Undead Sublet (9 page)

Chef Gamling didn’t comment on the dilapidated condition of the building or the sheer amount of beer and/or NASCAR memorabilia on the walls. He simply wandered around the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back, while he chewed on his lip. The kitchen was in surprisingly good shape, albeit seriously outdated. I would need to replace all of the appliances, but the traffic flow of the room was pitch-perfect for maximum efficiency from the stove to the pass to the dishwashing area.

The dining room’s open floor plan, the old oak bar worn satiny smooth by countless hands, the wide, spacious booths—it was the perfect setup for a small, informal restaurant. Before I’d even put down my purse, I’d started making plans in my head. I’d keep some of the more retro beer signs, but I would paint the walls a soft denim blue. I would have to replace the tables. But I might be able to preserve the carved tabletops and use them as wall panels.

I would keep the view to the kitchen open, so the customers would get the feeling that they were just hanging out at a friend’s place, waiting for their meals to be finished. I would replace the battered dartboards with photos of the original Hank’s and maybe a few of the remodel—something to show that I appreciated the history of this place and wanted to be part of it.

Oh, how I wanted to be part of it.

I rubbed at my sternum, praying for the acidic roll in my stomach to die down. Could I really do this? Could I stay in the Hollow and open up my own restaurant? Chef Gamling was here. My friends were here. What did I have waiting for me in Chicago?

I had acquaintances and colleagues in the city but nobody who would take me out for drinks and mechanical-bull rides. I had Phillip, who was waiting for his marriage-license paperwork, not for me. I had my reputation, but that wasn’t exactly keeping me warm at night. It couldn’t even give me the warm sense of fulfillment that it used to.

I sat down at one of the booths, leaning over to put my head between my knees. Across the table, I could hear the sound of old leatherette crackling. I looked up to squint at Chef, grimacing. “Am I completely insane?”

“Why would this be insane?”

“Because I’ve only cooked. I’ve never managed a restaurant. Because of the risks involved. Because these are disastrous economic times to strike out on my own.”

“This is all true,” he conceded. “But do you want this?”

I chewed on my lip, nodding. It scared me how much I wanted this. I didn’t think I’d ever wanted something so badly in my life. Sure, I’d wanted to leave my hometown. I’d wanted to graduate. I’d wanted the job at Coda. But this was a different level of desire.
I had to have this place. I could feel the desperation down in my bones, crushing my stomach with the anxiety that I might not be able to make it happen.

I had a place in the city. I had a routine. But I could have a
life
here. I didn’t exactly fit in, but I could love people here. I was well on my way to loving a few already. And those people could love me if I let them.

I could do this. I could make a life here. Hell, I already had a life here.

I wanted to feed people, not just because they had showed up for a business meeting or to be seen. I wanted them to leave my dining room happy. I wanted to cook and not think about whether the ingredients were exotic enough to please the customers. I wanted to serve food that nourished people, that made them feel comfort, whether it meant using Velveeta or ungodly expensive Jarlsberg cheese.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I really want this.”

“Then you are insane,” Chef said, shrugging. “But it could be just the kind of insane needed to run this place.”

“Not helpful.” I groaned, dropping my head back to the table.

I felt a cool, damp cloth pressed to the back of my neck and heard a fond
tsk
ing sound just in front of me.

Sherry pressed her handkerchief to my temples and smiled gently. “Jane felt the same way just before she decided to renovate her shop. She was so afraid of making a change, so afraid that she would fail. But
she couldn’t stand not to try to make a go of it. She’s always been my brave one, you know. Though if you tell her that, I’ll deny it just to keep her on her toes. The bottom line is, life is for living, sweetie. It’s for taking chances and trying to grab up every little piece of happiness you can latch on to. And I say that as a mama and a friend and not someone who stands to make a very healthy commission if you agree to take this place on.”

I laughed and handed the damp handkerchief back to Sherry.

I stood and took another look around the restaurant. While my savings were not enough for the real estate market in Chicago, I had more than enough for the down payment on the building. Heck, given Hank’s kids’ desire to unload the building, I might be able to buy it outright, if Sherry and I were clever enough. The problem would be the cost of renovating; I would have to figure out a way to pay for that.

