Chapter Thirty-Three

RACHEL’S LIGHT MOOD the next morning lasted only as long as it took for the memories of Alex’s betrayal to return. With it came the grief and humiliation that felt at once fresh and sharp and all too familiar.

When would she learn? She’d thought her stepfather was what he seemed, a loving parent who only had her best interests at heart. She’d thought Dan and Maurice were trustworthy partners who shared her vision.

She’d thought Alex actually loved her.

He’d probably call her bad experiences with men pathological, something she sought out and repeated unconsciously over and over again. Wasn’t that what shrinks did? Helped you figure out why you made bad choices based on your personal variety of trauma? For all she knew, he’d smelled it on her, picked her out as a target.

Seemed like no matter how well you thought you’d recovered, everyone was always going to recognize you as a victim.

It was fury that swallowed the pain and pushed her out of bed. No. She wasn’t a victim. She wasn’t going to curl up and die because her boyfriend turned out to be a user. Hadn’t she always said the personal didn’t matter? She was a chef. A brilliant, ambitious chef. All her guests cared about was amazing food, and all Mitchell Shaw cared about was getting bodies through the door. She might be naive, but she wasn’t stupid.

She’d been avoiding returning the investor’s call, but she wasn’t going to do that any longer. Time to move forward to the next phase of her life. Time to pick up the phone.

After breakfast.

Rachel marched to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, then rummaged through the refrigerator. Eggs. That was all there was. Classic French omelet for breakfast, then. She whipped the eggs in a bowl, then headed for the front porch to pick some herbs from her window boxes. The chervil hadn’t been looking good lately, but the tarragon, chives, and parsley were exploding from their containers.

When she opened her front door, however, a manila envelope tipped over the threshold. It bore a single word in a familiar masculine script —Rachel.

The sourness in her stomach threatened to rise. She tucked the envelope beneath her arm and picked the herbs for her omelet, then marched back inside. She tossed the envelope on the end of the dining table without opening it and got to work on her breakfast.

And yet that manila packet called her like a beacon, catching her eye wherever she moved in the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and barely managed to avoid picking it up as she walked by. She brought her plate to the table and sat to eat, all the while pointedly ignoring it. On her way back to the sink with her empty plate, she couldn’t resist her morbid curiosity any longer, so she snatched it up and brought it with her to the corner of the sofa beneath her reading lamp.

Her heart thudded heavily against her rib cage as she picked open the clasp and slid out fifty or so typed pages on bright-white computer paper, a title printed in bold lettering across the front page:

Life from Scratch: Essays on Food, Love, and Identity

Rachel turned over the title page and began the first essay, simultaneously gripped with curiosity and dread. But as she read, her careful guard began to slip. When she’d reviewed the sample of Alex’s first book, she’d thought he was talented: his intelligence shone through each word and clever turn of phrase. But it had been like he was performing, showing how adroitly he could twist the English language, showcasing biting humor and a sharp mind. That was certainly part of Alex’s personality, as much as the need to fix injustice had made him write the opinion piece that started this whole debacle. If she were honest, she’d been afraid to find herself on the opposite end of that caustic wit.

But this book was different. This was like having Alex beside her, telling a quiet story to her over a cup of tea. An intimate reflection, a small peek into the bits that his cheerful, witty exterior concealed. He talked about childhood trips to the Russian market with his mother, how it had felt like a mysterious entrée into a clandestine world, where Americanized women only spoke the mother tongue and bought packages covered in unreadable Cyrillic. About how meals had been a way to connect to the old country, a heritage he might never fully understand because he had known only the plenty of a middle-class American upbringing, never a day of Soviet scarcity.

He spoke of his dismay and loss when an unnamed friend had pointed out his mother’s recipes from home were every bit as much propaganda as her faded copy of Book of Tasty and Healthy Food, which showed elaborate dishes few ordinary Russian citizens had been able to afford. Yet he’d eventually realized it was a hallmark of resilience, how imagination and hope for something better had actually led to that something better. Those fraudulent recipes represented a dream come true.

Rachel turned the page, her throat tight. Alex touched on why he entertained, why he kept the samovar on the kitchen counter, even though it was ungainly and out of place in the contemporary space. It was a reminder, he wrote, that prosperity demanded more hospitality, not less.

And then she came to the last essay in the batch, which held a paragraph that stilled her in her tracks.

It’s always just been a room, but it comes to life in her capable presence, slowly, unconsciously. Her innate skill with food is still not as great as her capacity for affection, but one fuels the other. She has every reason to withdraw and become bitter, stingy, and yet she maintains a generosity of spirit that says each and every guest is worthy of her best, worthy of care, worthy of love. As with other performers, perhaps it’s not the skill that makes the cook great, but the essential nature of her character.

