“Oh my God, you have to try this, Shelby,” Meg says, startling me as she bumps her hip on the kitchen door, forcing it to swing open. Cinnamon and clove floats through the air of the empty restaurant and hits my nose. I watch as she crosses the small dining room to sit at my table.
It’s Sunday night, we’re closed, and the last of our staff left a while ago. The light from a streetlamp outside pours in the front window, illuminating the partially lit room. I hadn’t even realized the sun had set. We’ve both been here for fifteen hours, and it’s true what they say, time does fly when you’re having fun.
Closing the lid to my laptop, Meg takes the first bite of the dessert and drops the fork. It clatters to the plate as she leans back in her chair and lets out a low, satisfied moan.
“You’re so dramatic,” I scold, shaking my head and fighting a smile.
Her eyes snap to mine and sparkle with laughter. I’ve known Meg since we were freshmen in college and I swear the older we get, the more theatrical she becomes.
Snatching the fork, I cut off a bite of the dessert for myself, watching as the honey strings between the warm pastry layers and the fork. I’m not gonna lie, it smells divine, and I’ve been waiting for the last forty-five minutes to taste it.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.” She grins. “Tell me, did I kill that recipe or what?” she asks, waiting for my reaction and watching me chew my bite. Then, as if she can’t handle the anticipation of my answer, she wipes her hands across her thighs to smooth down her apron—a light green-and-white gingham apron that once belonged to her grandmother. She wears it every time she’s creating something new in the kitchen. It’s like her thinking cap, and when she puts it on, I know to let her be.
Focusing on the individual flavors, I sort through each one to see if anything is lacking or overpowering. Swallowing the bite, my eyes find hers, and I smirk, knowing I’m about to set her off. “It needs salt.”
Her jaw drops, and a piece of her brown wavy hair escapes from the messy bun on top of her head.
“What! No way.” She blows the hair off her face, grabs the fork, and sinks it back into her version of baklava. In the South, we’re ruled by pecans, so she’s substituted them in place of the walnuts.
“Yes way.” I lick my lips. “And the cloves are a bit too strong.”
Silence falls between us as she takes another bite and then hands the fork back to me. Together, we finish off the piece, and she swipes her finger across the plate for the last remaining crumb.
“You’re crazy. That”—she points to the empty plate—“was delicious.”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t, but I’m right.” I reach for the sweet tea sitting next to my laptop and take a drink while letting her think through the recipe.
The sharpness in her eyes dissolves and the defensiveness in her posture relaxes as she lets out a long, loud sigh. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“No, you don’t. Just like I love you for your brand of crazy, you love me for my awesome, perfect palate.” I grin at her, and she rolls her eyes.
“I can’t argue with you there.” She wraps the fallen piece of hair back up into the knot. That’s what makes us so great together: she’s brilliant at creating, and I’m spot on at tasting.
Meg pushes away from the table, grabs the plate, and heads back to the kitchen, her heels clicking across the wood floor. That’s the other thing that connects us—we love—LOVE—high-heeled designer shoes.
Packing up my laptop, I look around at our two-year-old restaurant that I adore, Orange Blossom Avenue, or OBA for short. OBA isn’t a huge place, but we don’t need it to be. During the week, we’re open for breakfast and lunch. On the weekends, we open for brunch and the occasional special dinner, and we are always open for private events. The ambiance is quaint, clean, and Southern chic, with the color scheme focusing on orange, green, and white—like an orange blossom.
Owning this restaurant is Meg’s dream whereas mine is to have my own show on Food Network. Over the last ten plus years, I’ve spent almost every moment thinking about and working toward that moment when my dreams will finally come true and three weeks ago, I interviewed for a host position of a new show at their headquarters. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve lost hours of sleep dreaming about what my life will be like when I get to New York City.
“So, what are you going to call it?” I ask, walking into the kitchen.
