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But all of that could wait. For now, he would sit. He would relish the fact that he wasn’t the one bored at one of his parents’ events anymore. This was his restaurant. His pièce de résistance. Those people had all been here for him, perhaps like rubberneckers driving past the scene of a three-car pileup to witness Graham Cooper Jr.’s potential crash and burn. But they had been his to take care of nonetheless.
And, with the exception of a few people who couldn’t appreciate a good Blue Stilton in all of its pure and pungent glory, he’d had them right where he wanted them.
Cooper unpeeled the wrapper from a straw and chewed on the tip of it. He closed his eyes and blew the air from his lungs slowly, drawing up an image of the people who’d filled these seats, familiar faces he’d seen dozens of times in the news, at important events, in meetings with his father. But he’d never seen those faces flushed with satisfaction, lined with laughter, relaxed and rumpled. Lingering over his empty plates. His vision for Simone was circling the corner, close enough to reach if he leaned a little.
But he’d had to avoid his father, who’d worn a scowl most of the night and had actually pulled him and Owen aside to ask about a work issue.
“This doesn’t concern me,” he could picture Simone saying in her tiny kitchen as she cut a pat of butter into a frying pan. “The only thing that matters is what you decide to do.”
His phone buzzed on the couch next to him. A text from Owen.
Might not make it tomorrow. It’s going to be a late night :)
Cooper rolled his eyes. Different night but same song and dance from his brother.
Owen had left without a word, laughing and flirting shamelessly with a giggling trio of girls. Daughters of politicians or lawyers, probably. Of course Owen was going to flake on their standing basketball game.
At least Owen hadn’t gone near Sloane for the rest of the night. Cooper had made it clear to his brother that Sloane was different. Off-limits. Not another one of Owen’s conquests to wring dry and leave hanging on the laundry line next to the others. Not that Sloane would let that happen anyway.
When he dismissed Owen’s text, the red bubble of his unopened emails seemed to magnify on his screen. Forty-six issues that needed his attention. Forty-six fires he needed to douse. Forty-six people he was potentially failing in the pursuit of this restaurant.
As Cooper watched the fire cast swaying swaths of light across the dark café, he felt a dry pull in the back of his throat. The tip of panic crept into his consciousness before he shoved it away and allowed his focus to float free. He could almost taste the smooth, rich Jack Daniels and feel its tang burning across his tongue, through the back of his mouth.
He swiveled on the couch, the necks of the oil and vinegar bottles on the expo counter glinting in the light of the flames, taunting him.
For over two years, he’d been sober. Surely he had it under control enough to manage one sip. He’d intentionally avoided stocking alcohol in the restaurant for this very reason despite the revenue it would bring. But there was a liquor store half a block away, a gas station on the corner.
One drink wouldn’t hurt anything, right? Only one glass of the easy stuff.
Cooper growled and snatched up his things. Yes, in his experience, one drink could ruin everything. Because it never ended up being just one. When he was drinking, he was a human tornado that destroyed everything in its path. There was too much at stake, too much life in this restaurant to risk it.
He put out the fire and locked the restaurant behind him, leaning against the door and allowing the cool autumn air to calm him. Willing himself to fight the craving that was so strong he could taste it.
Jake. If he texted his roommate, maybe he wouldn’t do something stupid. As he pulled his phone from his pocket, an alert lit the screen. New email from Sloane.
Mr. Cooper,
I just scheduled the article to post in the morning. Here is a copy in case you’re awake and want to preview it before it goes out. If you have any questions, please let me know.
Cordially,
Sloane Bradley
He chuckled and clicked the link to the document, leaning against the heavy wooden door as he waited for the text to load. Something flickered in his chest. Was he nervous about what Sloane had to say? Or had he simply stolen too many bites from the pastry tray?
The article popped up on the screen, and he read it in Sloane’s distinct silky voice.
Influenced by head chef and developer Graham Cooper Jr.’s time in Paris, Simone is a groundbreaking addition to the J. Marian Restaurants family. The cozy atmosphere offers patrons a respite from the bustle of downtown Dallas, and the commitment to quality in its diverse menu proves that a fast, casual concept doesn’t have to be synonymous with hurried and uninventive.
He scrolled through Sloane’s reviews of the dishes she had photographed—crisp, inviting images of hearty breads and fresh vegetables and bubbling cheeses with vivid descriptions of each taste and smell.
And to think he’d ever questioned what use she would be for him. For his restaurant. He’d never second-guess one of his mother’s recommendations again.
With the last sentence of the article, his fate was sealed. The emotions of the night all whisked together from the corners of his brain to form a lump in his throat.
Simone represents a thoughtfulness, precision and execution poised to revolutionize the fast-casual restaurant experience—a can’t-miss if you’re in the Dallas area.
Cooper stared at the screen, sinking down the outside wall of his restaurant to a crouch. For the first time since he said goodbye to Simone, he had an ally. Someone who believed in him and not just because they shared his blood. Who cared that Sloane was paid to write these things? Whoever she was, guarded and talented and fiercely protective of her camera, with her words, Sloane Bradley made him feel like he could do anything.
