Mirepoix (A Recipe Of Love Book 1) (5 page)

“Well tattoos are becoming more accepted and less stigmatized now. I haven’t had anyone ask me if I have been in prison or am a part of a gang lately.”

She immediately starts giggling while looking off to the side. I’ve noticed her doing this on and off in the time we’ve been together. It’s like she is having a conversation with herself that is infinitely
amusing.  She’s pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them while holding her beer
loosely with one hand. Somehow what normally looks like a defensive posture on most people seems to be natural and relaxed for her, like she is used to being tucked close and held. This makes me think of the muscle bound butcher and if he or anyone else is who normally holds her close. I haven’t made the time to date someone in a very long time. Most women don’t understand why I can’t take them out to dinner on New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s day, the two busiest nights of the year for a restaurant, or end up resenting the hours I put into my career.

“Sorry about that, I was imagining a gang of cooks, it could actually be quite dangerous with the knife skills you all have but the aprons and kitchen shoes would completely kill any tough image.” She explains while still chuckling slightly. Now I have that hilarious mental image in my head.

“Laugh all you want. I’m terrified of my current pastry chef, despite her rubber shoes! She told my executive sous chef she was going to shove her whisk somewhere very uncomfortable if he didn’t stop stealing her berries.” I love watching her laugh. Her face is so animated, open and honest. Most adults have learned to hide their emotions and reactions, either to be polite or to be safe. If people don’t know where the tender spots are in your armor they don’t know where to shove the knife. Frankie acts like she doesn’t give a fuck but she is so passionate I worry about someone hurting her or taking advantage of her. I wouldn’t call her naïve after what she grew up with but she seems insulated somehow. She manages to walk through life without fear from what I’ve seen.

“Are you dating anyone Frankie?” She cocks her head to the side and looks up at me coyly. She avoids making eye contact a lot and I wonder if it is because of how her thoughts shine through so clearly.

“No, I haven’t dated anyone since Gram died. I was busy dealing with everything and adjusting.” She finally answers softy.

I’m struck again by thinking there’s a lot to this tiny woman I haven’t learned yet. Every time I get used to something about her another side is revealed. I wonder how long it will take to get to know all her secrets and figure out what makes her so fascinating. Surely once I understand it, I no longer will be curious and I won’t be distracted from the path to being a household name.

I start to reach for the fingers on the hand not holding her beer when my phone starts ringing the shrill annoying alarm that my manager programmed in for herself so that I won’t ignore her. I’ve been lucky that my phone hasn’t gone off until now. I glare at my phone in irritation before answering, I know better than to ignore her since she will keep calling and calling until I answer. I stab the answer button with my finger as I stand up to take my now empty beer into the kitchen and the recycling bin I saw by the island. As I listen to my manager, berate me for not being home to go over my media schedule for the week and discuss my cook book I have coming out I know my relaxing break is over and I have to get back to the grind. As I say my goodbyes with Frankie, I realize I hate reality for intruding into our time.

6

As I walk down the street towards Joe’s business I started questioning myself again. To say he has confused me would be an understatement. On Monday when he was over for dinner I was convinced he was flirting with me. He kept touching me sporadically and the way he maintains eye contact makes you feel like he’s focused entirely on you. He got a call and explained it was his manager and he had to go meet up with her. I thought he had been talking restaurant manager and was really confused as to why they needed to meet on their day off, I then realized after he mentioned his cookbook coming out that she must be his business manager. I had wondered why he let her control so much of his life, I’m still not convinced he should be letting her control as much of his life as she does but that’s his business not mine.

I didn’t sit by my phone pining away waiting for him to call all week, but I will admit to checking my phone more often than normal. I didn’t want to text him first because I didn’t want to bother him. Here’s the thing that most people don’t understand about socially awkward or anxious people; around the people we know like us we can seem normal and functional, put us with strangers and that’s when we can fall apart and be plagued by doubts. Hell even with people I have known for years the wrong tone of voice or words can have me crumbling. So Monday morning I specifically kept Joe in my territory surrounded by my friends, I know they love me and wouldn’t truly judge me so I was able to
relax and be myself.  Monday night at my loft I
was distracted by cooking, explaining my past and learning about his tattoos. While I wasn’t able to completely relax like I can with my close friends, I wasn’t completely on edge.

Now after a few days away from Joe and completely outside of my safe zone I’m freaking out. I walk down the street surrounded by strangers on the verge of an anxiety attack. I’m almost convinced Joe hates me. He thinks I’m weird. He only spent time with me because he was convinced I had some secret ingredient that allowed me to beat him. If he really liked me and was flirting with me, he would have texted or called me by now. He went home and laughed about me with his manager while telling her it was a fluke I beat him. The negative thoughts just keep cycling in the back of my mind no matter how I try to convince myself they’re not true.

A block before Joe’s restaurant I step into the alley and lean against the wall right at the mouth of the alley. I force myself to take some deep breaths and talk myself down from a full blown panic attack. I close my eyes and make myself run through a recipe for a new goats milk soap I want to work on, thinking of the oils I should use based on their properties and the percentages to include helps. I yank my phone out of my pocket and quickly note down the info I just brainstormed while my heart finally calms down. I glance around out of the corners of my eyes, for all the world looking like a woman making sure there’s no danger around. In reality I’m making sure no one is paying attention to me. One of the absolute worst things to happen during a panic attack is having someone see me and try to help me. Most of the time I’m not mentally able to understand that they’re just being nice and are honestly concerned about me, I’m still stuck at the place where I think everyone is judging me and finding fault in me, so their help just makes the attack last longer. Distraction is one of the few things that can help me escape the sticky grip of emotion and focus on logic.

