over for me. I just . . . I’m sorry.” He rushed out the door to catch up with his father.

I looked at my coffee table, still covered in serving dishes that held the food that I’d slaved over. What moments ago had been a gorgeous display of culinary delights now looked hopelessly sad to me; I had never intended to have my cooking and my work used against Kyle. I helped myself to an oyster and pondered Hank’s outburst. As a budding social worker, I knew that Hank’s behavior must be rooted in his own past. He’d probably grown up in a terrible family and was now passing on his pain to his son. Still! I just couldn’t understand how any father could treat his son that way, especially in front of someone else. Granted, Hank had given Kyle the chance to write the cookbook, but he seemed to have done so mainly to create an opportunity to belittle his son. Of course, Kyle was rather incompetent, but how the hell was anyone expected to succeed under Hank Boucher’s cruel guidance? That demeaning, abusive, hateful scene was tantamount to emotional murder.

Murder. It occurred to me that Hank was in Boston when Digger died. Kyle and Hank were supposed to meet me at Digger’s that morning. When they’d arrived in the rented Hummer, Hank had been driving, so he’d obviously had Digger’s address, and might have had it the previous evening or in the early morning. And Hank was certainly a horrible person, maybe horrible enough to commit murder. Look how he had exploded at Kyle! And right in front of me. I hated to imagine how his temper flared when there were no witnesses. But what possible motive could he have had for killing Digger? As far as I knew, Hank had never even met Digger.

I nibbled on shrimp-and-Brie puffs and gave silent thanks for having parents who loved me, who wanted the best for me, and who would never, ever subject me to public humiliation.

ON
Thursday, four days after the appetizer disaster, I still hadn’t heard from Kyle or Hank. I couldn’t bear to call Kyle, who was probably licking his wounds and would get in touch with me once they’d begun to heal. In spite of my sympathy for him, I couldn’t help being curious about the status of the cookbook. I needed the job as much as ever and needed to know whether Hank had scrapped the project or whether we were still writing the book.