I needed to make this change. I needed this town. I needed the slower pace, the quiet. I needed the people here. This was my place now.

I edged toward the dusty old chalkboard behind the bar, advertising the specials and “pie du jour” in place when Hank’s had closed. I took the eraser and carefully swiped off the old chalk marks. The brittle white chalk nearly crumbled under my touch, but I was able to scratch out what I wanted. “Honey-smoked pork with apples,” I wrote. “Corn fritters
with spicy relish. Dessert of the day: raisin brioche bread pudding.”

I stood back and admired my handiwork.

“I would have served a chutney with the fritters,” Chef said, sniffing.

My lips twitched. “Well, it’s not your restaurant.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Sassy-mouthing again.”

Sherry grinned at my very first selection of specials. “I take it you’ve made a decision?”

I turned and threw my arms around her and squealed, a very un-Tess-like squeal. She laughed again and patted my back. “Is it OK to hug your Realtor?” I asked.

Sherry gave me a very momlike little squeeze. “I’ll allow it this once.”

Poaching Territory

7

I
sat on the front porch, under a purpling sky, mulling over the paperwork for Howlin’ Hank’s. I teetered between giddy joy and abject horror over signing a letter of intent to buy the building. What was I thinking? What had I done? What would I serve? What would I call the place?

I should have considered that before I signed the papers.

I made calls to Chicago as I drove, shell-shocked, back to the house. Phillip was very gracious about accepting my resignation and agreed that it would be too awkward to work with me while planning his wedding to someone else.

As expected, Coda’s owners jumped at the chance to buy me out and promised to deliver a cashier’s
check within forty-eight hours. While their offer was generous, considering the economy, it left me with two options: Take out a mortgage for the building and a second loan to cover the costs of renovating, or pay cash for the building and leave myself with a practically nonexistent budget for the facelift. Neither seemed like the ideal situation. While the building was structurally sound—with the exception of some storm damage to the roof—it would need some serious cosmetic work. Key changes usually translated to “expensive” in construction-speak. The whole prospect made me nervous. Thanks to some youthful indiscretions with a Visa card, my credit wasn’t stellar. Damn my addiction to fancy Belgian knives.

Giving up my apartment would be shockingly easy. I’d barely spent enough time there over the years to make it a home. I hadn’t decorated or added any personal touches. Everything was beige, for cripe’s sake. But the thought of giving up the Lassiter place was singularly depressing.

Sherry had shown me the apartment above Howlin’ Hank’s and it was perfectly adequate. Or would be, after the renovations that would jack up my construction budget even further. But ultimately, I had enough on my plate taking on the restaurant. I wouldn’t have the time, money, or energy to take on a fixer-upper house.

If I could find a way to stretch my budget another twenty thousand dollars or so, I’d have enough breathing
room to do what I hoped to with the restaurant. But I did not, in fact, have naked pictures with which to blackmail Bill Gates, and I didn’t have anything else to sell, unless you counted my car or a kidney—and I would need both.

The sun slipped over the horizon, leaving long lavender shadows in its wake. I buried my face in my hands and groaned. I leaned against the porch railing and looked out over the velvety green lawn. I would miss this place. I would miss having my own quiet space. I would miss waking up every morning to plot revenge against Sam for his pranks, even if I did sort of regret dosing his blood with essence of third-degree tongue burn. Then again, that had led to receiving the hottest kiss of my life, in every sense of the word, so it couldn’t have been a terrible plan.

A soft thump sounded behind me, making me turn toward the front door. Speak of the bewildering devil. Sam was standing there, framed behind the screen door, his dark hair tousled. He was staring at me, his head tilted at a quizzical angle. I simply stared back, unsure of what else to do. I supposed I should have been nervous, caught in the sights of an apex predator, but there was nothing threatening in his gaze. He seemed curious, a little irritated, as if he were looking at some overpriced abstract painting he couldn’t figure out . . . because he probably wasn’t supposed to. I tilted my head to mirror his posture, because, frankly, I doubted I’d ever interpret Sam correctly,
either. I wanted to. I just didn’t know how to reset our relationship from minor domestic booby-trapping to “let’s be friends.”

