The Icing on the Cake (4 page)

The first thing I noticed about La Bonne Violette was the floor. It was made of this beautiful cobblestone that made me feel like I was at an outdoor French café. Natural light and the sparkle of the ocean poured in through the restaurant’s spotless windows, and this added to the outdoor effect.

No wonder all the celebrities come here,
I thought as I peered into the dining room. I was slightly disappointed that no one was sitting at the white-linen-covered tables. I mean, it would have been cool to get a peek at Jen or Colin.

Within seconds, I was greeted by a tall, thin maître d’ dressed in a white tuxedo shirt and black pants. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” the maître d’ said. “What can I do for you?”

“I have an appointment with Jean-Pierre at one o’clock.”

The maître d’ consulted a book on the podium in front of him. “Are you from
Central Coast Living
?”

“Yes,” I answered. Both excitement and anxiety began to bubble inside me.

“May I have your name?”

“Annabelle Pleasanton.”

“Right this way.”

The maître d’ led me through a set of doors into the kitchen where sous chefs were busy at work, and the sounds of washing, chopping, and speaking—both in French and English—filled the air. The maître d’ led me to a large chrome range and presented me to a medium-height man with a protruding belly and a bushy mustache. His white chef’s uniform had a large red food stain on the front.

“Jean-Pierre, Mademoiselle Pleasanton from
Central Coast Living
,” the maître d’ introduced me.

“Merci, Joseph,” Jean-Pierre said without taking his eyes off the food he was sautéing on the range in front of him.

The maître d’ walked away, and Jean-Pierre quickly shot me a look that told me I had not come at a convenient time
.

I cleared my throat and searched for words. “Good afternoon, Jean-Pierre. I understand you spoke with my boss, George Kent, and agreed to do an interview,” I began. With shaky hands, I retrieved a yellow notebook from my black leather satchel.

“Oui,” Jean-Pierre responded. Then, as if I weren’t even in the room, he headed toward a walk-in refrigerator and went inside.

I followed on his heels, notebook in hand.

Inside the chill of the refrigerator, I opened my mouth to ask my first interview question, the one I had practiced over and over in my car as I drove to the restaurant.

But Jean-Pierre spoke before I could. “You are in zee way,” he said in a thick French accent as he reached for something on the shelf behind me.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said as I took a quick step to the left. Too quick of a step.

My left foot caught the edge of a box of produce on the floor and I lost my balance. As I fell forward, I put my hand out to break my fall. My hand, in turn, grabbed onto a metal shelf, and the whole set of shelves began shaking.

Before I had time to process what was happening, the contents of a bowl filled with mixed greens, juicy tomatoes, and some crumbly cheese fell on me like some sort of salad shower.

Jean-Pierre watched as the red tomatoes splattered against my pale blue cashmere sweater—which I bought for just fifteen bucks at a consignment store—and the cheese and salad greens sprinkled my hair and shoulders. Then he let out a string of French words, which I don’t think meant, “My, what a wonderful girl you are.”

I bent over and attempted to clean up the mess, apologizing like mad and assuring Jean-Pierre that I would pay for the food.

As I was cleaning, a woman with kind eyes and a French accent not quite as pronounced as Jean-Pierre’s appeared in the refrigerator doorway. She took one look at me and shot me a compassionate glance. “Everything all right?” she asked.

“Well, I—”

“She’s fine,” Jean-Pierre snapped. “But look at this mess.”

“There is a bathroom to the right of the salad prep area,” the woman whispered to me kindly. Then she turned to address Jean-Pierre. “The photographer for
Central Coast Living
is here to see you.”

“I do not have time for this,” Jean-Pierre grumbled. “I called Ingrid and asked her to change these appointments!”

“I, um, I could come back later, and I’m sure I could talk to the photographer and . . .”

“It is too late now,” Jean-Pierre growled. Then with a heaving sigh he followed the woman out of the refrigerator.

Feeling completely terrified that this assignment was going to turn out worse, not better, than my first one, I cleaned up the mess the best I could. Then I picked salad greens out of my hair and wandered back into the massive kitchen in search of the bathroom, where I would try to fix myself up before I went to talk with the photographer.

As I tiptoed through the kitchen, I noticed that the photographer was taking candid shots of the kitchen and staff. His back was toward me, so I couldn’t see him very well. Then he turned slightly to get a better angle for a shot, and I noticed that he looked vaguely familiar.

No way,
I thought, narrowing my eyes.
It couldn’t be.

But it was. It was Isaac. The guy I had met at Bob’s Bait and Tackle. The guy who lived nearly a hundred miles away from me. The guy I was sure I would never see again. This weird excited feeling suddenly came over me, and I began walking quickly toward Isaac to say hello.

But then I smelled myself. I stunk like a mix of acidic tomatoes and horrifically smelly feet. Thinking better of my idea to go talk to Isaac, I quickly ducked behind a tall bread warmer and held my breath. Partly because I was nervous that Isaac would see me and partly because I really did stink.

“Annabelle? Annabelle the cake girl?”

I spun around and saw Isaac looking at me, his face registering both disbelief and delight.

“Uh, hey, what are you doing here?” I asked, backing away from Isaac slowly.

