The Art of Love (21 page)

Chapter 22

"
The enemy's spies who have come to spy on us must be sought out, tempted with bribes, led away and comfortably housed. Thus they will become converted spies and available for our service."
~ Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

The next morning, I find myself daydreaming of Escoffier’s return. Not because I enjoy being shouted at with a French accent on a daily basis, but it would be nice to work less than an eighty-hour week. Or at the very least, it would be nice to be paid for all the hours I work. I know I started this whole war with Kiki to break out of my bad habit of dating losers and actually land a quality guy, but I feel like I’ve lost sight of my goal, and now all I’m doing is battling a co-worker when, in a world where Trent didn’t exist, we would actually all be on the same team. The whole rumor about how Kiki kept her job isn’t helping my attitude. I mean, if it’s true, then Trent is a lot creepier than I want to know about. That and the fact that there’ve been some photos of Trent with a very expensive-looking woman in
On Chicago
magazine’s gossip column lately that have me feeling like a bit of a dupe. I’m busting my ass to save his company, and he’s squiring some rich socialite around town.

Still, business is booming at Bouche, and I’m proud of that. If people want to dine here, they have to make reservations weeks ahead of time. I’ve been more creative with food in the last few weeks than I have in my entire life. I’m thriving and wilting and starting to go sour all at the same time.

Trent is obviously not Chicago’s biggest playboy because he doesn’t know how to read women. When I arrive at work, June hands me something sealed in an envelope. “Linda brought this down for you,” she says with a smirk. If his executive assistant made the delivery then the note must be from Trent.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to act nonchalant as I take the envelope. I stroll toward the locker room at a casual pace, but my heart is pounding like I’m about to be shown what’s behind curtain number three, and there’s a good chance it’s a brand new car. My fingers caress the envelope, and I can tell by the quality that it’s from Trent’s personal stationery, not some bulk-purchased business envelope that Linda uses to send out mundane correspondence. This is good because it did flash through my mind that I was getting a personal pink slip, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case.

Once I’m away from June’s prying eyes, I flick my nail under the corner of the envelope’s flap and tear it open. Yes, I was right. It’s letter-pressed paper from the desk of Mr. Trent Winchell himself and written in a steady hand with what I’m pretty sure is one of those modern fountain pens.

“Dear Sue,

I know it’s last minute, but would you possibly be able to join me for a wine tasting at K2 tonight? I would love to hear your expert opinion on what they have to offer. That, in addition to your charming company, would make it the perfect evening.

The event starts at eight o’clock. Send me your reply via my secretary.

Hoping to see you,

Trent”

Is there any possible way I can get the desserts going, make sure everyone knows what they have to do for dinner, rush back to my condo for my little black cocktail dress plus all the trappings necessary to execute a high end date, and be ready to go by eight o’clock? It seems impossible, but there’s no way I’m going to miss out on my first actual date with Trent to one of the hottest restaurants in the city just because of the restrictions of the space-time continuum. The Bouche kitchen staff will just have to step it up. They’ve gotten a little too co-dependent anyway, assuming that I’ll do the lion’s share of the work. This is a big opportunity with Trent, and I’ve got to make it happen.

I’ve been cracking the whip on the staff, and everyone is working hard. Everyone but Antoine, of course. He has been watching me for half the day, and it’s starting to get on my nerves. I have no idea what is making him so twitchy. If he wants something, I wish he’d just ask for it instead of being all stalkery about it. Finally, I catch him watching me for the millionth time, and I wave him down from across the kitchen and gesture that he should come over to where I’m prepping some marinade for a portion of beef. “What’s going on, Antoine?” I ask as he reluctantly approaches.

“Nothing.” He jerks the corners of his mouth down and flinches his shoulders at me. “Why do you ask me zhis?”

Okay, he’s going to play games. That’s fine. “I just feel like there’s something on your mind, and I was wondering what it is.”

“No, zhere is nothing,” he insists. “I was just admiring your cooking technique.”

“Okay, if that’s all it is, fine.” I really don’t have time to wheedle whatever it is he wants to say out of him.

“Z
hat was very smart what you did with zee wedding reception,” he says after a moment. “Antoine was impressed.”

“
The food?” I ask, a little suspiciously. It’s unlike Antoine to dish out compliments unless there’s some kind of motivation behind it or he’s complimenting himself.

“
No, no.” He chuckles. “I mean what you did with changing zee menu.”

“
What are you talking about?” I ask, turning my attention back to the marinade which, come to think of it, is probably something the saucier should be doing.

He gives me an exaggerated wink. “
I understand. Play it zhat way if you insist.”

“I really don’t have any idea
what you're talking about,” I tell him, “but I'm glad you came over. I've been meaning to talk to you.”

Antoine raises his eyebrows and lowers his eyelids.
I’m not sure how he does it or what emotion it’s supposed to convey. “You have?” he asks.

“
Yes. I wanted to thank you for doing such an excellent job while Chef Escoffier's been away.”

Antoine pulls the corners of his mouth down and shrugs one
shoulder, tilting his head to the side to tie the whole gesture together.

I lean in to confide in him, lowering my voice. “
I mean, if we're being honest, you're a much better chef than me.”

I can tell Antoine is trying to play it cool, but he is obviously flattered. “
I would not say much better.”

“
Let's face it,” I sigh. “When Escoffier chooses his permanent replacement, I'm sure it’ll be you he names as his heir.”

The saucier expands his chest, all but preening under this comment. “
Yes, maybe I have heard something like zhis.”

In contrast, I deflate a little more. “
I envy you, but I don't envy you. Being in charge is tough.” I lean forward to confide in him “You wouldn't believe the problems I've had to deal with. It's one crisis after another.”

