In the Fire (2 page)

Chapter Two

Jamie

Katie Samuelson smiled into camera three as she held up a copy of my cookbook. “You can find all the recipes from today’s show in James Lassiter’s book
Spicing Up Your Table
, including this incredible rigatoni with vodka sauce and spicy sausage James has graciously offered to let us put on our website.” She leaned into me and playfully nudged my shoulder. “It’s been a pleasure having you on today’s show, James. Promise us you’ll come back soon?”

I smiled at Katie as I scooped more rigatoni onto a platter. “I’d love to, Katie. Thanks for having me on the show. I always love being on
Taste of the Big Apple.
”

Katie slid the platter toward the center of the island already crowded with the other dishes I’d prepared. “Tune in tomorrow for mouth-watering Mediterranean dishes from up-and-coming chef Talia Stamos. I’ll leave you with profound words from George Bernard Shaw: ‘There is no sincerer love than the love of food.’”

I held my smile until the cameraman slashed his hand and the light on top of his camera went dark. The stage manager called out, “It’s a wrap folks. James, you’re amazing as always. And Katie, great quote today. Okay people, let’s get the set cleaned up for the next shoot.”

I wiped my hands on the towel in front of me and reached out to shake Katie’s hand. “Thanks again, Katie. It was wonderful to be back on the show. Please call Trevor if you need anything else.”

Katie looked over her shoulder as she gathered up her notes. “Sounds good, James. The rigatoni was excellent, by the way. I’m going to have to make it at home.” She nodded to one of her assistants. “Sarah will take you back to your dressing room. Tell Trevor I’ll call him in the morning about those still shots he promised he’d send me.”

Already halfway off the set and more than ready to be done with the cameras, I nodded in Katie’s direction. “Will do. Have a good one, Katie. Good luck with the next segment and thanks again for having me today.”
And thank you
,
Trevor
,
for only booking me for a single segment today.
Remind me to give you a bonus.

Once I got back to the dressing room, I quickly slipped off the pristine chef’s jacket provided by the show and tossed it into the hamper next to the door. I sank into the uncomfortable chair in front of the mirrors and took a good, hard look. I’d been doing this latest round of the media circuit for weeks now and it showed. The makeup crew had done their best to hide the black circles under my eyes, but I could still see them. I pulled out a washcloth from the basket on the vanity and scrubbed away the vestiges until only my pale skin showed in the mirror. Camera makeup was one of those things I’d gotten used to over the years, but it did itch.

Once I was relatively clean and back in my own clothes, I grabbed my bag and took the side hallway to the back door of the studio. I usually didn’t mind signing autographs and taking pictures, but today I was too exhausted to deal with it.

Relief washed over me when I saw the yellow cab waiting at the curb. After making sure the elderly cabbie knew where to drop me, I closed my eyes and let him navigate the insanity of Manhattan traffic. Blaring horns and the occasional obscenity from the driver were a welcome reminder that I was home for more than a day or two for the first time in three months. I still had the occasional talk show or guest appearance scheduled, but for the time being, I was home.

“Hey, mister. We’re here.”

I opened my eyes and stared out the window at the green awning in front of my building. The cabbie swiped my credit card and drove off as soon as I’d folded a tip into his hand, leaving me on the curb without a backward glance.

“Home,” I muttered, hiking my small overnight bag over my shoulder.

As I walked through the glass doors, I plastered on a smile for my doorman, Don. He looked up from the newspaper he was reading and reached down to hand me my mail. “Evening, Mr. Lassiter.”

Not wanting to deal with the real world tonight, I tucked the mail under my arm and kept walking to the elevator. “Thanks, Don. Tell your wife the cookies she made were delicious. You’ve got a true pastry chef on your hands.”

Don’s smile widened. “Will do, Mr. Lassiter. She’ll be over the moon a real chef like you enjoyed them.”

