On Thin Icing (6 page)

“No. The phone is no good. We have much to say to each other in person.” He kept his eyes locked on mine as he scraped vanilla seeds from the pod.

I reached for the sugar. “But how did you know to come up here?”

“Your mother.”

“My mom?”

“Yes, she told me I could find you here. Please do not be angry with her.”

I added more sugar. “I’m not mad at her. I’m just having a hard time believing you’re really here at Lake of the Woods. This is crazy.”

“Julieta, I would sail across seas for you.”

“Carlos, don’t.” I shook my head. “Really, don’t.”

He gave me a wistful look as he added the vanilla to my pudding without even needing to ask. This is how it used to be. We worked in perfect rhythm in the kitchen. It was like one of Lance’s well-choreographed productions. Carlos and I knew exactly where to move, what ingredient came next, how to plate a dish. We were like beautiful dancers on stage in the kitchen. Real life was where we stumbled.

“I can’t do this right now.” I waved to the countertop with baguettes, sauces, and cubed bread. “I’m catering dinner tonight.”

He kissed my forehead again. My body stiffened. “It’s okay, I will stay. I will help for the weekend, yes?”

“I guess.” I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to say no. Seeing Carlos again had sparked something that I had buried deep inside myself, but I was still angry and confused about why he had lied to me about having a son. How was I going to concentrate on catering Lance’s retreat with Carlos in the kitchen? Just having him stand next to me had my pulse rate on high.

He walked to the sink, washed his hands, and wrapped an apron around his muscular torso. I wanted to pinch myself. Carlos was here, in the flesh, wearing a Torte apron and looking so incredibly sexy that I had to keep my eyes focused on the bread pudding. You can do this, Jules, I told myself.

Yeah, right.

Chapter Six

Sterling returned a few minutes later. I mouthed, “Thank you.” He shrugged and introduced himself to Carlos.

Carlos took an instant liking to Sterling. He asked about Sterling’s Irish dance music and taught him his special trick for peeling garlic.

“Watch this,” Carlos said, placing an entire bulb of garlic between two small stainless steel bowls. He pushed the lids of the bowls together and held them on both ends. “You shake and shake and the skin it peels off like magic.” He shook them like a maraca to demonstrate. It sounded like he was playing the kettle drums.

“Come closer. Come see.” Carlos motioned for Sterling to get a close-up view of his trick. He shook the garlic into one of the bowls and placed it on the counter. All of the peels had been removed, leaving beautiful cloves of garlic ready to be diced. “It is the friction. It works every time and no sticky peel on your fingers.” Carlos rubbed his fingers together.

“That’s amazing.” Sterling held up a clove of garlic. “Have you seen this, Jules?”

I nodded.

Carlos grabbed another bulb of garlic and handed it to Sterling. “Now you try. It’s easy and you do it to the beat of your music, yes? That’s cooking. Feel it. I always say to my new student chefs that food is
love.
You must infuse the food with love. You cook angry—the food, it will know.”

Sterling tried the trick. Carlos grinned and clapped as Sterling shook the bowls like a maraca.

“Yes! That’s it. He’s good, yes?” Carlos said to me.

“He’s the best,” I replied, as I added equal parts of cream and milk to the pudding.

“Impressive,” Sterling said. He held up his bowl of garlic. “It really works.”

“I’ll show you more like this.” Carlos grabbed a knife and chopped the garlic at lightning speed. Sterling watched in awe. I was used to people being impressed with Carlos’s talent. “You must curl your fingers like this, so you do not chop them off,” Carlos said, demonstrating the proper cutting technique.

While they topped the baguettes with olive oil, garlic, pesto, bruschetta, and bean spread, I arranged the cubed bread in ramekins, and returned my pudding to the stove. It wasn’t thick enough, and for some reason it was taking forever to bring it to a boil. I blamed it on the fact that I’d been distracted by Carlos’s surprise appearance.

Sterling slid the appetizer trays into the oven. I would wait until the chickens had finished roasting before baking the bread pudding. I didn’t want to run the risk of infusing any of the scent of the herbs into the sweet dessert.

Sterling set appetizer plates and cocktail napkins on the communal table. I went to check on what wine Whitney was planning to pour with dinner. Carlos followed after me.

Tony leaned against the long walnut bar. The far wall displayed hunting trophies and stuffed animal heads. There were vintage ski posters, a bulletin board with announcements about ice-fishing and skimobile meets, and old photos of the lodge hanging throughout the room. Soft dainty flakes fell outside the long narrow windows. It looked beautiful, but I was thankful we made it to the lodge before the snow started.

