The Art of Love (7 page)

Chapter 8

I show up
for work the next day still puzzling over how to enact my genius plan. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s a great idea, but how does one go about executing it? After Dahlia left, I spent the rest of the night taping a bunch of cardboard over my missing window and thinking about
The Art of War
.

Someone has left a large ladle in the break room. I don’t even want to begin to think about why it’s in there in the first place. Instead, I tuck it under my arm to take it with me as I head for the kitchen, making a mental note to hand it to one of the dishwashers
for a thorough cleaning before it’s rotated back into service.

As I come out of the break room, I’ve got the ladle clamped under one arm
, and I’m tying a fresh apron around my waist. Paolo looks up from where he’s chopping vegetables at one of the prep stations. “Ah, Suzannah. The boss, he want to see you,” he informs me.

I’m not exactly sure which boss he’s talking about. “Mr. Winchell?” I ask.

Paolo gives me one of those Italian looks of minor exasperation as if what he’s said was perfectly clear and he doesn’t understand my need for further explanation. “Yes, that is what I say.” I know it’s a cultural thing, so I don’t take his Latin snippiness personally.

Trent wanting to see me is perfect for the launch of my new campaign
for finding love. The fact that I’m wearing my baggy chef's jacket, checkered pants, and clogs is not. It’s hard to dress sexy when you work over a hot stove all day. But I guess I just have to go see what he wants and maybe figure out how to use the situation to my advantage. I’m trying to think of it as reconnaissance. Tucking some loose hair behind my ear, I head for the Winchell lobby and the service elevators. I realize when I’m already halfway there that I still have the ladle with me. With a shrug, I hook it over the ties of my apron so that it dangles at my waist. Maybe it gives me the appearance of being a busy professional.

I need to hurry up and see Trent then get back to the kitchen and start cracking the whip for the day. I know everyone thinks that Bouche is going under and they might as well goof off until Escoffier comes back and fires us all, but it’s my job to make sure neither of these things happens.

“Hold the elevator!” I call, hurrying down the hallway, my rubber clogs slapping the tile. I’m a few yards away and the doors to the service elevator are wide open, so I know whoever is in there can hear me. That person does nothing, of course, to stop the metal doors from closing. I’m not a huge fan of getting squashed by closing machinery, but I’m also not a huge fan of waiting for the service elevator to finally get back around to me on the return trip.

I rip the ladle from my waist and use it to stop one door while jamming the other with my rubber-clad foot. With a little grunt of exertion, I manage to pry the doors back open. It’s Kiki inside, giving me her look of disdain. “Thanks,” I tell her. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t hold the door for a centenarian with a walker.

I go to stab the button for the 65
th
floor, but it’s already illuminated. Kiki must be going to see Trent as well. “Great,” I think to myself. She is so not a factor in my plans.

As usual,
Kiki is dressed to the nines in a skin-tight black dress and killer heels. She also has the requisite compact walkie-talkie clipped to her waist. That must be for hostessing emergencies. She is obviously wishing me a million miles away and blatantly ignores me, glaring fixedly at the sequentially illuminating numbers as we climb floors.

I guess it’s become obvious that I’m looking her over because, without glancing in my direction, Kiki says, “
If you're falling in love with me, you can forget it. I don't swing that way.”

I am justifiably embarrassed, so I try to counter with, “Well, neither do I, but if I did, I’m sure you wouldn’t be my type.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs, the tone of her voice implying that she is obviously everybody’s type.

The doors open on the 65
th
floor, and everything is instantly nicer than even the hotel lobby. The paneling is a beautiful, glowing tiger maple, and the pile carpeting is plush and new, unlike the carpeting on most of the floors in the hotel, which could really use a freshening. The 65
th
floor is where the executives have their suites. That means three offices: one for Trent, one for his father, and one for his grandfather. The senior Mr. Winchell isn’t even alive anymore, but his office has been preserved. The hotel maids even have to clean it, but I’m sure that involves just shaking a dust mop over a few surfaces once a month. I mean, how much of a mess can be made by an executive that’s been dead for eight years?

Trent’s father doesn’t show up very often himself these days. I guess the Winchells have a lot of properties besides the hotel, so he’s usually pretty busy. The Winchell Hotel is supposed to be Trent’s baby so he can cut his teeth before taking on more of the family empire. Still, it seems kind of wasteful having an entire floor where there’s just one office in use, but it’s not my company to run.

