Chapter Two

MORNING CAME FAR TOO SOON. Rachel sat in the driver’s seat of her Toyota SUV, staring at the back door of her restaurant and summoning up the energy to climb out of the car.

She was getting old.

That was the only explanation for how she felt now, as sore and aching as if she’d been run over by a bus. Back in the day, she’d not only been able to work a fourteen-hour double shift, but she’d proceeded to party with the rest of the kitchen staff until the wee hours, catch a couple hours of sleep on someone’s sofa or in her car, and do the whole thing again the next day.

Clearly, her body had gotten the memo that she’d just turned thirty and thrown the switch.

“Come on, Rachel. Woman up.” At seven o’clock, she was already the last person in, the rest of the crew arriving early to prep for Sunday brunch, which started at ten thirty. Since they didn’t take reservations on Sunday, the line would start forming outside the front door by nine and not stop until midafternoon.

If she were honest with herself, Sundays were the only part of her old life that she missed. Each Sunday until she turned eleven, she and her mom would dress up to attend service at their little white church in Hartford, munching donut holes from the bakery on the way and trying not to get powdered sugar on their clothes. She’d sit beside her mother in the pew and listen in rapt attention to the bearded pastor, wondering if that’s what Jesus had looked like. Afterwards, they’d splurge on lunch and browse the expensive boutiques downtown, even if they couldn’t afford to buy anything. It had truly been a day of rest, and those days together were virtually the only memories she still cherished of her childhood.

But those Sundays had ended long before she started cooking, and now a full day to herself felt like a distant dream. Rachel wrenched herself from her recollections and dragged her aching body from the car, then stumbled to the back door, where she could already hear sizzles and clatters coming from the hot line.

She shoved her sunglasses onto the top of her head and stopped first at the pastry section, where her baker and best friend, Melody Johansson, was hard at work.

“Morning,” Rachel said quietly. “Everything good?”

Melody glanced up quickly from the sticky buns she was glazing, then did a double take. “You look awful.”

“Thanks. I needed that.”

Melody laughed. “Another hard night here?”

“Is there any other kind?” Rachel squeezed Melody’s shoulder before moving on to the prep cooks, who were already hard at work at the rear stations. She paused at the walk-ins, where Andrew was going over the stock with the clipboard. “Where’s Gabby?”

Andrew looked up, his expression answering before his words. “She hasn’t shown up.”

“Call her and find out what’s going on. And then meet me in my office.”

He gave a respectful nod. “Yes, Chef.”

She retraced her steps to the office, her haven and a monument to her type-A nature. In every kitchen she’d worked, the chef’s space was a wreck, a jumble of papers and coats and books. Hers was almost sterile in its cleanliness, a collection of cookbooks and kitchen manuals lined up behind her on the wood shelves, the paperwork sorted neatly into a multitiered in-box, the labels on the containers in the drink cooler all facing the same way. The closet containing the staff’s coats was neatly organized, each cook’s garments lined up on rods between retail rack tags with their names, beside it a bin for dirty ones to be picked up by the uniform service. A little spot of orderliness in the chaos, yes, but it also set an example for her staff. She’d never be able to lecture a cook on working clean if her own space weren’t pristine.

Rachel pulled a Gatorade from the mini-fridge by the door and twisted off the cap as she collapsed into the desk chair. Half a bottle later, she was feeling a bit more like herself. Definitely too old for these hours. She’d taken the lack of sleep and long days in stride when she hired on to her first fine-dining restaurant in New York, wore them as a badge of courage, even. Now, she wondered if she was just taking years off her life. And to think as a lowly line cook, she’d thought the executive chef had the cushiest job in the kitchen.

At least she had a couple of minutes to herself before the madness set in. Rachel fished a thick green journal from her bag and opened it to the frayed ribbon bookmark.

And sat, pen poised above the page, mind completely blank. It usually wasn’t this difficult to think of something.

Finally, she scrawled beneath today’s date: Sunny mornings, even when I don’t have long to enjoy them.

Melody slipped through the door and set a cup in front of her. “Double Americano.”

