I knock it off, and Andy, after watching me for another few beats, gives a little shrug and goes back to what he was doing.
Why don’t you just start chain-eating pickles, I think. Really spell it out for everyone that you’re pregnant!
I begin to seriously wonder how long I can keep my “condition” under wraps when my phone begins ringing.
I look over at Andy, who gives his, “All’s good over here,” wave. I put down my knife again and answer the phone. When I pull it from my pocket, I have a brief moment of excitement, believing for some reason that it’s Trent calling from England.
He’ll have a good explanation for what Jamie was doing answering his phone last night. It’ll be something simple, something so oh-so-that’s-it simple that we’ll both be able to laugh about it and then we can start talking about other things—
But it isn’t Trent. It’s Daniel, calling from restaurant number three. My internal caution light immediately switches on. Daniel would never call me when I was working somewhere else unless it was an emergency. It was like an unwritten law—you do not interrupt Stephanie when she’s cooking off-site.
I thumb the answer button, thinking the worst. He’s hurt himself, badly, or someone else has. There’s been an accident. A customer has choked or had a heart attack or something.
Daniel comes on the line, talking fast. I listen to him. I shut my eyes and have to steady myself with my free hand as the world becomes slightly gray around the edges.
Don’t you faint, I tell myself. Don’t you dare faint. You’ve got things to do, and none of them include passing out onto the floor of your own kitchen!
Now Andy is at my side. He has me under the elbow, and I’m appalled at how much I’m having to rely on him to hold me up.
“Boss—” he says, but that’s as far as he gets.
I don’t slap myself to clear the cobwebs, but it’s a close thing. Blinking hard, I tell Andy to hold down the fort; I have to go. He assures me that everything will be like clockwork, and I beat feet out of there.
There’s never a cab around when you really need one, and I’ve struck out on foot after spending a few futile minutes trying to hail a ride. Every now and then, one will pass by and I will wave frantically at it, only to see it already has passengers and have it keep going.
Finally, though, one does stop. I give the driver the destination and beg him not to spare the horsepower. The tires squeal a bit as the car moves quickly back out onto the roadway.
As we go along, I feel sick in the pit of my stomach again, only this time it has nothing to do with a baby. We are getting close to the restaurant when I can begin to hear the faint whine of the sirens.
Closer still, and I can make out the flash of red lights. A block away, and I can smell the smoke.
My restaurant is in flames. The firefighters have trained their hoses on the shattered windows flanking either side of the front door and are jetting however many thousands of gallons of water in through the ragged holes in the glass. Black smoke is billowing out the windows and door, which has been knocked off its hinges.
I throw an undetermined amount of cash up front and get out of the cab and scan the crowd. Daniel is on the sidelines, looking dazed. I run up to him and look him over. He’s unhurt, at least as far as I can tell.
“Steph,” he says, and his voice falters. “Steph, it’s terrible. It’s out of control. I’m so sorry—”
I throw my arms around him and hug him close. “I’m so relieved you’re okay,” I tell him, having to raise my voice to make myself heard over the din of activity around us. “Is everyone else…did everyone else get out all right?”
He nods, still looking like he just lost his best friend. “Yeah. We all got out, just before…before things went to hell.” He looks at me with wet eyes. “I don’t know what happened, Steph. Suddenly, Marco’s shouting that there’s a fire, and before I knew it, it was everywhere! It spread all over the place before we could do anything!”
I shush him. “You’re okay, and so’s everyone else, and that’s what matters,” I say, even though that sick feeling in my stomach is growing worse with every new detail I take in. My restaurant, my pride and joy, is burning like everything in it was made of kerosene-soaked cedar.
I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “The customers?”
“All okay,” Daniel replies quickly. “Most of them kept right on going when they hit the street.” He jerks his head at the white, boxy ambulance squatting in between two of the fire engines. “EMS is only here as a precaution. So far, nobody’s been hurt.”
“We got lucky,” I say.
“Some lucky,” Daniel says morosely.
“Hey, it could have been worse.”
“That’s very glass-half-full of you, Steph.”
“No other way to be at the moment.”
“Yeah, especially when the glass in question is on fire.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Steph. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“It’s all right,” I assure him. “This is why we have insurance.”
“Yeah, but—”
“We’ll just have to wait until this is all over and then see what’s left for us to work with.”
He nods, still looking like the very definition of unhappiness.
“In the meantime,” I add, “there’s something else I need to tell you.”
“Oh, god,” he moans, “tell me it’s not anything we have to deal with today.”
“No,” I smile. “Not today.