Now that I’ve talked myself off the edge of an attack I peek around the corner and can see the bright red awning over the front door. I hope that I timed the afternoon slow period correctly. At Gram and Pap’s place the slow time was around 3pm when lunch was over and dinner prep was just starting. You might have 1 or 2 tables in for a later lunch or a very early dinner but for the most part it was dead and you can clean everything and switch over ingredients for the dinner menu if you need to. I walk inside and see that there’s only a few customers sitting at tables and take a deep breath. I see waitresses scurrying around doing all the prep for dinner for the front of the house. I have a flash of memory of helping my mom fold cloth napkins like I see a waitress doing behind the hostess station.

“Hi, just one today?” She says glancing up at me. In that one look I see her look over my outfit, shoes and bag and dismiss me. Today I’m wearing another pair of leggings, and oversized shirt with a boat neck that shows off my collar bone rather than my cleavage. My tote today is actually one of my smaller ones, it would probably only hold a small dog instead of a small human Instead of my sneakers I’m wearing a pair of motorcycle boots that normally help me with confidence when I’m in a new environment.

“No actually I’m not here to eat, I need to see Joe if he’s available.”

At this the waitress eyes me once again, this time slightly less judgmentally and more curiously. She’s probably trying to decide why I need to see Joe and how I know him. If I were someone looking
for a job, I would have asked to speak with the manager not mentioned the owner by name.  I wouldn’t have asked for him by first name if I were a reporter or needed to speak to him
on a professional basis. That would leave personal. I don’t know Joe well enough to be sure but I’m betting I don’t look like the type of woman that would normally be with him.

“Stay here.” She tells me as she walks towards the swinging door leading to the kitchen. I wonder at the fact that she didn’t even ask my name as I look around taking in the hanging chrome lights above each booth and table. There’s a long dark bar along the left side of the room. The decor is a mixture of modern lines but classic colors. I can see how it would be a winner and approve of the easily cleaned surfaces that will help with turning tables over in a hurry. No one wants to have to pull a tablecloth and get another one perfectly centered and reset the table while a customer is standing there impatiently watching you.

Thanks to how I grew up I know more about the food industry than some people in it. Most people only know the front or back of the house but I knew both. After my parents died, I spent even more time at the restaurant than I did previously. After school I would walk over, my after-school program consisted of learning perfect knife skills, hand kneading all types of dough and how to make sure a dinner service ran smoothly. By the time I entered business school I could and did jump in to help out in any position I needed to. It was assumed I would take over the business when I finished school but when Pap died of a heart attack, I told Gram I didn’t want the stress and pressure of running it.

I needed a business of my own that allowed me to set my own hours and succeed or fail on my own. While Gram was disappointed she understood, the only thing she refused to budge on was taking a loan from her for my start-up costs instead of a bank. She had a manager run the restaurant when she retired, and when she died, I made the hard decision of letting it die with her, choosing to rent the property out to a new business. It allowed me keep the building with its memories but not have to be bothered with making any decisions daily about it.

The same waitress comes out with a satisfied smirk on her face. I know without her saying a word he was too busy to be bothered or she never even told him I was waiting. I hope if he knew it was me he would have taken a few minutes to see me but that wouldn’t be an option now. I reached into my tote bag and grabbed the small insulated bag I had packed the pulled pork and salad in. When she reached the hostess stand, I was beside I carefully set it down so I seemed completely unaffected.

“Please make sure he gets this, don’t bother getting my name this time either, he’ll know who it’s from.”

I turn on my heel and walk out. As I walk down the block, I take my phone out and shoot him a quick text letting him know I dropped it off. My pride keeps me from mentioning being too busy to bother seeing what I wanted or asking him if he wants to come over again on Monday. If he wants to see me he has my number and knows where I live. 
What he will never know is how hard it was for me to come to him, a mistake I’ll make sure I don’t make again. This might have been easier for me in the end as I don’t have to look in his face to be rejected and ask why. After another block I hastily decide to stop by Fabric Row on my way home and indulge myself with some fabric to play with.

7

I wander down the street absently fingering fabric if it looked soft, so far nothing has been as soft as his t-shirt from Monday. I vow the minute I touch something softer I’m buying it and taking it home. I’ll make myself a pillow using it and scent it using cedar wood, maybe that would satisfy me and break the fascination I seemed to have for Joe.

He was the worst type of guy for me to be attracted to, no that’s not true. Outside of true bad guys like rapists, violent criminals, and abusive assholes he was the worst. He seems like a really great guy too. He’s very handsome, has a great career, respects women and god damn it he smells amazing. I could deal with his dedication to his business and all the hours he spent there, hell I respect it, but I don’t think I could survive his need to be in the limelight.

The obsessive need to know why my pasta beat his might have been just his dedication to is craft and competitive spirit, but when he was telling me about his cookbook deal, he mentioned wanting to be the next Bobby Flay. I highly doubt he just meant he wanted to cook like him. I am not a limelight person. I’m a from the shadows person. I freeze enough over embarrassing myself in front of strangers on a small scale, I couldn’t comprehend it on such a large scale. Social media makes it incredibly easy for people sit in the safety of their own home and harass others, trolls that hide behind the anonymity of the keyboard.

I stop and lean onto a telephone pole. I take a deep breath centering myself. I almost had a panic attack over the idea of dropping off food for him. I’m pretty
sure the waitress judged me and somehow found me lacking. 
I honestly don’t know if I could handle opening myself up for rejection from Joe, and if by some miracle he didn’t reject me, I would be scrutinized by the public.