Chapter Eight
Sam
It’s said, “All good things in moderation.” The last days of August must have missed that memo, because everything about this week is excessive.
The excess of vegetables and fruit cracks a whip beneath my feet every time deliveries are made. The excess of heat in this kitchen—combined with the sloth of midday humidity—blankets my body like a wet quilt. Even my eyelashes drip with moisture.
And then, there’s this excess of passion. I have the hots for Uriah so bad I can’t tell if the temperature is having this effect on me or not. If it were a frigid day in February, I suspect my cheeks would still be burning.
A bowl of heirloom tomatoes, the sultriest of the nightshades, rests on my table beside me. I select a Cherokee Purple, which has a rusty, orange-red belly with lime green shoulders spanning out from the stem.
Yesterday he picked me up from work. When we arrived at my place, he kissed me, pressing me against the bumper of his pickup. His breath smelled of citrus and ginger, from the lemonade I’d brought to cool us down. Then, without a word, we went into the house, into my bedroom, and I let him—for the first time—undress me. In my bed, we kissed again, harder. I bit him gently on his lower lip before releasing myself into carnality.
I hold the tomato gently in my palm. It’s large, heavy, and thick with flesh. Even a twitch of my fingers could bruise the delicate skin. Like most heirlooms, the Cherokee’s surface is split in several places and appears to be bursting its seams. In their quest for size, shape, and flavor, cultivators accidentally eliminated most of the heirlooms’ defensive genetics, rendering them vulnerable.
He’s a wonderful lover, knowing just the right words to say. And with those thick, lingering fingers, he touched me as if I were something delicate, fragile, a treasure he wished to protect. I moved like a cat beneath his hands.
I slice the tomato into five thick pieces. The seeds—which define tomatoes as a fruit and not a vegetable—are embedded in the purplish-red flesh and circle the stem like spokes on a tire. I sprinkle the slabs with kosher salt. Holding a piece between my fingers, as if it were the most delicate of petits fours, I bite into the juicy morsel. The flavor reigns triumphant, bursting between my teeth—the perfect balance of sweet to sour. Pink liquid drips onto the plate beneath my fingers.
I wipe my fingertips on a dish towel. Comparing an heirloom tomato to one of those rosy, round poseurs found in grocery stores would be like comparing the intensity of lite beer with a hand-crafted ale, or tap water with Bordeaux.
I resume my task of chopping, dicing, and mincing as an electric fan circulates warm air across my back. The kitchen staff and I are working around the clock canning and pickling eggplant, peppers, zucchini, okra, and tomatoes. The pace won’t let up until the first frost, but I could work a twelve-hour day and still have the desire to replay last night again and again. If Detroit could harness my energy, they could relight every broken streetlight.
Desire ripples through me. Sparkles, even. I wish it weren’t Addie’s day off; I’m dying to confide. But then again, maybe not. The few times I’ve mentioned Uriah, she seems distant, removed. And it blows my mind that I can’t bring him up when Kevin’s around. Am I supposed to hide him under a rock?
Lately, it’s all about Addie. Her obsession with the past and future are also driving me nuts. Quit worrying about the future, live for today. Enough wasting precious time in therapy and searching for solace in ancient Grecian scripts. It’s all Greek to the rest of us. Close your books and put away your fairy tales. Breathe, Addie, breathe.
Lella pops her head into the kitchen and slides several orders up into the rack, all for the Green Zebra Tomato Curry. She reminds us of Pixy Stix, those long, thin sticks of powdered candy: her temperament—like the sugar—both sweet and tart. She’s easily excitable but can shut down just as fast when she’s annoyed.
“Everyone is loving your curry,” she says. “The last bowl I set down created a chain reaction at a table nearby. You’d think in this heat everyone would want salad.” Her jaws grind quietly, working a stick of gum.
