Off the Menu (40 page)

“That’s very kind.”

“Kind nothing. I’m a selfish bastard, and you know it. I won’t find anyone like you, and so if I’m going to have to share you with RJ and your family and Maria’s foundation and all those freaking kids, I will, because at least then I still get to keep you. Besides, it’ll be a huge pain in the ass to have to change my will.”

“You have to stop joking about that, or I’m liable to actually kill you one of these days.”

His face gets serious. “Alana, you are as close to family as I have ever had. I’m not going to get married again, I’m not going to have kids. If I go first, it’s all yours, kiddo.”

“Oh, Patrick …” I am at a loss.

“Well, you know, unless you up and completely abandon me for a bunch of snot-nosed kids and some husband.” He grins.

“All right. Then we need to put our thinking caps on, because I’ve been trying to think about this all afternoon, and I really don’t know how to do it.”

“We’ll figure it out. And, Alana?”

“Yeah?”

“Your folks? They have been kinder and more supportive of me than my own parents ever were. Regardless of what you decide with your job, I hope you won’t be too proud to let me help make sure they have what they need.”

“Patrick …”

“Hey, we can do it however you feel comfortable. I can buy the place in Florida and tell them I need to do it for tax purposes because of the Miami restaurant, and that I need someone to sort of be the caretakers. Or I can buy their house here for enough that they can buy the place there, and then rent it back to them for whatever they can afford. I could do
it through a fake corporation so they don’t know it’s me. Pretend I’m a developer buying up stuff for a possible future project or something. Or if you want to keep me out of it altogether, I’ll just give you the money and you can handle it. But whatever happens, no matter what, your folks are not going to lose out on having a good and comfortable life as long as I am here, okay?”

“Thank you, Patrick. That means more to me than anything. And yes, it does make me feel better about not having to consider that part.”

“Good.”

The door opens and RJ enters with two huge bags. “I may have gone overboard.”

I kiss him and relieve him of the bags, which are heavy enough to make me think he has ordered the whole menu.

“Hey, man.” Patrick puts out his hand.

“Hey.” They shake hands, and begin to catch up while I unpack the food.

Maria’s voice rings in my ears. Both. AND. I look over at my two men. My boss and my fiancé. My lover and my friend.

And for the first time in forever, I think that the solution I need, for every part of my life is not only possible, it is right in this room.

H
ow was it?” RJ asks me, when I call from my car en route home.

“It was great. Everyone is on board and ready to go, the school signed off, the network signed off, we have all the legal paperwork back from the parents, and we start shooting in the late fall.”

My first go at executive producing will be a new documentary series about the culinary internship program. We’ll be following this year’s group of twenty-four interns for the whole year. And this time, we are working with juniors, so that we have the possibility of keeping them for a second, more intensive year before they have to make a decision about college or culinary school. Last year’s interns are each going to serve as a mentor to three new interns as well. We have master classes set up with amazing famous chefs from all over the country, a two-week culinary tour of Europe during their spring break, and I think Kai, as their primary teacher and mentor, is about to become the next great television star.

Turns out, once we really looked at it from every angle and then spoke with Maria and Rachel, my ultimate best value to the program is as an advisor, and using my background in television to create a way to bring light to the program on a national scale, hopefully encouraging other cities to create similar programs of their own. Patrick is also
a new board member, and he was very cool about taking
Feast
and
Academy
off my plate to work on the new series, which Bruce, bless his heart, pushed through the process at the network as if it had been his idea, including going to bat for me as exec.

And to his credit, Patrick hasn’t complained overmuch about my not working with him on his shows. After all, he still has me as his cookbook coauthor and as his sous chef for
Master Chef Challenge
. And since we are currently undefeated after our first five battles, he can’t really complain. Plus, I found him a total rock-star replacement. Gerry was in my class at Le Cordon Blue, and after graduation she headed for Europe, where she did stints in Paris, Florence, Berlin, and Vienna before landing in Barcelona for the past few years. But then on a trip home she met a wonderful guy and realized that maybe Chicago would be a good place to be. She is brash and bold, and she and Patrick both speak the language of people who have spent time on the line in major restaurants, and that shorthand seems to be working well for them.

And lucky for me, I get a ten-thousand-dollar bonus every time we win, which is helping me pay back Patrick for the loan I took from him to buy my parents their place in Florida. I fibbed a bit and said I got a big signing bonus for my new job, and Alexei managed to convince them that I needed to buy more property anyway to help with my taxes, so between us, we convinced them that it was essentially doing me a favor. They bought it hook, line, and sinker, and I let Patrick float me the whole amount so that we could pay for it with cash, with the agreement that I would pay him back. He only said yes when I agreed to do it as an interest-free loan, refusing to make money on the arrangement.

Interestingly enough, the bonus checks have been the very
thing that has helped me manage my camera fright, since I know that fifteen wins means Patrick is paid off, so I put my head down and cook as hard as I can, and so far, so good. Other than one small flub, where I dumped an entire batch of ice cream base into the machine without closing the chute door first, thereby dumping the whole thing on the floor and down my front, I’ve been relatively competent. And most important, all of my bodily effluvia has stayed in my body, which is as good as I can manage for now. I’m still a little nervous, but usually by five minutes into the battles, I settle into a groove, and at the last shoot, I was even able to banter a bit on camera with Anne, the host. We’ll see what the press and bloggers have to say when the episodes start airing. And Emily’s editor is talking to me about maybe doing my first cookbook, which I’m actually excited about.

