Chapter Twenty-One
Three weeks later
After Eve helped the prep cooks break down some whole turbot for the special, she prepared three sea urchin dishes for Chris to try. He was eager to get more local seafood on the menu and had asked her to come up with something cool.
First, she made raw uni on the half-shell, propped up on a mound of sea salt on a flat piece of black slate. Second, she made a fresh pasta colored with bright green Japanese wakame seaweed and topped it with uni and miso butter. And third, she made a light-as-air uni mousse with ponzu gelee. In a nod to the name of the restaurant, she used squid ink to make black tuile cookies to serve with the mousse.
Chris tasted all three dishes as Eve looked on, her hands tucked together on the tabletop as she waited nervously for the verdict.
“The raw uni is flawless. I want that as a regular on the raw bar menu.”
“Cracking live sea urchin is more labor-intensive than shucking oysters,” said Eve.
“Train one of the other commis to help you. That needs to be on the menu. The wakame pasta is interesting, but it needs something more to anchor it. Something equally sweet. A seared scallop maybe, or some crab. It also needs a shot of spice to round out the umami.”
“Shichimi togarashi?” asked Eve. “Japanese spice powder?”
Chris shook his head. “Not pronounced enough.” He tasted the dish once more. “I’m thinking something really forward, like pickled jalapenos or harissa. Let’s look into it.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Now your third dish. This is weird in a good way. Is this chantilly cream? Did you use a whipped cream canister to make this?”
“No. I used a Bermixer.” The big handheld mixer was an important tool in many professional kitchens.
“Okay. Don’t use a star tip to pipe the mousse onto the plate. It doesn’t look right. Maybe a big plain tip, like a number five. Try it.” Chris looked at Eve and narrowed his eyes for a moment. Eve’s cheeks heated as she wondered if she’d done anything wrong.
“What?” she asked.
“Who did you say you trained with again?”
“Geisha Sushi. And my grandfather’s restaurant. In Japan.”
“You never staged anywhere?”
“What’s ‘stage’?” asked Eve, feeling dopey.
“Apprenticed for free. I started as a line cook in Florida then staged in Spain and the Netherlands.”
Eve shook her head. “Well, I suppose I did. My dad and my grandfather were too cheap to pay me.”
“Was your grandfather’s restaurant in Tokyo?” asked Chris.
“No,” Eve said. “Ishihara. Little town. On the coast.”
“Huh.” Chris leaned back in his chair. “Huh,” he said again, looking at Eve as though she were a puzzle that he couldn’t solve.
“What’s the matter?” asked Eve.
“Nothing’s the matter. These are some badass dishes, Eve. I want the raw dish on tomorrow’s menu. Fix the plating on the mousse dish and maybe we can put that on tomorrow’s menu, too. Come see me later so that we can calculate how much sea urchin to order.”
“Thank you, Chef,” said Eve, sensing the growing respect between them, the two toughest cooks in the kitchen.
“Just keep bringing your A-game, Ono,” said Chris, standing up from the counter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some grill chefs to denigrate and an order of cuttlefish to track down.”
****
As Manny used the half-ton hoist to offload the catch onto the waiting refrigerated trucks, Sam looked up. Judith stood outside her shop, smoking a cigarette with a shaking hand. He finished up the paperwork and went to her at once.
“What’s going on, gorgeous?” he asked.
“I thought I’d wait for you to finish,” she said. “Give you a chance to catch your breath before I told you.” The stricken look on Judith’s face told him most of what he needed to know. Her eyes were red from crying.
“When?” he demanded.
“Early this morning. About the time you and Manny left.” She took another slow drag and looked toward the water. “He’d had a third stroke in the night. Another bleed. They couldn’t save him from this one.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Charlie’s gone. Just like that. We lost him.”
Sam looked out on the water and was quiet for a moment. “I was planning on going to see him again tonight,” he said.
“You went every day.”
“Wasn’t enough.” Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d spent hours at Charlie’s bedside. His old mentor and friend had never regained consciousness. Sam had never gotten the chance to say goodbye.
When the wave of grief finally hit him thirty seconds later, Sam’s chest caved in. His ribs ached as if he’d been punched. His scars tingled. He put his hand on the doorframe of the shop to steady himself.
“Son of a bitch,” he said again, shutting his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Sam.”
When Judith put her arms around him, Sam let himself cry for the first time in almost eight years.
****
Fatigue finally catching up with her, Eve dragged her feet up the stairs and unlocked the door of her tiny studio apartment. She’d been living on her own since Tiffani moved out of Herbert’s place and into a condo downtown.
With a yawn, she changed into her pajamas and climbed into the ancient Murphy bed.
She hardly ever had nightmares of the tsunami anymore.
Instead, she dreamed of Sam.
