Sugar: A Novel Part 8

"Wow," I said, and the word was carried by the breeze and out to the expanse beyond us. Kai had led us to a gra.s.sy oval clearing perched on the side of a cliff. The Pacific Ocean unfolded like a handful of diamonds below us. A teasing, warm breeze tugged at my hair, sending shivers along my scalp and bringing with it the perfect and ancient smell of sand and sea. I drank in the panorama, the moving silver ribbons of water, the regal moon, the stars playing hide-and-seek with wispy clouds.

Kai said nothing and set the picnic basket down onto the gra.s.s.

We watched in silence as the moonlight danced on the slow waves, winking and gasping with each crest before tumbling onto the rocky beach below. I must have stood there longer than I realized because when I turned, Kai had lit three small lanterns and had shelved them among the rocks that formed a curve around the picnic spot. He was shaking out a blanket, and I stepped forward to help. We let it fall onto the gra.s.s, and I smoothed the fabric with one hand, making sure the front was parallel with the edge of the cliff.

I looked up. Kai had stopped moving and was standing still with several covered dishes in his arms. He looked as though he were trying very hard not to laugh.

"What?" I kept both hands on the blanket, pulling it taut to keep it wrinkle-free.

"Blanket okay? Should I go get a level?"

I pursed my lips but kept my hands on the ground. "I like symmetry. And clean lines. And, um, perfect stuff."

His laugh rolled like an undulating wave. Dropping to his knees, he set the dishes carefully on the blanket. "The world must be a rough place for you, then, Miss Garrett. I'm sure it doesn't always follow your rules."

"Oh, with enough persistence, things usually work out in my favor," I said, distracted by the smells coming up from the plates he was uncovering.

He shook his head and handed me a package wrapped in foil. "I'm pretty sure my asymmetrical knife work will offend your moral sensibilities, but try not to think too much about it. We have fresh mozz, heirloom tomatoes, basil, and a sprinkling of goat cheese on your panini. It was warm at one point this evening, but the flavors only get better as you let them moosh."

"Moosh?" My stomach rumbled as I unwrapped the sandwich. "Sounds technical." I stopped talking because my first bite demanded a respectful silence. The crunch of crispy exterior gave way to an extroverted, summery flavor: notes of salt and a splash of bright tomato, still-warm mozzarella ... I heard a sigh escape my lips and saw Kai thoroughly enjoying my enjoyment. "This," I said, mouth still full, "is perfect."

His eyes widened around his own bite of panini. Blotting his chin with a napkin, he said, "Good. That's what I was aiming for." He pointed to a collection of plastic containers. "After you've regained your composure, we also have my grandmother's famous new potato salad with bacon and cider vinaigrette, sliced mango and strawberries, and a triple-layer chocolate cake for dessert."

"All right, what's the catch?" I speared a slice of mango with my fork. "Do you live with your mother?"

"Not for the last sixteen years."

"Have you ever filed for bankruptcy?"

"Nope."

"All right, then," I said, undeterred. "Then you have a fetish. Something bizarre and off-putting that has frightened off all sorts of well-fed women before me. What is it?" I pointed my plastic fork at his chest. "Feet? Power tools? Chipmunks?"

Kai had stopped chewing and stared at a point just above my head. When he finally spoke, I could tell he had to make an effort to piece together his thoughts. "You know, I have heard the dating scene in New York is rough, but what kind of men have you had to wade through, Charlie?"

I giggled into my potato salad. "The chipmunks were only rumors, but feet and power tools showed up on my online dating suggestion feed." I stopped talking, horrified. What was with all the honesty? I just met this man, and he had me confessing to online dating profiles? Where is your dignity, woman?

Kai tore a bite of his panini with his hands. "I'm going to forego the chance to mock you mercilessly about online dating and just move on to asking you the same question. What gives? You're smart, funny, attractive, and while you appear to have nearly debilitating perfectionist tendencies, you know your way around the kitchen. According to the law of averages, you could have been married to an eager Mormon dude by the age of nineteen, and any other red-blooded American male by twenty-five."

I screwed up my face. "Am I to respond in grat.i.tude for those words or should I shove you off the cliff? I'm really at war with myself on those two options."

Kai lobbed a generous piece of chocolate cake onto my plate and handed me a fresh fork. "Even we lowly short-order cooks know to offer a clean fork for dessert. Be nice." He nodded to my plate, and I saw a ripple of tension in his jaw. He wants me to like the cake. d.a.m.n. It was going so well, and now I was going to have to lie.

I smiled at him, steeling myself for my most impressive falsehood. Manda always said I was an abysmal liar, and I hoped to heaven the darkness of the night would at least salvage a bit of the man's pride.

