"Actually," Alain said, his hands clasped behind his back, "the gentleman has requested audience with Chef Garrett. He came to meet the woman who was featured in this month's Savor."

Felix sputtered a bit, but Alain was no fool and immediately pivoted backward toward his comfort zone at the pa.s.s. My eyes followed his departure, and I glimpsed an eavesdropping Carlo doing some sort of celebratory neck dance for my benefit.

"It appears you are on your own this time," Felix sneered. He stepped within my personal s.p.a.ce, and I had to work not to cringe. "For some patrons, a shiny magazine photo and les nichons are enough to impress." His gaze roamed in a slimy insult over my chest.

I clenched my jaw. "Chef, I believe my work speaks more eloquently than my appearance."

He snorted. "There you are probably right." He walked away, pulling his coat off the hook as he left. His final jab ricocheted off the back wall. "You might want to pay attention to that disgusting nest on your head before you go meet your fanboy."

The door slammed behind Felix, and I spun to take a look at myself in the reflection of the convection oven.

"Holy sweet Moses," I said aloud. My hair was still just past my shoulders, still rimrod straight, and still dark brown and in bad need of highlights. But the scope. The size. The breadth. Had I been drinking heavily? Sleeping under bridges? Avoiding vitamin D? My arm plunged, elbow-deep, into my bag to retrieve a brush, a comb, a rake-anything to make sense of my tangled mop. I should never have sat down, I thought. "One should never sit down and let one's sixty-five-pound head drop into one's arms until one is home and in bed."

Carlo came to stand in front of me and put two beefy hands on my shoulders.

He shook. "You're talking to yourself. Crazy people talk to themselves, and you are not yet crazy."

I silenced.

"This is the exhaustion speaking," he said in his best Montessori teacher voice. "Comb the hair, do something girly to your face, and get out there. Just because Felix usually handles the fans doesn't mean you can't do it, too. The dude just liked his dessert. He's not going to propose marriage."

A sudden pierce of a laugh escaped me. "No danger there!" My arms felt weak as I pulled the nest into a neat bun and coaxed every stray hair into place. I looked at Carlo hopefully.

"Much better." He pulled on his coat. "I'll see you tomorrow, Garrett. Soak up the praise." He started out the door but stopped, his foot propping it open and letting in a chilly spring wind. "And don't do that thing you do. It's so annoying."

I made a face. "What? What thing?"

"Where you tell people how many times you had to change cacao producers and the differences between American and European b.u.t.ter and why measuring cups are the sp.a.w.n of Hades."

"Those are all very, very intriguing topics of conversation, Carlo. Maybe you need to get out of your area of the kitchen more often and-"

"'Night!" He shouted and let the door slam behind him.

I huffed, patted the back of my hair, straightened the cuffs on my chef's whites, and pushed through the door to the dining room. Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the low light, I scanned the empty tables, all of them fresh, pressed, and set for the first service the following evening. Richard pa.s.sed me on his way through the kitchen door. He carried a small mountain of crisp white napkins and peeked around the pile to catch my eye. He nodded discreetly at a table along the orchid wall. I squinted as I approached, finding something familiar about the man but not quite settling on it until I remembered my conversation with Manda that morning.

"Avery Malachowski." I offered my hand as I came to stand at his table.

"Charlie," he said with a full-wattage smile. I remembered him telling me his dad was a dentist in Ohio and how, if I wanted, he could score free bleaching trays for me any time. He pulled me into a bear hug, and I hastily ran my tongue over my teeth, searching for a miscellaneous almond skin or rhubarb thread. My dad was an accountant.

He continued to hold me, my rumpled whites pressing against an Italian suit and starched dress shirt. His hair was neatly trimmed, his neck warm against my cheek.

Avery stepped back, hands still around my waist, and appraised me. "You look fantastic," he said, his tone suddenly hushed. With a roguish grin, he added, "Even better than I remember. And I remember it all."

I felt my face get hot as a nervous laugh escaped me. "Yes, well, it's been a long time. Nine years or so?" I pulled away but not before patting his forearm as if I were his geriatric nurse and off to get an afghan. Social skills! Social skills! I reprimanded myself. Pretend you remember how to talk to men! Pretend your best friend isn't your Hobart industrial mixer!