“Actually, spicy foods cool you down. Cultures in the hottest spots on the planet eat the spiciest foods,” I scrape away the seeds of a jalapeño with the blade of my knife. “Something about your internal body temperature rising to match the temperature outside.”
“Well, I should have a bowl after lunch rush. That or join the kids across the street playing in the broken fire hydrant.” She edges in closer and lowers her voice so Paul’s out of earshot.
“I just said good-bye to that guy I’ve been telling you about. Brett actually requested I be his waiter today. He ordered the usual.” She giggles, tightening her apron strings. “Two eggs over easy, bacon, blue-corn grits, and red-eye gravy.” Looking at the ceiling, she hugs herself, elated.
Man, the heat’s got us all hot to trot.
“He even congratulated me on the article in the Times. He actually congratulated me, like I was the reason for all of this attention.”
“Well, you are. Everyone who works here shares equal responsibility for the diner’s success.”
“Thanks, Sam. And we also share responsibility when we piss someone off. Did anyone ever figure out who wrote that nasty review about the chicken?”
I put down my blade, my mood darkening, pinching the skin at my throat. We’ve just received another potentially destructive comment on Yelp. “No one has a clue. Addie and I’ve spoken to every employee, and no one remembers any customer complaining about anything besides having to wait too long for a table.”
“And I always rectify a complaint with a sweet treat,” Lella replies.
“Serving undercooked chicken is a big deal,” I add. “You’d think the customer would have sent it back.”
“As long as the person is writing the truth.” Lella pushes her pen behind her ear. “Quiche and Paul always temp the chicken. Whether it’s roasted, fried, grilled, or smoked, it’s always cooked to perfection.”
“I wish they would have complained to our face. Especially since they wrote they’d become ill after eating it.”
“I think the person is a coward trying to hurt us. And really—all caps followed by a million exclamation points? Just like the comment written about the soup, it hurts your eyes to read it. It was wonderful so many customers leaped to our defense.”
“I know. Sticks and stones. The positive backlash was tremendous, and now both reviews are past tense. We’ve still maintained our average of four and a half stars. In the meantime, I’m pleased Brett congratulated you on all of the great press we’ve received.”
I pick up my knife and begin slicing a potato into rounds. I am pleased he thought to thank her. We can’t take all the credit for Welcome Home’s success. We were thrilled the photo including Braydon was chosen to be in the paper. His aunt had it framed. I hope Angus saw it, too, although he probably thought it was window dressing. Braydon said he refused our offer to rebuild his steps. He never, however, refuses our chicken. It’s a start.
Lella interrupts my thoughts. “Can you meet me at the pottery studio after work, say around four? I want to tell you more about him. And I owe you for a Heartbreaker. Brett asked for two to take back to his office, and I slipped him an extra.” She jumps up and down, clapping her hands. “I have this feeling he’s going to ask me out.”
“Well, you’re so dang cute, I’m sure he will.”
“More good news,” she says, her hazel eyes dancing to the rhythm of the chase. “He’s not wearing a ring.” She gathers up the finished plates and exits the kitchen. Three plates balanced on her arm, she can still work the floor with the energy and swish of a goldfish in a small tank.
Lella extricated herself from an affair with a married man, a fellow potter, a few months back. He swore he was going to divorce his wife once his children had graduated high school. After the kids graduated, he showed no signs of divorcing her. Lella broke it off, leaving him to sulk behind his wheel. I hope Brett works out. She seems reckless in her choice of men.
This morning, Uriah and I had planned to meet the minute after I left work to spend the afternoon and evening together. Alone. But now I’m reconsidering. As much as I hate sharing him, I should introduce him to my people. Addie and our group are meeting in the garden tonight, and David’s bringing his guitar. We can all hang together.
My heart sinks. I’m sure Kevin will join us. He’s shy, and we seem to be his only friends. But I’m done hiding Uriah because of Kev’s crush on me. I’ve never led him on, and can’t imagine why he doesn’t get it. I feel bad for him—love’s a battlefield—but I have to live my life. Let time do its thing. One day Uriah and Kevin may even become friends. I’ll also meet Lella at the pottery studio after work. I’m not the kind of woman who blows off her friends when there’s a new man on the scene.
