wouldn’t pair it with a cheap beer, right?”
I managed to find my voice. A hoarser, angrier version of it, anyway. “You’re calling me a cheap beer. You’re breaking up with me and insulting me? In my kitchen?” He probably had hot plans to crash a convent and harangue nuns next.
Forget whacking him with a spatula, this called for something cast-iron.
“Our kitchen,” he corrected with a surly tone no customer would ever hear. “My reputation’s on the line with this place. I’m somebody in the restaurant community, among the movers and shakers of Charleston. I want you to stay, of course—you’re part of what makes Spicy Seas work—but you aren’t the woman people expect to see on my arm.”
“Trevor, I…” Have no idea what to say. This man who had ardently pursued me now thought I didn’t fit his image and should be cast aside like a freaking cuff link that didn’t look right with his jacket?
He sighed. “I know there’s such a thing as being too blunt, but you deserve the truth. Inside the kitchen, you make some of the spiciest, most creative dishes I’ve ever tasted. But everywhere else, Miriam, you’re a little too bland for me.”
WHEN I ARRIVED HOME—a reasonably priced duplex apartment in North Charleston with nice amenities but entirely too little kitchen counter and pantry space—I was still vacillating between shock and anger. Tomorrow, I might be feeling homicidal, or at least angry enough to submit my résumé to Spicy Seas’ top competitors. Tonight, though, hours of being on my feet and orchestrating the precision timing of entrées had left me too drained to sustain quality rage.
I pitched my keys on the unfinished wooden TV stand in the living room, then plunked myself down on the striped couch, where I went through the motions of shuffling the day’s mail. But I couldn’t truly focus on any of the envelopes in my hand, stuck as I was on the unexpected relationship drama that had unfolded. In this evening’s performance, the part of Arrogant Jackass will be played by Trevor Baines.
I was bland?
Until tonight, I’d been “methodical,” which benefited my cooking and was one of the traits Trevor had claimed to like, part of what made us a good match. Trevor had always been more an ambitious dreamer than a doer, although he had been proactive about our relationship. From the beginning, he had pursued me. Perhaps that in itself should have been a red flag, now that I thought about it. None of the men I’d attracted before—not that their numbers were legion—had possessed Trevor’s looks, money and charisma.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t fall out of the ugly tree or anything, I’ve just never been one to put much energy into attracting attention. Because of my hours sweating in the kitchen, I tended to skip makeup and simply pull back my too-dark-to-be-blond, not-quite-brown hair. My style guidelines came from the health department rather than fashion magazines. Besides, even if I were more fashion-conscious, I’m not exactly a hotbed of potential, with a body just waiting to be draped in the right materials. I exercise frequently to avoid love of food becoming expanse of ass, so I’m not overweight, but I’m not waiflike, either. Or curvy. I have what’s politely called “an athletic build.”
The no-frills exterior hadn’t dissuaded Trevor, though. We’d met when I was working as a sous-chef at an upscale restaurant where the manic executive chef walked out in a prima donna fit one night. I’d received a hasty interim promotion, and Trevor, a regular patron, had noticed the difference. He’d asked to come back to the kitchen and pay his compliments, and we’d started dating soon after.
Now that I thought about it, even his earliest displays of interest had included his conviction that I was destined to be the headliner somewhere instead of an understudy…and hints that he wanted to open a place of his own. Some men schemed to get into a woman’s pants. Guess Trevor had just wanted into my recipe box.
I blinked away a fleeting sense of feminine inadequacy, redirecting my irritation to this month’s bills. But the dove-gray envelope in my hand said Hargrave NonFiction. My fingers trembled slightly, and I dropped everything else on the mosaic-tiled end table. Although it had originally been Trevor’s brainstorm for me to try to have a cookbook published, as a possible promotional tie-in to the restaurant, I’d enthusiastically warmed to the idea. So many months had passed since I’d submitted the pages, however, that I’d almost given up hope of ever hearing back from the publisher. Fine cognacs aged in less time than it took these people to make decisions.
The letter in my hand was thin, and I was half-afraid to open it. Wouldn’t good news have come by phone so that we could discuss details? Then again, if it was bad news, what better time to get it than tonight? All I needed were some black balloons and second-rate wine and I could throw myself a genuine pity party.
I scanned over the letterhead and obligatory “Thank you for thinking of us” opener. They don’t want it. I read the note twice, then wished I’d stopped at the first pass. The upshot was that my recipes sounded fantastic—but people would never discover this if they didn’t buy the book, and I didn’t have a strong enough marketing hook to stand out among the daunting competition of better known chefs. The editors invited me to try again if I could present a more persuasive selling point, which I took to mean, “Please resubmit if you ever get famous.”
It’s not personal, I told myself. But it sure as hell felt that way, in light of the double whammy I’d received tonight. My lover found me to be not woman enough for him, and now an editorial committee in New York had deemed me not chef enough. My identity was caving in like a subpar soufflé.
I punched a sofa pillow. Normally, my coping mechanism of choice was a therapeutic cooking binge, but for what it would take to make me feel better tonight, my kitchen didn’t have the necessary square footage. I wasn’t sure the eastern seaboard had enough square footage. I knew how everyone else in my family handled crisis—talking. They’d talk it out, then do a recap, followed by lengthy discussion of how much it meant to them that they could have these meaningful conversations.
Big with the sharing, my family.
Mom, Dad and my older brother, Eric, have a patent-pending method of baring their souls as quickly and often as possible. If they could get it registered as an Olympic event, the Scotts would take home gold every four years. I picture it as a lot like the luge, but in the three minutes it takes the team to get to the bottom, they’d have to exchange stories on every date, breakup and medical condition they’d ever had. Judges would base scores on technique around the curves and accurate recall of personal details.
Despite my family’s manic outgoingness—or maybe because of it—I’ve always been a little reticent. There used to be tremendous pressure for me to “open up,” but then my brother married a woman who filled the gaping hole in my parents’ lives, giving them the daughter they’d expected me to be. It’s difficult to tell from my twin nieces’ frequent inappropriate public announcements whether they’ve inherited the legacy, or they’re just being standard-issue three-year-olds.
I’m thinking they came by it honestly. My sister-in-law is not to be trusted in public. I’d been with her at a grocery store a few months ago, bent down to grab a pack of gum, and by the time I straightened, Carrie had launched into a discussion about breast-feeding with the cashier—much to the chagrin of the elderly man ahead of us in line. I may have temporarily blacked out when the words cracked nipples became part of the conversation.
I had to admit, though, that for all my discomfort with the soul-baring Scotts, a sympathetic ear sounded pretty good right now. What I really needed was a sympathetic ear that came with mob ties and an affordable have-your-ex-whacked layaway plan. (I’m kidding, of course. I have