I pushed my fork through the top layer of creamy frosting, then all three layers of the cake. Keeping my eyes down, I put the fork to my mouth. He'd used good chocolate, I knew, and after a moment, I picked up a note of coffee, which only intensified the flavor of the chocolate. The frosting was decadent and smooth, but not cloying. In fact, the entire bite struck the precise balance of sa.s.s and sweet.

I looked up at Kai, who was trying to look busy cleaning up our dishes. "This cake is so, so good. It's just the right kind of good." I took another bite and Kai waited, his hands still now. "I know what it is," I said after another swallow. "This cake reminds me of something. Not even something specific, but something ... homey. And real. And good."

I stopped talking, hit with a sudden and unwelcome embarra.s.sment. I was pretty sure I'd crossed the line from compliment giver to creepy gusher. "Sorry," I muttered. "I think I overused the word good a bit there. Not the most helpful adjective."

Kai shook his head slowly, his attention solely on my face. "I think goodness is entirely underrated." The lamplight from the lanterns danced in his eyes. "Glad you like my cake. I have to tell you there was some pressure trying to make a cake that would impress a fancy pastry chef."

I smiled, feeling myself lean slightly toward him. "Thank you for baking it for me. And for making me dinner." I c.o.c.ked my head to one side. "I've eaten some pretty amazing meals in the last few years, but I don't remember ever being this ... satisfied." I was speaking quietly now, trying very hard to remember not to stare at Kai's lips. "Your food satisfies. It's like a visit to a small town park. Or a knockout sunset. Or the feeling after going for a run in a summer rainstorm. Or-"

"Charlie." Kai interrupted me, apparently feeling no such compulsion to avoid looking at people's lips. "Very poetic. But please stop talking."

His kiss, I was pleased to note, was a lot like his chocolate cake. Sweet with a little sa.s.s, and absolutely the best reason I'd ever had to shut up.

11.

I inhaled, breathing in the piquant scents of salt and earth and pine trees. I was momentarily confused. Where was I? Reality set in when I felt a pinecone tangled up in my hair. Cool, damp air had settled into the s.p.a.ce around me, and I could feel my clothes clinging to me in a decidedly not-indoor way. I bolted upright and saw Kai to my right, rustling but still asleep. At first glance, a pa.s.serby would think we were formerly wealthy homeless people, maybe victims of the dot-com bust. I still wore the cropped jacket, embroidered tank, and tailored jeans from the night before, though I'd shed my Toms at some point, probably after the chocolate cake and before the milky gray dawn arrived. Kai lay on his side, sandy curls running amok on his forehead, one arm cradling his head as a makeshift pillow. The lanterns had sputtered out long ago, and because of the clouds above and the quiet around us, I had no earthly idea of the actual time.

Trying not to wake Kai, I fumbled under the picnic blanket for my phone, wishing I hadn't scoffed at that beeping locator keychain my mother had given me one Christmas. Just before I went into full-blown panic, I found the phone, nestled right where the small of my back had just rested. The tender ache now explained, I opened the home screen and gasped in horror: 8:16. I had planned on starting my morning inventory at Thrill no later than 7:00.

I scrambled to a seated position, my mind racing. My shoes were damp with dew, making it hard to get them on. I was pointing my toes and wiggling in a bizarre lower body shimmy when I realized Kai was propped on one elbow and staring at me. An impressive cowlick spiked a curl above his left eyebrow.

"Headed out?" he asked, amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes.

"It's so late," I said, breathless but finally victorious with the shoes. "I should have been at work over an hour ago. You, too!" I said, my anxiety suddenly doubling. "It's after eight! People are probably lined up outside Howie's, and you're not there!"

"Hold on there, tiger," Kai said, covering a yawn. "Sunshine is opening up this morning with my sub cook, Hugh. They'll be fine."

I was incredulous. "You have a sub cook? But you own the restaurant. How do you know he'll do things right? What does he know about your grandma's pancakes?"

Kai watched me as I circled our little clearing to gather our mess. "Hugh is a very capable cook. I trust him. And my grandma's pancakes aren't exactly rocket science." He reached over to still my hands as I started to stack our dishes from the night before. "Hey, take a deep breath. It's still early in the day, right? You've got plenty of time to make up for a late start."

I stopped and considered his advice. He might be right-in fact he probably was right, but nope, I couldn't go there. I tried taking a few deep breaths, but it felt like cheating. I quickly resumed my real-life shallow breathing.

"So, we must have fallen asleep," Kai said, his eyes sparking with mischief.

I shook my head, a smile creeping into my voice. "I guess so. The last thing I remember is laughing at your lame Trivial Pursuit story-"

"That is a very interesting story," he said, all seriousness.

"Please never, ever tell it again. Apparently it induces a deep, coma-like sleep in hapless victims." I leaned over and kissed him lightly on the mouth, but he tugged me toward him and made me linger for more.

