THANKS for the tip about the bakery!
The text from Luke flared to life on Simon’s phone. He fumbled a bit and then typed back, Did you like it?
Delicious. Tristan’s your brother?
Well, the cat was out of the bag on that one. God, he hoped Tristan had at least washed his face before Luke arrived.
Yeah. He’s a really great guy. Had a run of bad luck but he’s come back strong.
I heard about the fire. Crazy. Glad he’s back on his feet. Sounds like he deserves a little good luck.
Simon smiled at the phone. Yes, Tristan did deserve a little good luck. And if that good luck included a boyfriend who could, for example, afford to live off his own means instead of his sister’s, well, Simon wasn’t going to be obviously delighted about it, just privately delighted.
His guy seems good, Luke texted.
Agh. Simon slid down in his office chair and let his head come to rest on his paperwork.
He was there helping him out.
Simon frowned. Jake? Dark hair, scowls a lot?
That’s the one. Never saw a bakery with a bouncer before.
Well, okay. Simon did have to give Jake that. Glad to hear he was pitching in. Guy’s a bit of a deadbeat.
Tristan said you didn’t like him.
Simon groaned.
Got to run. Got a riding lesson. Haven’t been on a horse in years. Pray for me.
Simon laughed faintly and then turned off his phone and bit back a sigh. It was Monday morning, and Simon was in his office. Officially he was working, but in reality, he was staring out the window. The lake lay like a blue satin cloth in the bosom of the county’s green farmland, and with his window cracked open just a hair, he could hear the people at the public beach—yelling, talking, and laughing, and the distant splash of someone running or jumping into the water.
It must be nice to be at the lake, he thought as he stared through the little window. July had vanished, and August was running away. The little office was humid and small and dark and cramped. The tiny fan that rattled away on Simon’s desk seemed to just push the sluggish hot air around. He couldn’t help thinking that it, kind of like Simon, seemed to be doing far too much work for way too little result.
Outside his window the lake was expansive, beautiful to look at, and must be fresh and cold. It had been so many years since he’d gone there in summer. Maybe he could take Luke to the little boat launch where he loved to swim as a kid. The water there was clear and shallow and warmed fast in the summer heat. It was the perfect swimming spot, especially since it was so little used, and it would be a wonderful way to pass an afternoon.
But there was still Luminara to get through, and after Luminara, there were weddings on the horizon. And how long was Luke staying, anyway? According to the guest register that Simon had definitely snooped on, the Mazurek-Doren reservation was for a week, so he assumed that meant about the same for Luke. And the weddings were one each weekend until the end of September. The hotel would be chock-full of guests, and he would have to plan special wedding menus. By then Luke would certainly be gone. He groaned.
“Simon?” Mark poked his head into Simon’s office. “Oh, it’s like that, huh?”
Simon raised his head and worked up a smile for Mark. “Nah, it’s fine. Just feeling sorry for myself. Ignore me.” Simon looked back at his computer. Right. He’d been looking at the logistics of getting a herd of dairy cattle so they could have more control over what was on the menu. It should have been reasonably easy, considering they had already navigated legislation around purchasing a beef herd, and that part involved transporting animals in from another state. It just meant all different legislation, the purchase of a ton more equipment, building a dairy parlor, and finding a dairy herdsman or woman willing to move out to Lake Balmoral to take the job. Sure, a cinch.
“Working on the cows?” Mark asked.
Simon nodded. He peered across the paperwork and met Mark’s eyes. “This might be too over the top even for us, Mark.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Mark said mildly. He knocked on the doorframe—shave and a haircut… two bits. “Anyway, it’s dinnertime.” Mark smiled, and his gray eyes crinkled at the corners. “Dry run night.”
Simon couldn’t help but grin back. “You’re pleased.”
“Jenny did the whole thing. It looks fantastic.”
“She’s got the makings of a great chef,” Simon told him as he got to his feet.
“I think so too,” Mark agreed.
He followed Mark out of the office, down the long service hall, through the kitchens, and out into the sun.
It was four in the afternoon. Dinner service at the brasserie started at five thirty and went to eleven, but everyone assembled early for their shift. A common practice in good restaurants, it was the tradition that all staff members arrived an hour before service and ate a meal together. Back in the eighties, when money was tight and credit scarce, it had been his family’s way of seeing that everyone who worked for them got at least one meal they didn’t need to sweat over, but it had turned out to be invaluable for team building and camaraderie, and when Simon took over the business, he kept the ritual.
Today Jenny and Mark had decided to serve outside. A hotel guest looking out the right window would have seen a long table draped in white linen and set for twenty-two, flanked by folding chairs and shaded by the walnut trees that ran to the edge of Lakeview Drive. Anya, their dining experience coordinator, had brought in handfuls of tall golden wild wheat, shaggy-headed wild oats, and baby blue cornflowers and bachelor’s buttons and put them by the handful into mason jars, and Hiro had provided a bottle of wine for every four people. They stood open and breathing on the shady parts of the table. Already the staff were assembling, seating themselves in their customary positions—servers with servers, chefs with chefs, and managers with managers. The air was full of good-natured teasing and name-calling, questions about the new menu, and laughter. They were pouring water, juice, or small glasses of the new wine and talking about the upcoming service.
