Sweet Girl (6 page)

“This is Ram,” Joey says, gesturing to the ripped Latino kid I’d seen working the giant mixer earlier. He smiles back at us both, a cocky grin that says he expects female adoration wherever he goes. His apron is stained with several different batters, and large bowls filled with every imaginable concoction cover the high tables around him like stainless-steel sentinels.

Joey continues, “Ram is short for—”

“Just Ram,” he tells us both, using his fist to emphasize the word.

Joey snorts and keeps on going. “Ram,
elle es Max
.
Esta en entrenamiento
.” She looks at me and continues in English. “Ram makes all our batters and mixes. From there he’ll hand them off to Tomás, who does the baking. I’ll take you over to meet him next,” she says, turning to go.

Ram reaches a fist towards me for a bump, and after I awkwardly oblige the gesture, he turns back around to heft a bowl up and into the arms of the mixer. Between the metal, the mixture inside, and the way his muscles work to maneuver it, I’m guessing that each one of those bowls weighs forty or fifty pounds. No wonder he looks so buff.

We tour the rest of the kitchen. Tomás takes batters from Ram and turns them into cakes, tart shells, piecrusts, and cookies. Harris is still whispering sweet nothings to a berry filling when we pass by him again. Joey tells me he makes all the sauces, fillings, glazes, and icings. I am suitably impressed. There are dozens and dozens of recipes on Dolci’s ever-changing menu. To continually create totally different flavor palettes with such variation and nuance must require extreme attention. Maybe reciting sonnets is a way to help him focus, sort of like white noise.

Two older men take the finished products from Tomás and Harris and combine them to create the final confections. One of them is the man I’d noticed earlier with the biscotti, but now he is icing black-and-white cookies. Each person, it seems, has a specialized skill-set. For some it involves an incredible palate, while others might not know the difference between white or brown sugar, but they can ice a cake with the dexterity of a neurosurgeon. It is a hodgepodge of people, but each of them is an imperative cog in a well-oiled machine, and at its helm is an unusual old woman in a turban.

Avis stands at a high table in the corner, hand-whipping a small batch of something and muttering to herself. As we pass by her, Joey doesn’t lower her voice. Even though we are a few feet away and audibly discussing her, I don’t think Avis notices. She is far too caught up in what she is doing.

“Avis is working on new items for the room-service menu. We store all our pastries here, but there’s no guarantee that once they hit room-service prep, they’ll keep them properly chilled or fire them just right. She’s trying to create recipes that are idiot proof but still feel like Dolci originals.”

“So she creates all the new recipes for the hotel?”

“The desserts, breads, and pastries, yes. Then she also handles special orders for the events that come through here. She’s mostly self-sufficient, but there are days when she’ll want a babysitter.” Joey looks at her with equal parts adoration and annoyance.

My eyes dart to Avis, who is hunched over her mixing bowl. I’m certain that she’ll bark at us now, but she still doesn’t acknowledge our presence. Joey turns and I follow.

“So she comes up with the recipe, and then you—”

“I take it from there. I test it in large batches, I teach it to each member of the team for quality control, I handle everyone’s hours, I deal with management.” She stops and looks at me seriously. “I run the kitchen, Max. She’s a genius, to be sure, but she’s also an artist. Artists are flighty, irresponsible, erratic. She needs someone who can manage her and this chaos.” She gestures to the kitchen around us. “She needs that person, or this all goes away. It’s not just her legacy either; there are ten people on staff here, and they need to be able to count on stability. That’s not something she can give them.”

As if on cue Avis stands and throws her recipe—whisk, bowl, and contents—into the large industrial sink with a crash. The noise is deafening, but no one in the room reacts to it but me.

“Damn it, Joey! I told you I wanted to stop using this chocolate. It’s too sweet! I can’t make anything with it!”

Joey doesn’t even turn around. She just calmly calls over her shoulder, “Try the Valrhona instead—the one you used in the soufflé.”