“Southern baklava, of course.” Meg flashes a smile at me as she wipes down the prep station. “Who knows, maybe it’ll end up on your blog.” She eyes me with mischief.
My blog, Starving for Southern.
Sometime during our second year of college, I got the bright idea to start a food blog. Every weekend, instead of chasing boys and partying, Meg and I would travel all over and look for the best places to eat. It made sense to record it all. We ate at some amazing places and some not-so-good ones, too. Toss in our own recipes of things we liked, and before I knew it, the blog had a huge following. A huge, unexpected following.
Mostly, I’ve been able to keep my anonymity. Only a handful of people know that one of the owners of OBA and the author of Starving for Southern are the same person. After all, a true critic never exposes who they are, even though it was never my intention to be one. I would say that eighty-five percent of the food blog is positive—it really isn’t my goal to bash someone’s dream—but that other fifteen percent . . . it can’t be helped.
“I thought you were going out with that guy Neil tonight?” she asks me, carrying the last of today’s dishes to the dishwasher and stacking them on the rack.
“No, I need to finish this next article for Food Network Magazine.”
“He seems to be really into you . . . and he’s cute.” She takes my iced tea glass, adds it to the others, and pulls down the cage of the washer. It kicks on and the hum fills the space between us.
I met Neil at an art gallery opening last weekend that Meg and I catered. He was there to support his friend, the artist. “I know, and I thought he had potential until I watched him eat.”
Meg’s forehead wrinkles with confusion as she glances back over her shoulder at me, unties the apron, and hangs it on a large wrought iron coat rack that houses all the aprons we’ve collected over the years. “What happened?”
“He dropped in yesterday while you ran to the grocery store. He ordered the fried green tomato BLT and sucked his teeth after every bite.”
“Eww!” Meg squeals in horror. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this yesterday! What is it with you and guys lately? You have the worst track record of anyone ever,” she says as we walk out of the kitchen. I head back to my table as she goes into the small office to get today’s bank deposit.
“I know! I don’t get it at all.” Not that I’m interested in dividing my time between work and a guy, I prefer the work hands down, but I do enjoy their company every now and then. Bending over, I unclasp the straps of my heels, slide them off, and toss them in my bag. A groan escapes me as my feet flatten to the floor.
In the last year, I’ve cooked for a guy here at the restaurant who was vehemently against vegetables, so he wouldn’t do, and I found another taking photos of my recipes on his phone when I left the room—thief!
“You know, it all started with that wine guy Lexi tried to set me up with last fall at the Feeding America charity event.”
“Oh, that guy was the worst! What was his name again?”
“Zachary Wolff.”
Just saying his name heats my blood to a near boil, and my mind drifts back to an image of him and his haughty, disapproving glare. Lexi, who we met at culinary school, set us up on a blind date and had pointed him out to me shortly after we arrived, so I saw him before he saw me, and my breath caught at how incredibly handsome he was. For the first time in a long time, I thought, maybe, just maybe. But once introductions were made, he immediately frowned and looked away. Talk about a self-confidence crusher.
“That’s right. Too bad, too—he was hot. Wasn’t he a football player or something?”
“Yeah, he was hot, and he knew it, too. Lexi did mention that he was ex-NFL. I’ve never met a man so stuck on himself. How or why she’s friends with him, I’ll never know. Whatever. He barely gave me a second glance, which was so rude since he was supposed to be my date. Plus, he thought he was God’s gift to the wine world, looking down his nose at everyone at that event. And his wines aren’t that good!”
“How do you know? We don’t stock them here,” Meg asks as she emerges from the office.
“Well, technically I don’t know. I’ve never tasted his wines. But don’t you remember that article I stumbled across and showed you shortly after the event? The one that talked about the mediocre table wines? That’s his winery.”