"I have to go," I said in my kitchen voice when I pulled away.

He laughed, typically a response I did not receive when I used The Kitchen Voice. "So you've said. Just five more minutes? I'll sprint with you back to your apartment."

I shook my head and flicked a series of leaves off my jeans. "Sorry. I can't. I'm freaking out right now and I have to go."

"Hey, they can wait." He tried pulling me to him, but I pushed back, feeling a chip descend on my shoulder.

"No, I can't. I'm the new girl. Remember? I still have a lot to prove, and I don't want to set a bad example." And what I do is a little more complicated than frying eggs and flipping burgers, I thought, but did not say.

"Got it." He stood and gathered the corners of the blanket. "How about dinner on your next night off? Indoors, with plumbing and everything."

"I would love to," I said, already backing away. "But I feel like I'm forgetting something. Now that we have the TV deal at Thrill-"

"Whoa, what?" Kai sounded fully awake. "What TV deal? You're doing a TV gig at work? How did you not mention this last night?"

"I probably tried but I couldn't bear to interrupt you when you got to the part about the Genus IV edition, and whether or not the geography questions are truly worthy of Trivial Pursuit." I laughed when I saw him roll his eyes. "Call me," I called as I grabbed my bag and booked it up the hill toward a quick hot shower before a day in the kitchen.

"Soon!" I added and smiled in spite of myself.

I arrived, wet-haired but tidy, at half past nine, a perfectly respectable start time for a pastry chef, but not close to my ideal. Barely pausing to hang my coat, I plunged into the walk-in refrigerator, clipboard at the ready. The chill felt good after all my rushing around, and I noted with pleasure all the neat rows of clear containers, each emblazoned with a stripe of yellow painter's tape. Most of the handwriting was my own, indicating the ingredient, the amount, and the date and time it was stored. I noticed some loopy cursive in there, however, and I dropped to my knees to inspect Tova's work. My nose wrinkled at an illegible weight of rendered lard, not because of the idea of pig fat but because Tova's handwriting was cute and messy. If she started dotting her i's with little hearts ...

The sealed door of the walk-in broke open with a flourish and I jumped, juggling with both hands to avoid dropping the lard. Avery strode in, took the container out of my hands, and placed it onto the wrong shelf.

He faced me. "Are you ready?" The drama in his voice sounded like something on a luxury car commercial.

"Probably," I said, not in the mood for games. "What are you talking about?" I tried turning back to my clipboard, but he held me by the shoulders.

"I just talked with Production," he said in a hushed, reverent tone. "Today is the day. They're going to film you during service."

"What?" I said, immediately panicked. "No! I mean, they can't. Margot said my first taping wouldn't be until next week at the earliest."

Avery shook his head slowly and tightened the grip on my shoulders. "Not anymore. We are flexible. We are going with the flow. We are totally chill."

I wriggled out of his grasp. "Actually, I am very inflexible, as a rule. I hate going with flows." I started to pace, which was markedly unsatisfying in such a cramped s.p.a.ce. "I'm already late with my prep for tonight's service, and plus, I need time before I'm being filmed. Time to figure out how to be on camera, how to act, what to say, how to do all the fake smiling stuff and cook at the same time. I need to make index cards, Avery. I need to watch Rachael Ray. I need more time!"

His nod turned quickly into a shake of the head. "Right. And no. You don't need any time. You're going to be great. Don't worry." He took me by the hand and steered us toward the door. "The crew is waiting."

I tugged my clipboard off the shelf as he bullied me toward the door. "I have to finish inventory."

"Someone else will do that. Tova!" Avery called, hustling us out of the walk-in and toward the front of the house.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the stainless steel of a cook top. "My hair's wet! And I have no makeup on today!" The whole sleep-under-the-stars thing was turning out to be less and less of a brilliant idea, though I felt my skin p.r.i.c.kle with the thought of Kai's mouth on mine.

I had no time to linger on that thought, because Avery swept me into the main house. We stopped to take in the transformation. A swarm of people in artsy gla.s.ses and variations of black V-necks scurried around the room, setting up lighting, cameras, and backdrops. Vic and Margot noticed our arrival and nodded, but continued in what appeared to be a very focused conversation.

A curvy young woman in cropped hair dyed an unnatural, spiky white approached with an inquisitive stare. "Charlie?" she said. When I nodded, she held out her hand. "I'm Lolo. I'll be taking care of your hair and makeup."

"See?" Avery nudged me in the side. He appeared to be trying on a seductive voice for size. "Lolo here is a master, I'm sure of it. Charlie will be in great hands, right, Lo?"

Lolo looked at Avery for a moment, not unlike a zoo patron would take in the curiosities of the komodo dragon exhibit. Without a word, she turned and made her way to a makeup chair and mirror while dodging a crew of men taping cords onto the floor.

