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Oh. God. What had she been thinking? Even as she peeled potatoes as the first light of the morning streamed through the windows of the front of the restaurant, a part of her mind returned to easy avenues. It was instinct that made her think Fred was just in their office, doing payroll. It was instinct to think she needed to text Fred to pick up Shelby from school. She shook away her thoughts. After she’d peeled five pounds of potatoes, she stepped into the walk-in freezer, placed her hands over her face, and screamed until she cried. She’d done that back in culinary school when a soufflé had dropped, or she’d put too much seasoning or salt on a dish. “The walk-in freezer is the ultimate therapy,” a server had joked once. Rebecca had a hunch Victor Sutton had never included this fact in one of his top-selling books.
Staff members and lunchtime servers began to arrive at ten. The mood was celebratory, like a family coming back together again. The server who’d had the governor’s table on the last day of Rebecca’s life hugged Rebecca for a long time and announced she was pregnant. “But if you do reopen full-time, I’m prepared to work here until my baby doesn’t let me anymore. Bar Harbor Brasserie is my family.”
Rebecca congratulated and thanked her, even as a stone dropped into her stomach. Bar Harbor Brasserie had never been her family. Her family with Fred had been her family. With Fred gone, did Bar Harbor Brasserie have validity anymore? Did it even matter?
“Big day ahead, Chef!” A staffer waved as he passed with another bucket of potatoes.
Rebecca smiled at him and realized she no longer remembered his name. She felt as though she’d been planted in somebody else’s kitchen. Could she even make clam chowder anymore? Could she perfect a pear tart?
Just before they opened for lunch at eleven, Mindy Collins stepped into the kitchen to say hello. Rebecca’s voice brightened and became false.
“Mindy! This was your brainchild. Thank you for pushing us to reopen today.”
Mindy showed all her teeth when she smiled. “You don’t know how the restaurant scene has missed you.”
“You don’t know how I’ve missed it,” Rebecca lied.
Mindy asked to understand the day’s courses so she could discuss them with others later when she came for dinner. “I like to sound like I understand flavor pairings, even when I don’t,” she said. “It’s all about research.” Mindy had booked out most of the restaurant from seven thirty onward and promised that each table would bring in upward of one-hundred-and-fifty to two-hundred-dollar tabs. “We just want to help you and your family in any way we can. Our hope is you’ll find a way to reopen before the summer season closes. We’d hate you to miss tourist season.”
When Mindy left Rebecca in the kitchen, Rebecca wondered if Mindy wanted Bar Harbor Brasserie to reopen for Rebecca’s sake or the tourists. Maybe both could be true. Perhaps Mindy wasn’t a monster for wanting everything to be okay again.
The lunch rush was a doozy. Bar Harbor locals and old friends of Fred’s stopped to feast and day drink. Over their second glasses of Cabernet, they demanded their servers track down Rebecca so they could say hello. “She is one of our oldest and dearest friends.” Often when Rebecca appeared at the table, she couldn’t remember their names, either. Was grief the reason for this? In the kitchen, she googled “losing your memory and grief,” and too many sites popped up at once. She put her phone back in her pocket.
At seven thirty, Mindy and her high-rolling friends arrived for the feast. Even from the kitchen, Rebecca could smell the weight of their expensive colognes—she could feel the existence of their yachts, which floated in Frenchman Bay. Begrudgingly, she washed her hands and styled her hair and stepped into the dining room to greet them, barely holding it together when they complimented her restaurant and said how sorry they were about Fred.
Restaurants like hers and Fred’s made Bar Harbor culturally interesting. For this reason, restaurants like hers and Fred’s lined the pockets of the upper echelon of Bar Harbor’s locals—these people who now sat at her tables and spoke about recent trips to Tuscany and how difficult it was to hire hardworking staff at their luxury hotels.