A man in his early sixties sat at a high bar stool with a glass of whiskey in front of him. He looked up from his drink when we came into the bar. I smiled.

“What can I do for you, pretty chef?” Tony slid his elbows on the bar.

I could feel Carlos’s energy shift behind me. Without looking at him I knew that every muscle in his body had tensed. I wanted to handle Tony on my own.

“I need to see what wines you have for dinner tonight. I want to pair them with the food.”

Tony reached under the bar and heaved two boxes up. “Who cares about hoity-toity pairing? Booze is booze if you ask me.”

I didn’t ask you, I thought.

Carlos squared his shoulders and removed a bottle of wine from the first box. He studied the label and held the bottle to the light. “You know this vintner?” He handed me the bottle.

The label was from a small vineyard just outside of Ashland. They produced award-winning artisan red blends. I was impressed that Tony had stocked the label. I was expecting grocery-store wine. “This is a great blend.”

“Can we taste?” Carlos asked.

“He’s with me.” I tensed slightly, not because of Tony. I didn’t appreciate Carlos jumping in.

Tony glared at Carlos, but proceeded to open the bottle of wine. He poured us both a taste.

The older gentleman finished his whiskey in one shot. “If you’re pouring, I’ll take a glass of that, too.” His words ran together as he spoke. I wondered how many shots he’d already had.

“You must be the chef.” He wobbled slightly on the stool as he extended his hand. “I’m Dean Barnes, board member.” His British accent came through despite his impaired speech. I wasn’t surprised that he was a board member. Lance could have cast him in a production of Sherlock with his trousers and corduroy checked cap.

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” I replied, raising my eyes at Carlos. “I’m Jules, I’ll be catering the weekend, and this is…” I paused. “Carlos—another chef.”

“I noticed the aprons. What’s Torte?” Dean asked.

“It’s my family’s bakeshop back home in Ashland.”

“I believe I know the place. On the plaza?” Dean took a large swig of the wine that Tony placed in front of him. “I’ve been there before. Yes, yes, I had excellent homemade crisps. Quite nice.”

“Thanks.” I sipped the wine. It tasted like berries with a hint of tobacco. The finish was smooth. It should pair well with the hearty meal we had planned.

Carlos swirled the burgundy liquid in his glass.

Tony glared at him. “What, are you going to stare at it, or drink it already?”

“You know Galileo?” Carlos asked.

Tony continued to glare at him.

Carlos pretended not to notice. “He said ‘Wine is sunlight, held together by water.’ This you drink slowly.” Carlos raised his glass higher in the air and swirled it again.

“Knock yourself out, man.” Tony filled a wine glass to the top and chugged it. He challenged Carlos with a sneer as he emptied the glass. A bartender drinking on the job is strictly prohibited. It would be a fireable offense on the cruise ship. My girlfriends used to say that Carlos was a lover not a fighter. I think it was due to his Spanish roots, and his passion for food. Like most executive chefs, Carlos could be a bit of a snob when it came to food and wine. Not that I blamed him. Chefs are supposed to have superior palates, but Carlos’s dedication to his craft had gotten him into disagreements with guests in the past.

I remember one incident when a passenger complained that his hamburger was too pink. Carlos was having a particularly bad day. He stormed out of the kitchen with a charred hunk of beef. The overweight sunburned guest didn’t have time to blink when Carlos dropped the blackened burger that looked more like a hockey puck on his plate and said, “Is this too pink?” He stormed away before the poor guest had a chance to respond.

Carlos was so well loved by all the staff, and the vast majority of passengers, that he barely got reprimanded for the event. He tossed and turned that night. I remember him sitting up in bed at four o’clock in the morning. “Julieta, why do I let these things get under my skin?”

“Because you love what you do. That’s a good thing.” I massaged his back.

He rested his head on my chest. “Yes, and it also makes me do stupid things sometimes. It is time for us to leave this life, and build our own dream, don’t you think?”

I did. Carlos and I had been planning to leave the vast ocean behind for dry land. We’d been tucking away extra cash, which was easy to do since life on the ship included everything we needed from our meals to our tiny cabin. We didn’t partake of extravagant adventures while docked. We preferred to find hidden local gems off the beaten path, like a little cottage on the Irish coast where the owner served us eight courses on her great-grandmother’s china. Or the bistro we discovered in a French alleyway where the chef brought up four bottles of wine from his private cellar. We noshed on small plates and drank so much wine that Carlos and I both stumbled back to the ship.