Once the doors to the elevator closed and I was alone, I punched the button for my floor. I’d been doing a slew of guest appearances and book signings and couldn’t remember the last time I had been in the thick of things, in a real kitchen. I’d never felt less like a real chef.

I left the elevator and made my way into my apartment, dropping the groceries I’d stopped off for on my way home in the kitchen, and my luggage in the hallway near my bedroom. My manager would be calling any minute to ask about the appearance on today’s show. I pulled out my phone and hit speed dial.

“J! How did it go? Was the cab there? I was just getting ready to call you.”

“Hey, Trev. Yes, the cab was there. Remind me to give you a bonus this Christmas.”

He snorted over the line. “You say it every year and I still get the same thing—a fantastic bottle of wine and a pair of socks.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about the wine I buy you, and what’s wrong with socks? It’s freezing in New York during the winter.”

“Well, I’ll never run out of warm socks with Star Wars characters on them.” He cleared his throat. “How did everything else go? You sound tired.”

I paused before I answered him. “I’m good. No, scratch that. I’m exhausted.”

He paused on the phone, and I could hear him let out a deep breath. “I know, man. The schedule’s been crazy lately. Did it at least go okay with Katie? I heard she was a bitch to the last chef they had on their show.”

I laughed and closed my eyes, leaning back against the couch. “She was fine. And we both know Sam Vargas can be a dick—in his restaurant and out of it. You need to stop talking to the other managers. I swear you all gossip like a bunch of old ladies.”

Thankfully Trevor snorted and the tension from his end eased a little. “You still haven’t forgiven me for booking you with Sam that one time have you? Shit, Jamie, it was over a year ago. Cut me some slack.”

“No, I haven’t. And he’s still a dick. And while we’re on the topic of dicks, I’m not showing any skin on the cover of my next book. It’s got to be a professional, full chef’s coat. The wardrobe guy kept trying to unbutton my chef’s coat and roll my sleeves up today. I swear it took everything in my power to smile and assure him I actually liked being properly attired.”

His full-bellied laugh was loud enough I had to pull the phone away or risk losing my hearing. “Sex sells, J. And you, my friend, are one handsome man.”

“Thanks. I think. Just no more chest or forearm shots.” There was a short silence. Time to drop the bomb. “I need a break, Trev. A real one this time. I looked at my calendar this afternoon before the show. I need a break. The constant travel is killing me. I don’t think I’ve been home for more than a week at a time in three months. I need downtime.”

Trevor was silent on the phone for a full minute before he spoke. “Okay, Jamie. I’ll see what I can do. You’re presenting at the American Culinary Honors Awards this weekend. We both have rooms booked at the Plaza for Saturday, since you refused to get a date for this thing and I’m not missing out on the food at The Plaza. You have an interview with Gretchen Holt on Saturday, but I’ll move things around to give you another week. Maybe two.”

The tension I’d been carrying around with me since I had gotten back to New York three days ago slowly began to fade away. I felt lighter, but more exhausted than before I had called him. “Thanks, Trev. I’ll call you tomorrow and get the details about this weekend.”

His normally upbeat tone turned soft and serious. “Get some sleep, J. We’ll do dinner this week, my treat. We need to discuss this weekend’s itinerary anyway.”

Guilt washed over me as I hung up and tossed my phone on the coffee table. A quick glance around my apartment made my stomach turn even more. On the shelf across from me sat a picture of me and Trevor after we’d first met in Paris. I still had the lost expression I knew I’d worn for at least a year after leaving Seattle, but Trevor was all smiles and confidence. I was out of my element with no family or friends of my own, which had made him my lifeline. Once the fall arrived, he was busy with his MBA at Columbia and I was putting in ten- to twelve-hour days at Cielo. After I’d started receiving more offers, I’d asked him for help, and Trevor had left his other job to manage my career.