Antoine pretends to look around the kitchen.
I can tell I’ve got him hooked. “Yes, I am sure it is very hard. But it seems zhat zhere is no crisis today.”

“Sure.” I roll my eyes and then say through lips clenched as tight as a ventriloquist’s, “
as long as the board of health doesn't shut us down.”

“
What?” Antoine ejaculates at ten times the volume of the words I’ve just spoken. “Is zhat true?”

I scan the room to see if anyone is listening. A few people have glanced in our direction, but nobody seems overly interested. “
Shhh! You don't have to broadcast it,” I scold him in hushed tones. “But yes, it's kind of true.”

Antoine's eyes bulge.
“Really?” he says in a loud whisper. “For why?”

“Well,” I say out of the corner of my mouth. “
Let's just say there may or may not be some rat droppings that may or may not have been reported to the health board.”

The Frenchman is absolutely stunned. “
Sacré bleu!” he exclaims, which I didn’t think French people ever said in real life. “Impossible. Escoffier, he always make sure zhat Bouche is without zee dirt. How did zhis happen?”

“
Antoine, you can't tell anyone,” I tell him, sounding a bit panicked. “I mean, this is really serious. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

Antoine pastes on his trust-me face. I’ve seen it before, and it never inspires much trust, but it’s too late because I’ve already spilled the beans. “
Of course, Suzanne. I completely understand. I am with you for zhis.”

I sigh, a bit limp with relief. “
That's good. I really appreciate it, Antoine. The guy is supposed to inspect tomorrow, so we've got to make sure Bouche is spotless.”

“
How do you know zhis?” Antoine squints at me. “About zee guy and when he comes?”

“My guardian angel tipped me off,” I say with a wink. For someone like Antoine, that’s all the explanation he needs, which is good because it’s all the explanation he’s going to get. Now, I just have to worry about if he’ll be able to keep his big mouth shut.

I have to bust my ass, but I’m clad in the little black dress that the lip gloss ladies persuaded me to buy and waiting for Trent in the lobby by seven-thirty as instructed. I can’t believe I’m finally going on a date where I don’t have to stress about the guy showing up in an “ironic” T-shirt. It’s an incredible feeling. I’m assuming I don’t have to worry about Trent’s table manners, either. I once had a date where the guy literally harpooned his entire steak with a fork. I caught him ripping pieces off of it with his teeth like a wild dog. When I asked him what he was doing, he said in a bit of a defensive voice, “This is how I eat my steak,” like it was my fault for questioning him. Elliot was a lousy boyfriend, but at least he knew the rudimentary uses of cutlery when out in public. With Trent, I bet my table manners are probably worse than his. And if things go well and we have numerous dates after this first one, I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my wardrobe. I’ve only got this one dress that is of the caliber to be out on the town with a Winchell.

Thirty-five minutes later, I’m still waiting for Trent. How hard is it to grab an elevator to be somewhere on time? I guess I’m the dope for thinking that just because a man is successful, he isn’t going to leave me waiting around. I’ve been busting my butt all day to make this date, and he can’t even be on time. It’s infuriating. But at least Trent is an executive with an important job, unlike Elliot who was always late for absolutely no reason. Oh yeah, except for that last month or so where he was cheating on me and apparently needed to get a little action before taking me out on my birthday. At least, I know Trent probably isn’t upstairs banging someone in his office.

Still, I don’t want to play the schmuck again, even to a man like Trent, so I start thinking over my options. I could always just leave and go home. Or go back to work, if I wanted. Or I could get in the elevator myself and see what the hell is taking him so long. That’s the kind of thing you always read about men finding too aggressive and a turnoff, but is that any reason to stop me from doing it? I’m sorry if my need to be treated with an ounce of consideration is a turn-off to guys. And why is it that women are always supposed to change their behavior to please a man? Why can’t men just stop being giant, self-absorbed babies? Probably because it’s learned behavior as most women keep going out of their way to please a man. It’s a vicious circle.

Sick of being passive about bad behavior, I get to my feet and head for the elevators with determined steps. Seeing that I’m not in my chef’s coat, I decide to be bold and actually use the regular elevators available to guests instead of the service one.

The doors open, and I’m about to get inside, but I encounter Linda as she’s exiting the elevator. “Hello?” I say. “It’s after eight. What are you still doing at work?”

“Just dealing with some Winchelling.” Linda rolls her eyes. “But I’m glad I caught you. Trent wanted me to tell you that he’ll be down in a minute. He’s been delayed.”

“Important business stuff?” I ask hopefully.

“Not really.” She draws out the words, letting me know that it’s absolutely not the case by any stretch of the imagination. “But it’s definitely the reason I wanted to talk to you the other day.” She glances back at the elevators as if she’s worried someone is behind her listening. “Do you have a moment so we can talk?”

“I guess.” If Trent is going to take another few minutes then I obviously do. We turn and walk back toward the lobby. After seating ourselves in two high-backed chairs, I ask, “So what’s going on?”

“Well…” Linda is hesitant. “I know Trent has been encouraging you to work extra hard to make Bouche more successful. And it’s really working. I’ve got to congratulate you because you’ve really turned the old dinosaur around. But…” She leans in and lowers her voice. “Trent might have… how should I put this?” She frowns. “Fudged the truth about a few things.”

I’m not quite sure what she’s talking about. “Like what?” I wonder. Knowing my luck, he’s probably engaged or gay or something.

“Okay…” Linda leans in to whisper.

“Good evening, ladies,” Trent says in an overly bright voice. He’s walked up to where we’re sitting without us noticing.

Linda jerks back and gives me a panicked look. I get the feeling I was about to be made privy to more Winchell Hotel gossip, and from her expression, I guess it was pretty radioactive.