Avis stands in place, tapping an angry foot. When she speaks again she is slightly calmer.

“The Caraibe?”

“No, the Guanaja,” Joey calls back, her eyes never leaving my face. “It’s seventy percent cacao. It will balance out better for you.”

Mollified by what Joey told her, Avis walks off to the back room.

“She needs someone to manage her, and it’s not an easy job. I’ve trained under her for the last five years. The team here is great and they’ll help you, but even still, I have no idea how you think you’ll accomplish all you need to in so little time.”

I finger my bracelets under the edge of my left sleeve.

“I’m tougher than I look,” I tell her seriously.

“You’ll need to be,” she says as she walks off.

When she stops short I nearly run into her back.

“You’ll also need different shoes,” she says, eyeballing my Converse with disdain.

“Absolutely.” I nod emphatically.

“And the bracelets,” she continues.

“What?” I ask in confusion.

“The bracelets—you can’t wear them in here. They could get snagged on something, carry bacteria, heat up enough over the ovens to burn you. There are a ton of reasons, but the biggest is that the health department doesn’t make allowances for personal jewelry. A wedding ring? Yes. A hundred dangly bracelets?” She points at my wrist. “No way.”

I feel something close to panic hit me then. I always wear my bracelets. Some of them are extremely important; the rest are, well, a way to camouflage the ones that matter. But I wear all of them constantly. I never take them off for any reason.

“I need to—” I clear my throat. “One of them is for medical reasons.”

Joey doesn’t even bat an eyelash.

“OK, so
one
of them you can wear,” she says sternly. “The rest have to go. Same goes for the dramatic nail polish.”

I look down at the deep black polish that Landon always teases me about. It is far easier to have bare nails than to take off the jewelry, but I’ll think about that later. Right now I need to secure this job, and I’d agree to almost anything she says at this point. I nod in agreement.

“Yes, Chef,” she tells me pointedly.

“Excuse me?” I ask, ever slow on the uptake, apparently.

Joey does another one of those breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth.

“The proper response in this kitchen,” she says slowly, though not unkindly, “is, ‘Yes, Chef.’”

“OK, I—” I catch myself just in time. “Yes, Chef.”

Placated by my answer, she continues on her way and I hurry to catch up. I’m sure my face is the usual impassive and untouchable mask that gives no indication of how I feel. On the inside, though, I am laughing and screaming and jumping up and down. I’ve never been this excited in my entire life, and I’ll allow my inner six-year-old to feel this joy, even if no one will ever know how much this job means to me.

Chapter Five

Five hours later I stumble back to my car in a daze. I spent all afternoon with Joey learning the intricacies of her job. Managing both the prep and general staff plus keeping the kitchen in working order, all within a massive hotel, requires a level of paperwork and politics on par with the Pentagon. Seriously, there are venture capital firms that don’t require this many spreadsheets.

In our time together I learned about payroll, expense reports, purchase orders, and security. I learned who to call if someone cuts off a finger, if someone comes to work drunk, or if Avis goes completely off the deep end.

Apparently all three have happened before, and when I asked Joey to clarify what exactly “going off the deep end” meant, she told me not to worry—that I’ll know it when I see it. We went over inventory, seasonal menus, and the hierarchy of the staff. We talked and worked so much that my brain turned to mush, and we hadn’t even baked anything yet!

The whole process was overwhelming, intense, and so, so exciting. Despite my frustration with the awkwardness of our relationship right now, there is only one person I want to tell. I pull out of the parking structure and turn my car towards home.

When I park in my usual spot on the far left side of the circular driveway, Mom has the front door open before I even have my seatbelt all the way off. She stands in the entryway, her blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail, wearing fancy loungewear that she likely changed into the second she walked in the door tonight. Even in casual wear with no makeup on, she’s still just as beautiful to me as she was when I was little. I’ve been avoiding her for the past few weeks because I’m tired of her hassling me about what I plan to do with my life now that I’m finished with school. But seeing the evident joy on her face because of something as simple as my dropping by unannounced actually makes me want to cry. I can be such a jerk sometimes, and usually it’s directed at the people who deserve it the least.

