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Tech and making money were my areas of expertise. It was where I belonged, where I had a purpose. I started out working as a software engineer and selling apps on the side with a couple of buddies from school. It wasn’t a start-up. Start-ups had people drama, deciding who’s CTO, who’s CEO, and who’s the dictator. Because someone had to be the dictator, and we just wanted to write code. We sold a few lifestyle apps for decent money, but then, two years ago, we built a platform that solved a real tech problem tied to the emerging field of quantum computing, and big companies wanted it. We didn’t have the scale to take it further even if we wanted to. Instead, we sold it for a shit-ton because I had the Midas touch.
A few months before the sale, my buddies moved to Silicon Valley and got sucked into the bro culture of secret coffee meetings and outrageous parties. In the process of selling the platform, they asked me to fly down to a party where a lot of important people were spending the weekend.
It was unreal. Average dudes with hot women everywhere, drugs, alcohol, and big business being conducted between the pairing or tripling off. We secured a deal by Saturday, and I got the hell out. I’m a pretty easy-going guy, but that shit was messed up.
I sold my share in the platform outright instead of the standard acquire/hire deal my buddies took. Because there weren’t any investors to pay back, I could keep all my cash and stock, an eight-figure payout.
Emily finished her plate. “I should get to work. The spa’s been busy lately. I have three massages this afternoon. Are you eating dinner at our house again?”
“Thanks, no. Now that I know what that growly noise does, I’m giving you guys some space.” I gave her a playful punch in the arm. “It’s fine. I need to figure out how to feed myself anyway. My meal service in Seattle was top-notch, another reason to go back. I never needed to cook there. I can’t eat at you and Finn’s house or Mom and Dad’s all the time. It’s a problem I need to solve.”
“You could learn to cook.” She cocked her head to the side. “Or hire a personal chef. Someone to make a few meals each week and leave them in your fridge. They could even follow your workout diet.”
“I’m not on a workout diet. I’m on an I-don’t-cook diet.”
“A personal chef can solve that problem. Put some of your money where your mouth is, literally.”
“Okay, Miss Helpful, do you know anyone good?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
4
LUCAS
I triedto run three times a week and lift weights on other days. Running cleared my head and loosened some of the tension in my shoulders from hunching over my father’s giant walnut desk that Finn and I now shared. Fortunately, and unfortunately, our shared office was right down the hall from the room where the Friday farm meals were served.
Two weeks later, another meal was served by the same chef who brought the roast beef. The savory smell of tomatoes and garlic assaulted my nose, and my stomach rumbled as I sat in my chair. I had no doubt the food would taste great. I’d sampled a few delicious leftovers last time, but we had to stick to healthy eating everywhere. Dad’s recovery was too important.
The farm meals were a long-standing tradition started by my grandmother in the sixties as an effort to build community for the migrant workers away from their families. She always said eating together was important because it built relationships.
Without the migrant workers, this farm and many others would never have survived. These days, this area grows so many different crops that there’s year-round work, and most workers with their families are local, making these meals just a perk now.
The salad I grabbed from Mom’s fridge after my lunchtime run wasn’t cutting it. I was effing hungry. I loved food, and I loved to eat. Maybe I did need a personal chef.
Emily popped in and planted a kiss on my brother’s lips, their happiness annoying me. I was definitely hangry. So hungry I was angry.
“It’s chicken parm today,” she said to Finn. “It’s so good, and the chicken is sautéed with a light crust. You don’t miss the deep-fried version. Go easy on the pasta, and this dish is healthy enough for your dad. You should have some before it’s gone.”
The unmistakable sound of my mom’s footsteps echoed down the hall. “Lucas! The almond cake! Jo brought the almond cake,” she said as she rushed in.
My Italian mother was enthusiastic about many things, food in particular. My favorite restaurant in Seattle had an almond cake on their menu last year. With Chantilly cream and fresh berries or a drizzle of dark chocolate sauce with cinnamon, it was phenomenal. Simple yet sophisticated, and my whole family loved it. I had brought one to Mother’s Day dinner last year and tried to bring one home with me every time since.
Then around Thanksgiving, the restaurant stopped making it and many other favorite items. I loved that food. I asked the chef about the cake once. He said the new pastry chef went in a different direction. I almost cried.
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
“Here, I brought you some. I’m telling you it’s the almond cake.”
The sweet and lightly spiced almond aroma hit my nose, and my mouth watered. With the first bite, I closed my eyes to enjoy the familiar sweet and buttery taste.
“Who made this?” I asked.
“Jo, the chef who made lunch.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the big room,” Mom said.