Avery motioned to the open seat but paused to check his hair in a mirrored wall behind me. I narrowed my eyes, remembering suddenly this exact image of Avery admiring himself. I cleared my throat, and he snapped to attention once more. "Please sit. Do you have a moment?"

"No. I mean, yes. I do have a moment. But I shouldn't sit down." I gestured to my whites, then to the high-backed chair covered in navy blue Ukrainian linen. Alain had just started letting the staff sit on the chairs during family meals, but only because we were still clean at that time of day.

"Oh, come on," Avery said. "Just for a few minutes. With an old friend."

His eyes were still remarkably blue and remarkably persuasive. I considered, then unfolded a napkin from a nearby table and smoothed it over the chair. I sat gingerly, hoping no b.u.t.ter crumbs had adhered themselves to my b.u.t.t and were now melting into Alain's precious fabric.

"How are you?" Avery said brightly. "Things are good, right? You look like you're doing just what you said you would." He swept the room with one open arm.

"I'm doing well, thanks." I nodded in time with my words. "I've been here at L'Ombre for five years now. I've learned a lot."

Avery rolled his eyes. "You've crushed it, Charlie. I read Savor. Congrats on the great press."

"Thanks," I said, sitting straighter. "It was nice to get that kind of affirmation after all the work."

"I totally hear you." He nodded, suddenly solemn. "This business does not suffer fools. It can thrash a person's soul, you know?" He searched my eyes with his, and I nodded, though any self-respecting New Yorker did not talk about souls and thrashing in the context of one's career. This man had definitely been living in Southern California.

"And listen," he said, pointing to where his plate had rested during the meal, "that puff pastry box filled with chocolate truffles and orange zest kicked my a.s.s."

"Fantastic," I said, feeling a bit like a culinary student again, anxious for the full-throttled approval of her peers. "I struggled a bit with rolling the pastry for that recipe. You know, the humidity in spring is so inconsistent, and the moisture content of b.u.t.ter can be-"

Avery took my hand. "You have beautiful skin. And your eyes are absolutely fantastic. They really pop." He squeezed my hand on pop.

I stared, mouth open. "Thank you." It was all flooding back now, the reasons we hadn't worked out a decade ago: the flirting with other women, the inability to stay focused on any conversational topic that veered away from Avery himself, the time near the end when he missed a lunch date because he lost track of time at the self-tanner. Right. Manda would be b.u.mmed, but I was tired and this was going nowhere.

"I should go." I stood so abruptly, I hit my thigh on the edge of the table. Gritting my teeth against the bruise that was surely purpling, I winced. "Thanks for coming by, Avery. It's great to connect."

"Wait! Don't go!" Avery pulled on my hand with both of his. His eyes were big and intent on my face. "We have to talk. I need to ask you a very important question."

I looked around, relieved to find the dining room empty. What's with Mr. Intense, I wondered? I mean, if he wanted to ask me out, that was fine. I'd say no, but there was still no need to get hysterical. Avery tugged me gently toward my chair.

"Charlie," he began and then paused to fiddle with the open b.u.t.tons on his shirt. "Charlie, I'm so, so glad I came by."

"Right," I said slowly. We've covered this.

"What I've seen, what I've tasted, how you look," he said, his glance taking in my face, "well. You're everything I was hoping to find."

I felt my eyes bug a little. "I am?"

"Yes. Charlie, I want to propose something to you."

"You do?" My voice had gone squeaky.

"Yes." Avery's jaw tightened, and his eyes shot Lasix-corrected laser beams into mine. "Charlie Garrett, I think you should quit your job and come work for me."

I opened and closed my mouth like one of the tuna Carlo had filleted a few hours prior.

"Now, before you shoot me down," Avery continued, one manicured hand held up in warning, "let me tell you why I'm right. First, you're sick of New York. Am I right?"

"Well, I don't-"

"You are. The nasty, urine smell on the subway, the constant noise even in your 'quiet' apartment, the pathetic lack of trees and gra.s.s-"

"We do have Central Park-"

"No. No, you don't, Charlie. You think the park belongs to all New Yorkers, but that's only if you go between the daylight hours of ten and six and you bring pepper spray."