Those plans were distant memories now.

Tony’s burly voice shook me back into the present. “So, hot chef, how’s the wine?”

Hot chef. That was a new one. “It’s nice,” I replied.

Carlos stepped in front of me. “That is no way to address Julieta.”

“Hoo-lee-what-a?” Tony walked around the front of the bar. “Come find me later. We’ll go someplace quiet, if you know what I mean.” He pinched my waist.

I smacked his hand away.

Carlos jumped between us and held his arm in front of me. “You do not speak to my wife like that.” He poked Tony in the chest.

Tony arched his back. “You wanna go, man?”

I shot Carlos a warning look and ignored Tony’s overt advances. The best way to handle guys like Tony was to stay professional. “Make sure the wine is ready to go in the next thirty minutes. We’re getting ready to put the appetizers out now,” I said.

“Whatever you say.” Tony slugged more wine and returned to the other side of the bar.

Why had Mercury hired him? Or maybe the better question was, why hadn’t she fired him? A drunk bartender was going to make for a potential disaster.

I turned to leave, but Whitney scurried in at that moment. She bumped into me and almost dropped her tablet. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you.” Her hands shook as she repositioned the tablet under her arm.

A man wearing a Lake of the Woods fishing hat, one of the lodge’s sweatshirts, camo pants, and work boots stepped in behind her. He had a can of WD-40 clipped to his tool belt. “I heard there was a problem up here?”

Whitney shuddered. “No. No problem.”

“I was talking to him,” the man said, twisting his head toward the bar.

“Yeah. Generator’s not working.” Tony sneered. “You better get back outside and fix it, Gavin.”

Gavin’s hand went to his tool belt, where he patted the canister of WD-40. “Yep, that’s what I do around here. I
fix
things.” His meaning was clear. Mercury must have asked him to step in.

Tony slugged more wine and laughed. “Sure you do.”

Dean held out his wine glass. “I’ll take a splash more, if you don’t mind, old chap.”

“I do mind, old man. You’re cut off.” Tony yanked the wine bottle from the top of the bar.

Gavin stomped to the bar. His heavy boots thudded with each step. “If the man wants another drink, give him another drink.”

“This is my bar.” Tony pounded his fist on the counter. “I decide who drinks.”

I caught Carlos’s eye. What was happening?

“It’s Mercury’s bar.” Gavin hunched his shoulders. “Give the man a drink.”

Tony reached for the bottle and slammed it on the bar. “You want a drink? Take it.” He flung the bottle and knocked Dean’s glass off the bar. It shattered on the hardwood floor and splattered on Dean.

“Maintenance.” Tony snapped his fingers at Gavin, and pointed to the shards of broken glass.

Dean’s reflexes were surprisingly quick for his age and how much he’d had to drink. He sprang from his stool and yelled at Tony. “Do you know what you’ve done? These are Balmoral leather-lined royal hunting boots. They cost five hundred pounds.”

Tony scoffed. “Five hundred pounds. What is that? Like five bucks?”

Gavin walked behind the bar and handed Dean a towel. Dean mopped his trousers and glared at Tony. “You will be replacing my boots and trousers.”

Tony grabbed the bottle and pushed past Gavin, completely ignoring Dean’s fixed stare. “Time for my smoke break.” On his way outside he paused and winked at me. “Don’t forget our date later, hot chef.”

In your dreams, I said to myself.

“Sorry about him,” Gavin addressed all of us. “Mercury said he was in rare form today. She wasn’t kidding.” He wiped the counter and looked up at me. “Don’t think we’ve met. You must be the caterer.”

“Yeah, Jules,” I replied. “And this is Carlos.”

“Welcome to LOW. You met our friendly bartender, I see.” Gavin tossed a wine-stained towel in the sink.

Carlos shook his head. “This is no way to run a bar.”

Gavin removed a broom and dustpan. “Tell me about it. Mercury has to get rid of him.”

Dean stood to make way for Gavin to sweep the floor. He swayed slightly. Whitney raced to help steady him. “I believe I need a new pair of trousers,” Dean said. “Can’t show up to dinner looking like this, can I? I’ll be speaking to your boss about being reimbursed for the damages that bartender did to my clothing.”