As he passed the table, staff members glanced up at him and smiled, waved, or said hello. Whatever problems the staff might have had with the management, however much they might get on one another’s nerves, there was an unspoken rule about dinner before service—it was friendly. No serious business was ever discussed. And if those rules were ever broken, Simon could be sure there would be a staffing change on the horizon, not because he would fire someone for bad conduct at staff dinner, but because anyone who couldn’t be friendly at dinner would be hard to work with later. Harmony among the staff mattered just as much as quality ingredients and Mark’s careful perfection in the kitchen.
Simon took himself to his customary spot toward the end of the table. Mark always sat at the head with Jenny on his right and Simon on his left. There was a sort of medieval hierarchy about the way they sat, but he wasn’t sure if anybody else noticed. Mark was already looking down the table at the evening’s offerings, nodding to himself. He seemed pleased with the fare on display.
Ginger held a glass of white wine in one hand as she talked to David about the upcoming events calendar and wrangled the best wine list for the Luminara menu. David would be gone before the event, and it would be up to Ginger to manage the whole thing. It would be her first event as head of beverage, and the biggest event of the year, barring Christmas parties. Simon gave her a smile that was meant to convey his complete confidence in her, but he tried not to think about it. Hiro grinned up as Simon came over to his usual seat.
Hiro had been at the brasserie for almost as long as Simon. He’d started as a dishwasher and worked his way into service, finally taking a year’s leave of absence to do his sommelier training. He returned with a rock-solid palate and a nose for what was up and coming in the wine world. There was something about Hiro that made Simon feel less anxious, as though his very presence and the continuity he represented were enough to ground Simon in the now and prevent him from worrying about the future.
Jenny, Mark’s sous, was unashamedly assessing Hiro. Like most of the really good chefs Simon had known throughout his life, Jenny decided what she wanted early on and then moved heaven and earth to get it. She was a kind and friendly woman in her twenties, and she had a backbone made of iron and was a force of nature when she had to be. There was a rumor in the kitchen that she had once broken the nose of a would-be mugger with her knife case while she was in culinary school, and Simon didn’t doubt it.
He had seen any number of in-house romances, and he was nearing 90 percent certain that Jenny was going to make a move on Hiro any day. Simon had never known Jenny to fail to get anything she went after—her job, the house she’d recently purchased, even the scholarship she won to complete her Red Seal and move into the kitchen. Simon would have to organize someone to cover when the two of them were on their honeymoon, but hopefully that wouldn’t happen until next spring or later.
Simon envied the two of them for a brief moment. Ever since his father died, he’d known the direction his life would take. But he hadn’t imagined how exhausting and all-consuming it would be to run the restaurant and the hotel. He found more and more that the years were running together, and more and more of the long-term staff were pairing off and starting families. Some, like Jack Peterson, who was sitting at the far end of the table near Sophie Ng, had gone on to start their own businesses in neighboring towns, though they made themselves available when people were sick, or on vacation.
He envied those people. He had never been able to divide his loyalty between his work and his love life. For the first few years in management, he tried to have it all, but those relationships had fizzled out, or like the one with Rebecca Bradford, blown up like pouring water on a grease fire. He consoled himself with the old adages—that people in food service were really married to their jobs, that those who weren’t were few and far between, and that he simply hadn’t found the woman who would tolerate his passion for his work.
Down the table, Hiro poured out some wine for Alejandro. Sam, the new dishwasher who had appeared at the back door like a stray cat and somehow wound up on staff, lifted his glass to get some too. The kid had gumption. He’d do well in the kitchen. But kid was the operative word. Simon sat forward. “Sam, how old are you?”
Sam ducked his head so all anyone could see was his curling brown hair. He put his glass down, and Ginger elbowed him in the ribs. “Hey, don’t jerk around about that,” she said. “You’ll get us all in trouble. Marcus? Pass the cranberry and soda.” Marcus, the roundsman, handed down the pitcher, and Ginger poured for Sam.
“How old are you?” Hiro asked.
“Twenty till December,” Sam admitted.
Hiro scowled. “How come everyone under thirty looks the same age?”
“Because you’re getting old,” Jenny teased, and Hiro groaned.
“Somebody mark it on the calendar,” Mark said, “so we can celebrate when Sam hits drinking age. Until then, everybody watch what he’s got in his glass.”
“Yes, Chef!” the table yelled good-naturedly.
Sam looked like he was trying to sink under the table. Simon grinned at him and then turned his attention to Mark. “Ready to eat?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
Mark had overseen the first run of all the items on the menu and pronounced it good. Around them, the last of the staff took their seats, and Simon looked on. Here were his work family, his friends, his colleagues. Here was everything in his life that he didn’t have an immediate blood tie to. Here was the labor of his life, and even if it precluded a family of his own, it was his, and it was good. He smiled at them.
“New menu tonight,” he told the table. “Looks amazing, Mark,” he added. “Everybody tuck in.”
There were hand-milled sourdough rye buns from Tristan and salads of nasturtium flowers and fresh, sliced figs. There were joints of tender lamb and slices of cold artichoke, wild duck studded with gems of brilliant apricot, pizzas with Osman’s spiced sausage, and smoked grapes stuffed with fresh white cheese. There were perfect raspberries served just as they had grown, still on the cane, and candied black walnuts from the trees that cast the shade above them. They ate their fill and talked about the day’s news and the upcoming service and Luminara, and the air was filled with a buzz of conversation and of laughter.
Simon couldn’t help thinking of his father, so long dead now, who had set out to build a restaurant and wanted a big family. He had managed to have both those things, and Simon couldn’t help feeling that, in spite of all his efforts, he was still only half the man his father had been.