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I’ll have to come back here tomorrow and pretend like I’m running into her by chance. Yeah, that’ll work. And I’ll ask her to get together after she’s off. My first preseason game isn’t for another week.
But shit. Olivier said it’s hard to get a table at this place. And I’m not willing to wait weeks or months to see Reese.
Our server comes to take our order, and when he gets to me, I try to give him my friendliest, un-enforcer-like smile.
“Hey, your pastry chef is an old friend of mine,” I say.
“Reese?” His expression brightens. “Yeah, she’s the best. Have you tried one of her chocolate baskets?”
“I plan to.” I clear my throat. “Hey, do you know when I might be able to catch her here without having a reservation?”
The server’s expression has good luck with that written all over his face.
“Uh…she does inventory on Monday mornings, but we aren’t open until 5:00 p.m., so that might not work. You could knock on the front door, though, there are always people working inside during the day.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
It’s not a great option, because today is Wednesday and Monday feels about a year away. But it’s something.
“Or you could find her at the shelter tomorrow,” the server adds.
“The shelter?”
“Yeah, the Women’s Mission downtown. She volunteers there on Thursdays; it’s her day off.”
Of course she does. Before I knew anything about Reese, I could tell she was good. You can just feel it when she looks at you. She’s the last person who deserves to get dumped on the way her ex-fiancé did.
That’s his loss. And whether he gets it or not, he won’t find another woman like Reese. She’s rare—surrounded by an aura that I just can’t get enough of.
“I’ll do that, man,” I say. “Thanks.”
I order and then sit back in my chair, satisfied. I’m less than a day away from seeing Reese again. And this time, I won’t let her get away easily.Chapter EightReeseI have to force myself not to mention Ellen’s black eye as I show her how to roll out pie crust dough. No matter how many women I meet at the shelter with visible injuries, it never becomes commonplace.
“And just sprinkle extra flour on the counter if the dough feels too sticky,” I instruct. “About a tablespoon or two at a time.”
She nods, her gaze cast down at her workspace. I keep biting my tongue, because something I’ve learned in my three months volunteering in the kitchen here is that my Number One Rule means a lot to the women who come here.
This is a safe place.
That rule means so much to me that I had it printed on a sign I hung on the wall. It’s something Angelia, the shelter’s kitchen manager, was doing without even knowing it. But I formalized it. I only volunteer here one full day and one evening a week, but I still feel great ownership of the program we’re running.
Abused women come here, often with their children, to heal. And in this kitchen, healing means you don’t have to talk about anything unless you want to. There are women who come here and don’t say a word, and others who bring us all to tears as we peel potatoes.
On Thursdays, we spend the afternoon preparing dinner for everyone at the shelter. I teach a baking class on Thursday evenings and a cooking class on Tuesday evenings. Some of the women want to learn to cook for their families; others are hoping to get the job skills to land a full-time job.
“Damn, girl, what are you so afraid of?” Angelia asks from the other side of the kitchen. “It’s dead, I promise.”
I look over and see a young woman named Anita cringing at a raw chicken, her hand lingering a couple inches from it.
“Pull all that inside stuff out,” Angelia instructs her. “Come on, you’ve got lots more to do after that one.”
“It’s so gross,” Anita says.
Angelia glares at her. “Can’t have chicken pot pie without chicken, can we?”
I wipe my hands on my apron and approach, smiling at Anita.
“Cleaning a chicken is an important skill to learn,” I say. “And it gets easier once you’ve done a few.”
She groans. “I prefer chicken in a box, shaped like nuggets.”
Angelia clucks her disappointment. “If you think that’s chicken, I got a bridge to sell you.”
Anita gives me a questioning look. “Nuggets aren’t chicken?”
“Anita,” Angelia says wearily, “I need you to either clean those birds or let me give the job to someone else.”
“I’ll do it,” Anita grumbles.
I give her a pat on the back and walk over to Angelia, who is unloading the carrots I brought from Magnolia. The executive chef at the restaurant I started working for seven months ago is great about donating ingredients when I need them for the shelter.