The feel of his weight pressing down on her. The flavor of his lips. His mesmerizing, mismatched eyes. The dull, sweet ache between her legs, hours after having made love to him. Breathless, she would wake up from such dreams, her body hot and slick with sweat.
One morning, too horny to breathe, she ran a hot shower and, with her fingers, masturbated herself to a quick, explosive climax, Sam’s gorgeous face and body projected brightly on the back wall of her brain. When she was finished, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling both relieved and depressed at the same time.
Does he think about me at all?
As she worked at the restaurant, she found herself checking out the men who came in for dinner. The ones she found most attractive—tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired, good smiles—all reminded her of Sam. But none of them quite hit the mark. Some of her more drug-addled coworkers flirted openly with her. A couple of them had asked her out for drinks after work. It was easy to tell them no.
She closed her eyes.
Please let me dream of him.
****
The sadistic bastards who were Charlie’s friends made Sam give the eulogy.
Charlie would have hated anything too sentimental, so Sam, dressed awkwardly in a new black suit and tie, talked as straightforwardly as possible about how Charlie had taken him in, verbally abused him, and generally broken his spirit until Sam could consider himself strong enough to be a man.
“Charlie was the best teacher anyone could hope for,” Sam said. “I’ll never forget his lessons. I’ll never forget him.”
Judith and Sam had combed through all of Charlie’s carefully kept records and files, but they couldn’t find anything about his next of kin or blood relatives. So the only people who watched his coffin go down into the ground were the small band of miscreants, wharf rats, pirates, and smugglers that Charlie had called his family for the last thirty years.
“Charles H. de Winter. Home is the Sailor, Home from the Sea,” read Charlie’s epitaph. It was carved into a piece of polished blue-gray granite that sat on an ocean-facing hillside in the cemetery.
“Kinda cheesy,” whispered Sam.
“A little bit,” agreed Judith. “It was what he wanted.”
Charlie had lived in a small apartment near downtown, a one-bedroom on the ground floor of a 1950s building with a courtyard full of palm trees. Judith and Sam took turns taking care of Charlie’s affairs. Judith posted pictures of Charlie’s old Mercedes-Benz online to help pay for his funeral; Sam met the potential buyers until they found the right one. Judith held a yard sale to sell Charlie’s clothes, books, and furniture; Sam called Goodwill to have the rest hauled away.
What was left after they were done was one box of photographs and the Silver Star Charlie had won in the war.
Sam carried this box up to his apartment and put it in his closet. He took out the Silver Star and read the inscription on the back: FOR GALLANTRY IN ACTION. He took the medal with him out onto the deck. As the sun went down, he placed the medal on his knee. On his other knee, he placed a glass of bourbon. The bottle was not far away.
He drank as the sun did its disappearing act, dragging away with it a curtain of muted colors. He thought about fathers and sons. He thought about regret.
“All right, Charlie,” murmured Sam aloud. He sighed and swirled the melting ice and amber liquid in his glass. “I’ll go make things right.”
****
Three days later, chaining her bike up to the pipes behind the restaurant, Eve pulled up her sunglasses and was greeted by one of the servers, a young Guatemalan kid with a mohawk. “You’d better go inside,” he said, his eyes bright with excitement. “Chris wants to see you.”
“What? Why?” she said.
The kid smiled. “Go see for yourself.”
Eve stood in the doorway of the small office. Chris sat at the desk reading a newspaper, a flute of champagne in his hand.
Eve knocked on the doorframe and walked in. “Hey,” she said, clearing her throat. “Omar said you were looking for me?”
“Yes, indeed. Read this.”
Eve looked at the newspaper. It was the Los Angeles Chronicle’s review of Squid. “Three stars!” said Eve, clapping her hands. “Holy crap. That’s fantastic!”
“I was expecting two. Maybe two and a half,” said Chris, sipping the champagne. “Here’s the headline: ‘Squid, a new restaurant by “Kitchen Warrior” winner Chris Mercutio, serves up thrilling but accessible dishes to star-struck crowds.’” Chris opened the newspaper to the full story. There were pictures of the dining room, a couple of plates, and—to her extreme surprise—Eve herself, standing at the raw bar shucking an oyster and smiling.
“You are crazy photogenic. You should be the new face of the restaurant,” said Chris.
“Whatever, ‘Kitchen Warrior’.”
Chris poured another glass of champagne and handed it to her. “Listen to this: ‘Bright yellow sea urchin mousse is served with a squid ink tuile. Spiked with ponzu gelee and anchored with a puree of cauliflower and kombu essence, the dish is a feast for the eyes, playful and evocative of the sea.’ That’s as good as it gets for that critic. A three-star rating for a new restaurant is almost unheard of. But we got it. Thanks to you.” He clinked his glass against Eve’s.