What could we have been, if we hadn’t started off so badly? If we’d just met walking down the sidewalk on Main Street, would we have been friends? Would he have asked me out for coffee, or whatever vampires did for awkward-first-date beverages? It was sad that I would never know. Part of me—a teeny, tiny synapse in the dimmer region of my brain—would even miss Sam when I moved out. Yes, he pissed me off. And yes, he had hurt my pans. But he kept things entertaining. And I couldn’t deny that through the frustrations and near-injuries, we had chemistry. The sort of chemistry that seemed to be melting holes in the screen door at the moment.

Blinking slowly, Sam seemed to come to his senses and backed away from the screen, closing the front door behind him.

Well, that was weird.

It struck me that it wasn’t a great idea to start my new life in the Hollow with a local vampire pissed off at me. Maybe as a going-away present, I could make something nice for Sam, some variation of whatever he was trying to do with those burned-out saucepans, only edible. He obviously missed real food, and I had sort of tortured him with the lasagna and the brownies. That seemed less OK now that I would probably bump into him at Walmart at some point.

But where would I start? How did you make blood more palatable? Add other, tastier bloods? Herbs and spices? Make it into gravy? Blood pudding?

I slapped my hand over my face. How could I forget about something called the Bloody Bake-Off? If I entered the contest and won, the grand prize was $25,000. That would pad my construction budget considerably. And frankly, I didn’t think any other gourmet chefs of my caliber would be entering. My chances of beating Jane’s mom were pretty high. Plus, it couldn’t hurt my reputation locally for word to get around that I was a good enough cook to make vampire food palatable.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the number listed in my contacts under “Jane, if you’re not calling for bail $$.”

“Hey, Jane, it’s Tess,” I said. “Do you know where I sign up for this vampire cooking contest?”

—

My approach to
the contest entries was simple. I wanted to make something that reminded the judges of their human days—assuming they remembered them—but still appealed to their vampire palates. Clearly, all of the ingredients had to be liquid. I didn’t even want to risk purees after what Jane had told me about the French cookbook.

I tried to stay with familiar flavors, nothing too exotic. Hell, I even made a very thin marinara from tomato juice, but I needed some feedback before I
decided which entry was the best. I tried tasting a few of my samples, but the weird metallic aftertaste of the Faux Type O overrode any other flavors.

This brought my favorite vampires, Jane, Gabriel, Andrea, and Dick, to the recently cleaned bar in the Howlin’ Hank’s building. (I was really going to have to come up with a name for the place soon.) The family was more than willing to let me “play” in the space while the final sale paperwork was ironed out, as long as I paid cash. I was so confident in my ability to win the prize money that I’d agreed. I bought the building outright, saving just a few thousand for the renovations and new equipment.

The dining room was still pretty beat-up, but I’d done a thorough cleaning. I’d found and washed some shot glasses, then used them to set up a tasting session at the bar.

“Are you sure it’s safe to eat anything prepared here?” Gabriel asked, obviously trying to keep his tone in the “nonpanic” range as he eyed the defunct beer signs and broken chairs. “Did you say you only had the electricity turned back on this morning?”

“I didn’t cook this here,” I assured him. “I cooked it at home, but I didn’t want to stir up my cranky roommate by inviting a bunch of people there. I thought this would be more fun.”

“She clearly has Jane’s idea of fun,” Dick muttered to Gabriel.

“So, when are you going to start work on this
place?” Jane asked, elbowing Dick as I poured shot glasses full of a warm, deep-red concoction.

“I’m not sure. I have to find a contractor who’s willing to work with my budget.”

“Why don’t you talk to Sam?” Andrea asked as I sprinkled a tiny bit of rosemary oil over each shot.

“Because I
don’t
want my lower lip nailed to the bar at some point during the construction process?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve done things to him that the Geneva Convention would frown upon. I don’t think he’s going to give me a fair and accurate estimate, Andrea.”