“À la bonne heure.” Cooper could almost hear the words Simone often told him as she poured tea into his mug. “In good time.”
Had his time finally arrived?
CHAPTER FIVE (#uc058528e-df7d-5147-8ac4-738b40217515)
“JUAN DAVID, MAYBE you should wash your hands before you eat that.”
It was Thursday, the highlight of Sloane’s week. She got to spend a few hours in the kitchen with the kids in the City on a Hill after-school program.
It had started out as a guilt thing. Voice mails from one of the administrators, which she’d ignored twice. A sloppy demo of grilled chicken salad that the kids ate only because they were trying to be nice. But they’d warmed up to her, just as she was. No questions asked. No pretenses. Her heart had opened quickly to them in ways she didn’t think she was capable of after the accident. Now on Thursday afternoons, those kids were her safe place—a reminder of who the old Sloane was. A glimmer of hope for who she someday could be.
Juan David wiped his nose again with the back of his wrist and looked at Sloane, his grin as cheesy as the pot his right hand hovered inches above. “Yes, Miss Sloane.” He stepped off the stool and jogged in the direction of the hand-washing station. His place on the stool was stolen by his little sister Samira, who wasted no time dipping her spatula into the roux for a stir. This beautiful six-year-old with uneven dark bangs and a gap-toothed smile had great instincts in the kitchen.
A group of three older kids returned, balancing a cutting board of turkey kielbasa sausage and scallions they’d chopped under the careful supervision of their teacher, Miss Jaime.
“Look at those perfect knife cuts!” Sloane took the board and carefully set it on an empty stretch of counter. “Are you sure you guys even need me here?”
Three pairs of eyes rolled in response to her hyperbolic enthusiasm.
“Duh, Miss Sloane,” said Chloe, the only girl of the trio, a spitfire who was eight-going-on-eighteen. “What do you think?”
Sloane knew she wasn’t supposed to have favorites and really did love all of the kids. But those three—Miles, Chloe and Davon—were the ones she’d been with the longest and the ones she most looked forward to seeing every week.
Especially Davon. He had a soft spot in her heart because he reminded her of an eight-year-old Aaron, only with a much louder personality.
“I think you guys had better start helping Emma grate some cheese because this sauce is almost ready.” Sloane nudged the side of Davon’s grainy oversize polo shirt with her elbow. No response. Something was bothering him.
“Miss Sloane, I—” As if in slow motion, Samira’s little cobalt-colored eyes screwed up and she turned and sneezed before Sloane could react, covering her arm and the hip of her jeans in germ-infested bodily fluids. Immediately, she could almost feel a crawling sensation. Keep it together, Sloane. It’s not that bad.
“It’s okay, Samira.” Sloane gingerly placed a clean, gloved hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Bonus points for not sneezing in the food. I guess you and Juan David caught the same cold, huh?” She motioned to Jaime to take over the roux and then guided Samira to the hand-washing station. Armed with a hefty stack of paper towels and Sloane’s hand sanitizer, they cleaned themselves off as best as they could.
But as Sloane supervised the methodical Chloe stirring in three different cheeses, she checked the clock on the wall every few minutes, trying not to let any part of her skin come in contact with her jeans. Only a few minutes stood between her, a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes.
The timer on the stove went off.
“The pasta is ready!” a chorus of voices proclaimed.
“Okay, everyone,” Sloane said in her most obnoxious, booming voice, “stand back.” She slipped a pair of oven mitts over her fresh plastic food service gloves. “Davon, colander?”
He shook his head and took a step back, an uncharacteristic darkness etched into his long-lashed green eyes.
“Okay. Miles, colander?”
“Ready, Miss Sloane.” Miles steadied it in the sink and backed away quickly.
“Hot water coming through!” Sloane sang in a high-pitched voice that made the kids erupt into laughter. She emptied the pot into the sink and turned her face so the steam didn’t burn. “Shoom! Shoom! Shoom!” She threw her hands up and down, mimicking the billowing steam to the kids’ laughter. Shaking the remaining water from the colander, she whisked it to the stove again and poured it in the pot with the finished roux. “Miles, Chloe, Davon. Do you have the rest of the cheese?”
“It’s ready,” Chloe said.
“Yes, Miss Sloane.”
Silence from Davon.
Miles sprinkled it into the pot—with clean hands, Sloane checked—as Chloe stirred. Davon stood back, watching with his arms crossed.
Sloane’s chest hitched as he swiped at a tear in the corner of his eye. Her little friend was usually so enthusiastic. And ornery. The others had to fight to share the energy and attention of the room with him.
“And the grand finale. Drumroll, please.” As the kids rapped their hands against the counter, their stomachs, thighs—whatever they could find—Sloane scraped in the turkey kielbasa and scallions and evenly distributed them in the cheesy mixture. “All done. Look what you guys made!”
Six small heads crowded around for a glimpse of the pot’s contents, and Sloane had to admit it looked amazing.
“Wow,” Samira said. “And we can make this at home?”
