“The others are Jack’s,” I add.
“What about dessert?” Chester asks, wrapping his arm around the top of Kiara’s chair. I might be imagining it, but it looks like they’re sitting a little closer than usual.
“Poppy’s going to handle dessert,” Jack says.
I blink at him. “What? No. I’m front of house.”
“The dessert can be completed beforehand. Remember the idea you had for those little cakes?”
Last night, in between lessons in searing the perfect steak andJack’s riff on a scallop dish that I swear is still lingering on my tongue, we tossed around ideas for dessert. I showed him the account for Caroline’s bakery; she’s well-known for her petit fours, each tiny, perfect square decorated to perfection. I thought it could be fun to do something like that, but with tropical flavors. A perfectly Instagrammable bite to end the night.
“I’m not Caroline,” I say, fussing with my braid. “What if they’re terrible?”
“They won’t be.”
“I barely know how to cook now. What if—”
“That’s not true.” He gently pulls my hand away from my braid. His touch lingers, fingertips brushing my cheek. “You’re getting good, and more than that, you have the right instincts. You’re ready. If you weren’t, I’d tell you.”
I’m very aware, suddenly, of the fact we’re not alone. I take a step back, smoothing my apron. “I don’t want to mess up your chances of making this work.”
“This is your thing as much as mine, now.”
I press my lips together, fighting a smile.
“I’ve got a question,” Herman says, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Not that this isn’t heartwarming but, kids, how the hell are we supposed to handle this without more kitchen staff?”
Jack looks up from the plates, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What?”
“The rest of the staff. Who are they going to be?”
“I... err...” Jack has the decency to look abashed. “I don’t know yet.”
“Seriously?” It hasn’t been hard to notice that he’s dragging his feet, but I would’ve thought he’d have called in a few favors by now. “Jack, the pop-up is a week away. The invitations are out. We have the final health inspection tomorrow.”
He gives me a stony look. “I know that. It’s fine, okay? I have a few names in mind.”
“Fine. Fine.” I twist around, crossing my arms as I study the dining room. I tap my foot, working out my spike of anxious energy. “But for the record, you’re the one who told me to stay out of it.”
“Heard,” Jack says with annoyance.
I walk to the front door, turning to take in the room from another angle. It’s missing something, but I can’t put my finger on what.
I pull out my phone, looking at it through the lens of my camera. It looks beautiful. Airy and light-filled, yet intimate. The tables aren’t set, but we have all the elements we’re going to use. The day of the pop-up, I’ll bring in cut flowers for each of the tables.
“I could call up Jazz,” Herman is saying. “He went down to Boca, but he was always tight with Sal.”
“No,” I hear Jack reply. “I know who I want. I’ll give Hazel a call.”
My eyes catch on the stained-glass scene behind the bar. It finally slots into place.
It’stoonew in here.
The Sailfish had a timeless quality. Fable is gorgeous and classy, but there isn’t a sense of the history of the building and the restaurant that came before. The stained-glass sailfish isn’t enough. The restaurant is supposed to be telling a story of connection. Memory. It can’t feel like it winked into existence out of nothing.
“Hey,” I say, “what did you do with the old décor? The photographs and stuff?”
Jack breaks away from his conversation with Herman. “Why?”