“Now that you mention it, I do remember that. They rated those wines with four wilted grapes. Well, karma’s a bitch. Someone needs to remind him that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“Seriously. I almost felt bad for him after reading it. Almost.” It’s too bad, though. I’d never seen eyes as blue as his—ice blue, that is. Just like his personality. “It’s all right, I really don’t have time to deal with a guy right now anyway. I want these articles to be so good that the editors of Food Network Magazine want to work with me year after year. And between the restaurant and the blog, I’m too busy. Career first, guys later. Remember?” I lift my bag onto my shoulder and tuck it under my arm.
Meg turns to face me with an understanding look. “I know you’re worried about the articles, but don’t be. They’ll be amazing . . . no, they already are.” She smiles, and it’s so genuine I almost believe her. How crazy different would life be if I’d never met her?
“I hope so,” I mumble.
Last year, a representative from the magazine contacted me to see if I was interested in writing for a special edition magazine, All About the South, and I about died. Someone had seen my blog and thought I would be perfect given my thorough knowledge of restaurants in the South. Meg and I celebrated for a solid week by eating, drinking, and splurging on some new shoes.
My assignment was simple, they were constructing four magazines for the four regions of the United States, and I was asked to recommend twenty-five different restaurants across the southeast with the theme focusing on seafood: Gulf shrimp, crawfish, crab, grouper, et cetera. Meg and I changed OBA’s operational hours to four days a week and we traveled Monday through Wednesday for three months, eating our way to a complete state of bliss.
I mean, why not? Both of us are young, single, the restaurant is ours to open and close when we want . . . and best of all—we got paid. So, when they called again this year, I was over the moon. I now have two consecutive years of work for the magazine to add to my resume, and I know I have to make my contribution super spectacular.
This year the focus is farm-to-table. Each regional issue will highlight restaurants that use locally grown food. They want another twenty-five recommendations where I mention impressive farmers’ markets and family farms. Personally, I think it’s a great idea. The fresher the better.
“You headed home?” I ask her. Meg and I are also roommates, but occasionally she sleeps at her aunt’s just to keep an eye on her.
“Yeah, after I drop this off at the bank.” She waves the zippered bank envelope at me and flips the lights off.
Together we walk out the front door, she locks it and hits the remote alarm app on her phone. From inside my bag, my phone starts ringing. I drop it on the sidewalk and start digging until my fingers find it.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” Meg says, taking a few steps backward. “I’m thinking it’s a wine and a hot guy dancing kind of night.” She drops her arm and does a bad version of the robot.
A laugh bursts out of me and echoes down the sidewalk.
“Sounds perfect!” I grin at her before turning my attention to my phone. It’s my editor from the magazine, Teddy Carothers. Every time his name flashes across the screen, my heart skips a beat—half excitement and half nerves. I’ve wanted to be a part of the Food Network family for so long, there’s always this slight fear that with one phone call it can go away, just like it arrived.
“Hi, Mr. Carothers. How are you?” I stand and grab my bag, trying to keep my voice calm and my hand steady. Ever since I started working for him last year, I have had to remind myself to show no fear. I’ve worked hard for this, and I deserve it.
“I’m great, Shelby, thanks for asking. Is now a good time?” It’s after eight—he never calls this late—and my hand tightens on the phone. Part of me wonders if he was contacted about the studio job, but I’ll never ask.
“Yes, now’s a great time. We just locked up OBA, and I’m about to head home.” I make my way across the street to my car, barely feeling the inconsistencies of the cobblestone and fallen oak pollen under my bare feet.
“Very good. So, I’m curious, how’s the assignment coming along?” Last year, he never asked me about the assignment. I had three deadlines—the twenty-five recommendations were broken up into sections: nine, eight, and eight. I submitted on time, he said, “Great job,” and that was the end of it.
Sliding into my car, I toss my bag onto the passenger seat and when it tips over, I frown as all my things spill out onto the floor. “I’m almost done with it. Would you like me to send you what I have?” Nerves flit through my stomach and I grip the steering wheel. The article isn’t ready yet, I glance to my laptop which is standing on its side, but I could spend all night on it if I had to.
