Chapter 21
At Mon Rêve, the disheveled guy in the denim shirt seated near the window caught Sake’s eye. He held up his coffee mug in that universal signal that every waitress knew.
Seriously? He really expected her to lug the pot over to him, pour him a refill? Cater to him?
She wished she were back in the kitchen. With baking, all you had to contend with were non-human factors such as ingredients, equipment, temperature, and so on. But the morning rush was over and the lunch bunch hadn’t yet arrived. She was getting off early today. Mon Rêve was closing at noon for a private party, planned before she’d been hired. She supposed it wouldn’t kill her to powder one customer’s behind.
“You look like you just got off the last bus from the old school,” said Sake, filling his cup to the brim.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Somewhere, somebody spoiled you rotten.”
“Heh heh heh.” His grin was refreshingly normal, not professionally straightened and whitened like those of most of the other people she’d met lately. “You’re right. Somebody did. You new?”
“Been here about a week. Wait a minute.” Sake pointed at him. “You’re that guy.”
“What guy?”
“The one who nodded at me from his car on my first day of work.”
He took a better look at her. “I’ll be. I remember you. Where do you hail from?”
“The city. Don’t tell the boss,” she said, looking over her shoulder, “but I’m only here a couple of months, then I’m headed back.”
“What’s the matter? Fresh air and sunshine getting you down?”
She set the pot down on his table for a minute. “I’m ill-suited for country life. First thing I’m gonna do when I get back is go down to the Wharf and get me a smashed tsukune sandwich. Then I’m going to sit on a bench at Pier 33 with the tourists and eat it.”
“The Pan Grill makes the best sandwiches, don’t they?”
“You know the Pan Grill?” It thrilled her to have found a connection.
“I been around the block a time or two. Funny isn’t it? How the city is so close in terms of miles, yet so far away in atmosphere?”
“Hysterical. Do you live here now?”
He chuckled again in his gravelly voice. “Sometimes. What brings a dyed-in-the-wool city girl to wine country? Let me guess: a boy.”
The bell on the door clanged as a noisy knot of women entered the shop.
“It’s complicated,” said Sake, lifting her pot, turning away from him.
“It always is,” he muttered, blowing a ripple across the top of his hot coffee.
Sake led the newcomers to a four-top. “Here are your menus. Can I bring you some water while you’re deciding?”
Their inane chatter shut off like a faucet. Furtive, sidelong glances bounced around the table.
Sake lifted a brow. “Water?” she repeated.
“Excuse me—”
“Are you—?”
Two of the women spoke at once, collapsing into giggles.
“What’s your name?” demanded a third.
“Sake.”
Smugly, the woman said to her companions, “I told you that was her.”
Sake turned her back on their rude stares to fetch their drinks.
A careless whisper reached her ears: “What’s the daughter of Xavier St. Pierre doing waitressing?”
When she returned, the man was gone. But he’d left a twenty lying on the table, along with a note scribbled on the back of his check. For your tsukune sandwich. But don’t discount the country. It’s not all bad.
***
Sake was still trying to get over those fancy customers acting like she was a Kardashian or something—and thinking of how she could put a funny twist on the story to bring out Bill’s dimple—when she walked into Bill’s apartment to find him and his parents gathered around his kitchen table, along with a well-endowed brunette stuffed into a lab coat.
It was hard to tell who was more surprised: Sake or the others.
“I should have knocked.”
Their awkward silence confirmed it.
“I got off work an hour early, so I thought it’d be all right. . . . I’ll come back later,” she said, turning to go.
“Don’t go on my account,” said Party Boobs. She came around the table with a hand thrust toward Sake. “I’m Deborah Feinstein.”
“Doctor Feinstein,” corrected Bill’s mom.
Bill’s doctor made house calls? One thing for sure—Doc had a grip like iron.
“Mom and Dad just brought me a sandwich, and they brought Deb along,” Bill explained.
Deb? He called his doctor by her first name?
“I’d get up, but . . .” Bill smiled apologetically from his place at the table. His bad leg lay propped on an odd chair wedged between the others.
“It’s all good.” No, it wasn’t. Something was off, and it wasn’t just that there was no room at the table for Sake.
“Here, take my seat,” David rose.
“Go ahead.” She waved away his offer. “Finish your food.” Then she asked Deb, “Did you see Bill in the hospital?”
“I did,” said Deborah from back in her seat, munching French fries.