Kiki and I both head down the hall toward the large double doors at the end. It’s obvious from the daggers Kiki keeps shooting in my direction that she’s not thrilled I’m there, but I feel the same way right back at her. If I’m going to figure out a way to land a twelve-point buck like Trent, I don’t need the vixen called Kiki hanging around and showing off her legs.

When we get to the double doors, Kiki stops and waits with an air of expectation like I’m going to open the door for her. Why do some women do this? I am also a woman. I do not feel compelled to get the door for another female unless she’s pregnant, has her arms full, or qualifies for a senior discount. I guess Kiki feels that all doors should be opened for her at all times. Fine. I reach for the knob and give it a twist, opening the door, but before Kiki can sail on through, I shove ahead of her. This pulls her up short, and I feel a brief flash of triumph. It’s out of Kiki’s realm of perspective that the shores won’t always rise to meet her.

The reception area for Trent’s office is probably larger than my condo. A middle-aged, well-groomed woman named Linda sits behind a desk as Kiki and I walk in. I don’t know Linda super well, but I know her to be pleasant and efficient. I guess, when Trent was younger, he went through super-slinky office assistants by the handfuls until his father put his foot down and insisted upon Linda. She’s been running his life ever since.

“
Hi, Linda,” I say, giving her a smile. “How's your son doing?

She smiles back. “Hello
, Sue. Much better. He might even get an “A” in math this semester.” Linda is a single mom with a teenage son that has proven to be a bit challenging in the past couple of years. She tried to get him a job washing dishes at Bouche last summer, but he only lasted three weeks. Escoffier completely refused to deal with the kid or his mother, so I was the one that had to try to mentor him through the whole dishwashing process and eventually explain to his mother that he was only showing up to work one day out of three, so we were letting him go. Fortunately, she didn’t hold me responsible like a lot of parents would.

“
That's great,” I tell her.

I pause, giving Kiki the space to say some type of pleasant greeting. The room is silent. Shooting Kiki a sideways glance, I can see that she’s looking appraisingly around the reception room and has no intention of saying anything at all, let alone anything civil, to someone she probably considers only a lowly secretary.

I’m a little embarrassed by Kiki's rude behavior, even though she is in no way my responsibility. We’re not even friends. But I do my best to gloss over it by stuttering out, “Is... uh... Trent in?”

“It’s nice to see you too, Kiki.”
Linda has no reservations about giving Kiki the stink-eye. It's obvious she knows her executive assistant position at the company is secure. I bet she’s probably set up some traps in her filing system so that if Trent ever tries to replace her, he’d have to hire her back just to find anything. “Mr. Winchell said he wanted to see both of you as soon as you got here.” Linda presses a button on her phone, probably to alert Trent that we’ve arrived, and nods toward a large oak door. “You can go right in.”

As we both walk toward Trent’s office, Kiki literally jockey’s me out of the way so she can be first when we enter. I guess she wants Mr. Winchell to have an unobstructed view of her hotness. It’s really tempting to step on the back of her mile-high heels, but I restrain myself. It’s not in my nature to get into a cat fight.

From what I can see around the sides of Kiki’s head, Trent is sitting at his large desk, leaning back in his chair. He’s in his usual, ridiculously expensive suit and looks as well-groomed and suave as always. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he says with his full lips and his perfect teeth.

***Kiki***

I was all excited about my meeting with my Trent until I found out Miss Kiss Ass was also invited. Trent Winchell is exactly the kind of man I should be dating. He’s successful; he’s good looking; and he’s not afraid to throw a little money around to have a good time. Is it too much to ask for exclusive access to him once in a while so I can see if there’s an opportunity there? And I don’t mean opportunity like all of those bimbettes who used to line up to be his secretary, launch what they thought was a romance, and then quickly find themselves tossed aside as soon as he got bored. Men like Trent like to conquer. It’s stupid to think falling into bed with him is the way to go about actually landing him.

Guys always complain that women only want a guy with money. This makes me laugh because you ask any man what he wants in a woman and he’ll say he wants a hot chick. Even some tub of lard with stains down the front of his T-shirt thinks he deserves a beautiful female on his arm. But for whatever reason, men get all upset when we women want something in exchange. They just don’t see their wants and our wants as comparable. They somehow believe it’s natural for a man to want an attractive mate, but it’s petty for a woman to want a confident and successful mate in return. How is it my fault that confidence and success are what I find attractive in a man and they usually come with a plump bank account? It’s like Marilyn Monroe said in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
, “Don't you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You wouldn't marry a girl just because she's pretty, but doesn't it help?”

