“Then he’ll dump my body in a lake and act really upset about his missing sort-of employee when the cops interview him.”
“Have I told you recently that your imagination is disturbing?”
“Thank you,” I say, beaming even though she can’t see me. “Listen, this is why it’s perfect. I’m sure he’d rather make out with, like, a lobster than me.”
“Ew.”
“A huge, slimy lobster. Antennas and all.”
“Don’t make me hang up.”
“Really, though. I help him, he helps me, and we go our separate ways.”
“If you say so.” Her voice catches on a yawn. “Ugh. I need to go home. And you should get some sleep.”
“Tell me about it. He wants me over there at four tomorrow.”
“Four? As in three hours from now?”
I pull my phone away from my ear to look at the time. “Crap.”
A gentle snick of laughter. “Goodnight, Pops. Love you.”
“Love you.” I check to make sure the room isn’t suddenly covered in cockroaches, then turn out the bedside lamp. If one crawls on my face in my sleep, I’ll be scarred for life. “Remember, if you don’t hear from me in a few days, call the Diamond Bay police and tell them Jack did it.”
Despite my flippant tone, my stomach tightens with nerves. I wouldn’t put it past him to fire me on day one. I need to be perfect, or I’ll be out on the curb before noon.
It’s a long time before I fall asleep.
Chapter 10
Catch of the Day
Jack
It’s days like this that I wish I didn’t quit smoking.
I take a sip of coffee instead, surveying the kitchen in the glow of the weak, yellowy lights hanging over the pass. After Poppy left yesterday, I tracked down Herman, who agreed, after some cajoling, to stop by and chat today. The replacement part for the flat top should be arriving any day now. I’ve made a few preliminary inquiries about permits, even though that kind of red tape bullshit makes my eyes roll back in my skull. My cockroach traps have finally started kicking in, and the alley cat must be filling up on mice in addition to lizards, because I haven’t seen any around. The entire space needs another deep clean, but it’s much closer to being ready for cooking.
Compared to the gleaming kitchen of Pastiche, this is a wasteland. Sal clearly never felt the need to upgrade the equipment. Not that that matters, really. It’s here, it works, and that’s good enough. I didn’t start out in kitchens with gleaming induction ranges and more toys than I know what to do with. It’s nice to have, but it’s not what makes the food great.
I’ve seen the inside of Poppy’s parents’ kitchen in Rye. Shedoeshave all of that, because a man like Douglas Winfield wouldn’t let his home be upstaged by his investment properties. I had my formal interview for sous chef at Pastiche in that room, cooking in a quietwhirlwind while Douglas watched. I decided on fish: red snapper, to be precise, pan roasted and finished with lime-guava vinaigrette and micro greens. Bright snap peas accented the plate, along with fondant potatoes, perfectly crispy on the edges and creamy on the inside. I remember holding my hands behind my back after I presented it so he wouldn’t see them shaking.
Fish is difficult. It requires precision and demands respect. It’s my favorite; always has been.
I knew I had the job when he took a second bite.
I wonder if Poppy was in the house that day.
I check my watch. She’s three minutes and thirty seconds late.
Maybe she’s not coming at all.
The thought should give me relief, but it doesn’t.
The front door creaks open. I stride out of the kitchen, but instead of Poppy, it’s Herman, hours earlier than I expected. I drain the rest of my coffee and try for a smile. “Herm.”
His wrinkled, permanently tanned face breaks into a smile. “Jackie boy. It’s good to see you here again.”