“Stopped by every morning, from the minute she heard he was a patient,” added Bill’s mom.
“I work mornings.” That’s it, Sake. Dazzle them with your wit.
David, still standing in deference to Sake, pushed his plate to the side, carving out an extra place.
“Dad, there’s an ottoman in the bedroom, if you wouldn’t mind.”
David returned with a padded, elongated cube.
Bill braced himself to lift his heavy cast. “I’ll use that. Give Sake this chair.”
“Stop!” Dr. Feinstein threw up a hand and rose halfway. “Any abrupt movement may compromise your deep fibular nerve,” she said, licking the salt from her lips. “You could end up with paralysis of the foot dorsiflexors and toe extensors. We don’t want you ending up with a steppage gait, do we?
Hells to the no! Anything but a steppage gait.
Sake ended up sitting on the ottoman. The cube was so low that her chest only came up to the table edge, so that everyone looked down on her.
“So, what do you do . . . ‘Sake,’ did you say your name was? I once drank some sake at a Chinese restaurant. I found it rather insipid. Flavorless.”
“It’s Japanese, and I’d be more than happy to introduce you to a sake that would kick your ass. Oh, and I work at a bakery.”
“I know all about food service. My cousin owns the Gold’s Bakery franchise in the Midwest,” said Deborah, sucking on her soda straw. “What’s your store called?”
“Mon Rêve.”
Deb smacked her lips, frowning. “Doesn’t Ernst Volant own that coffee shop?”
“It’s a patisserie. And I didn’t say I owned it. I said I worked there.”
“Back in med school, a bunch of us used to study at this one hangout. Sometimes, when I was exhausted from coming off a double and still had studying to do for a crucial exam, I used to think about chucking it all, doing something mindless—like waitressing.”
Everyone stared at Deb.
“I’m kidding,” she said, holding out her hands.
Nobody laughed.
Sake stood up. “Look—I’m going to, um, take off, okay?” she said, directing her comment at Bill. “Don’t have much of an appetite. I only stopped to see if there was any sign of Taylor.”
“I called for her earlier today, but . . .” Bill’s face filled with regret.
Sake swallowed her disappointment. “Should have known it was too much to hope for.”
That evening, Sake’s phone rang.
“Sorry about today,” said Bill.
“I got used to not knocking, those days when you were in the hospital and I came over to look for Taylor. Never thought I’d walk in on a ‘doctor’s appointment.’”
“Yeah . . . about that.”
“Dr. Deb’s not your doctor doctor, is she?”
“Not exactly.”
“S’okay,” she said, forcing herself to act more mature than she felt. “It’s not like you didn’t warn me.”
Sitting cross-legged in the center of her California king bed centered in the spacious guest room, Sake felt very small. Grateful that at least Bill couldn’t see her face, she concentrated hard on the décor: the curved lines of the matching chests of drawers, the spot on the carpet where the silk drapes puddled, the vase stuffed with pink peonies that dominated her nightstand.
“Besides, it’s not like I’ma be around much longer anyway. Only four more weeks.”
“Forget what I said before. It’s a whole new ball game since the wreck. I’m no good to anyone in my condition. I’ve got to put all my energy into getting better.”
What had she expected? For Bill to tell her that he’d been wrong before—he wasn’t interested in anyone else? There she went again, raising her hopes too high.
“You got a way with words, Bill Diamond.” She sniffed away a laugh. “You always know just what to say to smooth things over.” To leave his options open. He was a salesman, after all.
Sake hit end, lowering her phone.
When would she ever learn? The only person she could count on was herself.
Over on the bureau, the borrowed iPad caught her eye. She walked over and retrieved it. And started looking up the requirements to get into the CIA.
A high school diploma or its equivalent; proof of six months of employment at a non-fast food restaurant with a professional kitchen; letter of recommendation.
She could ask Teeny to write her a letter vouching for the time she’d put in a Bunz. It probably wouldn’t do any good, but she could ask.
And then this caught her eye:
So Think You Can Bake? The CIA Wants You! Show us how you spread the love with your own cake recipe and decorating skills. CIA will waive admission requirements for one lucky baker. The winner will be admitted to the fall semester of the CIA with a one-semester scholarship. Rules: Bring four-dozen cupcakes to the CIA on the day of the event between 1:00 and 4:00 p.m. Entries will be judged based on taste, presentation, and originality. Cupcakes will be sold to benefit the local food bank.