So, anyway, Trent has all the trappings of what I’m looking for in a lifetime partner, and I’ve caught him checking out the goods and services I have available on more than one occasion. But I can’t make much progress with the Mouseketeer in on our private meeting.

Unfortunately, there’s no way to get rid of her, so I’ll just have to make the most of it.

Chapter 9

Kiki tries to pause in the doorway and strike a pose before entering Trent’s office, but I ruin that coy little maneuver by bumping into the back of her and making her take a few stumbling steps. She shoots me a death glare over her shoulder, and I toss her an innocent little shrug in return. If she’s going to stop abruptly, then she’s got to expect to possibly get rear ended.

We walk over to Trent’s desk and stand in front of him, almost as if for inspection. “Good morning, you,” Kiki purrs. She’s got her hip cocked and her hand on her waist, showing off her curves to advantage.

I stand next to her, my arms straight at my sides, feeling like a goon. “Good morning... Trent,” I mumble.

He spends several seconds looking at us, making me self-conscious to the extreme. Kiki, on the other hand, is totally at ease. She shifts her body position slightly, tilting her head and raising her shoulder as if she’s on a photo shoot for Vogue. “Please,” Trent finally says, gesturing toward the two small chairs in front of his desk, “have a seat.”

We both settle on the chairs. Kiki crosses her legs away from me, giving me as much of her back as possible without twisting in her seat. She is literally trying to shut me out through body language.

Trent leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk. He locks his deep blue eyes on to mine and says, “I called you here because I really want you.”

I know he can’t mean it the way he sounds, but that doesn’t stop me from blushing anyway. “
You do?” I stammer.

“
Yes,” he assures me, then turns his eyes to Kiki. “Both of you.”

Kiki leans forward, trying to be sultry and probably wishing for all she is worth that I would evaporate. “Tell me more
, Trent?” she says in a low, intimate voice that is definitely not workplace appropriate.

“I want people like you working for the Winchell,” he says, folding his hands. “
There's no easy way to say this, but...” His mouth is a grim, straight line. “Financially, we're not doing so hot.”

“
Really?” I can’t help but wonder aloud. “I know the restaurant isn't full every night, but we usually do pretty well on the weekends and...”

“
Tourists,” Trent scoffs, spitting out the word like he really means parasites. “They don't even know how to order a decent bottle of wine!” He shakes his head in disgust. “              No, it's not like in the old days when we served Chicago's elite.” He has me there. Most fashionable Chicagoans view Bouche as a dinosaur from decades past when a mullet haircut wasn’t called a mullet, it was just called hair.

“
Sue.” Trent gets down to business. “Escoffier asked for you as chef de cuisine while he is on sick leave.”

I blush because it now occurs to me that Escoffier must have had an in-depth conversation about me with Trent before assigning me the position. “
That's right.”

“
And Kiki here is the temporary restaurant manager while we're in transition.” This news is a surprise to me. Kiki is so the last person I would ever promote to a position of power.

             
Kiki blinks slowly like a cat lounging in a sunbeam. She gives a small grin, exposing a set of perfect, tiny teeth. “You can pretty much trust that I’m going to take over the position permanently.”

“
The thing is,” Trent lowers his voice to a confidential pitch, “the Winchell has got to start making more money. A lot more,” he says significantly. “Otherwise, my dad's going to shut us down and convert the building into condominiums.”

“He can't do that,” I all but shout, the words involuntarily escaping my mouth. Converting to condos would put almost all of my friends in the unemployment line.

“He can and he will,” Trent tells me, his face completely serious. “Listen, I'm counting on you girls to keep what I said just between us.”

Trent is about my age, so I think it’s odd he calls us girls. I wonder—if he had Paolo and Aspic up here, would he call them boys? Either way, I’m not going to make a squawk about it, so I just say, “
Okay...”

A low, purring, “No problem,” is Kiki’s reply.

“To save the Winchell,” Trent goes on, “Bouche has really got to start pulling in some big money.”

Big money? Yeah, it’s fine to say something like that, “
But how?” is my question.

“
Grab some media attention.” Trent shrugs. “Make some headlines. Win some awards.” His eyes light up with an apparently new idea. “We need to win a Thomas Van Dyke award or land a couple of those Michelin stars. Do something big that would seriously put some butts in some booths.”