“I’m so glad the meeting went well. That is all just great, honey, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby. How was your day?”

“I sent the contracts off for the florist and the photographer, so that’s the last of the wedding stuff I had to do, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, then we are all paid-up, so you are locked in, missy.”

“I’m in.” The wedding is scheduled for two months from now, a very small simple event, just fifty people for an afternoon ceremony and cake and champagne, and then our families and a couple important friends are having dinner that evening in the private room at MK, where my friend Chef Erick Williams has planned an insanely amazing seven-course tasting menu with loads of special touches. We had a great visit in Nashville with RJ’s folks, and then they came to Chicago to meet my parents. You’d think they would have
nothing in common, the Russian immigrants and the sixth-generation Tennesseans, the mostly non-practicing Jews and the Reverend and his wife, but within ten minutes of meeting, the four of them were like old friends, and RJ and I felt like a fifth and sixth wheel. I’ve been talking and e-mailing with RJ’s sister, who is awesome, and we are so excited that she and her husband and RJ’s nieces are all able to come up for the wedding.

“You’d better be. How close are you to home?”

“Five minutes. You?”

“I’ll be more like twenty.” The moving-in process, or the purge-and-merge as we’ve been calling it, has been somewhat slow, but steady. And as of last weekend, even though a lot of his stuff is still at his house, he is officially sleeping here every night, which is wonderful. As an engagement present Bennie is going to come visit in a couple of weeks to help us effectively come up with a new design incorporating both of our belongings.

“Okay. See you there. Love you!”

“I love you, honey. See you in a bit.”

I get home and park, and open the door.

“Hey, buddy!”

Dumpling hops off the couch, where he and JP are curled up together napping, and he does his little tripod jitterbug over to me. He is surprisingly fast for a three-wheeler, and still manages to hop straight up and down in the air with joy, spinning and sneezing like his old self. He looks even sillier now that he has the stump and the eye patch. Technically he doesn’t need the protection over his eye anymore; it has healed beautifully, but when we tried to throw it away, he dumped over the garbage, got it out and brought it back to us. We think he likes it as a fashion statement, and Maria had one
of her wardrobe people make him a half dozen in different fabrics to match his mood. Today I have him sporting the one with the Chicago Bears logo. He’s a Chicago dog, after all.

I go over to the couch and pet JP, who hisses and nips at me. He is not adjusting terribly well to being an indoor-only cat, but it is just not safe for him to go outside in my neighborhood; he’d be an ex-cat within a week, and after the drama of the past couple of months, we just aren’t up for more animal emergencies. We are talking seriously about letting Barry adopt him, since he is on a quiet street and has a garden apartment with a fenced backyard. RJ wants to give him another couple of weeks to see if he turns around, but agrees that it would be the next best thing to have him close by and with a friend, instead of here and miserable.

Dumpling yips.

“Okay, okay, should we go out?”

He hops over to the door and grabs his leash.

We take a quick walk around the block, and run into Ollie, who has started lying down when he sees Dumpling so that they can visit without Dumpling having to try to stand up on his one rear leg, which he still doesn’t really have the hang of yet. He tends to lose his balance and just tump over. It is very sweet. Luckily, all those years of that weird one-leg-in-the-air pooping is serving him well, and he is able to do his business without a problem. My little miracle boy.

We head back inside, and I toss him a chicken snack, and he flops down on the floor to eat it. My phone rings.

“Hey, baby, my hands are kind of full, can you come get the door for me?”

“On my way.”

I wipe my hands and open the door. RJ is standing there, and in his arms is a wriggling French bulldog puppy of the
most inexplicable color, almost pale honeyed yellow tinged with a sort of peachy pink.

“Oh my goodness! Who are you?”

RJ hands me the pup, who immediately starts licking all over my face and biting my ponytail. Dumpling tries to stand on his one leg to see what is going on, and falls over at my feet. RJ scoops him up and puts him face-to-face with the puppy.

“Dumpling, there is someone we want you to meet. We thought you might want a little sister.”

Dumpling looks at the puppy, who leans forward and licks his face. Dumpling licks back. The puppy sniffs his ear and then with one move, snatches the eye patch right off his head and starts to chew it. Dumpling looks at me with his one good eye, head cocked as if to say, “We’re going to have our hands full with this one,” and then turns and licks RJ under his chin.

“I can’t believe you did this! You are so sneaky.”

“Well, we did talk about wanting to do it, and a guy at work breeds them for showing, but this one is off the allowable color charts.”

“She does have a certain, um … Well, she’s kind of, um …”

“Pink? Yeah. Some weird anomaly, and apparently, not good for the show circuit.”

“But good for us.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“What should we call her?”

RJ smiles. “I was thinking Pamplemousse.”

“Of course. What else could she be?” I turn to the puppy, and gently remove Dumpling’s eye patch, now slightly mangled and covered in spit, from her mouth and hand it back to
RJ, who replaces it on Dumpling’s head. “What do you think? Are you our little Pamplemousse? Hmm?” She leans forward and licks my face and then nips the end of my nose. “I guess that is a yes!”

I put Pamplemousse down on the floor, and RJ puts Dumpling down next to her, and the two of them begin to circle and play. RJ puts his arm around me, kissing the side of my head and squeezing me tight to his side.

And this? Right here?

This is how it happened.

T
he End.

And happily ever after.