When we first opened the diner, David suggested we draw a line between our private and professional lives with the staff. He explained it’s difficult to delegate to friends; they will take advantage of our good natures, and mediocrity will flourish. What he’s suggested is impossible. Working side by side in the trenches with our employees has made us as loyal as a team, as intimate as a family. Addie and I empower every employee. Our weekly meetings have created an environment where they’re comfortable challenging our procedures. We encourage them to go off script from the handbook and bend the rules if the situation merits. They were thrilled with their raises; newly invigorated and enthusiastic, they seem to shimmer these days, a lightness in their feet.
I head toward Paul, standing in front of the prep table. Kosher salt streams from his fist over a gazpacho he just made. He grabs a spoon and tastes the cold soup. “Just a tiny bit more, and the flavor will explode.” He grabs the box, shakes salt into his hand, and sprinkles it over the orange-red soup, which is thick with cucumber, peppers, and tomatoes.
“Can you handle the orders? They’re slowing down, and I need to check the floor.” He nods, mopping away a rivulet of sweat running down his cheek. After covering the soup with saran, he takes it to the cooler. Head down, I exit the kitchen and squeeze in a text to Uriah, wondering if he’d mind changing plans.
The main floor is at least ten degrees cooler than in the kitchen, but several customers are fanning themselves with menus. Installing air conditioning must be made a priority next spring. Tory and Wally Spitts are sitting at the counter, chatting it up with Sun Beam. They’re a husband-and-wife law team in Detroit and supporters of every local, independent business that comes to their attention.
Sun Beam waves her arms in exaggerated swoops above her head as she carries the conversation. The summer’s almost over, and all of us will miss her regular appearances during her mom’s shifts. I approach and ask the pair if they’d like a coffee refill. Tory places her palm on top of her cup.
“We’ve had our quota, but thank you. Sun Beam is warning us we’re in the middle of hurricane season.” She turns to the child. “I didn’t know we had hurricanes in Michigan.”
“We don’t.” Sun Beam studies the pair in the silent, steady reproach of a teacher regarding students who aren’t paying attention in the classroom. “You didn’t let me finish what I was saying. The Great Lakes region’s too cold to make them. I was trying to tell you that it’s hurricane season down South.”
“Well, Sun Beam,” Wally says. “What a relief. Tory won’t insist I rush home and batten down the windows and doors. At least there’s one advantage to suffering through the snow.”
Sun Beam nods her head vigorously. “You can say that again. But Michigan does get tornadoes. They happen when cold air collides with warm. Did you know that Braydon found Bon Temps after a tornado hit Detroit?”
Tory looks at me, amused, a question in her dark, lovely eyes.
“You remember Braydon. He’s our manager. Bon Temps is his dog.”
Sun Beam turns her attention to a sandwich she made from the previous day’s leftovers. I lift up the bread to peek: a slice of eggplant, uncooked, and several slices of cheese. Spread on the bread is a copious amount of a metallic caper-pickle sauce, which we use as a tart counterpoint to the buttery lake trout we feature.
“Sun Beam. What a remarkable sandwich. Don’t you find raw eggplant bitter?” Her brows furrow, and she pulls her plate toward her. She takes a large bite as if to defy me.
“It’s delicious,” she retorts, her mouth full. Squinting as if in pain, she puckers her lips as she swallows, eyeing the sandwich with suspicion. “But I’m losing my appetite eating all of these sandwiches I’m imagining.” She pushes the plate away and takes a large swig of water.
I smile, casting a swift wink toward Tory and Wally. They’re wearing new watches, and I lean across the counter to admire their jewelry.
“Love these. Shinola, right?”
