The concierge rose from his chair at an elongated desk. Two striking arrangements of cherry blossom branches arched upward from each corner of his works.p.a.ce.

"Welcome," he said, nodding slowly. His trim goatee, clean-shaven head, and meticulous bow tie suggested two screaming little people and another punching the elevator b.u.t.tons without pause might not be his typical social situation. "Ms. Garrett?"

I thought I saw a flicker of relief in his eyes when I reached out to shake his hand instead of Manda, who was starting to fumble for the clasp on her nursing bra.

"We are pleased to welcome you to Silverside Lofts. My name is Omar, and I am the head concierge at your service. Please do not hesitate to contact me with any questions, concerns, or needs."

"I'm Manda," she said, introducing herself and jostling Polly at the same time. "I'm Charlie's best friend. And I really, really, really appreciate all you do. Do you freelance?"

Manda was grinning, but Omar looked a little nervous. I took the key from his outstretched hand. "Thank you for the warm welcome, Omar." I looked toward the elevators, where Zara was now spinning cartwheels and singing a song from Frozen. "Can you tell me which apartment number is mine?"

"Of course, Ms. Garrett. You have the penthouse apartment. Our top floor, the twenty-fifth. Your key will also access the fitness center, the executive lounge, and the rooftop terrace. But perhaps the executive tour should wait for another time when you are a bit more, ahem, settled in?" Omar's eyes bounced from Dane's five-alarm tantrum to Zara's Idina Menzel imitation to Manda's muttering at her tangled bra strap. Omar was not built for this moment.

"Sounds great," I said, already striding toward the elevator. "Thank you," I called over my shoulder before pointing to the up b.u.t.ton for Zara. After a stomach-dropping, rapid ascent, the elevator chimed for the top floor, and we stepped directly into the apartment.

"Holy catfish!" Zara squealed and took off at a run.

I let my bags drop with a thud onto the polished marble floor. Vaulted ceilings and walls of windows made me feel as if I was perched eye-level with Mount Rainier, which presided like a snowy watchman in the distance. A clear day in Seattle was money, and I felt like the girl with the Midas touch. I walked to a far window, past a gleaming kitchen with not one but two Dacor ovens, thank you very much, past a long, kitten-soft gray sectional, past a flat screen television that was sure to catch every nuance of Colin Firth's face when I curled up with him and Pride and Prejudice later that night. I kicked off the infernal high heels and stood before the window. A southern view of the city lay before me-water, sky, the s.p.a.ce Needle, Puget Sound-and I felt the exhaustion and worry seep out of my shoulders. I did it, I thought. It might be crazy and I have to unpack and make lists and stock my kitchen and find Avery's restaurant and make supply lists and develop a menu and get to know my staff ... I sighed. But I did it. And the view sure is lovely from up here.

"I'm moving in." Manda's voice tugged me out of my reverie.

I turned and saw her curled in the corner of the sectional, Polly's little fist clutching the top of her shirt while she ate. Dane was sitting at one of the barstools by the kitchen counter, sucking applesauce out of some sort of vacuum pack and looking a bit less hostile.

"I'm moving in and leaving the kids with Jack."

"Mommy!" Zara rounded the corner, looking offended. "You can't leave us with Dad. He doesn't know how to braid!"

"You'll adjust," Manda said. "Braiding isn't that hard."

Zara narrowed her eyes for a moment until her face relaxed into a toothy grin. "You're joking, Mom. You won't leave us with Daddy. He's tried braiding, and he's super bad at it." She skipped back down the hallway to what looked like the master bedroom, outfitted with a tall, narrow mirror perfect for aspiring vocalists.

I lowered myself onto the couch, smoothing the fabric slowly with my hand, lining up my heels on the dense area rug. Closing my eyes and letting my head fall back on the cushion, I heard Manda thump Polly's back to burp her.

"You made it," Manda said. I could hear the smile in her voice without looking at her face. I knew she wasn't just talking about a cross-country move.

I felt a smile pulling at my lips. "Let the adventure begin."

6.

I was starting to sense a theme. Since the last time I had seen him, Avery had made the leap from "cheapskate" to "indulgence king," and I wondered if he had had professional help to make the transition. Thrill's interior actually made me gasp when I entered the restaurant the next afternoon. I'd been up to my eyeb.a.l.l.s in boxes, packing tape, and shopping lists, so by the time I entered the front of the house at Thrill, I was a walking, breathing target market for one of their famous mojitos. Omar had already recommended them to me twice.

The walls of the restaurant were inlaid with hundreds of planks of polished knotted wood, running the length of the dining room and only interrupted once by an enormous rectangular window. The paint colors were variants of white, and the floor was some kind of charcoal, veined slate. A long fireplace filled the better part of one wall. A tidy gas flame danced behind gla.s.s and bounced firelight off a sleek wood mantle. The low-lit chandeliers dotting the room gave off prisms of sparkle and glam. Tables were set for the evening, but I was alone in the room.

