Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (32 page)

M
y cell phone woke me up at eight o'clock the next morning. Zach and I had stayed up so late talking and having amazing makeup sex that it had been close to three by the time we both drifted off to sleep.

“Clementine, this is Martina Jones from the
New York Times
. I've had a change of plans and will be in Santa Monica for the next two days only. I'll be dining at Clementine's No Crap Café tonight at seven with a party of four.”

Holy crapola. I bolted up.

Talk about bad timing.

Then again, Zach and I had accomplished what we'd come here for. Our little adventure had done its job.

Zach turned over and opened on eye.

“It's the
Times
reporter,” I whispered. “She's coming
tonight
.”

“Let's pack, then,” he said, squeezing my hand.

“See you at seven,” I managed to spit out to the reporter.

Half of me wanted to call in my staff early, but I had to treat tonight like any other night. Sometimes, the more you went nuts over something, the more you tried to show your stuff, the more things went wrong. We were a great team, we made great food, and we had great service. No matter what Martina Jones and her party ordered, they'd love the food.

Damned straight, they would.

I began prepping for the specials—Moroccan vegetable couscous, mushroom risotto, blackened Cajun seitan stir-fry, and pumpkin ravioli. At three o'clock, Alanna and Gunnar arrived together, which wasn't so unusual lately, but they kept looking at each other with what I could only describe as moony faces.

I headed to the pantry to grab canisters of the flours I needed for the pumpkin ravioli's wonton wrappers—quinoa, coconut, and almond—and on the way back I stopped dead in my tracks. Gunnar was humming. Humming. He never hummed. And Alanna was smiling as she oiled a pan, shimmying a bit to the
Saturday Night Fever
sound track on the iPod.

Okay. Time to get nosy. “Do you guys have something to share?”

Alanna eyed Gunnar, and he shrugged. “Okay, I'll tell! After the taping of
Eat Me
, Gunnar and I went out to celebrate. I was so freaked out about my ex-boyfriend having dumped me the night before because I wouldn't commit in the end, that I poured out my heart to Gunnar in some dive bar. We ended up talking for hours about everything—relationships, what's it like to be a single dad, working here, cooking . . . and then we moved on to a coffee shop and just sat there talking and talking. When we left, we were holding hands.”

Alanna was beaming in a way I'd never before seen her, and Gunnar was actually looking up from his station for once—and smiling.

Good for them. I adored them both and I adored them as a couple. “I love it,” I said, heading to the pantry for the cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger.

Alanna followed me, reaching for the arborio rice and couscous. She leaned close. “Remember when Gunnar said he was in love with someone he couldn't have?” she whispered to me.

I nodded.

She glanced back at Gunnar, who was busy at his station, setting out his knives. “Turns out that someone was
me
. He told me he's had an insane crush on me for months. We're going to take it slow—very slow. Gunnar knows I just got out of a long and intense relationship. And I know he has a daughter who needs him and we won't have much time together outside of work. But there's something here.”

I smiled. “Awesome. I love you guys together.”

She grinned and carried the rice and couscous to her station, and Evan McMann came over to help with prep.

“I have awesome news of my own,” I said, turning down the iPod. “The
Times
reporter is coming tonight with three other people in her party. We've got to bring it. I want this and I want it bad.”

“We're on it,” Alanna said.

We started prep, the McMann twins washing vegetables, Alanna soaking rice, and Gunnar slicing zucchini. I glanced at the clock wondering where the hell Keira was. She picked this night to be late for the first time? Now that she was a big celeb with twenty-five big ones in the bank, maybe she'd quit on me without telling me.

Nah. Keira wasn't like that.

She slogged in twenty minutes late, looking like hell. Her eyes were red-rimmed as though she'd been crying.

“Keira? What's going on?”

She set her bag under her station. “I'm fine.” Tears streamed down her face. “I'll just wash my hands and then get started on prep.”

I walked over to her. “Come on out back with me.”

She followed me out and wiped under her eyes. “Dominique told me she's through with me, that after all she's done for me, I embarrassed her and the family, and from now on our relationship won't be the same.”

“
What?
Just because you want to go to culinary school?
That's insane.” What the hell was wrong with Dominique? I didn't get this at all.

Keira let out a deep breath. “She went on and on about how she's groomed me to be her protégé, a mini her, that I've been like a daughter to her, and now I've just slammed a door in her face as though her opinion means nothing to me. It's crazy, Clem. Why does she give two figs what I want to do with my life? It's not like I told her I want to rob banks. What the hell?”

“I don't know. She's mad at me too. She quit as my wedding planner.” Not that there
was
a wedding to plan anymore. “So how did you leave things?”