She read it once, and then again. It took a third time before she could accept this essay might be about her. The ink blurred and the paper warped beneath the steady drip of tears as she struggled to make sense of this vision of her. She’d been sure he would take the pieces of herself that she’d exposed —her insecurities, her failures, her driving need for perfection —and reveal them on the page in stark relief to her outward successes. She’d been terrified to see him highlight her brokenness, the fractured pieces that, while mended, still fit together imperfectly.

This was her in his book, undoubtedly, but somehow he had portrayed those broken pieces as her strength, as proof of what more she could offer. Rather than feel exposed, she felt . . .

Seen.

He understood why she did what she did, maybe better than she. He was still laying her bare before the world, but his view of her . . . it wasn’t one she was ashamed for everyone to see.

She’d been so quick to think the worst of him. She hadn’t even given him the chance to explain. That made her as bad as all the strangers who had condemned her on social media without bothering to learn the truth, passing what they saw through their own damaged filters. Projecting every awful thought they had about themselves on someone else, just so they didn’t have to face the pain.

Was that why she insisted on focusing so heavily on her failures? Because even as she tried to prove otherwise, deep down she felt it was no more than she deserved?

She’d prayed for a father, and she got a man who crushed her spirit.

She’d thanked God for her restaurant, and it was ripped away.

She’d taken a chance on loving Alex, and he’d revealed himself to be a fraud.

Somewhere along the way, she’d begun to think that when she asked for something good, God would repay her with some pale counterfeit. She’d dared to want something different for her life, dared to rebel against the mold that had been cast for her by her parents. Didn’t she somehow think that if she did anything to attract attention to her success, she’d be punished for it?

“If God had wanted you to be anything other than who and what you are, He would have made you that way.”

No, she’d pulled back, only allowing herself to be grateful for the small things she could afford to lose, lest God glimpse her true joys and take those away too.

But she’d been wrong. As scarring as her relationship with her stepfather had been, it had propelled her out into the wider world, helped her find the thing that truly brought her joy. Losing her restaurant had led Alex to her door, which had given her a new focus and a second chance to do what she was made to do. All this time she thought she was slipping beneath God’s notice, and instead He’d guided her to right where He wanted her to be.

“Nothing’s wasted. Not with God. Sometimes you just need to have faith that He’s got what’s next.”

She folded her hands in her lap and opened her heart heavenward, a tentative prayer taking shape, halting and slightly uncomfortable. What’s next, then? What do You want for me?

Some part of her had hoped for a dramatic, unmistakable answer, but in its place, she received a still, small conviction.

It was time to stop hiding beneath hurt and fear and take a step forward in faith.

She picked up her phone and replayed Mitchell’s message. With a deep breath, she punched Call and listened as it dialed him back. She fully expected to get voice mail or his secretary, but Mitchell Shaw answered on the second ring.

She stumbled over the greeting. “Uh, hi. This is Rachel Bishop returning your call.”

Mitchell didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness. “Rachel! I’m glad to hear from you. I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind. I’m very interested in hearing about your vision for a new restaurant. The way you improvised in the power failure shows the kind of flexibility I want in a business partner.”

“Thank you. I wanted to make sure that I had a solid business plan for you before I called you back.” It was mostly true. She’d been tweaking the plan all week, even if she’d not been able to make herself pick up the phone.

“I’m over at the Seventeenth Street building this morning, but I can slip out for a bit about eleven. Any chance that would work for you?”

Rachel had been expecting him to suggest a time next week or even next month, and it took a second to get her mouth up to speed. “Of course. There’s a restaurant in the station that serves an impeccable espresso, on the hotel side —”

“I know it,” he said immediately. “Eleven o’clock then. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too. Thank you.”

Rachel hung up, still stunned. She’d never expected this to happen so quickly. She breathed slowly until the jitters in her stomach subsided and she felt solid again. She’d suggested The English Department because it was the closest to home turf she had right now, and being comfortable was an essential part of any negotiation. Make no mistake: this would be a negotiation.

She rummaged through her closet until she found the most business-appropriate outfit she owned: a pair of black slacks and a blue button-down, which she paired with her favorite silver hoop earrings. She twisted her hair into a neat knot at the nape of her neck, like she would wear it in her restaurant. A serious look. One that showed she meant business. Mitchell was ready to invest; all she had to do was convince him she was a risk worth taking.