He had a point.

"Second, you are sick of this restaurant."

"Avery, I'm doing very well at L'Ombre."

"Ah!" He pointed at my nose, and I moved back an inch. "Notice you did not deny hating it here! I know you are doing well, but if you're honest, Charlie, and I hope you will be honest ... " He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. "Felix is never going to retire. Or at least he won't before you're forty years old, maybe forty-five, and then, honestly, will you even want his job anymore?"

"How do you know about Felix?" I asked, feeling at once very provincial and very exposed.

Avery shrugged. "I've done my research. Third and most important," he ticked the number off on his hand, "you want a life. You need a life. You're here too much, Charlie. You work, what? Fourteen-, fifteen-hour shifts? Six days a week?"

I pursed my lips and refrained from commenting. The guy hadn't laid eyes on me for almost a decade, and suddenly he was my life coach?

"You have no life. You have no friends. You haven't had a date for two full years, Charlie."

"What kind of research do you do? Who are your sources?" I sat tall on that Ukrainian linen. "I do have friends and I do have a life. And, I might add, I'm a little bit offended by your comments!" I was trying to stand my ground, but my protests sounded pathetic, even to me.

"Look, I'm sure you do have friends and a wildly active social life." Avery's eye twinkled. "But, you have to admit, it's tough to see any of those friends when you work all the time." He moved forward in his chair so our knees were touching. "I'm the executive chef of a new restaurant in Seattle. I need a young, vibrant, inspired pastry chef at Thrill, and I. Want. You." He used one tan finger to Punctuate. His. Words.

We were quiet a moment. I could hear the insistent hum of traffic beyond the front door, and I was aware of a silenced vacuum cleaner, the final note of a maintenance crew that obviously wanted to close up for the night. After a pause, I cleared my throat.

"Avery, I'm flattered by your proposal."

"Good. You deserve to be flattered. You are completely undervalued here, Charlie. It's time you get the recognition and the responsibility you have earned. You should be head pastry chef, and you know it."

To my horror, I felt myself grow teary. Felix had never said such nice things to me. Felix thought I was overvalued, that the Savor piece had been a fluke and that I had more years to put in before I worked my way out of the hole he had neatly dug for me. I hated to admit that Avery was right-I had been in indentured servitude for far too long.

But move? To Seattle?

I sobered. "Thank you for the kind words, Avery, but I have no interest in moving. Manhattan is the place I want to be and need to be. Seattle is out of the question."

"Why?" Avery demanded. "Your bestie, Manda, lives in Seattle, right?"

"Yes, but-"

"Mountains, oceans, fresh air, outdoor markets, hiking, skiing, culture, relaxed vibe, Starbucks ... what's not to love?"

"Well, actually, Starbucks's bakery selections are abysmal and-"

"Charlie, you'll love the Pacific Northwest. All people who are smart and creative and driven love the Pacific Northwest. It's a law of the universe. Obey the law and come work for me. Here's the salary I can offer you to start. As the restaurant grows, this number goes up."

He scribbled a number on the back of a business card and slid it across the table. My breath caught in my throat, and I must have stopped breathing for a second because I began to cough.

Avery laughed as he stood. He slapped me on the back twice and said, "Now, that's the kind of reaction I was hoping for." His phone vibrated, and he slid a finger across the screen. "Vic, hi. Yes. She's here." He looked at me while I used the edge of a napkin to blot my eyes. "She's totally in. I'll call you back in a minute."

"Who was that?" I sipped some of Avery's water and tried regaining my sense of decorum.

"A friend. You'll meet him when you get out to Seattle." He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek.

"I'm not moving to Seattle," I said, tucking the business card into my pocket. I moved to stand, but Avery blocked my exit from the table.

He tucked one wayward strand of my hair behind my ear and then whispered, his lips brushing my earlobe. "I don't know if you remember this about me, but I'm used to getting what I want."

A parade of shivers marched down my spine. I sat very still as he walked away. When the front door closed behind him, I waited in the quiet and the dark, watching with wide eyes as the light shifted and the night fell.

4.

