Born at Dawn (15 page)

“Where are you?”

“Gotta go. I'll be there in a second. There's a cop car behind me,” Cynthia said, tossing her phone into the passenger seat. She cruised at the speed limit until the police cruiser sped by her and turned right. Once the cop car was out of sight, Cynthia did some driving that rivaled the Indy 500's highest ranked female driver Danica Patrick. She zigzagged through traffic, merely slowing down at stop signs rather than actually stopping at them. Sweat ran down her sides as she hurried to get back to Sullivan's Eatery.

It suddenly became clear to her this was the moment she had been waiting for. This was her opportunity to be more than Marvin's wife and more than a victim; this was her chance to live. Cynthia had been experimenting with food and recipes since she was teen. Mildred spent a lot of time at work leaving Cynthia with two options: play with food or boys. Food seemed to be the safest. With the life she wanted so close to her reach, Cynthia came down hard on the accelerator until she reached the restaurant's parking lot.

The glass door rattled under Cynthia's pounding. Chef Sullivan opened the door, a film of sweat covering his brow. His wild gray hair stood straight up, and his eyes bulged out of his head; his whites had turned red.

“Where have you been?”

“Chef, there's no time to converse. Get someone to pluck these rose petals. I don't know why I didn't think of this before. We need caviar and some peaches. You've got some of that on hand, right?” Chef Sullivan rolled his eyes as if he were taking inventory in his mind before nodding.

“We've got three hours to turn this thing around now,” Chef Sullivan pointed out.

She brushed past him, her arms filled with parcels. The folds of the curtain latched on to her foot, causing her to stumble. Chef Sullivan stretched his long arms over her head to pull back the curtain just enough for Cynthia to slither through. She briskly cut across the dining room with the chef on her heels.

“I'm going to need help arranging the tables. Can you get someone to help me?” she asked over her shoulder.

Cynthia used her back to push open the kitchen doors. She walked in on a sous-chef steaming crab legs and the line chef doing prep work for what looked like a stew. She dropped her bags on the counter and began emptying the contents onto the steel countertop.

A hush settled in the kitchen. All that could be heard was the purr of Diana Ross singing the “Theme from Mahogany””

“I'm Cynthia. Who's getting the caviar and the peaches?”

No one answered her. They all returned to their jobs.

“So, no one can hear me?”

Chef Sullivan stood behind Cynthia with his hands on his hips. He cleared his throat and placed one hand firmly on her shoulder. “Everyone, this is my little firecracker Cynthia—”

“Hathaway,” she interjected.

“Yes, Cynthia Hathaway, and she is a guest chef tonight. I want you to follow her directions as you would me and assist her in achieving her vision. Maurice, pit the peaches then fill them with caviar. Jules, there's a bundle of roses I left on the table out there. I need you to pluck the petals and cover the floor with them.”

“I didn't join your team to become a florist,” Jules said rolling his eyes.

“Our survival depends on this night. Be a team player now or be prepared to become a florist. Carnie, follow Cynthia out to the dining room so she can show you how to position the tables.” Chef Sullivan paused and stared at his staff as if he was inviting them to jump ship if they wanted to.

Cynthia sucked up as much air as she could and closed her mouth. She could smell the contempt brewing.

“Let's move now. We've got less than three hours to turn this thing around,” Chef Sullivan said clapping his hands rapidly.

Although Cynthia didn't care for imperious mannerisms, she adopted them right away, snapping, clapping, and pointing her fingers as she navigated through the stations of the kitchen to check on everyone's progress. In one fell swoop she'd found herself a home in Chef Sullivan's kitchen.

She stopped at the chopping station, leaning over Maurice's gaunt shoulders to make sure he carved the peaches perfectly. She even checked on the bass Chef Sullivan was rubbing down as she grabbed snatches of crab meat and stuffed them into the artichoke hearts. She'd found it, the “it” everyone searched for, among the clanging pots, rising steam, and parsley.

Cynthia could feel Chef Sullivan's eyes on her. She looked up long enough to catch the look of amazement plastered on his face. Cynthia hadn't stopped moving since she'd burst through the restaurant doors that afternoon. At the moment she was busy hunched over a table scraping leftover food into a gray basin that the busboys were only allowed to bring out at the end of the night.