During his last semester at Columbia, he had presented me with the opportunity to work as a guest host for a cable TV show that focused on restaurants in New York. Ever since, he had worked his ass off alongside me to ensure my success. Now I felt like an ungrateful bastard as I looked around my quiet apartment. It featured beautiful wood floors with a state-of-the-art kitchen and two bedrooms, one I felt I barely lived in anymore, and one I never used at all. Expensive art on the walls and a huge wine fridge for when I was actually in town long enough to entertain. It was a great apartment. Trendy and upscale. But tonight it felt cold and empty. Who was I kidding? Tonight? It had felt this way for a while now.

I made my way to my bathroom and stripped, letting out a deep sigh once I stepped under the hot spray of the shower. I was exhausted and needed a break. I’d been on this whirlwind of a publicity tour for half a year and I just needed to regroup. I braced my hands against the shower wall as the water sluiced over my head, and let the spray massage the tightness in my shoulders.

The last time I’d been in a kitchen had been to create the recipes for the cookbook. I needed to find a way to get rid of the creative block I’d developed since then so that I could stop feeling like a line cook who cranked out meals on orders. Maybe cook a meal at home and not have anywhere other than the local coffee shop to go to the next morning. Maybe even stop in at Tony’s place while I was home and hang out in his kitchen for a night.

An hour later, I had all the spices and ingredients laid out on the counter. My version of spaghetti with marinara and pancetta and Parmesan meatballs had been a staple at Cielo and I knew the recipe by heart.

The ground beef, pancetta and turkey sat in a deep bowl to the side while the crushed tomatoes and fresh basil simmered in a pot on the back of the range. The familiar aroma of comfort food filled the air, replacing the stuffy condo smell. Knife in hand, I let my mind wander as I diced the onion and parsley, adding them to the meat in a single scoop of the cutting board. A little Parmesan cheese, panko bread crumbs, a few spices, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, and an egg to bind it all.

The moment my hands dug into the mixture, I felt all the tension in my shoulders begin to bleed away. The cookbook, the television show, the guest appearances at different restaurants had gotten me to where I was today. I was an openly gay celebrity chef who had support from the network, my viewers and the people who bought my books. I had everything I could have dreamed of in a career but all I felt was...drained. Empty. My love of food and cooking had started me on this path, but along the way I’d lost the drive and passion to keep me on it.

But this—the simple act of preparing food just for myself—I had been missing for a while now. I rolled meatballs between my palms. When we’d made these in huge batches at Cielo, it had been an all-day, multi-cook job. I missed joking with my cooks during the assembly line where we all rolled out trays of meatballs.

While the meatballs simmered in the cast-iron pan and pasta boiled, I poured a glass of wine and sat on the sofa. I needed to do this more often. Hell, I needed to be in the kitchen more often. The question I kept coming back to, though, was when?

When had my life gotten off track? Since arriving in New York, I had done nothing but work my ass off to get where I was today. The question was, did I really want to be here anymore?

Chapter Three

Ethan

Running a successful restaurant as an executive chef isn’t glamorous. It involves long days in a sweltering kitchen, burns on your arms and hands, grease splatters in your eye and knife cuts that bleed like a son of a bitch. There are always the skyrocketing food prices, forgetful suppliers, your new bartender has fumblefingers with the good scotch or a pissy dishwasher breaks a load of plates. There’s always a bitchy customer who wants ketchup for their lobster, shitty reviews in the paper, or employees having a personal dispute.

Today, it was New Guy.

I eyed the huge puddle of cooking oil leaking out from underneath a fryer.
What the hell?
Tyler had obviously neglected to replace the drain plug in the fryer after I’d had him change out the oil last night. I’d thought he could handle it since the rest of the cooks were busy with prep. Apparently not. Nothing said safe like a slippery floor.

He stared at me as he nervously twisted the ends of the apron strings tied around his waist.

“Sorry, Chef. I thought I put the plug back but I was wrong.”