A bone-shaking clap of thunder split the sky just as I emerged from underground. The man in front of me on the subway stairs screeched like a twelve-year-old girl and then cussed like a sailor at the sudden thunderstorm. And then he cussed at me because I accidentally jostled him from behind.

"Sorry," I muttered as I left him fumbling for a newspaper, presumably to protect his elaborate pompadour. Another rumble of thunder sent me and hundreds of morning commuters rushing along the sidewalk. I'd slept through three snooze cycles of my alarm and had missed the last express train that would have gotten me to work almost on time. Felix was going to be apoplectic.

I sidestepped a black puddle that looked as though it contained curdled milk and kept my nose pointed toward the pavement. I wore my backpack in front of me, tucked underneath my raincoat like a lumpy baby b.u.mp. I tightened the strings on the hood of my raincoat. Sadly, my umbrella sat neatly rolled and dry on my kitchen counter, another casualty of the morning.

Every mishap this morning could be attributed to Avery Malachowski. Our conversation last night had rattled me. I was in a foul mood as I walked to L'Ombre in the rain. I splashed through a small creek I'd never seen before on Broadway and remembered how certain I had been of a good night's sleep when I'd finally dragged my aching body through the door of my apartment the night before. I had barely stayed awake through all five steps of my skin care regimen. I'd scrubbed and exfoliated, cleansed and moisturized, and had nearly fallen asleep to the hum of my electronic toothbrush. Lights off and pajamas on, I'd climbed between the sheets, closed my eyes, and waited for deep slumber to descend.

And it had refused to come.

Instead, my head spun while all the things Avery had said looped on permanent repeat. Did I really hate New York? Was I sick of the traffic, the congestion, the noise? Or worse, had I gotten so used to the urine smell I didn't even notice it anymore? Was all this my new normal? The thought made me shudder. After an hour of rotating onto my side, onto my stomach, my side, my back, I was nearly hysterical. I felt like a rotisserie chicken. I could not sleep, and it wasn't only Avery's offer that had brought on insomnia. I also couldn't sleep because it was louder than a rock concert in my apartment. Clearly the new neighbors had a unique circadian cycle. I had never noticed it before now, but my entire apartment was in desperate need of soundproofing. We're talking big, fluffy foam strips on the walls and ceilings, like the ones in fancy recording studios. How much did Coldplay pay for theirs? I found myself worrying about these things around 4 a.m. and decided I would research foam and custom-made earplugs and white noise machines the very next day. As soon as I got a little sleep ...

I sighed as the restaurant came into view. When I trudged up the back stairs and heaved open the kitchen door to L'Ombre, a sheet of rain followed me in.

"Hey, watch the drips!" Iveta, a bus girl, stood with one hand on her hip, the other balancing a mop. "I just finished this floor."

"Sorry," I said, aware that I'd said two words aloud that day and they had both been apologies. My rain boots squeaked on Iveta's clean floor as I hustled to the locker room. I hurried to hang up my coat, slipped into my clogs, smoothed my hair under a fresh chef's cap. Felix was nowhere in sight, and I breathed a cautious sigh of relief. Maybe he's late, too, I thought, hope welling within me. I was tying on my ap.r.o.n, walking to the fridge to start on the strawberry-champagne mousse, when I felt Felix tap me, hard, on my right shoulder.

"Nice of you to arrive at your place of employment today, Garrett," he said. His voice was gravelly, and I could hear the disdain in his words. "You will never run a kitchen on your own. You are too sloppy and too disorganized and too irresponsible."

I took a deep breath, bit the inside of my cheek. Arms full with a large bin of strawberries, I set the load down gently on one of the countertops I had scrubbed to perfection the evening before. Sloppy? Disorganized? Irresponsible? I tasted blood and stopped biting my cheek. Head down, just do the work, I told myself, shaking with blind fury.

"Garrett, did you hear what I said?" Felix was close enough to my face that I could feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. "In this kitchen, I require respect. I need a 'Yes, Chef.'"

"Yes, Chef," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Louder!" he yelled.

I caught Carlo's eye from across the kitchen. Concern flickered in his gaze.

"Yes, Chef," I said, my voice unsteady but louder.