“DuMonde’s,” I answer. “And thank you again for driving me. Cabs can be hard to come by on a Sunday morning.”
“Not at all. As I said, it’s on my way back to Mr. Stone’s house, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, even if it wasn’t.”
He smiles at me, and I return the gesture. I had watched his face closely and listened even closer to him as we had navigated the sparse traffic to my apartment building, looking and listening for signs of…what, contempt, however mild? After all, he had found me in the kitchen earlier, gathering up my things, an unexpected morning guest, obviously there at the behest of his boss.
Would he think me cheap? I had wondered. Low class?
I needn’t have worried. He had greeted me cordially and offered me coffee. I had declined as graciously as I could, having been chomping at the bit to get to work as soon as possible. I wanted to get as much knocked out as I could before lunchtime rolled around.
“Thanks just the same,” I say. “You’re a lifesaver.” It’s only a short ride to the restaurant, but I’m curious. “How long have you worked for Tr—ah, Mr. Stone, Curtis?” I ask.
“Five years. I came into the household with Mr. Stone’s former wife and stayed on after she relocated.”
Relocated? That is an exceptionally tactful way of saying that she split the scene. I get the feeling that Curtis would balk at saying a bad word about anyone. I like him more and more already.
Also, that raises even more questions in my mind. Trent had been married? For how long? What had happened to sour the relationship? Why had Curtis elected to stay with the ex-husband, rather than exiting with the ex-wife? My curiosity is inflamed rather than satisfied, but we have arrived at DuMonde’s.
“Thanks one more time, Curtis,” I say as I get out of the passenger seat.
“Not at all, Ms. White,” he says again. “Have a good day.”
He drives off and I watch him go, the last vestige of a whirlwind evening.
Well, maybe not the last vestige. I have a whole stack of memories I can leaf through whenever I want, and a visit from Trent himself to look forward to later today.
For now, though, it’s time to get down to business.
Even though we don’t open until one on Sundays, there’s still plenty to do beforehand, both to get ready for the day and week ahead. Daniel, my sous chef, clocks in not long after me on these days so we can talk, plan, and prepare.
He is already in the kitchen, going over some notes and nursing a coffee of his own. I pluck it out of his hand, take a sip, and return it to him.
“Hey,” he says, “you’re going to be a mooch on top of being late?”
“Boss’s privilege,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm. “Is there coffee made?”
“Brewing now. I would have picked you up one from Java Zone if I’d have known you were going to be tardy getting here,” he replies, waggling his to-go cup. “As it is, I’m sorry you drank from mine because you’re obviously getting sick.”
“I am?”
He looks at me squarely. “In all the years I’ve known you, I have never once seen you come in late for work. That includes the blackout two years ago when we were closed anyway. Hence, you must be coming down with something.”
I laugh. I’m feeling in exceptionally fine spirits. “No sickness here, Daniel, just ordinary, run-of-the-mill running-behindedness.”
“All right,” he says, unconvinced. “You sure? I get the strong feeling you’re not telling me something.”
I’ve known Daniel a long time, so he’s as much a friend as he is my sous chef, but I don’t feel like sharing the events of last night with him, not even a sanitized version. In fact, I don’t feel like sharing the evening with anyone, at least not yet. I need some time to process it all, and I won’t have that after I get my head in the game here.
“Right as rain,” I say. “Let’s get to work.”
I can put Daniel off as far as recounting recent events, but Tira is another matter. She shows up about an hour after I arrive at DuMonde’s. Even though we’re still closed, Daniel lets her in, in customary deference to my best friend, and leads her back to the kitchen.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” she tells me. “You also didn’t return my texts, either last night…or this morning.” She gives me an evil smile. “Now, dish. How did it go?”
“How did what go?” Daniel inquires.
“I had an independent job yesterday,” I say. Then, to Tira, “It went very well, thanks.”
“Well, make me a Bloody Mary and run me through it,” she says.
“I don’t know, T. I was late getting here—” Tira’s eyes flick to Daniel’s, and they exchange a look. “—and we have a lot of work to do before we can open up today, and—”
“Nope,” she interjects. “Sorry, not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. Bloody Mary, good story, in that order, please.” She walks off towards the bar area.
“Go on,” Daniel urges. “Take five. I’ve got this.”
I join Tira at the bar and mix up her drink the way she likes it, light on the blood, heavy on the octane.
“Thanks,” she says, taking a pull and then setting it aside. “You were late getting to work? Are you sick?”
“Why does everyone think I’m sick?” I ask the empty restaurant. “I’m human…I can be late once in a blue moon, can’t I?”
“A regular person can, yes,” she says. “But when it comes to DuMonde’s, or either of your other two outfits, you’re more than human.” She looks me in the eye.
