Chapter Four
“Thank you, thanks. Thank you for coming. Oh, thanks, I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Okay, great. Bye now. Bye!” Elle stood on the wide sidewalk where they’d set up some tables and positioned a few servers, kitchen staff and their friends who’d agreed to help out as fake customers and waved to the departing van full of one very satisfied TV host and a crew all with full stomachs. They’d eaten every last blessed bite of everything and had fought over the final bites of the schnitzel and greens.
Elle slumped against Ross, who’d shown up and pitched in like a trouper, setting up tables, chairs, bar service, the works. He’d been the stand-in bartender for a few shots and a customer in another. Elle sincerely hoped Bill’s audience didn’t have very sharp eyes. But really, showing up unannounced at seven-thirty a.m. was just about the dumbest concept for a ‘gotcha’ TV show she could imagine.
She’d found a clean jacket, stuffed her hair up into a toque blanche, slapped on some lipstick and smiled her way through the torture of having her humble, simple food picked over by some snob who’d never been a real chef in his life. In the end, after offering up a slew of left-handed compliments and snide remarks—“meatloaf…how vintage”—Bill had sat them all down and confessed that the meals she’d offered him and his crew, up to and including the “divine homespun blueberry buckle and coconut milk vanilla ice cream” that she’d managed to squeeze in during the final seconds of meal prep were in his top five of all time, in his long, esteemed career.
She’d tried not to snort at that and had only managed it because Ross had been squeezing her hand so hard under the table that her knuckles had ached for an hour afterward.
The upshot of this was that Bill would be doing a full twenty minutes on Komfort—ten minutes longer than their usual feature. The show would air the following Sunday and she’d be receiving a few promotional clips in the next forty-eight hours to share on social media. He hoped that she’d be pleased but she could rest assured that he, Bill Anderson, gave his solemn word that after Sunday Komfort would never have an empty table again.
Elle doubted that, but she’d accepted his many gushing, over-the-top compliments with a calm smile. He’d toured the kitchen, his camera crew filming tons of something they called ‘B-roll’ after making everyone sign written agreements that they would allow their faces on television, however briefly. A few of her staff bowed out of that, but most of them played their parts like trained Broadway actors. Olivia arranged for three interviews—Gina, Becca and their newest hire, Dani, the woman she’d put in charge of the paella, which had come out with the perfect blend of spices, including expensive saffron and the ideal crisp done-ness for each of the vegetables. All three of them were parolees, eager to tell the story of how Elisa Nagel and Olivia Gardner were the only people who’d ever given them a second look for employment, much less empowered them the way they were in the Komfort kitchen.
“You’re going to be famous, my dear,” Bill had intoned in his asshole-ish, nasal whine as he’d patted her shoulder. “And I for one am damn proud to be the one to bring that about for you.”
“Jesus, what a tool,” Ross muttered as they smiled and waved while the van pulled out from in front of the restaurant.
A small crowd had gathered, seemingly drawn by the showy van that had Bill’s mug plastered all over it.
“Oh, God,” Elle said, turning to him, pressing her face into his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
Ross kissed her hair and held on tight, waiting as she calmed and was able to speak again. “Well, my love, it did,” he said in German after tilting her chin up so she met his gaze. “And I am damn proud to have been here to see it.” He grinned.
Her heart unclenched ever so slightly.
“But I gotta go. I left the spawn child with the neighbors and they’re probably worn out by now.” He kissed the top of her nose then her forehead. “I’ll see you when you get home.”
He turned but she grabbed his arm, oblivious to all the people around her doing their regular Saturday lunch set-up. When she saw that his expressive eyes were flat and neutral, her heart sank. He’d only been playing a part, showing off for his audience.
She’d better get her act together and hang on tight to this man. She knew that.
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it that you came when we called.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, as if expecting more than this dry, generic declaration.
She pressed her fingertips into his arm, clinging to him as figuratively as she was literally. “I…I love you.”
“I know that, Elisa.” He plucked her hand off his arm. She let it fall to her side. “But I don’t quite get where we stand right now.”
