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Sarah started to walk through the swinging door to the dining room, but a funny gasp and a thump made her stop and turn around. In the office, Emile swayed and slid out of the desk chair, his face gray.
“Grandpa?” Sarah rushed past Blake into the little room. The old man lay on the floor, one hand to his chest and a confused expression on his face. “Are you okay? What’s happening? Talk to me.”
Emile’s face was pale, and he sweated, breathing in fast, shallow gasps. Paisley hurried across the room and sank to the floor, taking his hand to feel for a pulse. Sarah knelt and tried to loosen his tight collar.
“Calling 9-1-1,” Blake said from right behind her, phone already in his hand. He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze then turned away and spoke into the receiver.
“Here, Grandpa, let’s use this for a pillow.” Paisley took off her cardigan, folded it, and put it beneath his head. She gently stroked his hair. Her eyes met those of Sarah, whose eyebrows were drawn together in a worried frown.
Sarah had a lump of fear in her throat, and her hands shook as she finally managed to open Emile’s collar. She had never seen anyone have a heart attack, but it seemed as though that might be happening.
The two sous chefs hovered in the doorway. Raoul twisted his starched toque in his hands. Behind them in the kitchen, salsa music blared until Blake found the sound controls and turned it off. He reappeared with a glass of water and a cool, moist towel, offering them to Sarah.
Supporting the old man’s head with one arm, Sarah offered him a sip. Paisley gently blotted his face. Then there was an unnatural quiet, filled only with the sound of shuffling feet and Emile’s labored breaths, which seemed to return to normal after a few minutes. His color looked a little better too. Sarah’s frantic sense of panic diminished. Whatever was wrong, it seemed to be passing.
Sarah held her grandfather’s hand. He looked around and blinked.
“Girls, am I lying on the floor?” he asked in a shaky voice.
“Yes, Grandpa.” Sarah squeezed his hand, but he didn’t squeeze back. “Are you in any pain? How do you feel?”
“How did I get down here?”
“I’m not sure, Grandpa. How are you? You don’t look so good.” Paisley stroked his forehead with the back of her hand.
“I think someone knocked me over. Did you hit me, sweetheart? I probably deserved it.” He looked at Paisley and crinkled his eyes.
She looked at him with love. “No, silly Grandpa. I would never hit you, no matter how much you deserved it.”
“Ha!” he said with a smile in his eyes.
Sarah heard a siren getting closer, and it stopped outside.
“They’re here.” Blake held the back door open, and two uniformed men rushed in with a gurney. Everyone stepped aside, and the EMTs checked Emile’s vital signs and hooked him up to a portable oxygen tank. One of the men spoke on a walkie-talkie to his supervisor at the hospital, then he turned to Paisley, asking for Emile’s identification and health insurance information.
“It looks like he may have had a heart attack or a mild stroke. Seems to be better now. The ER doctors will do some tests to find out. His vital signs are strong. Does he have any drug allergies? I’d like to give him some aspirin to prevent blood clots.” When Paisley and Sarah both agreed, he gave Emile the medication.
Paisley rode along in the ambulance, where Emile was already trying to sit up, protesting that he was fine and wanted to get back to work. She promised to keep in touch with Sarah, who said she had to meet Devon’s school bus in a few minutes.
When the ambulance doors closed, Blake put his arm around Sarah. She felt wobbly, and the friendly kiss he planted on the side of her head was comforting. With both hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward him.
“I’ll check in with you later for an update, and please call me if you need anything, for any reason. Okay?” Radiating warmth and reassurance, his eyes filled her view. “I mean it.”
“Thanks, Blake. That’s really sweet of you.”
“We’ll talk about the chocolate wedding later.”
“Okay, thanks for helping.” He’d been nice and supportive. It was a little unexpected, considering how he was frowning and pacing while she’d tried to find her notes.
When the back door slammed behind him, Sarah and the two sous chefs looked at each other in shock.
“What about dinner? Is she coming back?” Jerome’s eyes were wide and dramatic. “Who the hell is gonna cook, people?”
“What should we do? Should we close for the night?” Raoul had twisted his hat into a misshapen monster. He noticed and started trying to fluff it back into the proper shape.
