On a Night Like This (6 page)

“Forget I said that,” Blair said quietly.

She looked away—at a streetlight, blinding her as if she were looking into the sun. Then she looked at Luke again, at his face, which hid nothing, and she got up from the table, tugging her feet out from under Sweetpea’s body, mumbling, “Bathroom, be right back.” The dog whimpered, or maybe it was Luke, but she grabbed her hat as if she were leaving, so Luke stood, reaching out to her, his hand on her arm.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Please. Sit with me.”

Sweetpea whimpered again.

“Thank God it’s the dog making that pathetic sound,” Blair said. “I thought it was me.”

“Stay,” Luke said.

“You’ve spent far too much time alone with a dog,” Blair told him.

But she sat and Luke breathed deeply and then the waiter arrived at their side, bearing beer.

They drank, and kept drinking.

“What is it?” Luke asked.

“Cancer,” Blair told him. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” Luke said.

“You know,” Blair said. “It’s the old tree-in-the-forest thing.”

Luke shook his head. “You have a daughter,” he said. “She’ll hear the tree falling.”

“Damn you,” Blair said, and this time she left, too fast for Luke or Sweetpea to react. The purple hat and the swirling aqua nightgown disappeared into the streets of the Haight.

The next night, Blair walked the ten blocks or so to her restaurant, Café Rex. It was her night off—she worked Tuesday through Saturday—the place was closed on Sunday and Daniel suffered a night back in the kitchen on Monday. She was the chef of the tiny restaurant, having taken over from Daniel Marks, the chef/owner of the restaurant, a year ago. She had trained with him for seven years, long enough to gain his trust, to let him step out of the kitchen and spend his evenings in the spotlight instead of behind the camera. She never thought she’d step out—especially now that she was queen of the kitchen.

I will lose that,
she realized.
My work, my world.

They’ll be winding down,
she thought, looking at her watch, hurrying toward the restaurant. She loved the end of the evening, when the waiters slowed down, when the last of the diners lingered on, usually drunk, sometimes ordering yet another dessert just so the meal wouldn’t end. Back in the kitchen they’d have opened a bottle of wine by now—it was Daniel’s theory that they should all know the wine list well enough to sell it. And they’d have turned on a CD—probably some alternative-rock group that the twentysomething waiters loved. The noise would keep them going until the last of the diners left the restaurant.

Blair wanted to stand in the kitchen and watch Daniel—somehow that made sense tonight. She’d just stand back and watch.

She walked around to the back of the restaurant and heard the music blasting, felt the rush of adrenaline when she entered the kitchen and saw the blur of Daniel doing four things at once: stirring, sautéing, dicing, arranging it all on a plate so it looked as fine as it would taste—damn, the man was good. Meanwhile, Manuel scrubbed the dishes, while Philippe reached back for that last entrée, and Rianne swept through the door with six plates balanced on her arm and demanded, “What the hell are you doing here, Blair? Go home, go to bed; you look like shit, girl.” Finally Daniel turned and saw her, smiled and pulled out a stool beside him.

“Sit,” he said. “I’ll teach you a thing or two.” Which is what he’d been saying for years.

“I love you, Daniel,” Blair said, perching on the stool and planting a kiss on Daniel’s shoulder. When her lips touched the cotton of his chef’s jacket, she held them there, closing her eyes, not wanting to move away.
I need you,
she could say.
Save me.

“Don’t break my concentration,” Daniel muttered. He threw sliced potatoes back on the grill, tossed them a couple of times, layered them on a plate, flipped the salmon next to them, spooned the sauce on top. He wiped the edge of the plate clean with his apron.

“Why are you here, my lovely lady?” he asked, presenting Blair with dinner.

Blair began to cry.

“Eat first,” Daniel said. “Philippe, get her wine. We’ll talk when you’re done.”

The music got louder. Blair felt that she was in the kitchen and not in the kitchen, as if she were fading as she sat there, and the whirlwind of activity went on around her, would keep going on around her. Rianne fought with Philippe about stealing table seven: “He isn’t gay; I know he isn’t gay. Once in a while a man could pay attention to me around here.” Philippe rolled his eyes and sliced chocolate cake, poured on the raspberry sauce and slithered back to table seven.

“He’ll be gay by the time Philippe is done,” Daniel told Blair.