She looked away, wrung her fingers, then let a rush of ill-conceived anger speak before she could edit herself. He’d spoken in English but she let fly in their native tongue. “Where we stand? Where we stand is here, together.” She gestured upward to the building’s original art-deco marquee they’d kept as their sign, putting up a different message every week, as if it were still a theater. “This was your fucking idea, Hoffman. You wanted it and you helped make it happen. But now you have got to stop making me feel guilty for running it, for managing it, for trying to make it as successful as…as…as you are. You with your fancy consulting jobs, overpriced pilot systems and fucking dangerous motorcycles.”
His eyes narrowed.
Elle was suddenly hyper aware that they were causing a scene. Her face flushed hot but her hands and feet stayed ice cold. Another symptom of her pregnancy, she knew. But that was not something she wanted to share with him, not yet. “A motorcycle that cost how much? How much did you pay for that deathtrap, hmm? Mister ‘I’m German and we’re savers?’ Jesus, Ross, I don’t even know when this place will turn a real profit. I mean, it’s getting better but…I…I’m terrified. Every day I’m afraid we made the most horrible mistake ever using your money, our friends’ money. Oh, Christ.” She put her hands over her face, mortified that she’d been yelling at him in German while the staff pretended not to notice.
Part of her wished, hoped, prayed that he’d take her in his arms and assure her that it hadn’t been a stupid mistake. That she’d make it work, he knew it. That he’d never have put his own money into it if he thought any different. That she, he, they would be fine.
But when she dropped her hands to her sides, he hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes were sharp and his face flushed with what she knew damn good and well was rage. Her own barely concealed fury rose to meet it.
“Do you honestly think,” he began, using German this time, his voice low and dangerous-sounding. “That I would have given up that much of my savings, that I would have gone to Austin and Evelyn on your behalf, that I would have spent a year playing Mister Mom for our child if I didn’t believe that you would make this work?”
She sucked in a breath. Something her grandmother had said to her once, about how men show affection, rose in her roiling brain.
‘Our men, they’re strong, like oxen. They’re stubborn, like mules. They’re responsible, like elephants. They are fighters, not lovers. Don’t ever confuse yourself into thinking otherwise. They’ll prove their love to you through their acts, the things they do to support you and your family. But they will rarely show affection. Forcing one to do so will make him retreat from you and withhold the love he has for you until you leave him be and let him show it the way he feels is best.’
She’d never once in her life ever recalled that, until this moment, standing on the busy sidewalk, staring at her own stubborn, strong, responsible, loving German. She reached for him but he backed away, holding up his hands. Retreating and withholding, just like her old-fashioned Oma had warned her that he would.
Of course, her Ross was affectionate. He had no qualms about kissing her, holding her hand, showing his love for her in public or private. But he was, in his genes, a good German man, even if he’d been raised like a spoiled American. “I’m disappointed in you, Elisa. And I’m hurt that you’d think for one god damned second that I didn’t support you in this.” He parroted her wave, indicating the sign over their heads. “Now, I need to go get our daughter and take her out for the day. You know, the way I always fucking do every god damned weekend of our lives while you’re here, living your dream and running your restaurant.” He paused and put his hands on his hips.
“But…” She started after him, hating herself and formulating her apology, combined with agreement that they should set a wedding date, considering her condition.
When he turned again, he almost ran right over her. “And one more thing. I bought my motorcycle with money we agreed I could use for it. Same goes for my motherfucking pilot system. So I will thank you not to act like I hauled off and spent the bloody rent money on it and left you without a fridge full of food or our child without clothes on her back.”
He stared down at her, but she met his gaze, unintimidated, unafraid. She reached for his hand, ready to beg his forgiveness, but he yanked it away from her.
“I’m not in the mood, Elisa. Go on. Run your precious Komfort. I’ll take care of everything else.”
She opened her mouth to refute this, to say she’d take the day off, put Gina in charge, join them as they ran around parks, went on a bicycle ride, to the movies, or a bookstore. But he put his fingers over her lips, again parroting something she’d done to him, before leaving her standing alone on the sidewalk, while early customers queued up for outdoor seating on a beautiful late spring day.