Chapter Twenty
Eve was cried out by the time she reached the house in Montecito. The cold wind had dried the tears on her cheeks. As she turned the corner, she was surprised to see a flotilla of luxury cars parked on the driveway, the street, and even the lawn. An impromptu house party? Eve sighed, zipped up her hoodie, and walked inside, making a beeline for her bedroom.
Tiffani, wearing a slinky lime-green dress and matching high-heeled sandals, intercepted her in the hallway. “So sorry to spring this on you, sugar. I invited some of my friends and investors over to celebrate the grand opening this weekend. I guess you could call it a pre-party party. We’re all by the pool. I’ll make sure no one goes into the guesthouse so that you and Sam can have some alone time.”
Eve looked up at her. “Sure. Okay.”
“Good Lord, what happened to you?” Tiffani pulled Eve into her bedroom and took her hoodie. She grabbed some Kleenex from her vanity table and handed it over. “Where’s Sam? Is he in your bedroom?”
“No, he never showed up. I went over to Garrett’s to find him and…well, disaster. We’re done. It’s over.” Eve blew her nose.
“Oh, sugar.” Tiffani gave her tight hug. The woman gave excellent hugs. “I’ll send everyone away. Then you and me can—”
“No. Don’t break up your party. I’m fine.” Eve looked at herself in the mirror—her hair stood straight up, her face was puffy, and her lucky dress hung open along the side where she’d torn it. She gazed sadly at Tiffani’s glamorous outfit, dark lipstick, and glittery eyeliner.
“Tonight was a mess,” said Eve, “but I don’t want to go to bed feeling this way.”
“What do you want to do?”
Eve looked out the window at the group of people milling around the pool, listening to Gloria Gaynor. Tonight, Kyle had called her an outsider. She was hell-bent on proving him wrong. “I think…I think I don’t want to be alone tonight. Will you help me find something to wear?”
Tiffani beamed. “You got it. Let’s get you dolled up.”
A little disco magic and Eve was ready. Tiffani put her in a red off-the-shoulder dress and stuck a white camellia in her hair. “Look at us,” she said in the mirror as she put a third coat of mascara on Eve. “Foxy Brown and Saturday Night Fever. Let’s hit it.”
Exhausted but eager to put a positive spin on the worst evening in history, Eve moved from party guest to party guest, refilling drinks and introducing herself to everyone. Tiffani’s guests were more sedate, more international, and more glamorous than the patrons at Garrett’s. Ken, still wearing a T-shirt and shorts, mingled among them. Eve was surprised to see him completely at ease, talking gregariously with a member of the city council and a fashion photographer from Biarritz.
When Tiffani’s gypsy friend brought out his guitar and started playing a little Django Reinhardt, Tiffani took Eve aside. “We don’t happen to have a bag of chips in the kitchen, do we? People are getting a little peckish and I didn’t really plan ahead.”
“I still have all of the food that I made for dinner. I can divide it into appetizers if you want.”
Tiffani took her hands and squeezed them. “I’d be forever in your debt.”
Grabbing Ken on her way to the kitchen, Eve threw on an apron and pulled the food out of the refrigerator. She heated up some of the dishes, shucked some shellfish, and portioned everything into small bites. Then she and Ken brought everything out on trays to serve poolside.
Tiffani clinked a butter knife against her champagne glass to get everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, Eve Ono, my chef friend from Japan, has prepared a small tasting menu for you this evening. I’ll let her tell you about these amazing dishes.”
Eve, taken by surprise, took off her apron and stood next to the table. “Um, sure thing,” she said. Her voice cracked as she gestured to each dish. “Here we have some local clams stewed with merguez sausage. This is charred octopus with young fennel.
“Here is a selection of two tartares. First, a fatty tuna one served with fresh wasabi and second, a classic version made with organic MacKinnon Ranch beef tenderloin. This is a toban-yaki of fresh mushrooms cooked on a ceramic plate.
“On this tray, we have Kumamoto oysters dressed with sturgeon caviar, fresh Santa Barbara uni on sake sorbet, and an heirloom tomato and watermelon salad. On this tray is a vermillion rockfish served with corn risotto and mackerel served en escabeche.
“For those of you with a sweet tooth, here is a pistachio genoise with fresh raspberry sorbet and honeycomb.” She looked shyly at the party guests and smiled. “Please, enjoy.”
The delighted guests treated her to a little light applause. Someone popped another bottle of champagne, the gypsy guitarist started playing again, and everyone descended on the food.
Ken handed Eve a champagne flute. “Nice work,” he said, giving her a friendly nudge. “This food is amazing. Sam really missed out.”
Eve said nothing. Tiffani sashayed by, holding the dessert tray and offering everyone a “little bite of something sweet.”
Ken’s voice dropped. “So tell me, is she seeing anyone?”