I picked up a menu, feeling the weight of the heavy cardstock, russet with faint white polka dots of different sizes sprinkled behind the white text. The savory menu made my mouth water with its emphasis on local seafood and innovative preparations of Northwest produce. The options for dessert, however, were yawnworthy. My mouth straightened into a line, and I stood taller. I could do better. I would do better.

Avery burst through the kitchen door, his shoulder cradling his cell phone, hands gesticulating wildly.

"We have gone over this before, Margot," he was saying. "Either you trust me or you don't. I need two weeks, and I'm not budging on that." He seemed surprised to see me, but he quickly recovered and came toward me with open arms. "Listen, I must run. We'll talk soon."

Phone still in his hand, he pulled me in for a hug. "You're here! What do you think?" He brandished a tanned forearm, gesturing to the restaurant.

"It's stunning," I said. "I love it." Members of the waitstaff were beginning to filter into the dining room in a wash of black shirts, black skinny ties, and black trousers. Some were tying on long black ap.r.o.ns with THRILL printed down one side in crisp white lettering.

"Come meet everyone. We've just finished eating and are about to start the preservice run-down." He slung an arm around my shoulder, and we walked somewhat awkwardly toward the group. They'd gathered by the picture window that overlooked a secluded, brick-paved courtyard on the cusp of a raucous springtime bloom. A flowering cherry tree stood in the middle of the s.p.a.ce, knotty bark running down its trunk, its roots b.u.mping up the brick pathway. Tiny purple flowers lined the branches heralding the shift toward warmth and longer days.

"What a tree," I said.

Avery waved at a tall, slender man with rimless gla.s.ses on the far side of the room. "Hmm?" He glanced where I was staring. "What tree?"

I looked at him, wondering if he had become blind since we last saw each other.

"Oh, right. That tree. Nice." Avery steered me toward the skinny dude with gla.s.ses and said, "I have someone I'd like you to meet. Vic Arteaga, meet our new pastry chef, fresh from Manhattan's L'Ombre, Ms. Charlie Garrett."

Vic's hand was baby-soft, but his handshake was firm. "The famous Charlie Garrett. This man has sung your praises for a long time. Welcome."

Avery just stood there, grinning and waiting for me to, what? Whip up a souffle or something?

"It's a pleasure to meet you," I said. Vic was turned out in a starched purple-checked b.u.t.ton-down and a tailored dove-gray suit. His attire stood in stark contrast to a room full of people clad entirely in black. "And what is it that you do here at Thrill?"

"I'm the-" he began but was cut short by Avery.

"Vic is new, too," he said, his eyes widening a bit. "He is working in our newest department. Marketing. Marketing and communications."

"Absolutely." Vic's voice was polished, relaxed. "I'm helping Thrill move into its next phase."

I c.o.c.ked my head to one side. "A 'next phase' so soon? You've only been open a few months, and you're already changing pastry chefs. Surely that's enough change for the time being?"

"Well, no," Avery said. Then, "Yes. I mean, we are stretching and changing and growing all the time, Charlie. You know, all that dog-eat-dog stuff. It's a different world with social media and branding ..." Avery trailed off and nodded at a man who stood with hands on his ample hips in front of the group of seated servers and cooks. "Looks like we'll have to continue this discussion another time. Chet is ready to begin."

I turned my attention to Chet. He folded his hands across an impressive belly and rocked slightly in bright blue Crocs. The group quieted.

"All right, everybody. Hope you're fat and happy after that meal. Thanks, Doug and Aldo, for hooking us up. Great meatb.a.l.l.s, right?"

A smattering of applause and whoops rose from the group. Meatb.a.l.l.s sounded fantastic and a deliciously far cry from fussy Beef Wellington. I felt my shoulders begin to relax.

"Let's get to logistics. First, I'm exec tonight. Chef Michaels is needed elsewhere."

I leaned closer to Avery while Chet went over menu changes. "Who is Chef Michaels?" I whispered. "I thought you were exec."

Avery kept his eyes on Chet. "I am. I go by Avery Michaels now. Didn't I tell you?" He flashed The Grin at me, but I wasn't distracted this time by the upper and lower arches.

"No, you did not," I exclaimed in a whisper. "What's wrong with 'Malachowski?'"

He looked at me like I was the only kid on the bus who didn't know what v.a.g.i.n.a really meant. "Michaels makes far better sense for what I'm trying to do here. You get one shot for the public to remember you, and I don't want them tripping over some Polish tongue twister." He turned his attention back to Chet but added in a more gentle tone, "And don't worry about me sharing duties with Chet. I'll be on the line when you start next week. I'll make sure you have everything you need."