Alex had called this “chef hair.” She cut off the memory of how he had slowly removed the pins from her hair one by one, combing his fingers through it the night he kissed her for the first time. That would never happen again. There were a lot of things involving him that would never happen again.

And yet he had been right about her, then and now —about how she hid behind the trappings of her profession, afraid to let anyone see the real her. She pulled the pins out and let her hair tumble down around her shoulders.

She put on enough makeup to look finished, then printed out a copy of the business plan and the menu she had completed last night and placed them carefully in a presentation folder.

It was still only ten o’clock, but she was too jittery to wait around for an hour, so she packed a serious-looking tote bag and headed to her car. At least she could stake out the place, get something to drink, calm her nerves.

She managed to snag a metered spot across the street from the Shaw Building, a block off Union Station. This time she paid attention to her surroundings, the people who dotted the sidewalk. If all went well, this would be her new neighborhood. In the morning, it was businessmen taking late breakfasts or early lunches, mothers with babies in strollers, Korean tourists thumbing through their Hangul guidebooks. It was a side of the city she rarely experienced. She was far more familiar with its flip side: the partiers, theatergoers, and transients that dotted the streets when the sun went down.

How strange to think how one-sided her view of the city had been. How odd to realize the variety that existed outside the windowless walls of a kitchen.

She made it a point to wander past the empty retail spaces on the bottom floor of the Shaw Building, letting herself imagine one of those huge spaces as her own blank canvas. Thousands of people walking by every day, thousands of people who would see her name above the door.

This was the break she hadn’t known she’d been waiting for.

Rachel made her way down the street to Union Station and into the restaurant, where she marched to the counter and ordered an Americano. Then she took her glass to a table by the window, where she could observe the passersby. No wonder Alex loved this place as much as she did. It was world-class people-watching, a playground for someone who made his living off observing the outside world.

The thought of Alex brought with it a bittersweet pang of longing that so fully enveloped her, she didn’t notice Mitchell Shaw arrive until he was standing in front of her.

She blinked dumbly at him and he gave her a patient smile. “May I join you, or are you waiting for someone else?”

A self-conscious laugh slipped from her lips. “Of course. Sorry. I was just thinking how different downtown looks in the morning.”

He seated himself across from her. “Too many years locked in a windowless kitchen?”

“Something like that.”

“Then we’ll make sure you have windows in your new one. There’s nothing that says the kitchen has to be located in the back.” He spread his hands wide. “But this is your show. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Rachel turned the presentation folder toward him and flipped it open. “If you know Paisley, which you likely do, you’ve got a good idea of my culinary point of view. My tasting menus have consistently sold out, so this time I’m proposing a menu composed almost entirely of small plates.”

“Plenty of restaurants are using that concept already.”

“Plenty of restaurants don’t have me as a chef.” Rachel smiled, but she held his eye so he didn’t think she was kidding. This was not the time for false humility. “I would make everything available à la carte, as well as within thematically arranged tasting menus.”

He flipped the menu card over and his eyebrows rose. “That’s interesting. Familiar, but still a unique hook. There’s no one doing it quite this way in Denver. I see you’ve got one menu that’s completely comprised of unusual dishes.”

“Since we’d be sourcing our meat and vegetables locally from organic farmers, I’d take a nose-to-tail, root-to-stem approach. Special tasting menus are a good way to do that, giving adventurous eaters a story to tell while not alienating more timid guests. The clientele who will eat pork jowl and offal are not necessarily the same as those who want scallops and hanger steak. There should be something for both groups.”

He began skimming the business plan. “I’ll want to take this with me and look over the numbers, but it seems to be in line with what I had in mind.”

“If I may ask, what did you have in mind?”

“Lower floor of my Seventeenth Street building, prime location. You’ll have visibility from the street, potential to build out the space to your specifications.” He smiled. “Including the kitchen on the window side. It would be a novel take on the exhibition kitchen idea. I contribute the space and the build-out; you contribute the rest.”

“In return for what?”

“Fifty percent.”

“Gross?”

“Net.”

Rachel carefully let out a breath. It was generous. Rent on that space would easily be in the six figures per year. If he took his cut from profit and not receipts, and she had reduced overhead from not having a traditional lease, she could see a return on her investment in months, not years.

She reined in her excitement. “I want full creative and administrative control. Menu, staff, seating hours.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll have input, but I still reserve the right to make a final decision. That space would command nearly $175,000 in lease income. You’ll be making back your investment long before I do. Should you make any decisions that hurt the restaurant, I’d be the one taking the hit. Remember, I’m not the only one affected here. My shareholders, my tenants, even the foundations I support rely on me to make wise business decisions. And if you’ll excuse my bluntness, you have somewhat of a flawed track record here in Denver.”