Avery nudged me, and I tripped over my Crocs as I followed. I sat gingerly in Lolo's chair. She put both hands on my shoulders and locked eyes with me in the mirror.

"You're freaking out, aren't you?"

I sighed. "I hate TV. I thought I was going to have this weekend to prepare, watch a few episodes of some horrible reality show, and go over the shooting schedule. I have severe stomach cramps right now, which can only mean loose stools, and this is happening when I should be prepping for tonight's service." Seeing the look on Lolo's face, I added, "Sorry. Too much information."

Lolo nodded. "Probably."

I continued my rant. "Exactly! I don't know how to do this. I'm talking about my bowels and we just met. I should never, ever have my words recorded. And I don't know how to smile and cook and be nice to people when I'm working. And ..." I pointed to my head, "I don't have time to worry about hair and bronzers and eyeliner when I have to get ready to serve dessert to hundreds of people. And no matter what-this is non-negotiable-I will not show my naked body on camera."

Lolo had listened to my tirade without interrupting. When I finished, she reached for a comb and started pulling it through my hair. "Here's what you need to know about this whole thing. First, bronzer is so four years ago. Second, no one wants to see your groceries. It's just not that kind of show. So you can take a sigh of relief on that one."

I pulled my chef's coat more tightly around my chest and let out that sigh without shame.

"Third, that schmooze you were just talking to? What's his name?"

"Avery."

"Right. Maybe Avery gave you some bad intel. You're not supposed to be an actress. This is a reality show." She sprayed some misty stuff on her hands and ma.s.saged it into my hair. "That means you can't practice, and you can't try it out first, and you can't worry about doing it right. Because whatever you rehea.r.s.e beforehand will look forced and bizarre on camera."

I felt my shoulders relax a smidge. The head ma.s.sage wasn't hurting.

"So whatever Avery said, I would ignore." She lowered her voice. "This is the eighth time I've worked on a show with Vic and Margot. Some shows have been winners; some have been losers. I don't suppose you saw the first episode of Nailed? About the blind carpenter who owned a nudist ballet studio?"

I shook my head, dumbstruck.

"Ghastly. Only lasted two episodes past the pilot. Took them a long time to get over the scars of that one. So there definitely have been losers. But the winners all have one thing in common, other than perfect styling." She stood back to inspect a sleek twist she'd just pinned at the nape of my neck. "The winners," her eyes on mine, "were the real deal. No faking, no positioning, no begging people to like them. Just themselves-the good, bad, and woefully unattractive." She spun me around in the chair and handed me a mirror so I could see the back of my head. "Lucky for you, you're gorgeous and you have great bone structure. But beyond that, just be yourself. Try to forget anyone is even watching."

She shrugged.

I clenched both arms of her styling chair, waiting as her disciple for any other bits of sage advice. She offered just one more.

"And listen: no matter how bad you're feeling, never ever cry in front of Margot. On-camera crying is a gold mine for ratings. But off camera, she will stop listening and won't respect you again. She sees tears as weakness."

"That won't be an issue," I thought, relieved I could check one thing off my list. I hadn't cried in public since watching Where the Red Fern Grows during Mrs. Hoffman's end-of-year party in fourth grade. I'd been horrified then, and I remained horrified at the thought of letting all that emotion and control seep out of my eyeb.a.l.l.s. If Margot wanted no tears, no tears would I provide.

I held back a coughing fit as Lolo sprayed my hair with industrial-strength sh.e.l.lac. Just be yourself, I thought, as a man with remarkably neat eyebrows tsked and then attacked my face with a tackle box full of makeup.

Forget anyone is watching, I thought, as I reentered the pastry kitchen and watched the Hobart mixer work an oversized whisk into coffee b.u.t.tercream frosting.

"Forget anyone is watching," I muttered as I piped a border of whipped cream along the edge of a Key lime tart.

"No way," Tova said, and I looked up to see her directing a feline smile at one of the cameramen. Her black curls fell prettily under her chef's cap and shone under the lights. I noticed a carefully drawn bright red lip, jarringly glamorous against her plain white chef's coat. "Forget they're watching?" She batted curly eyelashes. "The watching is the best part."

I pushed a stack of dirty sheet pans into her muscled abdomen. "These need to be scrubbed, and the dishwashers are backed up. Go to it, sis."

She pushed her lips out in a sultry pout, eyes still on the cameraman. "What if I miss something good?"

Ignoring that concern, I narrowed my eyes at her. "Tova, where did you go to school? And where did you work before coming to Thrill?"

"Indian Paintbrush Community College. It was awesome and super cheap. And I worked at Spago before this."

I stood still, a sharp pulse of awe pushing aside the community college issue. "Spago? Wow. So you worked with Sherry Yard?"