“It’s okay. Just give me a sec and we’ll clean it up. Someone set up a Wet Floor sign and everyone watch out for the mess and try not to set anything on fire while I poison myself with nicotine for five minutes.” I grabbed my smokes out of my office and pushed past my line cooks and sous chef.

The kitchen door slammed behind me as I lit up in the alley. I inhaled deeply as the acrid smoke filled my lungs, a love/hate relationship with the cancer sticks. Smoke clogged my taste buds and made it hard to properly season food. But at times like these, when I had to fight the urge to not scream obscenities at the gun shy newbie, it calmed me down. When the door opened and closed again, I grumbled under my breath.

“Feel better, big brother?”

“Not as much as I’d hoped. Who the hell hired the kid again?”

My not-so-little baby sister laughed as she swiped the smoke out of my hand and took a very unladylike drag.

“You did, you big idiot.”

I yanked off the black bandanna and ran my hand through my sweaty hair. A combination of the usual bullshit, Tyler being skittish, and the bank calling to inform me my bank loan pre-approval paperwork had been held up in underwriting meant my fuse was running short. If I didn’t get the loan there was not a chance in hell I’d be able to buy the place from Cal.

“You know, one of these days you’re going to have to take the stress-management courses Viv’s been pushing, or your head will explode. You’ll be all ‘what in the fucking fuckity fuck’ and then...SPLAT!”

“As much as I want to sit around playing the bongos while a hippie tells me how my life force can be one with the universe...no way.”

She swatted away my hand when I tried to steal my own smoke back.

“Growl all you want, Ethan, but you don’t frighten me. Underneath all your bluster and foul language is a big ole softy with a heart of gold.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be too hard on Tyler. He’s really trying.”

I blew out a long breath.

“I know. I’m trying. Every time I move, he jumps. It just kills me how much he’s gone through.”
And how he reminds me of someone I used to know.
The sad reality was Tyler hadn’t been caught up in gangs, hadn’t done drugs or failed in school. He’d simply had the misfortune to come out to his evangelical parents who hadn’t wanted to accept their son was gay. Instead of loving him for who he was, they’d kicked him to the curb and locked the door.

She paused and we enjoyed the relative silence of the restaurant’s alley. Claire inched closer and cleared her throat, a pensive look on her face.

“By the way, I saw Jamie on a show this morning before work. He looks really good.” Claire’s voice was quiet.

I’d seen him too. Not only on a shitty morning show. In the last few years his face had been everywhere. His handsome face smiled back at me every time I turned on the TV and from the cover of his cookbooks. I heard his voice on the radio. Over the years, he’d haunted me.

“I stopped giving a shit about him eight years ago.”
After he left me.
“He chose his path, I chose mine.”

“Ethan, you stopped returning his phone calls. What did you expect? For him to wait around for you to stop being stubborn?”

“I expected him to choose me.” I regretted my words instantly as her expression softened into pity. “He didn’t even come home for graduation. Instead he chose his fancy career and his even fancier boyfriend.”

Claire shook her head. “I know, E. But it’s been eight years. I think it’s time to let it go. Just promise me you won’t become too jaded and forget why you chose this path. You’ve always loved cooking and being in the kitchen. You’ve helped grow this amazing place with your own talent and hard work, big brother. All on your own.” She leaned her head against my arm. “You’d carry the entire weight of the world on your shoulders if you could. Look how much you care about us all. You took Tyler in when his parents kicked him out and he had nowhere else to go. He looks up to you, Ethan. You just intimidate him a little. It’ll go away once he figures out you’re a well-meaning asshole.”

I rolled my eyes.

She cleared her throat. “As for Jamie...he looks happy. You? You’re as close to happy as you get when you’re bossing us all around. Remember that, okay?”

“Got it, little sis.” I scrubbed my hand down my face, then looked up at her. “Don’t mind me. I’m just tired and stressed about not being here for shit I should be taking care of. Nothing a good rant can’t fix, right?”