“Not really,” said Eve, amused. “Go for it.”
The party rolled on. Eve returned to the kitchen to shuck a few more oysters. As she stood by the sink with the oyster knife in her hand, her nerves tingled. Someone loomed behind her, watching what she was doing. She turned around. There stood tall blond man dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Cherry blossoms and colorful koi fish tattoos covered his heavy forearms. Handsome in a severe way, he had a low, dark brow and intensely blue eyes. Eve had met him before but couldn’t remember where.
“Can I watch you?” he asked.
“Shuck oysters? I guess so. Sure.” No one had watched her cook for years. Not since she’d stood by her grandfather making sushi at the family restaurant.
The blond man’s eyes stayed glued to her hands as she slipped the blade underneath the shell of the tiny Kumamoto. With a flick of her wrist, she hinged the oyster open, cut it from the shell, and placed it on its bed of ice. She could do this in her sleep, but the man nodded as though he were deeply impressed.
“Why did you choose Kumamotos?” he asked.
“Because they’re sweet and a little fruity. People tend to like the pretty shells, too.”
“What other local oysters can you get out here?”
“Depends. Down south, Lunas and Del Sols, bigger and meatier. From Tomales Bay, you can get Sweetwaters. Those are my favorite. Briny.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I like what you did with the uni.”
“Thanks. I thought that the creaminess would go with the acidity of the rice wine in the sorbet.”
“Besides sake, what kind of wine would you pair with uni?”
Eve put down her oyster shucker and turned around to look him in the eye. Why was he asking her all these questions? “Albariño,” she said at once, and her heart squeezed a little in her chest. Sam had taught her that. “It’s originally from Galicia.”
The man smiled as though she’d somehow passed a test. “What’s your name again?”
“Eve Ono.”
“Tiffani said you’re from Japan. Where do you work now?”
She swallowed. “Actually, at the moment I’m a free agent.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “Listen. I’m looking for a solid addition to my raw bar. I think that might be you.”
Wide-eyed, Eve took his card. “Hey, wait a second,” she said. “Chris Mercutio. You won that TV show a couple months ago where all the chefs have to battle each other, right? You were the guy who did all that molecular gastronomy stuff.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, a little chagrinned. “My restaurant just opened a couple of days ago. If you’re interested in joining my team, call that number and come down tomorrow.”
After Chris left the kitchen, Eve tacked the business card up to the bulletin board by the phone and looked at it. Chris Mercutio had star power in spades. His restaurant was already a popular destination—a good place for her to get back into the kitchen. She smiled to herself, picked up the tray of oysters, and went back outside to rejoin the party.
****
Sam woke up on his deck, fully clothed, with a beer in his hand. He was lying face down on one of the ancient lounge chairs. A random girl in a black spandex mini-dress was sitting cross-legged on his weight bench, checking her text messages. The sun was high overhead. It must’ve been around noon. He stood up and pain roared behind his eyes. He ached like he’d been beaten with a shovel.
“You okay?” said the girl, glancing up from her phone.
He put the half-empty beer down on the deck and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I think so.” He squinted at her. “Did we…?”
“No. Your loss.” She got up, slid on her shoes, and went inside.
Sam took a few steps toward the sliding door. He held onto the doorframe and blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness inside. The girl in the black dress was gone.
Kyle was in his bed, tangled up in the sheets. Two girls were wrapped around him. All three of them were buck naked and sound asleep. Sam grunted, too hungover to feel indignant. He stumbled to the bathroom and spent some time having a heart-to-heart discussion with the toilet. Satisfied that his stomach was now empty, he hauled himself into the shower and washed himself off.
The hot water brought him a little lucidity. He remembered Kyle being a dick to Eve. Then he remembered Eve lunging across the table to smack Kyle’s head against the wall. He’d never seen her lose her temper that way. Sam leaned against the tiles and closed his eyes.
One more memory, now: Eve looking at him in the parking lot, her face a mosaic of broken emotions.
As he grew more and more sober, a sense of dread needled through him. He’d fucked up. Royally. And now Eve was gone.
He dried off, got dressed in jeans and T-shirt, and took an Alka Seltzer. By the time Sam started searching the apartment for his cell phone, Kyle was sitting up in bed having a cigarette.
“Don’t smoke in my bed,” Sam said, handing over a coffee mug for an ashtray. “That’s disgusting.”
Kyle raised his eyebrows and gestured to the two sleeping girls next to him. “Smoking is the least disgusting thing I’ve done in your bed in the last twelve hours.”
“I’m not too happy about the other stuff, either.” Sam rifled through the pockets of his trousers. “Have you seen my phone?”
Kyle shook his head. “No. The girls were passing it around the bar last night. Putting their numbers in and taking selfies. Must have gotten lost there.”