Tory stretches out her arm to admire her watch, the orange leather band looped twice around her wrist. “This one’s called the Birdy. Look at the craftsmanship, the design.” The word Detroit is stamped on the pearly face, beneath the gold-numbered dial.
“That’s the coolest watch I’ve ever seen.” I hope one day I can afford to buy a Shinola watch.
Shinola’s hired over four hundred Detroit residents, many laid-off autoworkers, to craft their watches. Last year they presented the city with four public clocks and partnered with officials for an off-leash dog park. Hero and I have a blast there, but the other dogs make Bon Temps nervous.
“Detroit is primed,” Wally says, regarding his watch, pride in his eyes. “The cost of doing business here is the best in the world. Downtown has seen over a twenty percent increase in demand for residential properties.”
“Oh,” I say, grabbing a piece of paper from the pocket of my apron. “I almost forgot. I was hoping you’d stop by. Seems I did something stupid. I signed a contract with a linen company, thinking my costs would be reduced. Turns out, after the first discounted delivery, the price shoots through the roof. We’d end up paying far more than we do with our current vendor. The salesman lied to my face.”
I sigh, knocking the toe of my kitchen clog against the counter base. “It was a bait and switch. I called the company and canceled the delivery. But they said it was too late.”
Wally picks up the contract, examines it, and then regards me, a smile playing about his lips.
“No worries, Sam. The contract is one-sided to the extent that no reasonable person would agree to such terms. It’s unconscionable, which would render it void. Furthermore, the clause is inconspicuous. Even with glasses it’s almost impossible to read.”
Wally pulls the paper up to his eyes, which are magnified behind heavy frames. Then, he slides the contract to Tory, turning to face his wife. “What do you think? This couldn’t be more than an eight-point font.”
She picks up the paper with her fingertips. As her eyes skim the document, she holds it at arm’s length, as if it had been used to wrap fish. “This is a joke,” she says, her nose crinkled in disdain. “Linen Express. Humph. If memory serves, the owner of the company has seen the inside of a courtroom before.” She puts the letter in her briefcase and catches my eye.
“I’m sure he expected you to roll over and take it, but the last thing he’ll want is litigation. When we return to the office, I’ll draft a letter to the company and send it certified mail. If the delivery shows up before they receive it, make sure it’s refused.”
“I really can’t thank you enough. Please bill me for your time.”
“No way,” Tory says, smacking her fist into her palm. “Knocking down hoodlums who threaten the spirit of the new Detroit is our favorite sport.”
“We have plenty of clients who pay the big bucks,” Wally adds. “We’ll take our fee in your soups of the day.”
My face burns, amazed by the generosity of this couple.
“Well, again,” I say, at a loss for words. “Thank you.” I glance at Sun Beam’s plate. “And don’t let Sun Beam scare you away with her lunch.”
“I’m finished,” the girl says, sliding off the counter stool. Only one bite was taken from the sandwich. She rolls up her sleeves and tightens her ponytails. “I’m going to the garden to work on the doghouse.”
Ping. I fumble for my phone. Uriah!
Dribbles of sweat roll down my spine. I press Sun Beam’s glass of ice water against my cheek and roll it against my pulse. Then, I make my exit, scurrying out the back door to read the latest text.
You must be tired because you’ve been running through my mind all day.
A cornball sense of humor. That’s OK. It’s like David’s.
I’ll keep busy until this evening, but it will be hard.
What will be hard? I giggle. But he does have plenty to keep him occupied. His classes resume soon, and he’s been working on the curriculum.
Closing my eyes, I remember the smell of his chest after we made love. Leather and starched cotton, the aromas made more potent mixed deep into his sweat. There’s no sexier smell than a man’s sweat. And there’s no more powerful drug than the love drug, the endorphins turning your mind into goo.
Since last night, our text play keeps me craving him. I wipe my damp fingers against my apron, and then my thumbs fly over the keyboard in response and then freeze.