Rebecca struggled to breathe. For the fourth time that day, she stepped into the walk-in freezer and allowed herself a full minute to cry. When she returned to the frenetic chaos of her kitchen, she heard herself bark out the orders on a printing ticket and demand that first courses be plated. During these moments, delirium fell over her, and she was no longer sure what year it was or how old her children were. She just had to find a way to survive the night.
Out of nowhere, it was ten. Dave came over to hug her and congratulate her on the success of the day. Rebecca hugged him back with arms like cotton. She hadn’t eaten so much as a cracker in over twelve hours.
Suddenly, Mindy was back in the kitchen, showing all her teeth. She thanked Rebecca twice and squeezed her upper arm. “Oh, darling, you really have gotten too skinny.” She allowed her face a moment of pity for the widow before her, then returned to her smile. “The folks out front would really love to hear from you. I don’t suppose you could grace us with your presence and put in a little face time?”
Mindy hinted it was appropriate, given that all these people had come out to support Rebecca and wanted so desperately to keep her in business. Rebecca removed her hairnet and checked her face in the mirror. She didn’t recognize it as her own, but it was the only one she had, so it would have to do.
Out in the dining room, plates had been cleared, wine had been refilled, and Mindy’s rich pals rejoiced, laughing easily and speaking conspiratorially, perhaps about all the delicious money they would make together. Rebecca had never felt more lost. She followed Mindy through her own restaurant, shook hands with her friends, and thanked them for their support. At each table, they told her just how talented she was and that she shouldn’t hide her talent away. “Bar Harbor needs a restaurant like Bar Harbor Brasserie. Please, let us know how we can help you reopen.” By the sixth or seventh table, Rebecca wasn’t sure she wouldn’t collapse.
If only Fred was there. If only he could put on his friendly and easy smile and chat the hours away with these people in a way that would lead them to leave business cards and invite him to golf outings he would eventually decline. No, he hadn’t been like these people—far from it, but he’d understood how to play their game in ways Rebecca had not, which was essential in any world but especially in hospitality and tourism.
Just when Rebecca planned to bolt back into the kitchen and hide herself in the freezer until the storm had passed, she turned to find a single man at a corner table, watching her. Mindy hadn’t introduced them, but perhaps, in Mindy’s world, he wasn’t important. But something about his eyes caught Rebecca off guard. Watching her watch him, he nodded. The twinkle in his eye sent a shiver of distaste up her spine.
And suddenly, she bolted to him. He remained just as he was, his hands clasped beneath his bearded chin, his eyes falsely compassionate. Rebecca kept an icy smile glued to her face. It occurred to her this might be a dream. When she reached his table, she bent down and hissed with as much vitriol as she could muster, “What the are you doing here?”
After that, she collapsed.
Chapter Three
Rebecca wasn’t out long. She blinked at her hands on the hardwood and listened to the steady rhythm of conversations. “Property value” and “Yale” and “the Hamptons” were discussed, as was the probability of the euro’s value falling even lower. Nobody noticed the forty-something woman on the ground. Nobody except the man she’d tumbled in front of, that is.
Victor Sutton leaned down from his chair. “Are you all right, Rebecca?”
Rebecca lifted her chin to stare into his eyes. They were as hard as steel, an icy blue. How could anyone peer into them and find solace? He was the great family psychologist Victor Sutton, but his eyes told the truth of who he was—a villain.
“I asked you what you’re doing here.” Rebecca’s voice wavered. She clung to the edge of his table and heaved herself to her feet. A passing server hustled over to help, but Rebecca waved her off.
“I’m here for the same reason all these people are here. To eat,” her father said. “It was remarkable, by the way. The salmon was seasoned to perfection. And that sardine pasta sauce! I haven’t had anything like it in my life.”
Unfortunately, Rebecca wasn’t immune to her father’s praise. It was as though he’d just complimented her crayon drawing or an A on a math test. She studied his face, which was still remarkably handsome this close to seventy. The beard, which he’d worn since his twenties, gave him an academic charm, one that probably assisted him in his career. Talk show hosts wouldn’t dream of featuring psychologists without appropriate Freud-like beards.