I turned back to Chet as he enumerated the merits of Thrill's extensive wine list. "Remember, folks, no booze, no job. We keep the lights on around here because of your efforts to sell the fine people of Seattle a lot of alcohol. A silky risotto or an inspired asparagus salad can only do so much."

"So get 'em sloshed," a pet.i.te blonde server called from the periphery of the circle, teasing conspiratorial laughter from everyone but me. I was heartily in favor of a gla.s.s of wine or two with dinner. In fact, wine could often be the perfect accompaniment to enhance the flavors of a dish. But I didn't like the idea of pushing the wine list at the expense of the food. Call me a sentimentalist, but if diners were schnockered by the time the dessert menu arrived, who was to notice if I was sending out a perfect meringue or a Rice Krispie treat?

Avery nudged me. "Get the p.i.s.sy look off your face. Chet's introducing you."

I came to attention and noticed all the faces in the group had turned toward mine.

"... top of her cla.s.s at CIA in Hyde Park, and then to a restaurant you might have heard about in New York. Chef Michaels, what was that place again?" Chet winked at Avery.

"L'Ombre," Avery supplied, nearly bursting with pride. "I'm happy to note I completely and shamelessly stole her from Alain Janvier." An appreciative murmur vibrated through the room, and Avery clapped me on the back. "I've known this woman for many years, and let me just say that she will absolutely floor you with what she can do with a little b.u.t.ter and sugar."

"I'll probably use a few more ingredients than that," I added. I noticed Vic approved of my comment with a smile of his own.

Avery looked like a proud papa. How long has he been building me up around here? I wondered. I hope I don't disappoint ... He didn't appear to want to say anything more, and the room was silent and staring, so I stepped forward.

"Thank you for the very kind introduction, Chet and Avery, and for the warm welcome, everybody. I look forward to making great food with all of you, and, as a side bonus, I will happily indulge anyone who wants to dish about how your esteemed Chef Avery went through an inappropriately long phase during culinary school that involved hair gel and a nose ring."

Avery groaned when the room erupted in laughter, but I could tell he was loving it.

Chet dismissed the staff, and many of them stopped to welcome me to the team before heading to their stations. Avery was keen to introduce me to a devastatingly beautiful young woman who walked as if her sternum were tied to a helium balloon. Shiny, thick black curls bounced halfway down her back as she walked, and her wide brown eyes and olive skin made more than one head turn as she pa.s.sed through the dining room. When she reached our little group, she pulled me into a bony but strong embrace.

"Oh," I said into her slender neck. "Hi. Um. Hi."

"Charlie!" she said. "Or should I say, 'Boss'? I really should. Sorry." She looked at Avery, but her expression looked more like an excited puppy than a repentant one. "I'm Tova. So great to meet you."

"Tova is your second-in-command," Avery said. I thought a look pa.s.sed between the two, but Avery continued quickly with his introduction. "One day Tova will be a fantastic pastry chef herself, but she's just starting out, aren't you, Tova?"

"Absolutely." She nodded earnestly. "You have my blessing to order me around and have me do your bidding. I will not be offended." She put up her hands as if to plead guilty.

"How long have you been at Thrill?" I asked. I liked the openness of Tova's face and the fact that she seemed to have parked her ego at the door. We were a long way from chefs inflicting knife wounds here at Thrill.

"Two weeks," she said. "Just moved here from L.A. And not missing the traffic one bit. Can I get an amen?"

Vic said a stilted "amen," but I just laughed. I liked this girl so far and hoped her pastry skills were up to par.

"Well, we should get going," Avery said, clapping his hands as he turned to face me. "I'll walk Charlie out."

I let Tova hug me again and reciprocated an air kiss with Vic. Avery steered my elbow toward the front door and handed me a sheath of papers waiting by the host's station.

"Here's your request for the last inventory of the pastry kitchen, but I can't vouch for its accuracy. You'll probably want to stop by and check it out yourself." His eyes sparked with mischief. "Bring your label maker."

"Oh, I surely will," I said, already flipping through the papers.

Avery stepped toward me and leaned in. I felt his breath when he whispered, "Thanks for being here. I'm, um, really glad you took the leap."

I nodded and should have been touched by the sentiment, but I could see Vic just past the window, squinting at us and nodding, his eyes narrowed and arms crossed. Something about the way he was watching us made me uneasy.

"I'll be back tomorrow," I said, stepping away. "Tell Tova to get ready to work."

Avery let out a sharp laugh. "She's ready and willing, I a.s.sure you." He walked toward the kitchen but said over his shoulder, "We've all been waiting for you, Charlie."

I took a deep breath and felt the warm rush of being wanted, wooed, appreciated. Only a few days in, and Seattle was turning out to be a lovely fit.

7.