“Bless you.” Rachel lifted the cup, ignoring the singe of hot liquid on her tongue, and enjoyed the warm trail it created down her throat and chest. Impulsively, she jotted Strong coffee on the next line, then snapped the book shut. “What’s that?”

Melody set a plate in front of her. “Chocolate-almond brioche.”

“New addition?”

“Experiment.” Melody settled into a chair across from her as Rachel tackled the bun.

Like everything else the baker did, it was nothing short of amazing. Rather than being a cloying, overly sweet morning bun, the chocolate was subtle and bitter, laced with almond and a hint of espresso. Sophisticated. “It’s excellent. How many do you have?”

“Six dozen.”

“Okay, let’s do it. The early birds get lucky today.” Rachel dove back into the bun, tearing pieces off with her fingers and feeling a little better with every bite. While Melody technically reported to her, Rachel had given her carte blanche with the dessert menu and breakfast pastries, and she never disappointed. That was part of what made the brunch so popular at Paisley —the anticipation of what might be in the baked goods assortments placed at the center of each table. Rachel had done a prix fixe menu for that very reason —it limited the number of cooked-to-order items on the menu while allowing for some creativity, not to mention the fact it practically guaranteed a certain level of revenue for the week.

“Was Carlos in when you got here?” she asked when she finally felt coherent enough to talk.

“Yes. Already hard at work.”

“Good. My Spanish must be getting better.” Carlos was one of the prep cooks —a machine really, preternaturally fast with a knife —but he’d gotten a little lax on his start times. “I’m never sure if he’s understanding me or not.”

“I think Carlos chooses to understand what he wants to understand,” Melody said. “Language barrier notwithstanding, he’s probably the smartest guy in the kitchen.”

No doubt. He worked the most hours, made the most money, and still had his evenings free to spend with his family, while the rest of them were toiling away in a stainless-steel box. “So, go ahead and ask. I know Ana texted you.”

“Am I that transparent?” Melody laughed, then sobered. “What are you going to do? Are you going to give a statement?”

“I already told Dan I have nothing to say. Espy or this Kanin guy, it’s the same response. Let someone else be the spokeswoman against sexism in the food service industry. I’ve got too much else to worry about.”

Melody rose. “Okay. If that’s how you want to play it, I’m behind you.”

“You don’t agree?”

“It doesn’t matter if I agree or not. This is your restaurant. I just don’t like the idea of someone else writing your narrative for you.”

Rachel smiled. Melody did a good job of playing the laid-back bohemian baker, but every once in a while, she let her thorough and unconventional education slip out. “That’s exactly why I’m not responding. Because it’s my narrative, and this is a story I refuse to be a part of. Let them criticize my food. The rest is none of their business.”

Fortified by Melody’s coffee and brioche, Rachel refocused on the specials menu, which was really two additional items derived from the leftover product in the walk-ins. A salmon-cake Benedict went on in addition to the standard crab cakes, and Tex-Mex steak breakfast tacos would use up the last of the New York strip. Done. She passed off the instructions to Andrew, who would be responsible for the specials prep; devised the limited cocktail menu, which would be handled by garde manger in the absence of a bartender; and changed into her whites for the day. Only then did she notice the flashing blue light on her cell phone that indicated a text message.

From Gabby. On the way to the hospital. Afraid I might be miscarrying again. Please pray.

The words hit her like a brick to the chest. Again? Gabby and her husband had been married for twelve years, and Rachel had assumed that they’d decided not to have children. But maybe it was more that they hadn’t been able to have children. Rachel sent a prayer heavenward for Gabby’s safety and that of her unborn child. That was all she had time for. It was now five minutes after ten, too late to call for a fill-in. She’d have to work the line after all. At least it would keep her from acknowledging the awful, shameful part of herself that hoped maybe she wasn’t going to lose one of her best cooks as she’d thought.

Today was going to be a test of her experience, though, the combination of her work hangover and the caffeine stretching her nerves as thin as phyllo dough. Morning was different than dinner, where orders were expedited in courses. Brunch required everything to be cooked à la minute as it came in. Next to Andrew, who handled the eggs, Gabby had the hardest station for brunch, the rest of the protein.

Rachel put on her game face as she strode onto the hot line, rubbing her hands together. “All right, boys. Ready to get rolled?”