Sarah raised one eyebrow. “You two can cook.” The manager in her was taking charge. The best thing for Emile would be to know that everything was under control.
“Us?” Raoul seemed surprised. “But we usually just prep and make the easy stuff.”
“Yeah, but we can cook, man, you know?” Jerome nodded. “It might be a little slow, but we could do it. ‘All for one and one for all,’ like the brother said.” He punched Raoul in the arm.
“Well, the baking is all done...” Raoul said. “We could probably do it.”
“Yeah, and we’ve got Freddy on the dishwasher and Leon busing, and they can both come in early to help us finish prepping, if you call them, man.” Jerome looked at Raoul’s cell phone and raised his eyebrows.
Raoul started to dial. “I’ll call my sister to come in too. She can plate the salads and desserts.”
“All right, then,” Sarah said. “See what you think about making the specials. If it’s too much, we’ll skip them. Let me know, and I’ll print out new menus off the computer. Business as usual, right, boys?” She projected an image of calm, cool collectedness, despite the burning in her belly.
“That’s what the boss would want us to do, I think.” Raoul’s words held an emotional quiver.
“You said it.” Jerome sounded determined. “I love that old man.”
“I’ve got to warn you,” Sarah said, “we’re booked solid through ten o’clock, and this place will be jammin’!” A sense of excitement started to take hold. She still worried about her grandfather, but the thought of making him proud became a powerful distraction.
“Well, bon appetit, baby!” Jerome said, batting his eyelashes and posing like a runway model.
“We’ve got it covered, girlfriend. You go play with your fancy napkins and such,” Raoul said, turning her toward the dining room and giving her a wave bye-bye.
Sarah ran to answer the telephone, which was ringing at the hostess station.
“Three Chocolatiers. I’m sorry, our tables are all booked, but you can sit at the bar if there’s a seat available. You’re welcome.” She hung up the phone, and a disturbing thought flitted through her mind.
What about the chocolate wedding? If Emile was laid up for any significant period of time, they could be in big trouble. There was no way Sarah could supervise the service and the food by herself, and Paisley would need to focus on the restaurant. Satisfying the esoteric culinary demands of these temperamental clients required Emile’s master touch. They would chop her up and sauté her for breakfast!
She didn’t know enough about cooking to answer their questions or to run the event at their remote location. In her prior life as an advertising executive, Sarah had been the client at catered dinners plenty of times, but those days were long gone. She could probably charm the clients and supervise the waitstaff, but without a chef to take care of the food, the picture looked bleak.
Putting Sarah in charge of a chocolate catering job was like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse. Her ability to remain logical in the midst of cocoa chaos was extremely questionable, as her friends and family knew. She started snacking and got revved up, and pretty soon everything went to hell. Totally inappropriate things came out of her mouth, some of them rather funny, and she got into all kinds of trouble. Her corporate management skills were of little use under the circumstances.
She freely admitted her chocolate addiction and the bizarre effect it had on her thinking and behavior. The only reason she could cope here at the restaurant was that her family and coworkers kept an eye on her. Once the dinner hour arrived, Sarah avoided temptation by staying out of the kitchen. No little bites of this and that, here and there. No dipping bits of French bread into the mole poblano sauce. She made a point of saving her chocolate indulgences until after closing, when she was allowed one or two desserts, at most. She negotiated with herself, every night.
Paisley told her cacao contained a chemical called theobromine, a word derived from the Greek for “food of the gods.” It affected most people similarly to caffeine, but Sarah knew others had a special sensitivity to it too. Many of the restaurant’s customers agreed that the experience of eating chocolate was similar to that of sexual pleasure. The food of love.
No wonder Sarah was hooked.
The image of her grandfather lying on the gurney, pale and confused, returned to her mind. She hoped he would be home in a few days and back to normal. If not, maybe she still wouldn’t have to tell the wedding clients what was going on. She didn’t want to lose the contract since a lot of money was on the line, and it looked as though they were going to need it. Already, she could imagine what to say. The words echoed in her mind as her face relaxed, and she smiled.
If there was one thing Sarah had learned in the advertising business, it was how to put a positive spin on things.
No problem, she thought. I can always fudge it.