“I hate this city,” Rianne complained. “When was the last time you had sex?” she asked Blair.

“Couple of days ago,” Blair said. “Now ask when the last time was I had love.”

“Oh, who cares about love,” Rianne wailed.

Philippe charged in. “Your table’s waiting for the check, Rianne.”

She stormed out.

“What’s wrong?” Daniel whispered.

“I’m quitting,” Blair told him, staring down into her plate. She hadn’t eaten. But she held her plate on her lap, hoping hunger would come.

“You can’t quit,” Daniel said flatly. “You’ll work till you’re too sick to work. Right now, you’re doing just fine.”

“How did you know I was sick?” Blair asked, stunned. She looked at Daniel.

Daniel was trying something new in the pan, swirling things together, creating new smells and flavors and textures. He never looked at Blair.

“I’ve lost enough friends to AIDS,” he said. “I know what it looks like.”

“I don’t have AIDS,” Blair said wearily. Though she had worried about that long enough. Every lover seemed to have had a gay lover at some time in his past.

“What is it, darling? Some new exotic disease? Or one we’ve all grown so tired of?”

“Melanoma,” Blair told him.

Daniel glanced at her quickly, then looked away. She saw him wince.
He knows what that means,
she thought.

“So you’re not contagious,” Daniel said, swirling the pan on the stove. “You’ve still got time. You’re still walking. And you’ll walk that skinny ass of yours into my kitchen every afternoon at five o’clock. Got that?”

Rianne flew in, dropping plates next to Manuel’s growing pile, downing her glass of wine while swallowing a pill. For the first time Blair envied the girl her energy.

“You headed up or down tonight, Rianne?” Blair asked. The girl took something most nights—to sleep or to party.

“Up. I’m going dancing. New club south of Market. Wanna come?” She did a little shimmy and shake to the blaring music.

“No thanks. Another time.”

Philippe pushed through the doors and dropped his plates in the sink, where Manuel slapped his hand. “Other side, hombre,” Manuel told him, lifting the dirty dishes into the dirty dish sink. Manuel slapped Philippe as often as he could. Blair thought he still hadn’t managed to get him to bed, though.

“Philippe, I’ve got a question for you,” Blair said.

“Ask. And if you’re not eating that, I’ll take it. I’m famished.”

Daniel shot Blair a look and she picked up her fork, starting to nibble at the plate of food on her lap.

“You’re a film buff. Do you know Luke Bellingham? I think he writes screenplays.”

“Won the goddamn Academy Award,” Philippe told her. “
Pescadero.
Amazing film. A friend of mine worked on it.”

Blair smiled. “I went to school with him,” she said. “A million years ago.”

“Did the movie man have the hots for Ms. Chef?” Philippe asked.

“I was invisible,” Blair told him. “It’s a good thing. Being invisible. I might just try it again.”

A day ago, she had blurted out, “I’m dying,” like a fool. She had run away, like a coward. She had liked him, like a teenage girl.

“Eat,” Daniel said; Blair had left her fork lingering on the plate.

“Don’t tell them,” Blair said quietly when the waiters left to finish clearing in the dining room.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Daniel said so softly that Blair could barely hear him.

She looked up from her plate. He was standing in front of her, looking at her, lost without a spatula or pan in hand. Her heart caught in her throat.

“Don’t,” she told him. “I’m not ready—”

“You’ll keep working, then,” Daniel said. He whirled back around to face the stove.

“For a little while.”

“I love you, Blair,” Daniel said, though his spoon swirled in the pan, his hand reached for some herbs on the shelf, and his finger dipped and tasted the latest sauce creation.

“I know you do,” Blair told him.

Over the years they had developed their own sort of intimacy—Blair talked to Daniel about her daughter and about her lovers, and Daniel talked to Blair about food. He was the most private man she had ever known, but he listened well. And he gave her his true heart—the kitchen in his restaurant.

But this is another universe,
Blair thought—
the prospect of death. How do you talk about that? How do you even begin to think about that?

“So who’s Luke Bellingham?” Daniel asked.

“Just a guy,” Blair said. “I didn’t know him then. And I don’t know him now. I’m invisible.”

In the morning, when Blair woke up and looked outside, she discovered Sweetpea sitting on the front porch of the cottage.