“Call it. Let me see if it’s here.”
With a groan, Kyle stood up and picked up his phone. He dialed Sam’s number. The apartment was silent. He hung up. “It’s probably still at Garrett’s.”
“This wasn’t the way last night was supposed to have gone. I can’t believe I let you get me so wasted.”
Kyle got his pants on and sat back down on the bed. Then he started giggling.
“What the fuck’s so funny?” Sam asked.
“Good shit, that Georgia Home Boy.”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“I spiked your drink. Before we got to Garrett’s.” Hooting with laughter, Kyle collapsed sideways on the bed. One of the girls covered her head with a pillow to block out the noise.
“Jesus Christ.” Anger clouded Sam’s vision. “You drugged me?” He looked at Kyle. “You drugged me with GHB? The date rape drug? Are you kidding me?”
Still smiling, Kyle took another drag of his cigarette. “You’re hilarious when you’re high, dude.”
“I have to call Eve,” Sam said. “I made a mistake. I have to apologize for acting like an ass.”
“Whoa.” Kyle stubbed out his cigarette. “What do you mean, ‘apologize’? You’ve got nothing to apologize for. She’s insane, Sam. Look at my face.” He pointed to his eye. It was purple and swollen. “You’re better off without her. You don’t need a bagful of crazy like that.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“She’s lucky I’m not pressing charges.” He pushed the girls out of the way and leaned back. “Steer clear of that nut job, my friend.”
Sam stood up straight. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. I’m just being realistic. Think about it. What do you have to offer a woman? The answer is not much. We both know the pattern. She’s going to start wanting more than you can give her.” Kyle put his hands behind his head. “I say, stick with a formula that works. One night stands. Fun. Nothing serious. Because whenever you start to venture into relationship territory, the ship goes down. You’re my best friend, Sam, but I’m tired of throwing you a lifeline. And I’m tired of watching these girls hit the road when they discover what you really are. It’s a little sickening, to tell you the truth.”
One of the girls jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Sam and Kyle stared at each other to the sound of muffled barfing. The toilet flushed and Sam experienced a moment of lucidity. It was the closest he’d ever come to an epiphany.
“Okay,” said Sam, putting his hand on the back of a chair for balance. “Help me understand something.”
Kyle smiled. “Sure. Lay it on me.”
“We’ve been friends for what, five years now?”
“Sounds right.”
“And we used to do this shit—party, get wasted—all the time. Remember?”
Kyle nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Before last night, I hadn’t been out with you in a long, long time, right?”
“Right.”
“Last night taught me something important, Kyle.”
“What?”
Sam took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t miss it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t miss any of this. Pissing my money away on drinks and random girls. Forgetting what I did the night before. Waking up feeling like shit. It was fun when we were twenty-one, but I’m done. I’m fucking done.”
Kyle’s smile disappeared. “Okay. Fine. Have it your way.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. “That girl…she’s going to be like the others. She’s going to find out you’re nothing, and she’s going to break your heart.”
“Probably. Maybe I am nothing. Maybe she will break my heart. But she’s not like the others. If there’s a minuscule chance that she’ll forgive me after how I treated her last night, I’m going to take it. No matter how it all ends. No matter what she learns about me that makes her run screaming. I don’t give a shit.” Sam looked his friend in the eye. “I’m in love with that girl. I’m going to do what it takes to be the kind of man who deserves her.”
They were quiet for a long time. “So that’s it then? You’re choosing her over me?” Kyle asked.
“No, Kyle. I made my choice a long time ago. Now you have to choose. Respect how I feel about Eve, or…find a new boat.”
“Jesus. Are you serious?”
“As a shark attack.”
Kyle got up and slowly put his shirt and shoes on. He patted Sam on the back. “So long, Skipper.” He shuffled out the door and down the stairs.
Sam stood still. His ears were ringing and his head ached, but lightness filled his chest where only tension and uncertainty used to be.
The door to the bathroom opened. Out stumbled a girl whose name Sam couldn’t remember. She collapsed onto the bed next to Kyle’s other conquest and lit up a cigarette.
“I heard what you said, Slammer,” she said. “I wish a guy felt that way about me. You’re so fucking romantic.”
Sam looked at the ash on his bedsheets and the hot pink G-string hanging on his headboard. He didn’t know what to say.
She looked up at him. “Do you happen to have any ginger ale?”
He shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
“Mind if me and Amanda crash here for a little while?”
The other girl was still snoring. “Take as long as you need.” Sam sat down to put on his socks and boots. The fog in his head was starting to clear. He formed a plan of attack. He’d get down to Garrett’s and pick up his phone. Then he’d call Eve and drive directly to the house in Montecito. He’d beg for her forgiveness if necessary. Premonitions of epic make-up sex danced in his head. He was feeling optimistic as he bounded down the steps through Judith’s shop, swinging his key ring on his finger.