Rachel’s thoughts spun while she processed Mitchell’s words. What he was asking wasn’t unreasonable. He was putting up a big investment between lost income and out-of-pocket construction costs. Besides, this wasn’t a quiet opening in some revitalized neighborhood. This would be a high-profile return to Denver’s food scene. She would be in the same class as the other award-winning chefs with their own places in Union Station and Larimer Square. A destination for travelers and locals alike.

And yet, this conversation felt all too familiar. This was how her relationship with Dan and Maurice had begun, reasonable caution against potential risk. She’d had to compromise little by little, until the restaurant barely resembled her initial vision. She’d been afraid to stand up to them, afraid that they would pull their support and Paisley would go under. Afraid that without their help, she would reveal herself to be a failure. If she were completely truthful, she’d lost her restaurant long before they’d bought her out.

“Rachel?”

She folded her hands atop the table and let her gaze roam around the restaurant. “Every time I come here, I think, ‘If I had it to do over again, I might have a place like this.’ It’s on trend and yet it has a sense of place in the community. I like that it’s accessible to everyone for the cost of a pastry.” She pulled her eyes back to the man across from her. “Admittedly, it will cost you fifteen bucks, but that’s a low-enough entry fee to a beautiful spot in a historical landmark.”

Mitchell’s brow furrowed. “What are you saying?”

Rachel swiveled her menu toward herself and looked it over like it was the first time. It was excellent, both technically and creatively. But she had no more connection to it than she did to any of the dishes she’d created in other people’s restaurants. She was confining herself to what would appeal to the Denver foodies and their expectations for high-end dining. In some ways, Alex’s Russian dinner was a better meal than her own. Truly good food had to do more than fill the stomach. It should touch the heart, tug on memory.

The realization flew in the face of everything on which she had staked her career.

Ana’s words came back to her: “Independent. Determined. Willing to hold out for what we really want, whatever that is.”

And now, what she really wanted was a chance to do things her way. It would be on a smaller scale. It would probably be regarded by her fellow chefs as a big step down, a cautionary tale of what poor judgment could bring. But she couldn’t go on indefinitely, too afraid to try.

Rachel took a deep breath. “I’m honored by your confidence in me. It’s a generous offer. It’s better than what I thought I could command after what happened at Paisley. But ultimately, I think I need the freedom to explore what kind of chef I want to be.” She looked him in the eye, thought she saw a spark of growing respect there. “I might succeed or I might fail spectacularly. But I’ve let other people tell me who I am and what I should be for far too long.”

Mitchell nodded slowly. “I’ll admit I’m a little disappointed. I was there on Paisley’s opening night, while we were still under construction on the building, and I told Kathy I was going to steal the chef for our flagship restaurant.”

Rachel stared at him. “You didn’t come to the supper club as a favor to Alex?”

“I came because it was a chance to see what kind of person you are away from the restaurant. I like to know who I’m doing business with. Talent only counts for so much if it’s not matched by character.” Mitchell chuckled. “Plus, Alex is like a son to me. I wanted to see this woman he was so taken with.”

She rose and held out her hand. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Shaw.”

He rose as well, but instead of shaking her hand, he took it in both of his. “You didn’t waste anything, Rachel. I’ll be watching to see what you do next.”

He strode away without a backward glance, and Rachel lowered herself to her chair on shaking legs. She’d just turned down the offer of a lifetime.

And she didn’t regret it.

As the adrenaline seeped from her body, a weary, helpless laugh welled up in its place. Mitchell had known about her long before the supper club existed. All that striving and worrying and determination to make something happen, and it would have come about on its own one way or another. She might as well not have done the supper club at all.

She would never have gotten to know Alex and gotten her heart broken.

Wouldn’t have broken his in the process.

And yet God had used him to help open her eyes, help her see that maybe she wasn’t just a name above the door of a restaurant, that she had something to offer just by being herself. Yes, he should have talked to her earlier, told her what he was doing, but earlier she might not have been ready to hear it. Maybe she’d needed to first let go of one dream to embrace another.

Before she could embrace him.

She pulled out her cell phone and, heedless of the restaurant full of people, dialed. It went to voice mail on the first ring.

“Alex, it’s Rachel. I read your manuscript.” She swallowed and reordered her thoughts. “I need to see you. I wasn’t fair to you. Call me, please? That is, if you can forgive me?”

She set her phone down in the center of the table where she’d be sure to see it ring. Then she went to the counter and ordered another coffee, daring to dream about what might come next.