“It wasn’t me,” she said. “You’ve shown me so much in the past few weeks. You’re a brilliant chef.”
“Be quiet, Eve,” said Chris, rolling his eyes. “Take the praise while you can get it. Tomorrow I’ll be throwing pots and pans at your head in the kitchen and barking at you like a dog.”
****
Sam’s Silverado hummed over the blacktop of the interstate.
He took off his ball cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It was ten in the morning, but the sun was already raging; from the way the air shimmered above the asphalt, Sam guessed the temperature at about eighty-five degrees. Even the frames of his aviator sunglasses were burning hot. His head ached from his Wild Turkey hangover; he drank some warm water from a giant plastic bottle in an effort to stave off dehydration.
A single exit sign from the freeway pointed the way to the town he’d not visited for almost eight years. He took the curving off ramp and once past the fueling stations and fast food restaurants, followed the two-lane highway three miles into the dusty cow town where he’d grown up. Oleander.
Except for a name change on the bank and a shiny new Starbucks, everything on Main Street was the same: a bank, a liquor store, two cowboy bars, the market, a post office, the ice cream parlor, and his father’s medical office.
His younger brother Jack had told him Doc no longer opened the office on Fridays; a quick look at his father’s rudimentary website corroborated this information. His father was a creature of habit. If Sam remembered correctly, Doc would be sitting at the table having a cup of black coffee and reading a newspaper following a vigorous morning jog to the duck pond.
Sam hadn’t called in advance; not even Jack knew he was coming home. Sam feared that announcing his visit would make him lose his nerve.
He passed the three blocks of Main Street in the blink of an eye then made a left turn into the hollow. That road—a narrow one that wound through hills covered with dry blonde grass and California oaks—led to his childhood home.
A mile from the house, Sam passed a particular bend in the road and the ancient oak tree that stood next to it. He gripped the steering wheel tight and looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the dark shadow the tree cast in his peripheral vision.
He pulled into the driveway of a neat two-story clapboard house with a porch swing. In the house of his memory, the walkway was lined with petunias and flowering vines hung on the railings. Now there was the old sycamore tree and the half-acre of meticulously clipped grass that his dad mowed every Saturday morning. Sam parked the car next to his dad’s truck, an ancient Chevy C20 that he’d driven since Sam was a kid.
As Sam turned off his engine, the old man himself opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. He was wearing a T-shirt, gray sweatpants, and running shoes. He’d just come back from a jog, but he looked as starched and groomed as ever.
Sam put his cap back on to hide his shaggy hair. He regretted not getting a haircut before coming back home; he wished he’d shaved at least. He probably looked as prodigal as the day he’d left, eighteen and wild-eyed, shaken with grief and guilt.
He got out of the truck and winced at the rusty hinges as he shut the door. He stood on the bottom step as his father looked down at him. They mirrored each other for a moment, two big men with their eyebrows raised, hands in their pockets.
“Sam,” said Doc Lamont. He nodded once, like a taciturn sheriff in a Western movie.
“Dad.”
“Been waiting around for you.”
It was the second time Sam had been late in coming home. The first time had changed the lives of everyone in the family forever. Sam felt winded, as if he’d been punched in the gut.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Without hesitation, Doc folded Sam into a big embrace. “It’s not your fault, son,” said his father. “It never was.”
They sat down together on the porch swing. The chains groaned under their weight.
“Where should we start?” asked Sam.
“Anywhere we want, I suppose.” Doc stretched his legs out and leaned his arms on the back of the bench. “Jack’s kept me updated, more or less. I’ve heard about your business. Seems like you’ve got something good going on out there.”
Sam nodded. “Things are working out right now.”
“How’s your health?”
“Getting better. Still stiff in the mornings sometimes.”
Doc shook his head slowly. “I worry about you. It’s a dangerous line of work.”
“Sharks are like plane crashes. You can fly all your life and never experience one. I figure I survived my plane crash, so…my odds should be pretty good from now on.”
“What kind of precautions do you take?” asked Doc.
“I never dive alone. That’s one step. And I have a pneumatic shark stick. They’re like guns that work underwater.” Sam was quiet for a long time, trying to drum up the courage to say the things that frightened him the most. “Listen, Dad. I’m sorry I—”
His father held up a hand. “Sam, don’t apologize. If you start, I’ll start, and we’ll never stop until the cows come home. Just tell me how you’re doing now. That’s all I want to know.”
Sam smiled to himself. Same old Doc. “You know, I saw you in the hospital in Santa Barbara.”
He nodded. “I drove Jack.”
“Why didn’t you come in?”
“I spoke with your doctor. She said you were in pretty good shape. I thought I’d wait until you were fully recovered and off the narcotics before I started laying into you.”