While there were customers, they bussed and cleared the tables using the same round, sparkling trays that servers used when bringing the meals out. Chef Sullivan cringed at the sight of those basins. To him it seemed as though they screamed, “Someone named Alice works here,” and he didn't want diners to have that image in their head while munching on his butternut squash soufflé.

“Here, I saved this for you.” Chef Sullivan handed her a small platter containing a caviar-filled peach with bits of shredded coconut and a glass of champagne. Cynthia smiled at the plate. In all the melee surrounding the evening, she'd only performed the standard taste test. She didn't have the opportunity to nosh on anything on the menu except for a few pieces of shrimp that she popped in her mouth when no one was looking.

Yet she knew the night was a success because of the many toasts and the numerous trips she had to take from the kitchen to the dining room for Chef Sullivan to introduce his new apprentice chef. Someone from the
Richmond Sun
had even taken her picture. She wished Cheo could have seen her. Her first bite into the peach sent her eyes popping out of her head as the caviar and the luscious peach crashed into each other on her tongue.

“Amazing, isn't it?” Chef Sullivan raised his eyebrows. “Now take a dollop of this,” he said, pointing to the coconut and ginger sauce that garnished the plate. Her eyes rolled back as she sucked the tangy sauce off her fingertips.

Chef Sullivan clapped. “Now please try to imagine these tables filled with people doing the very same thing.” Cynthia smiled at him.

“It was magnificent, and you, my little firecracker,” he said, shaking his crooked pointer finger at her, “are a gift and a curse. None of these dishes are on my menu. What shall I do when the mayor's guests return requesting citrus-grilled bass, caviar-filled peaches, and rose petals on the ground?”

Using a small piece of leftover peach rind, Cynthia scooped the remaining sauce off the plate. Between smacks and sips of champagne, she replied, “Tell them those items are not on the menu. The entire menu was prepared in honor of the mayor's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and should they elect to have Sullivan Eatery cater an event a similar menu can be prepared for them.”

“Oh yes, I love it! Personalized menus; where did you come from?”

Laughing at Chef Sullivan's compliments, Cynthia rose from the table and placed her dishes in her basin and began collecting the silverware.

“What are you doing? Put that stuff down, girl. When you cook for Cheo you may have to clean up, but in this restaurant, the chef does not cook and clear the dishes. Don't get used to it though. As an apprentice chef, you will be cleaning the kitchen and doing whatever I tell you to.”

Relieved of dish duty, Cynthia asked, “Chef Sullivan, do you think I could take off now since my services are no longer needed?” She curtsied.

“But we haven't even discussed how I'm going to accommodate you or your schedule.”

“My mama always told me that it isn't good to make a business decision without sleeping on it. Chef Sullivan, if you wake up hungry, call me and we'll chew the fat so to speak. I'm terribly exhausted. May I please go home?” Cynthia cupped her hands in front of her chest and batted her eyelashes enough times to wear him out.

Chef Sullivan stood directly in front of her, placed his hands on her shoulders, and began spouting off his wisdom. “Cooking is about love. It's about follow-through and dealing with disasters. You are the first apprentice chef who has demonstrated that understanding. I'm going to excuse you this evening. Tomorrow, it's full speed ahead. I want you to be forewarned: only the food we cook has the luxury of being exhausted.”

 

 

An orchestra of crickets singing in the ribgrass greeted Cynthia when she arrived at home. Usually the crickets made her cringe, and the sight of the people in gym at midnight would make her heart ache for New York, but nothing could bring her down right now. For good measure she charged up the steps.

The stairwell opened up directly in front of Cheo's apartment door. She raised her fist to knock then changed her mind. Planning her peace treaty breakfast, she strutted down the hallway to the beat of the salsa music erupting from Cheo's apartment. A bright pink Post-it was waiting for her at her door. Again Cheo had beaten her to the punch.

She repeated the words
lo siento
over and over trying to conjure up the meaning. She played back the times she'd heard him using it, when he bumped into the old lady in the elevator and every time he was late:
Lo siento, lo siento. I am sorry, I am sorry.

Cynthia entered her dimly lit apartment wondering if sorry and a Post-it could fix everything she had done wrong.

“What a vision,” Chef Sullivan said as he exited his Acura MDX after parking it in his reserved spot.