She leaned in to kiss the top of my head before leaving. I didn’t know what I had done to ever deserve a sister like Claire, but I was damn glad to have her in my life, especially on days like today.

I took a deep breath to calm myself before I went back in to help with the cleanup. I didn’t want to be harsh to Tyler, but the restaurant business was a constant grind and would chew him up and spit him out if he didn’t grow balls.

Knowing the next rush was on its way, I flung the door open and walked back inside. Tyler drew in a shaky breath and squared his shoulders when I crossed my arms over my chest. He looked like he was bracing himself for the worst. At his terrified look, any residual anger drained away. I just felt tired.

“Well, New Guy? What have we learned about proper replacement of drainage plugs in fryers?”

“Always put them back in?”

“Bingo. Now grab towels and shit. We’ve got a lot of scrubbing to do. The cleaning service will be here tonight as usual but this shit is a hazard.”

Sometimes I just had to remember New Guy was just that. New.

* * *

One lunch and dinner service, one dull headache and a hollandaise-spattered chef’s jacket later, I pushed my office door open, beyond exhausted. Eager to make up for his earlier error, Tyler had taken on my basic sauce assignment. It took skill to properly whisk the egg mixture over heat at the right speed. Too slow or cold and the mixture of egg yolks and butter curdled. When the mixture was too hot it wouldn’t emulsify, leaving Tyler’s sauce a runny mess. On the tenth try and dozens of eggs later, he’d succeeded and smiled shyly when the rest of the kitchen had razzed him relentlessly.

Eventually everyone left and I locked up. My favorite part of the day. I popped the top off the beer I’d taken from the cooler and took a healthy swig, sighing with pleasure. Fine wine might have paired better with the food my kitchen prepared, but nothing was better than a cold brew at the end of a long shift.

I yanked off my jacket, tossing it in the laundry service bin and made a disgusted sound when I got a good whiff of my T-shirt. I smelled like ass. The combination of dried sweat from working in a blazing two hundred degree kitchen, blood from the side of beef I’d broken down, fried food, and stale cigarette smoke permeated everything. When I finally dragged myself back to my apartment later, I’d shower and pass out for a few hours.

Despite the rise in popularity of foodcentric TV and magazines, there was nothing glamorous about being a working professional chef. When I was younger and fresh out of culinary school I’d had grand designs about starting up my own restaurant. But no one just hands a twenty-two-year-old the millions of dollars of capital required to start a new restaurant from the ground up. When my favorite instructor from school, Chef Boulanger, had hooked me up with aging restaurant owner Calvin Sharpe, I’d jumped at the chance to be his new executive chef. Over the last eight years together we’d overhauled the menu and doubled business.

Long hours of managing the staff, designing daily menus around what I could get fresh from local suppliers, making sure lunch and dinner service ran smoothly—it all kept me on my feet from early morning to late night six days a week.

This beer at the end of service was my one concession to inactivity. One glorious bottle of Belgium’s exported finest.

I leaned back in my chair, tented my arms behind my head and let my eyes close for a minute. I had just gotten comfortable when I heard my office door squeak open. Without opening my eyes, I said, “Look, New Guy, I appreciate all your effort but go home for the night. The trick of mastering mother sauces will still be waiting for you tomorrow, I promise.”

“They invented these things called beds. They’re big and rectangular and soft. You sleep on them. Or if you’re really lucky you get to sleep with someone else.” Despite the long day, Claire’s wry voice made me smile. “What are you still doing here?”

“Just having my post-service beer.” I held up the green bottle in salute, chuckling when she raised her own in response.

She perched herself on the edge of my desk, her face uncharacteristically serious.

“What?”

“When are you going to tell Cal you’re going to New York?”

“Who says I’m going to New York?” My raised eyebrow and nonchalance could have won an Oscar.

