His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Okay, smile. Deep happy breath. Dharmaram hated it when he ranted. “Hi, sweetie.”
“Hi, Micah. Uh, what time are you coming home?”
Hmm. He really wanted to go buy a great Valentine’s Day present for Dharmaram after work, unless he could get off earlier. “I’ll probably be a little late. I’ve got the cooking class. I’ll let Jennifer close the Place, but I have some errands to run.” Man, he loved Valentine’s Day.
“Oh, okay. See you later, then.”
“See you. Kiss, kiss.”
“Yeah.” Dharmaram disconnected.
What could he get Dharmaram that would be special?
What he really wanted was a Rolex, but that was a bit rich for Micah’s wallet. He did okay with the Place, but he gave a lot of money to charity. Saving whales and big trees and rhinos cost a bunch. He sighed. He loved buying presents for people. Yes, he knew it was his subconscious making up for all the things his mother never bought him—Dr. Shapiro had told him that a million times—but he loved it. Still, spending that kind of dough on a watch was irresponsible. Even if it was for the kind of love of his life. Dharmaram probably wouldn’t buy him anything. He’d plead poverty. It always seemed like his yoga studio did okay, but whatever. Maybe he’d just take Dharmaram shopping for new clothes. He always loved that.
Micah glanced at the serving window. Three people stood in line.
“Hey, boss.” The voice came from behind him.
He glanced back at Jen, one of his six employees who kept the Place going. “Hi, Jen. Perfect timing. Want to take over here while I handle the inside tables? I need to set up for the class later.”
“You bet.” She pulled off her jacket, revealing skinny, tattooed arms in her tank top. It might have been February, but cooking in the kitchen and serving the walk-up customers made for hot work.
Micah walked through the door at the back of the kitchen that led into the small interior restaurant. Most of his customers chose the outdoor tables if the weather was nice. He didn’t have a view or anything—the ocean was two blocks away—but it was a really pleasant spot to eat, with big umbrellas over the tables and heaters for when the air got cool. By comparison, the inside space was a little darker but still cheery and comfortable. He held his cooking classes there too.
Right now the dining room sported pink-and-red decorations on the tables that the girls had thought up. Three customers lingered over herb tea and smoothies.
Micah looked around. “Anybody need anything?”
Tim Croner shook his head and kept staring at his tablet computer. The man spent way too much time playing online, but he didn’t seem to care that the radiation could affect his DNA. Oh well.
Micah started putting out utensils on the counter at the back of the room where he did his demos.
Two hours later, he’d served about ten customers in the back of the restaurant, plus made up the ingredients for the raw Valentine’s dinner he planned to teach his students. He set out chairs around a long table where the raw foodies could experiment and taste.
“Hey, Micah.” Allie, one of his best customers, filed in for the class.
“Great to see you. Take any seat.”
Jill and Bill came in holding hands. Yes, their names were a joke and, at fifty-some years married, they’d heard it a lot. Micah smiled as they grabbed two of the seats with their backs to the window. The three pals everyone called “the girls” laughed their way through the door. Molly, Song, and Consuela formed their own United Nations and a great cross-section of California ethnicities, but they were all Valley girls at heart.
Song giggled. “So I said, like, what the hell. I mean, like, what did the guy want from me? It was, like, our first date, you know?”
Consuela flashed Micah a big white-toothed smile. “Hey, baby.” She knew he was gay, but that didn’t stop her flirting. People always told him that his customers had crushes on him, which he thought was plain funny considering he was a skinny gay guy.
“Hey, guys. Get comfortable and I’ll go get our stuff, okay?”
Song looked up. “Ooh, what are we making?”
He grinned. “Raw lasagna. It’s delicious. You’ll love it.”
“One of your mama’s recipes?” She nodded to the picture of his mother on the wall.
“Oh no, not really.” He glanced at the photo of an attractive, dark-haired, youngish woman he kept there for inspiration. He just didn’t tell his customers that she was an inspiration for what not to do.
He bumped the swinging door to the kitchen with his hip and grabbed the bowls and pans he’d use to make the raw lasagna mixture. Holding a stack in place with his chin, he used his free hand to pick up the bowl of raw zucchini and back his way through the door. “Okay, everyone. Get ready for a”—he turned toward the group—“ healthy and sexy Valentine’s—shit!”
Pans clattered and zucchini bounced on the polished concrete floor like so many green phalluses. “Molly, what in the hell are you doing?”
Molly’s wide eyes flashed unbridled innocence as she held the huge pink-frosted cupcake up to Song’s brazen red lips. “Me?” The squeak barely carried the two feet between them.
The clatter and mess had no effect on Song’s single-pointedness.