Sloane nodded and banged the spatula against the pot to free a clump of excess cheese. “It’s a lot better for you than the stuff in the box, too.”
“I bet it doesn’t taste as good.” Miles jutted his round chin.
“Okay, then.” Sloane raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have to try it. More for everyone else.”
Even though he was grinning and clearly knew she was joking, the fleeting look of panic in Miles’s blue eyes made her laugh.
“Oh, I’m going to try it.” He grinned.
Sloane sent everyone to wash their hands and scooped portions of healthier macaroni and cheese into disposable bowls.
Juan David was the first kid to return. Sounds of contentment escaped around his first mouthful of pasta.
“I agree.” It may not have been quite as cost-effective as boxed mac and cheese, but it was close. And it was tastier, judging by the satisfied looks on everyone’s faces as they devoured the meal. The flavors stood on their own—the whole wheat penne, chunks of hearty turkey kielbasa and crunchy little flecks of green onion.
When the last bowl had been scraped clean, Sloane said goodbye to the kids, making sure they all had their recipe cards and grocery lists in tow. And then as she was elbow-deep in suds and dirty pots and pans she felt a pair of thin arms wrap around her aproned waist.
“How you doing, Davon? Everything okay?” Sloane dreaded asking that question with these kids. Their lives were so unstable that she never knew what answer she was going to get.
Her suspicions were confirmed when he shook his head. “My mom’s been really busy with school and work. And my Big Brother Carl’s moving away, so he won’t get to pick me up from school anymore.”
Davon had a brother? What bad timing for a move with their mom in the thick of third-year law school. “But you’ll still get to see Carl at holidays and stuff, right?”
“Naw, Carl’s not my real brother. He’s just a guy from an agency. He has a kid my age and everything. But he was real cool.”
“It’ll be okay, Davon.” Sloane stifled a wince. “Your mom’s almost finished with school, and I know you’re going to get a new Big Brother soon.” She hated how lame those words sounded, too aware of the emptiness behind the platitude.
For a moment, Sloane could picture the faces of the people she’d known her whole life looking at her like she was a stranger after the accident, some with pity, but most fidgety and uncomfortable. Everything’s going to be okay, they’d placated her, probably to make sure she stayed quiet. We’re here for you. And then they’d avoided her.
His eyes widened as his aunt appeared in the doorway. “Don’t tell anyone I said anything, okay?”
“Okay.” Sloane waved at Davon’s aunt, who picked him up most days while his mom was in class.
“See you next time, Miss Sloane. And, uh, thanks.”
Her heart broke for Davon as she watched his aunt hurry him along. He was such a good kid. His mom had done a great job with him as she worked hard to build a better life for them after her husband’s death.
As Sloane’s hands worked to finish the dishes, she made a mental note to ask around about Davon getting a new City on a Hill Big Brother. Because if things weren’t okay in her little friend’s world, things weren’t okay in hers.
* * *
“WHAT KIND OF salad could possibly be so good that you’ve disturbed my reading?” Sloane’s neighbor stomped across the hall to her apartment that evening.
“Trust me, Mrs. Melone.” Sloane let the older woman in. “It’s life changing.”
This was their thing. Mrs. Melone pretended to be a crotchety old woman. Sloane played the sort of neighbor with lots of excuses that required the older woman’s presence. But in reality, they were doing each other a favor.
They both needed someone, anyone, to check in every once in a while.
Mrs. Melone was the wife of some sort of Old Hollywood producer who was always in LA. She was way too stylish to be crotchety. And if she were half as grumpy as she made herself out to be, she never would have agreed to try the salad that spun Sloane into a dancing fit that could rival the cheesiest of touchdown celebrations.
Never mind that it took Sloane three tries and ten minutes of coercing to get Mrs. Melone here. When she finally said the word bacon, Mrs. Melone was sold and grabbed her purse faster than Sloane had ever seen the woman move. Way faster than a woman working on her second hip replacement should ever move.
Sloane took her laptop from its usual spot on the dining room table and guided Mrs. Melone to the chair where the salad was still perfectly posed from its earlier photo shoot, complete with a bud vase of gerbera daisies that made the fresh greens pop.
The older woman made a big ceremony of shaking her head, dangle earrings clinking as she assembled a bite with the best proportion of romaine lettuce, bacon, bleu cheese, lemon-herb chicken and the creamy date and Dijon vinaigrette, then stuffed it in her mouth. Her eyes lit up.
Case. In. Point.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“This is...so flavorful.” Mrs. Melone shoveled in another bite.
Sloane grinned and leaned her elbows on the table beside her neighbor. “See, aren’t you glad I made you come over to try it?”
Mrs. Melone’s stylish silver bob snapped in Sloane’s direction, the scowl on her lined face churning as she chewed her salad. Then her lips curved in the slightest hint of a smile and she took another bite.
Victory!
“Did you get this recipe from the Cooper boy?”
The triumphant sound track came to a screeching halt. “What?” How did she know?
“Graham Cooper. The restaurant you’re working with.” Mrs. Melone made a clicking sound. “Oh, don’t act surprised. You’ve advertised it to the world on your website.”