“What’s that? A wolf?” Amanda asked, peering out the window at her mother’s side.

Blair opened the door and let the dog in. “She’s nicer than she looks,” Blair explained. “Don’t let her owner in.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“Some guy.”

“Some guy who drops his dog off in the morning? What are you, the dog walker?” Amanda asked. She scooted down and cuddled with Sweetpea, who buried her nose in Amanda’s armpit.

“Yes,” Blair said, pleased. “I’m the dog walker.”

“Can I come?” Amanda asked. “I don’t have class until ten.”

“Absolutely,” Blair told her. “Let me get dressed. We’ll take her to the beach.”

She left Amanda and Sweetpea in the living room while she went back to her room to find jeans and a sweatshirt. When she returned, Amanda was standing on the front porch, the dog waiting expectantly at her side.

Blair called out to her. “If you see the guy—you know, the owner—tell him to go away. He can pick up his dog when I leave for work at four-thirty.”

“How am I supposed to know who the owner is?” Amanda called back.

“He’s cute,” Blair said. “Or something.”

“Oh, God,” Amanda moaned.

And then she returned with a note, attached to Sweetpea’s leash, tied to the bottom rail of the porch.

Sorry about the other night. Sweetpea wants to spend the day with you. So do I, but I’m not as bold as she is. I’ll come back to get her later this afternoon. Have fun. Luke.

“Who is this guy?” Amanda asked, reading over her mom’s shoulder.

“Nobody. A guy with a cool dog. Let’s get out of here.”

They borrowed Casey’s car—he left the keys under the floor mat and Blair figured this was one of the perks of fucking the landlord—and drove to Crissy Field, Sweetpea perched between them on the front seat.

When they walked on the beach, Sweetpea ran ahead, ran back, ran in circles around them, crazy with dog joy. Amanda found a stick and tried teaching Sweetpea to fetch, but the dog wanted only to rub her soft fur against their legs and to run at their sides.

They walked at the water’s edge, letting the dog splash in the gentle lap of the tide. There were other morning beachcombers and plenty of dogs, but Blair felt as if she were wrapped in the fog with her daughter, protected from the rest of the world.

“So why was he sorry?” Amanda asked.

“Who? What?”

“Sweetpea’s dad. The guy who wrote, ‘Sorry about the other night.’”

Blair walked for a moment, considering. Which part was he sorry about? Misremembering her as tall and blond? Being a golden boy who dreams women out of thin air and then they appear, falling in love with him on the spot? Or did he say something about her dying and leaving a daughter behind?

“If something ever happened to me,” Blair started, then stopped, almost stumbling over Sweetpea, who seemed to back up into her. So she looked at her daughter and tried to shake the thought out of her head, then picked up the pace so that Amanda had to half-jog to keep up with her. “If I died . . . a car accident. A drive-by shooting. Something crazy. Who would you live with? I mean, there’s Daniel, I suppose, and there’s a couple of teachers you like—”

“Mom? Mom! Stop! What are you talking about?”

“Just thinking about it. I mean, people write wills and figure this stuff out and I’ve never thought about it, but I mean, it could happen to anyone, and you’re almost old enough to be on your own, but you’re still a kid. You’re my kid; I mean, no one else could raise you or anything—”

“Mom! Stop!”

Blair stopped. Sweetpea sat at her heels, panting. Had the dog understood all that and was now exhausted by it all? Blair watched the ebb and flow of the tide, thought about breathing like that, in and out, pulled by something much quieter than the noise in her own head.
I can’t do this,
she thought.
If I tell her, then it’s irrefutably true.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said.

“We’ll talk about what later?” Amanda asked. She stood, hands on hips, unmoving.

“This idea. This question. I mean, it’s an interesting question. We don’t have family; you don’t have a father; we don’t have zillions of aunts and uncles to send you to in Omaha—”

“Omaha?”

“Someplace safe. Someplace to finish growing up.”

“Mom?”

“I didn’t sleep well. The guy. The dog. Weird dreams.”

“Mom?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep walking.”

So they walked, and Sweetpea circled round them, holding them close.

And after a while Amanda said, “I just asked why the guy was sorry.”

“Right,” Blair said. “The guy. I didn’t tell you about the guy.”

“Sweetpea’s dad.”

“Luke Bellingham. He made a movie.
Pescadero
or something.”