Stay in the shallows, girl, don’t wade deep. A sobering thought crosses my mind. Maybe last night to him was just a hookup. I’m the stopgap until he finds someone more attractive—a hotter, skinnier girl he’d shower with affection.
CTFD—calm the fuck down. Seriously. Chill. I backspace and type:
Look forward to seeing you.
I press “Send” and then check tomorrow’s forecast: high, seventy-seven degrees. Thank God. Maybe the cooler temps will contain me.
Addie
“Nice work at the studio today, Sam,” Lella says, kicking off her sandals. She takes a beer from the cooler and sits in a lawn chair. “The way you threw that bowl made it look as if you’ve been at it for years.”
“Thanks,” Sam replies, as she turns to her new man, Uriah. “Lella showed me how to make pottery today. It was cool. I love the way clay feels in your hands when it’s spinning, all slippery and soft.”
The slight slur in her voice makes her sound as if she’s drunk or talking in her sleep. But she’s had only one beer. She stares, mesmerized, at her outspread hands. Uriah moves his chair next to her so that the handles are pressed together. He stretches his long, well-muscled arm across her shoulders.
“But look at these fingertips.” She wiggles them in front of her, the cuticles of her nails edged in clay. “What a mess. I’ve been scrubbing and scrubbing and still can’t remove the gunk.” She leans into him, wearing her special smile, tentative and wan, which says it all: Sam’s deep in love—or lust. In the early stages of a romantic relationship, the two are often confused.
Uriah grazes the tips of her fingers with his, as if on his way to holding her hand. He gazes into her face, with not so much as a twitch. Her relationship with that arrogant barista, in retrospect, was a healthy experience. Ironically, in the end, it strengthened her sense of self. She now refuses to be degraded and is quick to call out bullshit. Any dude who can look at Sam without shifting his gaze is as fearless as a tightrope walker.
This aura of hot, new passion electrifies me. I glance sideways at Kevin, who is pretending to be interested in Lella’s description of a sushi set she’s glazing. But his face is pale, and he coughs, as if the air is suffocating him. It irritates me that Sam would rub Uriah in his face. Why did she invite her new boyfriend to join us? Her behavior’s insensitive.
A good friend enters the garden from the street. Hero jumps up and barks, and Sam gives him a biscuit to settle down.
It’s Tim, who works in the tasting room at Two James Spirits downtown. He pulls a couple of bottles from a brown bag. Two James is Detroit’s first licensed distillery since Prohibition and produces an array of spirits.
“The rye,” he announces, wandering to each of us, showing us the label of the Catcher’s Rye whiskey bottle. “As classic a whiskey as the novel is a read.” He unscrews the cap, pours shots into glasses, and passes them around.
“Smell the rye from Michigan’s heartland as it swirls into the waters of the Great Lakes.” We obey, lifting the cups under our nostrils and sniffing. “Now taste. Ummmm . . . spicy, with the taste of sweet fig at the finish. Delicious, right?”
I take a sip of the amber liquor, swish it around my mouth, and swallow. A fire lights up in my chest. “There is a God, and she,” I say, winking at David, “lives in Michigan.” He smiles at me, strumming his guitar, as our glances flit up and down each other’s bodies.
Uriah’s fingers spider up Sam’s shoulders, and she cuddles into his arms. We take tiny sips, but Kevin finishes his in a gulp, requesting his next be a double. David and I trade glances.
“My man,” Tim says, pouring a hefty amount into Kevin’s cup. “What’s the occasion?”
“Does a man need an occasion to drink a fine whiskey?”
“A fine whiskey, like a fine woman, should be treated with respect,” Tim says. “Be mindful. This stuff’s close to one hundred proof.”
“Just paying my respects to the heartland, bro,” Kevin replies, taking a long, deep swallow.
“Good thing I brought an extra bottle,” Tim remarks, shaking his head with a sidelong glance at Kevin.
