Chapter Five

“SO DO YOU BLAME SOCIAL MEDIA for the lack of civility in today’s society?”

Alex reeled his thoughts back from where they had wandered and settled them on the question. This radio interview had only gone on for about ten minutes, but it felt like longer considering the host was more interested in pontificating than asking Alex questions. He shifted his phone to the other ear while he considered. “I think social media is a great thing in many ways. It allows us to stay connected over long distances in a way that letters or even e-mail couldn’t accomplish. But the anonymity definitely causes people to do things they would never dream of doing in person. We’ve seen the mob mentality play out in history, and we’re now seeing the same thing on the Internet.”

“It’s the Wild West out there, you’re saying,” the host said with a laugh.

No, that wasn’t what he was saying, but he couldn’t contradict the host without looking like a jerk. “It’s definitely lagging behind real life in terms of monitoring and mores, yes.”

“Clearly this is a subject you feel strongly about, given the definitive tone of your piece for the New Yorker. How, then, do you feel about the fact that it’s spurred a movement that has taken on quite the opposite effect?”

Alex’s thoughts stopped short and tumbled on top of one another. “Excuse me?”

“I take it you haven’t seen Twitter today? The WeBelong hashtag?”

He still wasn’t following. “No?”

“Well, for your benefit and that of our audience, apparently Chef Rachel Bishop of Paisley restaurant in Denver —” in case there was any question of how to track her down and bully her more, Alex thought —“made an offhand remark to a reporter in response to your article, which has spawned . . . oh, looks like in excess of ten thousand posts under the hashtag #WeBelong, defending women’s rights to work in traditionally male-dominated fields.”

Alex felt like he had entered the Twilight Zone, where everything looked and sounded familiar but nothing actually added up. “That’s precisely what I meant to defend in my piece.”

“And once more, it seems that social media has unintended consequences,” the interviewer said smugly. “That’s all we have time for today. For more observations on the trials and tribulations of life in the digital age, look up Alexander Kanin’s Mis-Connected, available wherever books and e-books are sold.”

Alex hung up, a hard kernel of cold forming in his stomach. After prayer and consideration, he’d decided the damage had already been done and he had an obligation to his publisher to promote the book the best he could. At the very least, it would give him the opportunity to reiterate the point he’d been trying to make in the first place. So what was this movement to which the host had referred?

He slid his laptop toward him on his desk and flipped up the lid, then opened Twitter to search for the hashtag in question.

His heart fell a little further with every post. Some of them were little more than shows of female solidarity in difficult professions —EMTs, military personnel, scientists —but others were downright vicious, taking personal stabs at Rachel Bishop. He couldn’t figure out what had started the attack until he followed a link to a video of the exhausted-looking chef throwing a few words over her shoulder before she climbed into her car.

“They don’t have the dedication and skills to succeed. They shouldn’t be there,” she said. The next shot showed her slamming the car door.

Her cadence made it clear they had edited bits from a longer sentence. This was what passed for reporting? True, Squawker was yellow journalism at best, but it only served to emphasize the way sensationalism had overtaken any sense of responsibility.

And how one small video could somehow go viral, spawn its own hashtag, and turn into an international movement overnight.

No, this was because of a sexist, crass review that would have gone unnoticed had he not dredged it up and spit it out onto a national stage.

This was his fault.

Alex dropped his head back and stared helplessly at the ceiling. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant for this to happen; it was still a direct consequence of his actions. The irony of an anti-bullying article beginning a particularly vicious round of bullying was not lost on him.

The worst part was, he knew what it felt like to be targeted —one only had to go online and read the comments on his work by those who said he’d misappropriated his Russian heritage for a buck, that he was perpetuating harmful stereotypes even though his gently satirical stories about his family had been approved by that same family before publication.

Right when it seemed like his publishing career was dead, someone else’s controversy had brought it back to life, and now he was benefiting from it. But what else could he do? Viral was exactly that —the story was already far beyond his control.

“Whatever decision you make, be sure you’re doing it because it’s what God would have you do.”

He’d already determined that he had an ethical obligation to his publishers to promote this book, but now the nudge to his spirit was too strong to ignore. He had to talk to Rachel Bishop. He had to ask her forgiveness.