Cynthia was leaning on the side of her maroon Camry wearing a lilac Peter Pan–collared blouse and a pair of art deco–printed pants. The side-eye stare that Susan gave Cynthia made her feel uncomfortable. Cynthia managed to eke out a shaky smile to hide her concern. She couldn't figure out whether what she spotted in Susan's eyes was a dislike or distrust.

“Darling, you shouldn't have wasted this outfit on me.” Chef Sullivan double kissed Cynthia. “Besides, this isn't just a meeting.” He locked arms with her, and led her in slow stroll through the parking lot to the restaurant. “It's a follow-up interview of sorts. Tonight you are going to be helping me cater a dinner party for Terrence Hadley. He's a visual artist on the rise, and after he heard about the mayor's dinner, he called me last night and begged, pleaded, and canceled his catering order at Chez Josephine, which is nonrefundable at this point.”

“I have a change of clothes and flat shoes in my gym bag. I'm ready to chef it up,” Cynthia retorted, bobbing from side to side like a boxer preparing to spar in front of the door.

The locks on the door clinked with the twist of Chef Sullivan's key. Susan and Cynthia entered shoulder to shoulder and stood at attention in front of Chef Sullivan.

“Susan, take her to the office. Cynthia, you can use my bathroom to change,” Chef Sullivan directed before disappearing behind the curtain.

While they walked upstairs to the office, Cynthia tried to think of what she could say to win Susan over. She'd already deduced she'd made a number of enemies in the kitchen on her first night at the restaurant and Cynthia was sure that tonight would be no different. She felt she needed as many people as she could get on her side if she was going to survive, and the boss' daughter was certainly a good ally to have.

When they reached the office, Susan twisted the gold handle on the door and allowed Cynthia to enter first. “I know what you're up to, and he's not going to buy it,” she said slamming the door shut behind them.

Midstride Cynthia turned back and asked, “What?”

“You're not the first and you certainly won't be the last. I've seen a lot of women come in here trying to pass sex off as skills so that my father would back them. You're definitely different. You've got guts, you've got style, you've got what my dad calls ‘pizzazz,'” Susan said, making quotations in the air, “but it won't work here, and unfortunately for you, you can't even go down to the Culinary Arts Institute and weasel your way into a class since you didn't do things the proper way.”

Cynthia wanted nothing more than to slap the child upside her head, but she let her continue. Now was not the time to give way to her emotions when everything was riding on this one opportunity. This could be the break she needed to get her boys back.

Susan shrugged at Cynthia. “I guess you're just going to have to go back where you came from.”

“Well, Susan, you best believe I've got skills. Don't you worry about your precious daddy, sugar, because I didn't come here looking for a man. I came here looking for myself, and I'm sorry if I happened to rain on your parade because I found myself here. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to change my clothes.” Without Susan's permission, Cynthia entered Chef Sullivan's private bathroom. She undid the buttons on her blouse and slipped into a classic white T-shirt and a pair of khaki capris that hugged her waistline.

With a smile slathered across her face Cynthia waved at Susan when she exited the bathroom. “Sue, let's go take care of business,” she said still smiling.

“My name is not Sue. It's Susan.”

“I'm sorry, sugar,” Cynthia said, walking ahead of Susan down the steps.

For the rest of the week, Cynthia's made a point to end all her sentences to Susan with “sugar” and a smile. Unlike every other apprentice chef who spent hours practicing the pilot for their cooking show during their down time, Cynthia helped with every aspect of the restaurant. Everywhere that Cynthia turned she ran into Susan. First she stumbled upon her when she was stacking the meat freezer. Next she found her while she was bussing tables with the busboys when Chef wasn't looking. After closing, Cynthia could be found either bussing tables or sweeping the floor.

During Cynthia's initial days at the restaurant, Susan's feelings for her seemed to waver like a weathervane during a storm. But by closing on Saturday night, Cynthia was able to break the ice. She pulled the ear buds out of Susan's ears and asked her to join her in the main dining area.

“Come on. I'm going crazy in there talking to the broom.”

“He only responds when you sing to him,” Susan said.

“Now, see I didn't know that. Would you be a dear and show me? What's his favorite song?”

Susan strong-armed the broom out of Cynthia's hand and belted out, “‘I'll give up anything, anything and everything, just to see you smile,'” into the the broom handle like it was a microphone on the
X Factor
set.

Cynthia basked in Susan's smile. It had been a year since she'd made a child smile. Although it wasn't one of her own, it was enough.