“I’m taking photos for a magazine article,” Isaac explained, moving two steps toward me for every one step I took back. “Have you seen a writer from
Central Coast Living
around here?” Isaac looked at my shirt and saw the tomato stains. He furrowed his brow. “Do you work here?”

“No, I don’t work here.” I looked down at my soiled shirt. “I’m actually the writer you’re looking for.”

“Really? You write for
Central Coast Living
?” The corners of Isaac’s mouth turned up slightly.

“Probably not for long,” I replied somberly.

I realized a little too late that Isaac had moved very close to me. And as soon as he was in the new close-to-me position, he scrunched up his nose and began sniffing the air around me. “Have you been eating . . . cheese?” he asked, his nose still all scrunched up.

My face grew hot with humiliation and in a reflex reaction I pushed Isaac away. “There was a little accident in the refrigerator locker,” I said. “I haven’t been eating cheese. I just kind of, you know, smell like it.” Then, to get the subject off my cheesy-smelliness, I said, “So wait a minute? You’re working for the magazine. But you live in Los Banos. That’s quite a commute.”

“I grew up there, but I live here now. I think I told you that yesterday.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but I suddenly found myself lost in the hazel color of Isaac’s eyes. And for a good thirty seconds I forgot how to speak.

The sound of Jean-Pierre’s voice in the distance brought me back to reality. I pulled my eyes away from Isaac’s. “I’m going to go figure out what to do about interviewing Jean-Pierre. Will you excuse me?”

“After you talk to Jean-Pierre, do you want to get some lunch?” Isaac asked. “I think it would be good for us to talk about the article. I can meet you out in the dining room when I’m done back here, and we can go grab something.”

Now, it was true that I had already eaten lunch at the meeting at work, but I really wanted to hang out with Isaac, so I accepted. “Lunch sounds great,” I said. “That is, if you don’t mind how I look.”

“I definitely don’t mind how you look,” Isaac said as he turned to walk away. Then I think he may have winked at me, but I’m not sure. He may have been grimacing at my smell.

With a happy little grin on my face, I approached Jean-Pierre, who had returned to his spot in front of the range. “Jean-Pierre, is there a better time for us to meet?” I asked.

“I am going out of town. Come back on Wednesday. Nine o’clock in the morning.”

That’s just hours before George wants to look over my draft,
I thought fearfully. “Maybe we can do a phone interview,” I suggested.

“Come back Wednesday,” Jean-Pierre repeated in a tone that said he was used to giving orders.

“Of course,” I answered.

I could make it work. I could do as much of the research and writing as possible beforehand and then just add the interview stuff in. It would be no problem. No problem at all.

I found the restroom the woman had directed me to, where I scrubbed my face and arms with a floral scented soap, hoping this would get rid of the cheese smell. Then I washed my hair right there in the sink with the same soap and dried it with one of the towels in the basket on the counter. I sniffed myself and noted that I smelled slightly better. Kind of like flower scented cheese.

I combed my hair back into a bun and put a touch of makeup back onto my face. Unfortunately, not much could be done about my clothes. But hey, if holey, grease-stained jeans can sell for $150—and I know they do because I saw them at the mall—then my tomato-soiled cashmere sweater had to be worth like $100, right?

I went into the dining area and sat down at a table just outside the kitchen doors. I stared at the fresh violets in an antique vase on the table and pretended to take some notes. But there weren’t many notes to take. So instead I drew Jean-Pierre’s head with a whole bunch of tomatoes squished all over it.

As I doodled, a guy in a wheelchair approached the table where I sat. I immediately put my hand over my drawing.

“Hello,” the guy said to me. He smiled a friendly smile as he buttoned the top button of his tuxedo shirt. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen a photographer around here, would you?” he asked.

“Actually, yes,” I replied. “He’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” The guy smiled at me again before disappearing into the kitchen.

A short while later he returned side by side with Isaac. The two were laughing and gesturing in a way that suggested they knew each other.

Isaac approached me and put his arm around the guy’s shoulder. “Annabelle, meet my brother, Ethan.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Brothers, huh?”

“Unfortunately,” Ethan joked. He then glanced at a watch on his wrist. “I’d better go. I’m on pretty soon.”

“Do you work here?” I asked.

“I play the piano every so often.”

“Cool,” I said. “I’d like to hear you play sometime.”

“Well, I’m here every Friday,” Ethan told me. Then he said a quick good-bye to me and Isaac, leaving us alone at the table in the dining area.

“How did it go in there?” I asked, nodding toward the kitchen.

“Pretty good.”

“Well good for you,” I said, my tone slightly sarcastic.

“Thanks,” Isaac said with a grin. “So, ready for lunch?”

“Sure am.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Well . . . there’s a great café that sells smoothies and really yummy croissant sandwiches a couple of blocks from here. We could go there if you’d like.”

“Smoothies and croissant sandwiches it is,” Isaac replied without hesitation.

Isaac and I walked side by side to the café. Once, my swinging hand brushed against his and I immediately apologized. But secretly I enjoyed the little chill I got when it happened. Hey, a bit of harmless photographer-flirting never hurt anyone.

As we reached the entrance to the café, I noticed a group of women dressed in exercise wear of various pastel colors sitting around one of the wooden tables inside. I immediately recognized the group. It was the Jazzercisers.