Page 65 of Weekends with You

“I’d like to change that,” he said. “What are you doing tonight, after the opening?”

“Oh, er, that’s soon. Won’t it be quite late by the time you’re out of here?”

“I sometimes forget not everyone keeps chef’s hours,” he laughed. “What about tomorrow?”

“I have to work.” Did I even want to be going on a date with Oliver? Was he even asking me on a date?

“Ah, another time, then.”

He must have sensed I wasn’t sold on a date just yet, and I had to applaud him for his intuition. “But soon,” I said, fearful of losing the opportunity, in case I decided I did want it.

“You say the word. And thank you, Lucy. For this display. Eve is right, you know. It really is miraculous. Though I’m worried my food won’t quite hold up to the promise this is making to our customers. But I suppose I should thank you again for motivating me to try.”

“You are too kind,” I said, fighting a blush. I was so pale, I wasn’t sure I ever won that fight, but I owed it to my dignity to try. “Your food is the real reason they’ll come. As the head chef, you’re really the main attraction here. These are just flowers.”

“We both know that isn’t true.”

He was right. To me, they weren’t “just” anything. They were everything. And these particular flowers were going to help me unlock a future in commercial design, if the reporters sent to the restaurant for the opening took notice of them. And given the sheer size and abundance of the arrangements, it would be impossible not to.

“Why don’t you join us for dinner?” he said. “It’ll be a bit of a packed house, but we can certainly seat you at the bar.”

I checked my watch, thinking about where my roommates might be right now. Raja was hoping I’d be able to meet them out somewhere, but I’d told her it wasn’t likely. If they were on schedule, they’d be heading into a disco yoga class somewhere in Camden, which I wasn’t booked for, so I figured dinner at the Renaissance wouldn’t hurt.

“That sounds lovely,” I said, then immediately glanced down at my dirt-stained apron. “I have to, er, go home and change.”

“Take your time. We’ll be waiting for you.” He disappeared inside, and I could finally relax, knowing I probably wouldn’t see him again for the rest of the night. He would be busy in the kitchen, and I would have a quiet dinner, then slip back into the apartment undetected.

Before I left to change, I stood for another moment and admired my creation. The yellow flowers were even brighter than they’d been in past years, and they looked electric climbing the facade and clinging to the overhang. Behind the windows, theytumbled over stacks of crooked plates, exploded from empty wine bottles, and filled the spaces in antique frames. It really was a work of art, if I did say so myself. All I needed was for a reporter to think so as well, and to print it with the review. No pressure.

By the time I returned, opening night was in full swing. The host was working double time to seat everyone crowding the doorway, and the kitchen staff was slinging plates at the speed of light. It was a perfectly choreographed dance, and I was thrilled to witness it.

I settled in at the bar, perusing the menu. It was the perfect balance of gourmet and familiar, validating the requests Eve had made for the display. There was no denying Oliver’s creativity, and though I had yet to taste his food, I could understand why he was becoming such a sensation.

I ordered a Korean-inspired vegetarian stew and all but licked the bowl clean. Unfamiliar spices danced on the back of my tongue, but the stew still had all the warmth of my parents’ home cooking. Oliver, too, was miraculous.

“Can I leave a note for the chef?” I asked the bartender. “Will you get it to him?”

“Ah, compliments?”

“Something like that.” Before I lost this burst of confidence, I scrawled a note on a napkin:

Oliver,

Thank you for dinner—it was the loveliest meal I’ve had in a long time. Perhaps next time we share a meal, we can sit across the table from each other.

Xx Lucy

I scribbled my phone number on the bottom, then folded the napkin and passed it to the bartender, hoping he couldn’t see the message.

“I’ll pass it along as soon as I can,” he said.

“Cheers.”

I slipped from the stool and out of the restaurant, already tempted to check my phone for a text. If I was looking for something to occupy my mind and give me a glimpse of hope, this was already doing the trick.

April

“Cal’s gonna be down any minute,” Raja said from the doorway of my studio. “Are you almost ready?”

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