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I had a place in the city. I had a routine. But I could have a life here. I didn’t exactly fit in, but I could love people here. I was well on my way to loving a few already. And those people could love me if I let them.
I could do this. I could make a life here. Hell, I already had a life here.
I wanted to feed people, not just because they had showed up for a business meeting or to be seen. I wanted them to leave my dining room happy. I wanted to cook and not think about whether the ingredients were exotic enough to please the customers. I wanted to serve food that nourished people, that made them feel comfort, whether it meant using Velveeta or ungodly expensive Jarlsberg cheese.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I really want this.”
“Then you are insane,” Chef said, shrugging. “But it could be just the kind of insane needed to run this place.”
“Not helpful.” I groaned, dropping my head back to the table.
I felt a cool, damp cloth pressed to the back of my neck and heard a fond tsking sound just in front of me.
Sherry pressed her handkerchief to my temples and smiled gently. “Jane felt the same way just before she decided to renovate her shop. She was so afraid of making a change, so afraid that she would fail. But she couldn’t stand not to try to make a go of it. She’s always been my brave one, you know. Though if you tell her that, I’ll deny it just to keep her on her toes. The bottom line is, life is for living, sweetie. It’s for taking chances and trying to grab up every little piece of happiness you can latch on to. And I say that as a mama and a friend and not someone who stands to make a very healthy commission if you agree to take this place on.”
I laughed and handed the damp handkerchief back to Sherry.
I stood and took another look around the restaurant. While my savings were not enough for the real estate market in Chicago, I had more than enough for the down payment on the building. Heck, given Hank’s kids’ desire to unload the building, I might be able to buy it outright, if Sherry and I were clever enough. The problem would be the cost of renovating; I would have to figure out a way to pay for that.
I needed to make this change. I needed this town. I needed the slower pace, the quiet. I needed the people here. This was my place now.
I edged toward the dusty old chalkboard behind the bar, advertising the specials and “pie du jour” in place when Hank’s had closed. I took the eraser and carefully swiped off the old chalk marks. The brittle white chalk nearly crumbled under my touch, but I was able to scratch out what I wanted. “Honey-smoked pork with apples,” I wrote. “Corn fritters with spicy relish. Dessert of the day: raisin brioche bread pudding.”
I stood back and admired my handiwork.
“I would have served a chutney with the fritters,” Chef said, sniffing.
My lips twitched. “Well, it’s not your restaurant.”
He sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Sassy-mouthing again.”
Sherry grinned at my very first selection of specials. “I take it you’ve made a decision?”
I turned and threw my arms around her and squealed, a very un-Tess-like squeal. She laughed again and patted my back. “Is it OK to hug your Realtor?” I asked.
Sherry gave me a very momlike little squeeze. “I’ll allow it this once.”
Poaching Territory
7
I sat on the front porch, under a purpling sky, mulling over the paperwork for Howlin’ Hank’s. I teetered between giddy joy and abject horror over signing a letter of intent to buy the building. What was I thinking? What had I done? What would I serve? What would I call the place?
I should have considered that before I signed the papers.
I made calls to Chicago as I drove, shell-shocked, back to the house. Phillip was very gracious about accepting my resignation and agreed that it would be too awkward to work with me while planning his wedding to someone else.
As expected, Coda’s owners jumped at the chance to buy me out and promised to deliver a cashier’s check within forty-eight hours. While their offer was generous, considering the economy, it left me with two options: Take out a mortgage for the building and a second loan to cover the costs of renovating, or pay cash for the building and leave myself with a practically nonexistent budget for the facelift. Neither seemed like the ideal situation. While the building was structurally sound—with the exception of some storm damage to the roof—it would need some serious cosmetic work. Key changes usually translated to “expensive” in construction-speak. The whole prospect made me nervous. Thanks to some youthful indiscretions with a Visa card, my credit wasn’t stellar. Damn my addiction to fancy Belgian knives.>“You’re going to all this trouble—aged cheddar, sauce from scratch, what appears to be green beans combined with bacon, butter, and brown sugar—so you can feed a church crowd mac ’n’ cheese before a card game?”
“These people deserve good food, carefully prepared, whether it’s simple fare or a wedding feast. They’re going to share a meal, something to bring them closer together. That’s the point of what we do, Tess. Not the reviews or the interviews. Good food. Happy diners. That’s all there is.”
He pinned me with that frank gray gaze, and I felt a little ashamed of myself. “Now, be a good girl and stir the sauce.”
With that, he popped me on the butt with a dishtowel and returned to his nutritionally bankrupt green beans.
—
When I was in college, I saw cafeteria serving as the last stop before culinary oblivion. I had nightmares in which I woke up patting my head to make sure the hairnet wasn’t really there. But now I found that I liked greeting people as they came through the kitchen line for their lunches. I liked being able to talk to friendly faces as they moved by, complimenting the colors of the food or the delicious smells wafting up from the steam table.