“I appreciate that, Doc.”
They looked out at the tree in the front yard. It cast a dark shadow on the grass; its leaves hummed with insects. “Jack said you’d gotten a tattoo. Family name.”
“Yeah. Long time ago,” said Sam. He pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt to show his dad. “Here it is.”
Doc leaned down to examine it. “Look at that,” he said. “The Lamont clan badge. I suppose if you had to get a tattoo, that’s an acceptable one to choose.”
Sam rubbed the skin then lowered his sleeve. “It’s the name of my business. I’ve always been proud of the name.” He smiled to himself. “Of myself, not so much.”
Doc clapped a big hand over Sam’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze before letting go. “You know how I feel about some of your choices,” he said. “But, Sam, the more I’ve thought about it, the more I know that Meg and I…we raised you all the best that we could. We didn’t want children who would be exactly like us. We wanted sons who would grow up to be their own men. Who would do the right thing, no matter what. I know you’ve made your own path in life, and you will continue to do so. For that I’ll always be proud, son. Never doubt that.”
After a lengthy but macho heart-to-heart with Sam, Doc Lamont made lunch for his two youngest boys; tuna melt sandwiches with pickles, just like their mother used to make for the family on busy weekday nights. As their dad went to put the skillet in the sink, Jack turned to Sam and socked his arm.
“Ouch, you asswipe,” said Sam, out of Doc’s earshot, punching Jack back so hard that the teenager almost fell off his chair.
“Butthat,” Jack whispered, laughing and scooting closer to the table. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“Didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” said Sam.
Doc came back and sat down. He led them in a quick prayer before they dug in. “How long are you planning on staying?” he asked.
Out of respect for Charlie, the uni fleet was staying in harbor for a week. “A couple days, if that’s all right,” Sam said. “Maybe we can make it out to Lake Isabella for some fishing.”
“Dad would like that,” said Jack through a mouthful. “Maybe we can go tomorrow.”
“I could use your professional help, Sam,” said Doc. “I know they stock that lake with largemouth bass, but we haven’t been able to hook anything but a couple of pipsqueak trout now and again.”
“What kind of bait are you using?”
“The wrong kind,” said Jack. “Plastics.”
“It shouldn’t matter, but we’ll get some night crawlers before we go. You got a pole for me?”
Jack grabbed the second sandwich that Doc had made him. “In the shed.”
After lunch, Doc made Sam mow the lawn for old time’s sake. When the job was done, Sam wheeled the mower into the shed and sat on a pile of old newspapers as he drank a glass of iced tea. Jack rooted through the back of the shed for a spare fishing pole. He sat down next to Sam with a tackle box and rigged the line.
“If you help Doc hook a largemouth, all will be forgiven. All eight years. It will be like the calf the father slaughtered when the prodigal son came home,” joked Jack.
“We better hook that sucker, then,” said Sam. He leaned against a second pile of newspapers. Sam looked down at the pile; the section on top was a restaurant review. He squinted down at the picture. There, looking up at him with a dazzling smile on her beautiful face, was Eve, one of the new cooks at a hoity-toity restaurant in Santa Barbara called Squid.
Dumbstruck, Sam picked up the paper and read the glowing review. The food sounded exactly like the fancy stuff Eve loved to make. He folded the section up and put it in the pocket of his jeans.
“Son of a bitch!” shouted Jack. He’d speared his thumb on one of the hooks.
“Give it here,” said Sam. He took the pole. “Let me show you.”
The next morning, that largemouth bass eluded the Lamont men once again, but Sam was able to help Doc hook six decent catfish and three crappies. Jack got his bait stolen a couple times before he was able to catch three trout in a row, two of which he had to let go because they were too small.
After a hearty dinner of fried catfish and beers, Sam washed up and got ready for another long drive. He stood on the driveway with his father and brother to say goodbye.
Relief wasn’t the right word. Sam’s soul was lighter, as if he had jettisoned all his old baggage and watched it sink to the bottom of the ocean for good.
“It was good to see you, son,” said Doc. “Give me a call. Let me know how you’re doing every now and then.”
“I will,” said Sam.
“Are you still going to teach me to surf?” asked Jack. It was alarming how tall his little brother was getting; up close, Sam actually had to look up at the kid. It was disheartening.
“You bet,” said Sam. “We’ll schedule a day together. I’ll take you out to a couple secret spots on Santa Cruz Island. Maybe we’ll get luckier if we fish in the ocean. You and Dad, and Adam if he ever gets time off.” Sam climbed into the truck and shut the door.
“Drive safely, son,” said Doc.
Sam got his seatbelt on and started up the engine. “I will, Dad.”
“How long will it take you to get home?” asked Jack.
“A couple of hours,” said Sam. “But I’ve got something to take care of first.”