“Yes, Chef,” came the chorus of answers, not without a ring of excitement. She shook her head in amusement, but even she felt the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of anticipation like a drug in her veins. She could complain all she wanted, but some part of her still lived for the brutal challenge of working the line.

One ticket followed another, the heat from the griddle blasting her like an Arabian desert and turning her skin hot and tight. The Benedicts went fast, followed by the steak tacos, so those were off her back, leaving the regular breakfast meats and the crab cakes to deal with. She took advantage of a brief lull while her bacon and ham were frying to grab another bottle of Gatorade from the lowboy and step away long enough to guzzle it in one gulp before she was back at her station.

And then it was over. When the last plate went out at three minutes after two, Rachel figured they had done almost as many covers as the night before. That would make it a record Sunday for receipts.

“I need you to supervise the close,” she murmured to Andrew before she left the kitchen in favor of the cool quiet of her office.

Away from the line, the last dregs of adrenaline drained from her body, leaving only a bone-deep ache, that flu-coming-on feeling that had nothing to do with a virus. It was the natural result of pushing her body too long with too little sleep and nourishment. But she had no choice. She had the restaurant to think about, dozens of employees who depended on her, a steady clientele of hungry guests. Not to mention the fact that this was her dream. She’d sacrificed everything to get here, and this was part of how her debts were being called in.

She fished her cell phone from her pocket and checked the messages —none —before tapping out a reply to Gabby: Any news?

By the time she’d changed into her street clothes, there was a reply: Baby is ok for now. I think I’m going to be on bed rest. I’m so sorry. Call you when I have details.

Rachel swallowed down the twin swells of relief and terror. Bed rest meant that Gabby had a chance of having a healthy baby. It also meant she would not be coming back.

She squeezed her eyes shut against a prick of tears born of pure exhaustion, grabbed her tote bag, and headed straight from the restaurant without saying good-bye.

Directly into a microphone.

“Rachel Bishop? Would you care to make a statement?”

Rachel squinted into the sunshine and shoved on her sunglasses so she could make out the overly made-up features of a woman shoving a microphone the size of a bazooka in her face. She recognized her, vaguely. She was some field reporter for channel nine. Or was it twenty-four? Was there a channel twenty-four in Denver? Rachel was so wiped out she couldn’t remember.

“Make a statement about what?”

“About the vicious attack on your integrity from Carlton Espy and the attention it received from the New Yorker. Did you know that Espy’s review has now gotten over three hundred thousand hits?”

Three hundred thousand? How was that even possible? That was half the population of Denver. She blinked, momentarily stunned. She should simply tell the reporter that her publicist would issue a statement, but exhaustion had brought down her filter. “I don’t even understand how this is news.”

“You don’t think the topic of sexism in the workplace is an important one to women?”

“I think people need to stop taking Internet trolls like Carlton Espy seriously. If I were a more litigious person, I would sue him for libel.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The reporter perked up. “Are you going to sue him for libel?”

Rachel put her head down and headed for her car, hoping the reporter would take the hint. This time her only answer should be “no comment.”

“Why do you think there are so few female chefs? Is it because women are ill-suited for the profession?”

Rachel whirled, her jaw dropping. “I don’t know. I haven’t interviewed every woman who has decided not to be a professional cook. Male or female, if they don’t have the dedication and skills to succeed, they shouldn’t be there. The guest doesn’t care if it’s a man or a woman cooking their food; they only care that it tastes good.”

There. Let them air that little sound bite. Rachel unlocked her car door, plopped into the driver’s seat, and backed into the alley as quickly as she could manage, only marginally concerned with not hitting the cameraman who was following her car’s progress with his camera. Seriously, how was this even news? Was the media so low on shootings and natural disasters that they had to resort to talking to chefs about topics no one really cared about?

She drove home in an exhaustion-laced stupor, almost surprised that she managed it safely, then parked on the street in front of her house, a charming but run-down Victorian condo conversion in the Wyman Historic District. Routine took her up the paved walkway to the lower unit, where she let herself into the sparsely decorated space, walked straight to the bedroom, and fell asleep with her shoes on before her face even hit her pillow.