“I told her I loved her very much, that she's been like a mother to me since my mother died, and I wished I could make her happy, I wished I could make her proud of who I am, but I guess I can't. Then I said good-bye and walked out.”

Good for you, Keira. That's all you could have done.

“My dream is to go to cooking school and be a chef like you. And I have the means to pay for that myself now. Why can't she and my father be proud of that? Be supportive?”

“I wish I knew. But you've got friends who support you a million percent. No matter what you need, Keira, I've got your back, okay?”

She hugged me.

“So get to work, will you? The
New York Times
reporter is coming tonight and bringing friends. We've got to seriously
wow her so that she includes the restaurant in her piece in the Sunday travel section.”

“Oh, we will.” Keira dashed inside.

My phone pinged with a text:
You'll be brilliant as always.—Alexander.

You'll be too,
I sent out into the universe.

Martina Jones and her party ordered two appetizers, four soups, four entrées, and two desserts.

I worked on the entrées so that if anything went wrong with the main course, I'd take the blame. The bruschetta and hummus and garlic pita chips were down to crumbs when the waiter cleared the plates. Shit yeah. The soups—my minestrone, split-pea, potato-leek, and chilled cucumber—also came back with bowls practically licked clean. This had to be a good sign. The pumpkin ravioli in my garlic-sage sauce was plated and ready to go. With Alanna's help, I stacked a perfect roasted vegetable napoleon, then put together the blackened Cajun seitan stir-fry and a portobello burger with avocado and red-pepper sauce. Finn brought out the tray to table six, and I peered through the peephole, watching their eyes light up at the presentation, oohing and aahing. I crossed my fingers.
Please, universe, let them love every bit!

During each course, one of Jones's dinner companions got up and began shooting the food and the interior of the restaurant.
For a moment, I stood there envisioning opening the travel section of an upcoming Sunday
New York Times
, and seeing photos of my food, of my restaurant, in the article on “veganmania” across America.

Then I envisioned Alexander a sous chef forever. Getting sacked by my old boss because I'd beat him.

Don't be a ding-dong,
the little shoulder devil yelled in my ear.
You're finally almost in and you're worrying about hurting Alexander's wittle feelings? Look at you! Standing here like a wishy-washy piece of cheese when you should be working on the sopaipillas and lava cake!

The angel hopped shoulders and punched the mini-devil out cold.
It's about balance, Clem,
she said, dusting off her hands and playing her tiny harp.
It's always about balance.

Balance. I took a deep Pilates breath and headed back to my station, thinking about Alexander as I drizzled Vermont maple syrup on the warm, little sopaipillas. He'd put his all in; I'd put in mine. Whoever won would win fair.

So let's go do it.

I brought out the two desserts myself and four forks, plus complimentary samples of my favorite frozen smoothies.

The reporter bit into a sopaipilla and sighed. “Oh, God, this is intensely good. I can't imagine anything being better than how these taste right now. But we'll have to see what Fresh has in store for me tomorrow night.”

I wanted to win this competition. I wanted Alexander to win too.

But no matter
what
happened, we'd still be friends. We'd been through some bad BS before and could withstand being pitted against each other, only one of us getting our restaurant in the
Times
.

As Jocelyn said, as
I
said last night, that was life. Up and down. Down and up. And not walking away when the going got crappy.

Now that I had Zach's go-for-it on the Outpost, it was even more fun to drive up to my parents' place. Would I have gone ahead with my plans for the second restaurant even if he'd still said it was a bad idea? Yeah. But having his green light made it all the more exciting. I got an early start, hitting the road before seven, and made the turn onto the long dirt driveway with its low, brown wooden fence by ten.

I had a good, long talk with my dad about Harry; my sister had recommended a good attorney, and his parents had sold their getaway condo in San Francisco to pay the sick retainer. I could see the stress of talking about Harry was getting to my dad. Like father, like daughter, he led the way into the kitchen and started cooking: banana-walnut pancakes with maple syrup and soy bacon. While we ate, I went over the business plan for the Outpost, and when I asked him to spend the next couple of weeks sketching out a menu of appetizers and main courses and desserts, his eyes lit up.

I spent the next few hours in a pair of old jeans and borrowed wellies, helping my mom clean out the harvesting wagons and getting her truck loaded up with this week's offerings for the farmers' market in town.

Finally, it was just me and the barn. But as I stood in there, instead of remembering how Harry had looked up in the loft, I found myself concentrating on shabby-chic-style tables with vases of yellow and white roses, a zinc juice bar, the sisal rugs, and my father living his dream in the kitchen. I knew right then I'd pull this off. If I could focus on the wall colors and the rug and the type of flatware that would complement the barn setting instead of getting a stomachache over Harry and our last conversation, I could handle anything. Running two restaurants. Getting married. Hanging with Sara. And whatever came next.