Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (12 page)

The opposite of Joe “Steak” Johansson? My cousin Harry Cooper, who had invited Zach and me to lunch—his treat—this afternoon at the Santa Monica Pier to celebrate our engagement. We were meeting at the Mexico Ole food truck.

“I hope Zach won't think that's cheap of me,” Harry had said on the phone twenty minutes ago. “But I won't be making the big bucks until I pay my dues and that'll take a while.”

“Mexico Ole has the best burritos in LA and everyone knows it.”

“Does Zach know it? He probably never ate food from a truck in his life.”

“Oh, trust me, I've introduced Zach to all sorts of new wonders. He thinks it's really nice that you invited us out to lunch. Zach's not a snob.”

“There are about twenty layers of bosses above me before you get to him. Tell you the truth, I'm surprised he even agreed to go out to lunch with me.”

“Zach is a great guy. Yeah, he's megawealthy and runs Jeffries Enterprises. But he's the best.”

“He's gotta be if he's marrying you,” Harry had said because he's awesome. “See you at twelve thirty, Clem.”

Now, Zach and I sat at a picnic table as Harry, who would always look wrong to me in a suit and tie, carried over our orders. The sight of Harry Cooper always made me smile. Tall and lanky, half-surfer-dude with his slightly long blond hair, and half-corporate with his shiny black shoes and wire-rimmed glasses, Harry would always remind me of
home
.

Zach opened up his steak burrito (meat: ick) and took a bite. “So, Harry, how's life on the second floor?”

Jeffries Enterprises had its own gorgeous art deco building, five stories, on Santa Monica Boulevard. Zach's office, twice the size of my apartment, had the top floor with a wraparound balcony.

“Great,” Harry said, opening up his black-bean quesadilla. “I'm learning a lot. Reviewing profit-and-loss statements, writing reports on how to maximize profits. Jeffries Enterprises is having a great quarter.”

Zach smiled. “I'm glad to have you on board.”

I've always been glad to have Harry on board, ever since we were little kids. Harry, son of my dad's brother, was an only, and since we're practically the same age, we were inseparable growing up. He was too old to play with my brother, Kale, who's five years younger. And my sister, four years older, couldn't be bothered with a tagalong boy. But Harry and I were kindred sprits. His house was two miles up the road, and he'd always walk or bike over and spend a good hour talking shop with my parents from a numbers standpoint, interested at age twelve in the cost of doing business. After he jotted down notes in the little journal he carried everywhere, we'd walk into the fields with the dogs and talk for hours about everything—our parents and their rules, school, the opposite sex (Harry always had girls chasing after him), each other, what we wanted to be and do with our lives. I loved that although Harry came from
a family of meat eaters, he'd been so horrified by my stories of what happened to chickens and cows and goats at some farms that he'd become a committed vegan at age ten and had never veered—even though I had that one summer when I graduated from high school. When he'd gone to college in New York and then stayed there for graduate school and his first job, I missed him. Just six weeks ago, he'd finally come home to California and settled in Santa Monica. Zach had agreed to look at his résumé, and only if he had the chops would Zach hire him. Harry had the chops.

While I ate my grilled seitan-and-veggie burrito, Zach and Harry bored me to death talking business. After fifteen minutes, though, Zach crumpled up his wrapper and three-point-shot it into a garbage can.

“I'm sorry to have to cut lunch short, but I have a meeting I couldn't change at one fifteen. Thanks for lunch, Harry.” Zach kissed me on the cheek. “I'll call you later, Clem.”

“Let's see a movie tonight,” I said. “Harry, want to join us?”

“Oh, I can't tonight,” Zach said. “But you two go ahead.” He nodded at Harry, gave me a brief smile, and walked away.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked, looking at me pointedly.

“Everything's fine. He's just incredibly busy. I've barely seen him the past couple of days.”

“You still mad at me for having to hire his stepsister?” Harry asked, taking a bite of his burrito. He knew it was a trade of sorts.

“Yes. I'll be mad at you for that forever.”

In just a few hours, Keira Huffington would start at Clementine's No Crap Café as a trainee. I had no doubt her first night would be a total disaster.

According to the big silver clock on the wall, it was 3:59 p.m., which meant I had exactly one minute left before Keira would arrive like a wrecking ball and destroy my kitchen.

I'd told her to arrive at four, an hour later than normal, and there she was, coming through the swinging door of the kitchen exactly on time, which was a good sign. Her hair was in a low ponytail, she wore the white, skinny jeans and the Clementine's No Crap Café T-shirt I'd told her to wear, and her usual blingfest was gone, except for a delicate silver chain around her neck with a dangling
K
. The necklace would have to go. No one wanted to be eating his or her French onion soup and find a silver initial in a spoonful.

The kitchen staff were eyeballing the newcomer.

“Everyone, this is Keira Huffington, our new trainee. She's going to spend a few days at different stations, learning the ropes. She'll start on vegetables tonight.”

Gunnar perked up. He could use an extra pair of hands. Once he saw how she used a knife, though, he might go from his usual seething calm to screaming in her face. How she handled it would determine if she stayed or went. If she could
handle Gunnar pissed and didn't quit in twenty minutes, she might work out.

“Hi, everyone!” Keira said. “I'm really, really, really excited to be working with you all!”