She would probably run him over with her car, though, if he tried to catch her outside the restaurant, and she wouldn’t thank him for interrupting in the middle of dinner rush. He’d have to catch her before.

He pulled up a reservation app on his cell phone and found Paisley. Booked solid for the next week. Clearly, the controversy hadn’t hurt reservations.

The listing showed they opened for dinner at five thirty on Tuesdays. He’d have to arrive early and hope she’d be willing to talk to him.

Decision made, he shuffled his notes in front of him, trying to focus on the next interview and the preapproved questions they would be asking him. Instead his mind kept straying back to that weary woman trying to get away from a shark with a microphone. His apology might not count for much, but he still had to try.

*   *   *

Alex arrived at the restaurant a few minutes after five. He parked in an absurdly expensive lot and strode down the sidewalk toward the narrow, glass-windowed space, wedged between a trendy boutique and another restaurant. High-rent area, he thought, suited to the upscale dining concept that defined Larimer Square. Lots of pressure to succeed.

The front door opened and closed with a subtle whoosh, sealing off the street noise and leading him into a small reception area. The restaurant was bigger than he thought from the outside, stretching back toward the open kitchen, which was still shy of its full complement of cooks. The ones who were there were clearly men. No one who could be the executive chef.

“May I help you, sir?” A stylish young woman spotted him from across the room and glided across the polished concrete floors to meet him.

“I’m looking for Rachel Bishop,” he said. “Is she available?”

Her expression shuttered, and something akin to outright suspicion registered on her face. “Are you press?”

Technically, he could probably claim the title. He shook his head. “No.”

“I’m afraid that Chef Bishop —”

“I’ll take this one,” a feminine voice said, and the hostess practically crumpled in relief. She backed away while the pale, freckled blonde moved toward him with every bit as much suspicion as the first woman. Apparently, Rachel’s staff was protective of her privacy. Somehow that made him feel better, knowing that she had people watching her back.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“I’d like to speak with Chef Bishop if she’s available.”

The woman studied him for a minute. She looked like kitchen staff —her long-sleeved black shirt was rolled up to the elbows and dusted with smudges of flour, as was her pin-striped apron. But there was something proprietary about the way she narrowed her eyes, as if his inquiry were a personal affront.

“Why do you need her?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m Alexander Kanin. I feel like . . . I owe her an apology.”

Emotions flickered across the woman’s face, finally settling on something like disdain. “I would say you owe her a lot more than that. Rachel Bishop is no longer associated with Paisley.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“She left. Sold out to her partners yesterday.”

He wiped a hand over the lower half of his face, not sure what to make of this. Had she quit because of the scrutiny? Or had she been forced out?

“You’re a friend of hers?” he asked quietly.

The woman gave a single nod.

“Then I want you to know this was never my intention. The opposite, in fact. Do you know where I could find her so I can tell her in person?”

She laughed, a tinge of bitterness laced through the sound. “Trust me. You don’t want to talk to her right now. You’d be taking your life into your own hands.”

“As I well deserve. What if I’m feeling particularly suicidal?”

She stared at him stonily.

He sighed again. “Listen. I understand that she’s angry. I’d understand if she spit in my face. But I was raised to take responsibility for my actions, whether she’s willing to forgive me or not. If you don’t help me, I’ll find her some other way.”

The first crack appeared in the woman’s facade, and she seemed to be considering. “Fine. Tomorrow. Six o’clock at the food truck pod in RiNo. You know it?”

“I know it well. Thank you . . .” He trailed off, arching an eyebrow.

“Melody.”

“Thank you, Melody. And if you wouldn’t mind not tipping her off —”

“Oh, trust me. I’m not telling her anything. And I’d appreciate you not saying I’m the one who set this up. She’d never forgive me.”

“Agreed. Your involvement will never come up. I appreciate it.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She turned and walked away, seeming to have an angry conversation with herself as she left. He felt a bit of disquiet at her earlier words. So Rachel was a bit of a spitfire, was she? Well, he shouldn’t be surprised. The kind of drive that motivated a woman to own her own restaurant at thirty was usually associated with a strong and determined personality.

Hopefully Rachel Bishop would hear him out, give him a chance to explain. She didn’t have to forgive him. He didn’t really expect her to. But he wouldn’t be able to rest until he somehow made amends.