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Walt’s face brightened, and he patted Casey’s hand. “Ah, but you mustn’t lose heart. I have some wonderful news.”
Casey narrowed his eyes. Walt’s wonderful news usually involved something else to do with this cockamamie idea of making Casey into a knock-off copy of his father. “Really?”
“Yes. Bradley Pillsbury has signed on as the silent partner. Furthermore, he’s pitching the idea to a number of other investors. He thinks the whole package—the kitchen and front of house upgrades, the curated prix fixe menus, and the story of how Donald Friel’s son is carrying on his father’s legacy will net us more than enough capital to complete the renovations and open a bistro at a second site in the Village.” He beamed at Casey. “What do you think?”
Casey stared at him, horror pooling like ice in his belly. “You didn’t invest money in this scheme, did you?”
“Of course I did. I’m completely confident of our success. And anyway, I was able to get a very favorable rate on the refinance of my Westchester house.”
Casey propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. “Uncle Walt. When it comes to money, you’re shrewder than this, way too shrewd to bet on something this chancy. You need to stop this. Now. Before it’s too late.”
“Don’t you worry. Things are already well on their way. Chez Donatien was always booked out weeks in advance, and its renaissance won’t be any different. You’ll see.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “It will be like he never left, like he’s still with us, every day.”
Oh, god, I hope not. “What I’ll see is you losing your money and your home if you don’t get a different chef.”
“Now, now.” He patted Casey’s shoulder. “You’ve got plenty of time to bring yourself up to speed. We don’t open until after Labor Day.”
“Labor Day?” Casey felt as though he were sinking through the sofa. “But it’s nearly June. That’s only three months.”
“Exactly! As I said, plenty of time.”
“Uncle, I really don’t think—”
“More on that in a moment.” He gave Casey a reproachful look. “I have a small bone to pick with you first.”
“As long as the bone isn’t in something I have to cook—since I’d be sure to incinerate it—hit me.”
Walt laughed again. “Nothing too dire. But Bradley told me you haven’t responded to his messages. You really should make time to go out with him, my boy.” He nudged Casey with an elbow. “You’d make a lovely couple.”
Casey blinked. Was that why Bradley kept calling and asking Casey to meet him at various upscale restaurants around town? Casey had assumed it was just to show him the competition in a misguided attempt to inspire him to work harder. “Are you trying to set me up?”
“Why not? I only want you to be happy. Settled. Secure. Bradley’s handsome. Maybe a bit older than you, but six years is nothing these days. He’s got money, influence, connections.”
Yeah, and he never lets anyone forget it. The one time Casey had met Bradley without Uncle Walt in tow, he’d seemed more focused on displaying his wealth and power than in anything Casey had to say—which was why Casey assumed it was a business-related snow job. If Bradley was trying to hit on him, he had to seriously work on his seduction technique.
“I don’t think we’re really that compatible.”
“Nonsense, nonsense. You just need to get to know him a little better. The two of you could be the next power couple to conquer the international food scene.”
“International?” Casey squeaked. “I can’t even conquer my own kitchen.”
Walt’s indulgent smile was tinged with triumph. “And that’s my other news.” He leaned over and snagged his raincoat from the ladder-back chair next to Casey’s drop-leaf table—which was easy for him to do, since nothing in Casey’s living room was more than an arms-length from anything else. “Those culinary schools were obviously not a good fit for you. Your goal is to recapture the magic of your father’s food, and to do that, you need one-on-one attention and a curriculum that’s centered around the Chez Donatien menu.” He extracted a glossy brochure out of the coat’s inner pocket. “Do you remember Sylvia Grande?”
Casey frowned, racking his brain. “Oh, yeah. I think I met her at one of Dad’s birthday bashes when I was a kid. She had that cooking show, Grande Style, right? It went off the air when I was still in high school. Some kind of scandal, wasn’t there?”
Walt cleared his throat. “Nothing criminal. She had a small problem with alcohol. But that’s all in the past. She runs her own cooking school up in Vermont now.” He handed Casey the brochure, which featured a white clapboard building nestled amid a stand of leafy trees. The words splashed across the top read Summer Kitchen, and along the bottom, Culinary instruction by legendary chef Sylvia Grande.
Numbly, Casey unfolded the brochure, revealing a photo spread of the kitchen-slash-classroom, a street view of a picturesque town, and—the most terrifying part—pictures of exactly the kind of elaborate food that Casey had spent the last few months failing to master.
“Uncle Walt, I’m not sure—”
“It’s a summer program, so it’s perfect for our timeline. The students all reside in a big house right next to the classroom.”
Casey bit his lip, glancing down at the brochure again. A summer spent in—he squinted at the fine print—Home, Vermont? Summer Kitchen’s surroundings looked lovely, and while Casey would be spending most of his time in the classroom, it had to be better than sweltering in his own kitchen until September, right?
Sylvia Grande had been a wonderful chef, by all Casey had ever heard. Even his father had praised her. Maybe she really could whip him into shape, if only so he could supervise the restaurant—he was almost an MBA, after all; he had management skills, just zero cooking ability—and leave the actual food preparation to the sous chef and line cooks.
He owed it to Uncle Walt to at least give it a try, since he was betting everything—including his home—on Casey coming up to scratch. Plus, bonus: Bradley wouldn’t be there, so he’d have at least three months free of Walt’s clumsy matchmaking attempts.