Okay, no one liked eagerness. But ten minutes from now, when she'd be racing around the kitchen, grabbing produce from the refrigerator or taking too long to deliver something one of the cooks wanted, sweat pooling on her forehead, she wouldn't have the breath to talk so much.

I went over the specials, detailing the ingredients. Burrito sampler—four-bean, grilled-veggie, and seitan-guacamole with a side of Spanish rice. Harvest pizza. Spicy potato curry. Every Wednesday night was the popular Souptopia, with five soup specials—chipotle split-pea, the French onion, my to-die-for minestrone, Hungarian mushroom, and curried lentil. Alanna and Gunnar and I went to work on samples for the wait staff and quizzed them on the ingredients, which I'd e-mailed to everyone yesterday.

At four thirty it was time to start prep. I told Keira to take off her necklace and stuff it in her pocket, then sent her over to Gunnar, who was about ten feet down the length of stainless steel counter from where I stood.

I could hear her trying to make small talk, something Gunnar hated. I smiled as he held up a hand. “Don't talk. Just watch. This is how I mince garlic. This is how you'll mince garlic.”

“Okay!” she said perkily, and took a garlic clove from the basket. “I totally worked on this last night.”

I watched her press too hard on it and mangle a clove.

Gunnar glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. He was onto her. There had to be some reason I'd hire a novice, and since everyone knew I'd just gotten engaged, Keira had “I'm related in some way to the owner's fiancé” written all over her face. “No,” Gunnar told her. “Just watch me. When you think you can do it like I can, then do your own.”

“Um, it's just garlic,” she said with a laugh. Hint: never say
um
or that anything was
just
anything to Gunnar Fitch.

He stared at her. “So let me guess. You're the fiancé's sister or something.”

“Stepsister, actually.”

“What a surprise,” he said, rolling his eyes.

She tried another head of garlic and knocked the basket over.

“Jesus!” Gunnar shouted. “I don't care who the hell you're related to. If you don't know how to mince garlic—after I just showed you, after you supposedly practiced all weekend—you shouldn't be here.”

“So show me again.
God,
” Keira yelled back.

At least she can take it and dish it back,
I thought.

Gunnar rolled his eyes and grabbed the knife. “Watch.”

Within an hour, Keira had pissed off everyone, including the nicest waiters after I put her on making pitchers of lemon water and the pitchers were full of seeds.

I gave Keira a break in the little alley with a half glass of wine. “I'll totally understand if you want to leave right now,”
I told her.
Please say, “Oh, thank you,” and race for the door. Please.
“Tonight's been really rough on you and it's only six o'clock. In a half hour, things are going to get wild in here.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, good! I love a fast pace. So what can I help with next?”

Donkey balls.

By eight thirty, my arm felt as if it were going to fall off from stirring pots of soup. My cell phone rang on the counter. Everyone knew not to call me when I was in the kitchen unless it was an emergency. It wasn't my sister's special ringtone, which I'd set up so I'd never miss one of her calls—the last time I'd ignored a call from Elizabeth, our dad had been rushed to the hospital with complications. The phone kept ringing. Finally, I pulled it out of my pocket. Unfamiliar number. I ignored it. The person called back a second later. I ignored it again. It rang again.

Who the hell was this?

I called over a McMann twin to take over my pots and finally answered.

“Clementine, darling, it's Dominique Huffington. How's my baby girl doing? I would have called her, but I don't want to get Keira in ‘trouble' for chatting on her first day.”

I wanted to dump the phone in the pot of curried lentils. “Hi, Dominique. Sorry to cut this short, but we're very busy right now. I'll—”

“While I have you, let me tell you your wedding date. It'll be May seventh at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Of course, the date is important so we can plan accordingly for a spring wedding. I would have made you a June bride, darling, but June at the Beverly Hills Hotel has been booked for two years. Tomorrow I'll need you to pop by my house to look at photographs of gowns I've earmarked for the designer to do some preliminary sketches of. You may choose your five favorites.”

My five favorites from a preselected group of pictures? Was she kidding? But first things first.

“Dominique, I only have five seconds to talk, and then I have to get back to work or all my soups will boil over. May seventh won't work—it's my father's birthday.” My father wasn't expected to live much longer than a year, and I would celebrate his birthday with him and my family. Not at my insane wedding for five hundred strangers.

“Of course it will,” she said. “You'll be together anyway.”

I stirred the Hungarian mushroom with one hand and the curried lentil with the other. “Dominique, my father is dying of cancer. This is likely the last birthday we'll spend together. The wedding can't be on May seventh. No negotiation on that.”

“Oh, darling. I'm so sorry. I had no idea! But, really, once you think about it, you'll see that the very best birthday present you can give your father is to see his little girl marry her prince.”

Do not yell into the phone. Do not throw the phone. Take your aggression out on the French bread, which needs tearing up into pieces anyway for the French onion soup.

“May seventh is out of the question. Dominique, I really have to say good-bye now—the chipotle split-pea is about to boil over,” I said, even though it wasn't. “Talk soon!” Click.

Keira flew over, holding a knife so carelessly that I motioned to her to put it down. She set it on the counter. “Was that my mom? Checking up on me, huh?” She flashed her too-white smile at me. “Oh, no, the pan I'm babysitting for Alanna is crackling!” Keira rushed back over.