As the evening continues, our liveliness amplifies in sync with the bottle’s depletion. Except for Kevin. He answers in monosyllables when conversation is directed his way, and has moved only twice, to replenish his supply. Uriah strokes Sam’s shoulder, and she turns her face into him, kissing his neck. Now I’m angry and tempted to pass her a note—Get a room. Poor Kevin.
David’s strumming amplifies as he picks out the tune of “Baby, Won’t You Be My Baby,” his fingers pressing strings on the fret of his guitar. It’s a song he’s been working on from one of Dylan’s recently released bootleg series. I point to Angus’s home, placing my fingers over my lips. “Shhhh. You don’t want to upset him further.”
“OK, OK.” He puts down his guitar and folds his arms across his chest.
Everyone’s now quiet, regarding me with flickering eyes as if I were a party pooper. Between being pissed at Sam and worried about Angus being pissed at me, I’m on edge. Perhaps overreacting, as well. His music wasn’t that loud.
I turn my attention to the sky. It’s twilight, almost dark, and the evening sky is streaked in apricots and royal blues.
Lella stands. “Gum, anyone?” She passes an open package of gum around our group. Sam and Uriah each slide a piece from the pack.
Sam glances at her phone.
“Yikes. It’s close to nine thirty. Well, as much as I hate leaving this shindig, this girl’s gotta be raring to go when the rooster crows.”
She bends to hook Hero’s collar on the leash, her jeans sliding down to reveal creamy flesh above her butt. Uriah’s gaze is fixated on the patch of skin gleaming in the moonlight. They rise and leave, and Tim follows.
David slides his chair next to Kevin’s and puts his arm around his neck.
“You doin’ OK there, buddy?” Kevin looks up from his drink, his eyes filling with tears. “Kevin. You can’t do this to yourself,” David says. “I warned you about Sam. If you let this into your heart, it will eat you alive.”
Oh God. I slide my chair to the other side of Kevin. “We’ve all been where you’re sitting, Kev, and it hurts. We feel your pain.”
“What’s wrong with me?” he says, his words slurred. “Am I really such a bad guy? Why does she find me so disgusting?” I am furious with Sam.
Resting my forearms on my thighs, I lean my head toward his, catching his eyes. “She doesn’t find you disgusting. She loves you, Kevin. But only as a good friend. She loves you the way I love you. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Hey, dude,” David says. “You’re a chick magnet. Remember when we set you up with Tina? That girl is hot, man, and she said you wouldn’t give her the time of day.”
Kevin pushes David’s arm away and half rises, stumbling. “Addie,” David says, his voice crackling with concern. “Get him a glass of water.” He turns to Kevin. “You’re wasted. Give me your keys. We’re taking you home.”
“I didn’t bring a car. I’ll walk home. No worries,” he says, garbling his r’s. I trot to the kitchen and pour leftover coffee from lunch into a glass filled with ice.
“You’re not walking home alone. It’s dark now, and the streets aren’t safe,” David argues. “Especially with the lights out.” The failure of the city to keep the neighborhood streetlights burning has had a crippling effect on our psyches. For good reason, we stay inside after dusk, afraid of the dark.
“Come on, man,” David continues. “I’m loading you into the car. We’ll take you home.”
Kevin straightens and drains the glass of coffee in a gulp.
“Goddamn it, David,” he says, shoving him. “I’m fine. I want to walk.” After a long, drawn-out burp, he weaves his way across the yard, pantomiming great effort not to stumble into the garden. He swings his cup toward a sky now filled with a high August moon, slurring verse from Henry Lawson, a poet he sometimes quotes:
“‘I’ll find a drunken pauper grave, and what have you to say? Good night! Good day! My noble friends, and what have you to say?’”
I’ve never seen Kevin such a train wreck. We stand, follow, and watch him dodging cars as he weaves across La Grande. He selects the most dangerous street to make his journey home.
David grabs his keys from his pocket. “He’s too drunk to know we’ll be following him.”