“No, that won’t be necessary. You can send it all once it’s done.” There’s a pause in the conversation. I can hear the shuffling of some papers on his end, him swallowing, and a glass hitting the table. Anxiety takes off and my hands start to sweat. “But listen . . . turns out, I have another idea to run by you.”
Another idea?
Images of the last two months and all the work I’ve put in skip through my mind.
“Okay, what idea is that?” I ask as calmly as I can.
“I know this is last minute, and we still want you to finish your current article, but tell me, have you ever heard of Wolff Winery?” Blue eyes and a condescending scowl flash before my eyes for the second time tonight. I shake my head to clear the image and find the road in front of me cloaked in shadows and empty.
“Yes. In fact, I met Mr. Wolff last year.” I grit my teeth at his name. Arrogant ass.
“Ah, well, that’s great then! We’ve spoken to Mr. Wolff, and if you agree, we’ve decided to pair the two of you together for a feature article in the upcoming Southern issue. We would need you at his winery by tomorrow afternoon if possible. I just e-mailed over the details, you’ll need to clear your schedule for a bit, and he can fill you in on the rest.”
What!
No. No. No. No. No.
The nerves in my stomach instantly flee and dread drops in. They want us to work together? I have to work with him? But I don’t want to work with him. He agreed to this? He doesn’t like me . . . and that’s fine with me!
“Okay, I need to run this by Meg, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” Meg is going to flip out, and then she’s going to laugh at me. Again, these things only happen to me. Of all the wineries in the south, they go and pick his.
“Perfect. We’re really excited about this new project for you two. You were our first choice, and we know the article is going to be great. Once you get settled in, give me a call.” The creak of his chair comes through the line and more papers shuffle in the background.
“All right, I will,” I say, trying my hardest to sound as excited as he is when everything in me is screaming to abort the mission.
“Thanks for being so flexible. Take care, Shelby.” Then he hangs up.
There should be silence in the car, but my ears are ringing so loudly my vision blurs.
Oh my God!
Sucking in some air to calm my pounding heart, my head hits the steering wheel, the phone drops to my lap, and I squeeze my eyes shut. What are the odds that Meg and I were just talking about him? What are the odds that of the thousands of wineries out there, his gets picked? And why did his get picked? Per that review, the wines are supposed to be mediocre. Maybe this is karma’s way of getting to me somehow. But why? At the event, he was cold and made me feel as if I were nothing more than an unwanted relative he was stuck with. He ignored me most of the night, preferring conversations with every other girl there but me, and he drank too much. It wasn’t that he became loud and obnoxious, quite the opposite, he became sullen. He made me feel inadequate, and I don’t let anyone make me feel that way, ever. I don’t care who you are. After that night, I made a solemn vow to never see him again . . . or drink his wine.
Leaning back in the seat, I take a few deep breaths and let out a resigned sigh before pressing the ignition button. Hopefully, this assignment with him won’t be a big one, and we can get it over with as soon as possible.
Shaking my head and rolling my shoulders, I push away the tension weighing me down, and that’s when it hits me.
Featured article.
Mr. Carothers, from Food Network Magazine, has asked me to pair up for a featured article! Me. Not another journalist, but me. And he said I was their first choice!
Elation takes over, and I squeal as if I’ve won the lottery. My name is going to be printed several times in this new issue, giving me even more exposure. Little by little, a little becomes a lot, and step by step, article by article, I’m getting closer to my dream.
My dream.
Flashes of my childhood flip through my mind, and each passing one acts as a stimulant to my already racing heart. That ever-present reminder of the things he said and the things they did, it’s the constant spark that keeps my determination blazing, and as my eyes widen and my hands tighten on the wheel, I’d swear the street light’s glow is brighter.
“I can do this! I will do this!” I chant to myself. Zachary Wolff is nobody to me, and he can kiss my grits. No one is ever going to get in my way.
No one.