He’d just stepped outside when Judith ran across the alley, her face pale and her hands shaking.
Sam caught her. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
She was breathless and discombobulated. “I was talking to Charlie at the bar. All of a sudden he said the right side of his face was starting to feel numb. I told him to call his neurologist right away. He was walking to the phone when he collapsed, Sam. He just collapsed. Manny’s on the phone with 911. I came up to get you. Oh, dear God.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Come quick, Sam. Please.”
****
The hospital staff herded them all into the waiting room, the same one where Judith had waited for news about Sam after the shark attack.
“I hate this place,” she said, miserably. Sam put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Manny handed her a paper cup of water.
“I know, gorgeous. We’ll find out more soon enough,” said Sam.
This was Charlie’s second stroke. He’d had a hell of a time coming out of the first. Only after extensive speech and physical therapy had he been able to make a partial recovery, and even then, every day had been a struggle.
After a couple of hours waiting without news, Sam drove Manny and Judith home and came back to the hospital alone. Manny had lent him his cell phone to call Judith if anything happened.
Sam was sitting down to his second cup of vending machine coffee when Charlie’s neurologist came out to speak with him.
The doctor was a soft-spoken Indian man in his fifties. He talked to Sam in a calm, unhurried voice. “I have examined the results of Charles’ MRI, and I am sorry to tell you that Charles has experienced an intracerebral hemorrhage. This is different from his first stroke in that instead of being caused by a blood clot that travels to the brain, a blood vessel inside of his brain has ruptured and leaked blood into the surrounding tissue.”
Sam’s body temperature fell a few degrees. “What can be done, Dr. Patel?”
“I will be using a variety of treatments to help Charles. We have already worked to lower his blood pressure with medication. Reducing the swelling, inflammation, and pressure buildup in the brain is our next concern.” The volume of Dr. Patel’s voice dropped as he conveyed the seriousness of his next statement. “In order to control the amount of damage to the surrounding brain tissue, we will have to operate as soon as possible.”
Sam listened numbly as Dr. Patel explained the procedure, something terrifying involving a tiny catheter and the dilation of arteries in Charlie’s brain.
“What are his chances?” asked Sam.
“Unfortunately, he will not make a full recovery,” said the doctor. “Survival rate for this type of ICH is about fifty percent. Those chances improve if we can help him make it through the next two days.”
****
The vast, high-ceilinged dining room of Squid was all hard edges, with a slate gray palette and exposed beams of honey-colored wood.
It was an hour until the doors opened for dinner. The front-house staff finished their meeting and entered the empty dining room to finish their side work. They were all young and good-looking in a severe, underfed way, reminding Eve of runway models in black aprons.
Eve sat at one of the two-top tables, trying not to fidget. Last night, she’d watched a video clip of Chris Mercutio. “Kitchen Warriors” was a campy reality show with suspenseful music and trumped-up drama, but the food that Mercutio cooked was both innovative and technical.
As the minutes ticked by, Eve examined the room. The hostess stood at her stand, talking quietly on the phone and checking the night’s reservations on her tablet computer. On one side of the room was a bar and an illuminated shelf full of premium liquor. On the other side of the room was a long concrete counter and refrigerated glass cases similar to the ones used in sushi restaurants. A few chefs were working there, checking their ingredients and finishing their prep work. They worked in near silence, like monks lighting candles in prayer.
Dressed in chef’s whites and designer glasses, Chris came out of the kitchen and sat down opposite Eve at the table. “So. Tell me a little bit about yourself and your background as a chef. Let’s see if we have a match.”
The sunlight from the glass walls slanted into her face, throwing Chris into a sharp, dark silhouette. Eve answered each question as clearly as she could, glossing over her lack of formal culinary education by talking about her work ethic and her love of ingredients.
After a half-hour of back and forth, Chris said, “Can you start on Wednesday?”
The abrupt offer took Eve aback. “Pardon?”
“I can tell you know what you’re talking about. Eight in the morning. Show up, we’ll do some paperwork, you can meet the rest of the staff, and we’ll get you set up as a commis at the raw bar. It will not be fun. You’re looking at fifty, fifty-five hours a week or so at minimum wage. Over the next few months, we can try you out at different stations. With your experience, and if you can hack it, you’re looking at a chef de partie position. What do you think?”
Chris looked like a man of action. “I apprenticed with the finest sushi chef in Japan,” she said, shoving away her Japanese modesty. “Fifteen dollars an hour.”
He dropped his chin. “Eleven.”
“Fourteen.”
“Twelve,” said Chris, raising an eyebrow.
“Thirteen. Final offer.”
“Done. Don’t tell anyone what you make.”
Eve laughed. “I’ll try not to brag.”
They shook hands.
“See you Wednesday,” said Chris.