“This fancy invitation I discovered the other day when I was trying to find your smokes says you are.” She wiggled the paper with the logo for the American Culinary Honors Awards on it and tossed it at my lap.

I caught it and rolled my eyes. “I’m not going.”

Her eyebrows rose and her eyes narrowed.
Oh shit.

“Ethan, you have to go. You deserve to be recognized for all the work you’ve done and all the long hours and time you’ve spent sweating your ass off in this kitchen.”

“I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the honor, Claire. I do. I just have no urge to go to New York to schmooze a room full of fancy chefs who haven’t stepped foot in a kitchen in twenty years.”

“The fact that famous chef James Lassiter is presenting your award has no bearing on this decision?” Her eyebrow rose even higher.

“None.”

She burst into laughter. “E, you’re full of shit.”

I closed my eyes, rubbing the throbbing spot between my eyes. “Claire, I’m not going. I have nothing to say to him after all these years.”

When I opened them again she was watching me with concern. “You loved him, E. Like I’ve never seen you love anyone else. And he loved you. You can’t tell me you’re not at all curious about why he never came back.”

“Why would he? He had the chance of a lifetime in Europe.”

“Which you helped him get, you bonehead. Or did you forget?”

“No, I didn’t forget.”
Far from it.

“Just go and talk to him. Smile pretty and accept your award. If you get the chance to talk to him you can at least get closure.”

I made a face. “Closure? It’s such a chick thing to say.”

“It’s true. You can’t tell me you’re honestly happy banging random hookups all the time. It’s not healthy. Don’t get me started on Lily—”

I rolled my eyes. “Claire, I swear to god I’ll go if you promise to stop trying to Dr. Phil me.”

She gave me a smug smile. “I know. I already talked to Cal about it and he said for you to get your ass on the plane.”

“Traitor,” I grumbled.

“It’s awesome publicity for you and the restaurant, E. The more business we have the more money you make. The sooner you can buy out Cal like you planned, the sooner you can turn this place into yours.”

My sister knew how to go for the jugular.

* * *

My talk with Claire had left me too unsettled to head to bed after I tossed my keys on the counter. When my stomach growled, I struggled to remember what I’d had to eat all day and drew a blank. I changed out of my clothes into sweats and a T-shirt and scrounged through my fridge. Italian sausage. Onions. Peppers. Cheese. An extra loaf of bread I’d taken home a couple days earlier. Everything for the perfect sausage and pepper sandwich.

As I set a pot for the sausages on the stove, the memories I’d tried to keep locked away assaulted me. With our dad leaving and our mom dying the summer after Claire graduated high school, it seemed like I’d been taking care of us both for a long time. I didn’t like taking help from anyone. At least until my third year of culinary school, when I’d been failing and had let Claire’s very attractive male pastry class partner tutor me. Determined to make it on his own after his rich family had disowned him for coming out of the closet, he’d worked his way into whatever passed for my heart. Jamie Lassiter was funny, handsome, sexy and completely out of my league, but I’d fallen hard for him. I’d pretty much given up any fight for the scholarship we’d both busted our asses for. He’d deserved it more, and I’d done what I could to help him get it. When he’d left for the six-month study abroad component, I’d believed we were both on the same page and he wanted the same things as me.

I chopped onions and peppers.

Jamie hadn’t wanted those things and he’d stopped wanting me. Eight years later I was alone in Seattle trying to build up the capital for the perfect restaurant we’d both envisioned. Farm to table, focusing on fresh local ingredients and making good food we could be proud to serve to our customers, friends and family. Jamie was somewhere in the world, rich and famous and back with his own kind.

I tossed the onions and peppers in another pan with olive oil, cranked up the heat to sauté and cut up the bread for the sandwich. After the veggies and sausage were cooked through, I pulled the whole grain mustard out of the fridge, spread a thick layer on the bread and dumped the sizzling peppers, sausage and onions on top. Best. Sandwich. Ever.