“Mackenzie, will you get in here? Daddy is about to take the fillets off the grill, so you’re just in time for dinner!” She sounds happy, like this was always part of our plan, like I haven’t been avoiding her for the last month, like our relationship hasn’t been strained for the last several.

I don’t even make it all the way through the door before she pulls me down for a hug and smooths my hair as if I’m six years old again.

“I’m so happy to see you,” she whispers into my hair. Then because she can’t seem to help herself, she adds, “You need to get in for a cut. Should I have Christy make an appointment for you?”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. Leave it to my mom to notice my split ends even without her contacts in. I shake my head.

Before I can say anything, she does.

“We’re not going to get into it. I’m sorry I’ve been pushy. You know how I am,” she tells me sardonically. “But please, don’t disappear like that again, OK?”

“OK,” I answer.

She smiles and touches my cheek once more.

“You look dead on your feet, which means you need food and probably alcohol, and I can supply both! Let’s go find your dad.”

We find Dad in the kitchen slathering melted Brie onto crostini.

“Well, this an unexpected treat,” he says when he sees me walk in.

“I was hungry, and you guys can always be counted on to have the good cheese,” I tell them by way of explanation.

I walk around the large center island in their massive kitchen to give him a hug, then he and I both start working our way through the cheese board in front of us.

Mom pours me a glass of pinot from the bottle they’ve opened and then starts making me a plate of food from the lineup on the counter. There are fillets cooked just a tad over medium, new potatoes in garlic and butter, and a green salad with a hodgepodge of likely every leftover vegetable they found in the fridge. She looks up at me when she comes to the last bowl.

“Do you want some fruit salad? Maria went to the farmers’ market yesterday, and the berries are incredible.”

On the surface the question seems completely innocuous; she’s just asking if I want fruit. But with my mother, and my condition, her questions are never so innocent. What she’s really asking is whether my blood levels can handle more sugar. I shake my head lightly.

“Better not.” I nod towards the wine glass, which is sugar enough, especially when I didn’t eat all that healthy today to begin with.

To her credit she plasters a smile on her face and casually sets my plate down at the table in the breakfast nook. I walk over and sit down in the same chair where I’ve eaten hundreds of meals throughout my life. At a holiday or a dinner with our whole family, we’d be more formal, likely sitting in the dining room eating a meal of perfectly prepared courses designed by their chef. But weekends are casual, a small reprieve for these socialites after a week filled with work, charity functions, and other formal events. I smile at the picture they make at the island as they work together to fill each other’s plates in a ballet choreographed over years of happy marriage. I’m too hungry to wait for them to finish, though, so I start eating before they’ve even finished plating their meals. I’ve polished off half my steak when Daddy sits down and asks me how Landon and Miko are doing. When I look up to answer him, I see my mom still at the counter, dishing up a bowl of fruit salad. It’s a simple task, but she looks as if she’s fighting the urge to scream at the collection of seasonal berries.

Damn it.

I thought she was doing better lately. When I first had my accident back in December, she hovered over me obsessively, wanting to know every single thing I was eating and how much sleep I’d had the night before. I had to battle with myself daily not to snap at her because of it, and several times we launched into full-on arguments that always ended with her storming off in tears and me feeling terrible. I understand how scared she must have been when Brody called her. I understand that she doesn’t ever want to see any of her kids sick. I understand that I nearly died that night, and that I likely would have if Landon hadn’t found me. But even knowing why she’s obsessing doesn’t make it OK. I can’t help but feel smothered and claustrophobic when she starts looking at me as if she’s trying to calculate exactly how to fix me. I’m broken in so many ways, and I wish she’d just stop trying to figure out how to mend me.

