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“Are you going to pick up Chad?” Rebecca had her fingers coated in lobster sauce.
“He has a ride to the basketball court,” Fred explained.
“Okay. Great. Send me updates from the game, okay?”
Fred saluted her and kissed her again.
“The governor should be gone by ten or so. Afterward, we can celebrate.”
“How do you want to celebrate?” Fred asked.
“With the biggest glass of Cabernet Bar Harbor has ever seen.”
“Count me in. I love you, by the way. Whatever happens tonight, remember, you’re the best chef Bar Harbor has ever seen.”
“And we can always run away and open that taco stand. I know.”
With Fred gone, the kitchen chugged along like a powerful machine. Diners had begun to arrive, and servers sent their orders back to the kitchen. The air was frantic and bubbling. Dave barked at a few kitchen members to chop faster. Rebecca stirred the lobster sauce and took deep breaths. As a way to ground herself in facts, she tried to remember everything she could about the governor. He’d gone to Columbia, just like her daughter. His wife’s name was Brenda. They had a black Labrador named Snoopy. Their children were grown up, perhaps ten years older than hers. Oh, but what did this matter? All that mattered was he liked the food. No—he couldn’t just like the food. He had to adore it. He had to tell everyone he’d ever met about it. Only then could she and Fred claim victory.
“Boss. You have to see the snow.” Dave bustled in from a smoke break and brushed the white flakes from his shoulders.
Rebecca’s stomach lurched. Would the governor still make it? She hurried to the back doorway to take in the glorious view of thick, wet snowflakes that piled on the roofs of cars and twinkled beneath the streetlights. A winter wonderland in the truest sense. Maybe, if he did make it, the sensational view out the front window would make the governor remember this night at Bar Harbor Brasserie that much more.
Unafraid of snowfall, the governor of Maine arrived five minutes early and announced to the server that he and his wife, Brenda, were famished. In the kitchen, Rebecca set to work, keeping to her rule of not introducing herself until after an important guest had finished his or her meal. She needed to see the look in their eyes afterward as proof she’d succeeded.
First came the smoked salmon mousse, served with freshly baked bread and house-made crackers. This paired exquisitely with the wine, which the server had suggested—a one-hundred-and-twelve-dollar bottle from southern Germany. On a rare vacation, Fred and Rebecca had traveled to a number of German wineries to complete their white wine selection. At the time, they’d left the restaurant in Dave’s capable hands but spent nearly every day worrying, as though the restaurant was their last remaining infant. In a way, it was.
Three courses went out, then the fourth. The governor’s server reported the governor was clearly enjoying himself and had even asked a few questions about the locally sourced products and the flavor pairings. “He’s a man who knows what he likes,” the server explained. “And I think it’s safe to say he likes your stuff.”
“Don’t jinx us. The night isn’t over till it’s over,” Rebecca said.
Oh, but she felt as though she floated above the kitchen. She felt fully aware and capable in everything she did, as though every moment of her career had led to this second. She dared to imagine herself a year or two from then, perhaps at a bigger restaurant or even a brand-new location in a bigger city. Couldn’t she compete with the New York City ranks? Couldn’t she see herself among the best of the very best?
Maybe that was going too far. But if there was any time rife for daydreaming, it was now. She scorched the bottom of the crème brûlée dish and watched as the top hardened to a beautiful sliver of sugar. Then she took the fire to it next. Servers breezed in and out of the kitchen doors, their arms ladened with Rebecca’s creations. Soon, the governor’s dinner would be finished. Soon, she would pour the biggest glass of wine known to man and collapse in Fred’s arms.
Speaking of Fred, where was he? Rebecca had lost all concept of time. As the server took the crème brûlée out to the governor’s table, she tried to get to her cell phone, which she’d left in the office. But as she weaved her way there, Dave and the other kitchen staffers stepped in with high fives and congratulations.
“That was the night of your life,” Dave said. He wore an almost cartoonishly big smile. “You deserve every accolade. Seriously.”
“You should have seen the governor’s face when he cracked the crème brûlée!” The server arrived back from the dining room and punched Rebecca lightly on the upper arm. “He looked like a little kid.”
Rebecca closed her eyes and exhaled all the air from her lungs. “I can’t believe it’s really over.” She then clapped her hands. “Now, has anyone seen Fred? We have a date.”
The staff members said they hadn’t seen him. One suggested the basketball game had run long; another said maybe Fred had chatted with another high school parent for too long and lost track of time. God knew how Fred liked to chat. At first, Rebecca shrugged it off. But when she got into her office and saw a text from Fred from forty-five minutes ago, explaining he was on his way from the basketball game, Rebecca was no longer sure how to breathe. The drive from Mount Desert High School to Bar Harbor Brasserie took no longer than twelve minutes. In this snow, twenty tops.
“Hey, Chef? The governor wants to thank you personally for the meal.” The server knocked against the doorway and smiled.
Rebecca tried to match the server’s grin. She staggered through the kitchen and paused in front of the ever-whipping kitchen door. There, she told herself a story of optimism and hope. Nothing bad could happen to Rebecca Vance, right? She’d gotten her dark years out of the way as Rebecca Sutton.
But when she stepped into the dining room to claim her victory, everything in the world shifted so far off its axis that life as Rebecca knew it from that point on was no longer recognizable.
The governor sat with his wife at their best table, sipping the last of his wine and smiling lovingly. It was clear, at least for tonight, that whatever trouble politics had brought to their marriage wouldn’t come to the forefront. They truly loved each other, even now. Rebecca respected that.
Across the dining room, Bar Harbor regulars and tourists championed Rebecca’s seafood courses. They drank and laughed and swapped stories, their faces illuminated by the candlelight. The entire dining room evoked the very magic Rebecca had always wanted to create in a space of her own. She and Fred had been successful in this and so many other ways.
But in the foyer, speaking to the lead hostess, stood two police officers. They were damp with snow, and their faces were blotchy, their lips downturned. It took Rebecca a full minute to realize she knew them. Chance and Billy were a couple of local guys who’d gone to high school with Fred. They’d gone to his bachelor party. They’d gotten them a crappy blender for their wedding present, which had broken three weeks later.
And now, Chance and Billy lifted their eyes to hers with such pity and sorrow that she nearly toppled over.