THE following afternoon I decided to celebrate, having unpacked the final box in my apartment, with a walk to the Queen Anne Farmers' Market. I wiggled into a tank, my favorite cardigan, and, in a burst of springtime hopefulness, a new pair of shorts from the Gap. I hummed as I made my way across a handful of city streets. I pa.s.sed dads toting children in backpacks, hipsters from Microsoft snort-laughing about someone's cerebral joke, and four women walking abreast, yoga mats slung over defined deltoids. My thoughts meandered as I recalled images from the last few days spent in my new apartment, and I found myself making a mental list of my favorite things about it: * The walk-in closet, too large for the size of my wardrobe, but headily efficient and now color-coded with my shirts, dresses, sweaters, and pants all hanging perfectly.

* The kitchen. Oh, the kitchen. All of my tools, knives, pots, cutting boards, which had been so carefully puzzled together in my tiny New York galley kitchen, could not fill even a third of the available s.p.a.ce in my new digs. Thinking of this particular perk made a giddy lump form in my throat.

* The soaking tub and standing shower with dual jets. I found myself wandering through the tall gla.s.s doors and into that sanctuary of tile and pristine grout even when fully clothed.

* The neat stack of broken-down cardboard waiting next to my door. All done, all done, and G.o.d bless America, all done.

A shiver of organizational victory pulsed through my fingers as I turned a corner and came to the entrance of the market. I was out of breath, and my ponytail was drooping after a walk that had turned out to be much longer than it had appeared on GoogleMaps. I stood for a moment, catching my breath and gathering my thoughts. Now that I'd tidied and established my personal s.p.a.ce, all my attention and energy could focus like high-wattage spotlights on Thrill and the dessert menu there. I felt a shot of adrenaline just thinking about it: I was finally the head of pastry at a top-notch restaurant. It was finally my turn, my gig, my shot at making a name for myself as the best pastry chef in the city. No Felix, no broken promises, only the chance to prove what I could do. I took a deep breath and faced the market. Time to investigate what Seattle had to offer in the way of fresh, local, and inspiring.

I curled my toes in my new Merrells, a purchase strong-armed by Manda but one I'd been secretly thrilled to make, not only because I loved the deep blue, but also because I couldn't bear the thought of footbinding in those heels any more. I had to roll my eyes at my fickle, poser self: it had taken less than a week for me to trade in my New York chic for West Coast comfort.

The market stretched before me, a riot of sound, color, and delicious smells. Live music reached me where I stood, though I couldn't see where the sitar player was sitting. For being so early in the season, the tables on either side of the street were heavily laden with produce. I could see English peas, asparagus, arugula, several varieties of chard, kale, rhubarb, radishes ... My mouth tingled as I walked slowly from booth to booth, drinking in the knowledge that the food I was checking out had not been trucked over the Jersey Turnpike or from a far-flung spot upstate, but from somewhere nearby, where people still felt dirt in their hands and not just in their nostrils after a day of walking in the city.

I paused at the end of a block, and my gaze zeroed in on a mountain of gorgeous strawberries a few stands down. Cutting in and out of the throng, I reached the stand and stood under a banner that read FORSYTHIA FARMS. I crouched to be eye level with the berries, narrowing my eyes at their color, shape, and size. The red was deep, but still bright. Shape: irregular, as they should be, and still shooting delightful stems that poked out the tops like tiny berets. The berries weren't too small, and best of all, not too large. No Costco mutants, I was pleased to note.

"You're talking to the strawberries."

I stood abruptly and, in the process, b.u.mped hard against the table. A mini-avalanche of strawberries bounced out of the crates and onto the concrete below. I scrambled for hand sanitizer in my bag and didn't even let the gel dry before pushing against the flow to contain the fall of more berries. The man behind the voice had run around the booth and was at my feet, picking up the smattering of berries that had fallen to the concrete. His thick mop of sun-touched blond hair was so close to my bare, pale, New-England-winter legs, the backs of my knees began to sweat.

He stood, holding a big silver bowl of retrieved berries. A slow smile spread over his handsome face. "Sorry. I think I startled you."

I cleared my throat and tried to look dignified. "You did. But I'm sorry about the berries. Let me buy the ones that fell." I opened my bag and pulled out a handful of crisp bills. "How much do I owe you?"

"Whoa, hold on there, sister," he said, hand up and eyes laughing. "We're talking berries, not gold." He squinted. "New around here?"

"Maybe," I said, the New York armor sprouting anew with impressive speed.

He seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. "New York?"

I sucked in a breath. "How did you know that?"

"The shape of the eyebrows." He nodded, suddenly solemn. "All New Yorkers have very well-manicured eyebrows."

My hand flew to my right eyebrow and swiped a shaky line along its curve. "Seriously? I've never really thought about that. I can't believe that's how you knew."