She finally sits down with us and begins making chitchat. I can see her trying to pull herself back together, and I’m sure she realizes that her tendency to hover is why I’ve been avoiding her in the first place. If it’s a battle between knowing my current insulin levels or having the kind of relationship where I drop by unannounced, she’ll choose having me in her life over playing doctor, but it’s a close thing.

As Daddy launches into the plans for a new high-end outdoor shopping center Barker-Ash is about to break ground on in the valley, Mom sends me a little wink to show me just how OK she is. She’s still upset about my accident, but she’s trying to show me that she can be respectful of my boundaries. What’s going to happen if I tell her that I just took on a second job, one that’s intense and stressful with long hours and little time for rest? How will she handle it if I try to explain that I can’t yet quit the job at Gander because I don’t know for sure if I’ll get to keep the job at Dolci? I don’t need to guess at the answer. That conversation would lead us back to her favorite argument of all: why I won’t just let them give me money.

I know most people would jump at the chance to exist off funds from wealthy parents, but I live perpetually in the shadows of three golden siblings. My little sister, Malin, is blonde and sweet and beautiful, a near replica of my mother. The two Ashton boys both graduated college with honors and worked their way up to run Barker-Ash alongside my father. My brothers run a multimillion-dollar business with a combined staff in the thousands, and by the time they were my age, they each owned a home and an extensive stock portfolio. The most I have to show for my early twenties is the creation of muddled drinks and a handful of bar regulars who don’t even know my first name. I may fall short in a lot of ways, but just like my brothers, I’ve been financially independent since I was eighteen years old, and pride won’t let me go back now.

I take another bite of my food, though I’m not really hungry anymore. I force a smile as my mom laughs at a story my dad is telling and reaches out to squeeze his hand. This is the woman who taught me to cook, the one who gave me a love of baking, forged over a thousand sugar cookies. This is the person who showed me exactly what to eat so that I could enjoy at least one of those cookies we’d worked so hard to create without throwing off my insulin.

As a food lover, she’d understand my excitement and celebrate any accomplishment with me. But as my mother, she’d never accept a situation where I’m knowingly choosing to do something in direct opposition to what’s best for my health. It’s not even up for debate. I can’t tell her about Dolci.

I can’t tell her, or anyone else for that matter, because they’re all in cahoots with her. They’ll all worry and obsess and make my life hell, and I can’t handle that, because I’m going to need every ounce of energy I have to keep a job I had no business getting.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. I didn’t realize she was addressing me.

“I said”—she smiles sweetly across the table—“Kenzie, what’s new with you?”

I can’t remember how long it’s been since we made it through an entire meal without arguing. I don’t want to ruin this new truce, and I’m definitely not ready to tell them what’s really going on.

I plaster a smile on my face and let the necessary lie fall from my lips. “Oh, not much.”

It takes about a hundred cotton balls doused in acetone to remove every trace of polish from my nails.

My hands look sad and boring without the dark paint I’m used to, but I can’t give Joey another reason to call me out. Especially since I’m going to disobey a direct request she gave me. I know it’s stupid to take such a risk, especially since my job is in no way guaranteed, but I just can’t remove all of my bracelets. I take off all but two.

I unclasp the smaller bracelet and wrap it around the bigger one like a vine before closing it up again. Without inspecting it closely it would be impossible to tell that it’s two separate pieces.

One of the bracelets is the medical badge that identifies my condition. The other is a small inscribed piece that identifies my mistakes.

I won’t ever forget those mistakes, just like I won’t ever forget the day I knew I needed something to remind me of them.

I didn’t get the chance to tell her to come in, because she didn’t knock or ask for permission. She just barged into my room, and even across the dimly lit space, I could see her concern through my swollen eyes. Apparently the confirmation of my tears was enough to rein her in, though, because she closed the door behind her much more quietly than she’d opened it. She crossed the space to my bed carefully, as if landmines might be hidden under the hardwood. Each step just made me more emotional. At nineteen I was far too old to be crying to my mother about my problems, but I didn’t try to stop the tears; what was the point now that she’d seen them?