Getting out of her seat, Kiki slinks over to perch on the edge of Trent’s desk. “
Get real, Trent. What are we supposed to do? I can't just wave my magic wand and win the Winchell a Van Dyke.” She’s still trying to be seductive, but I can tell she’s also attempting to bring Trent down to reality. She jerks a thumb in my direction, “And it's not like this one is going to be any help.”

“
Come on, now, Kiki. We're all on the same team,” he admonishes her in the mildest of tones. “That's no way to talk about a co-worker. And I'm sure Sue is very talented.” He gives me a roguish wink. “In many ways.” He hits me with his high beam smile. “If she puts her mind to it.”

I, of course, blush like a schoolgirl.

“Yeah, right.” Kiki’s voice lets me know she doesn’t agree with Trent at all but isn’t going to fight about it. “Even if Sue pulls her weight, we still don’t have an actual plan.”

“Well…” Trent gives it some thought. “
Kiki, you could rally the troops, cut costs, make everything more efficient. Make sure every guest has a memorable dining               experience.”

He turns to me. “
And Sue, what about spicing up the menu? There's got to be something a little more exotic we could serve besides some tired old lobster thermidor.”

I would love to update Bouche’s menu. I would absolutely love it. Escoffier, of course, would have a brain aneurism if he knew we were even discussing the possibility, but he’s also probably off at a spa in Europe somewhere, and I really can’t disobey a direct order from the boss’s son. “I could do that.” I nod several times before I remember not to seem too eager.

Kiki gives Trent a pert, skeptical look. She slides off the desk and sashays back to her seat with her hands on her hips. “So, what's in it for me?” she asks after sliding back into her seat. “You're talking about an awful lot of work for just a temporary gig.”

I hate to agree with Kiki, but she is right. “
Yeah...” I add to the conversation. “I mean... Yes. I mean... What about us?” Being chef de cuisine and saving the hotel from the brink of disaster does sound like something that should come with some type of reward.

“Well.” Trent knits his fingers together and furrows his perfect brow in thought.
“I can't exactly pay you more money right now. I’m sorry, but we are absolutely locked down on the budget.” Then he raises his eyebrows with a new idea. “I could… No.” He shakes off the idea. “That’s probably not appropriate.”

“What?” Kiki and I ask simultaneously.

He shoots a look skyward. “This is so embarrassing.”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed around me,” Kiki assures him.

“Okay, well… I don’t know if either of you read the Chicago gossip columns, but… I just broke up with my girlfriend.” The end of Trent’s relationship with jet-set beauty Laura Pierce had been written up in all the local papers, and I had absorbed every word. At least I had enough wits about me to not let on to that fact. “Anyway,” he continued, “we were supposed to go to the Bahamas for a little get away in September, but I guess that’s off now,” he said with a short, chagrined laugh. “Unfortunately, I already bought the tickets and rented the condo and everything. I can’t even get my money back.”

“That’s such a shame,” Kiki said, not sounding close to sincere.

“If one of you were to do something, you know, outstanding to save the Winchell, then maybe you could take over the tickets. Or,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. I could take one of you with me and show you the islands. It’s really beautiful down there, and I’d be happy to play tour guide.” He cracks into a smile filled with trepidation. “Is that not workplace appropriate? I don’t want to offend anyone.”

Is he serious? A vacation with Trent Winchell on some tropical island? That almost sounds better than winning the lottery. His eyes are as blue as the ocean, and I am so ready to dive in. We both readily assure him that we’re not at all offended.

As we leave Trent’s office, my head is spinning. Did he really just, in a weird way, offer himself as the prize to whomever of us does the most to save his family’s hotel? That sounds a little strange to me. If I’d been in his office with anyone but Kiki, I would ask for verification that my ears weren’t playing tricks on me, but this is not the kind of question you ask someone like Kiki.

But given another few seconds to think about it as we walk down the hall toward the elevators, it also kind of makes sense. Maybe he is somewhat attracted to both of us, for different reasons, obviously, but still, it could happen. And in movies and stuff, aren’t women always offering themselves as the prize to men in a sense? Or they’re portrayed as some kind of reward. What would make a rich and attractive man any different? Trent is a prize in almost anyone’s book.

We reach the elevators, and Kiki stabs at the button. As we wait, I can feel her giving me an appraising look. Finally, she says, “I hope you realize that Trent was really just talking to me. Not about the hard work, of course, but about the other stuff.”

I’m taken aback for two reasons
. First of all, she’s just confirmed that I didn’t imagine it. Trent did strongly imply that he is willing to date one of us as a reward. Secondly, I know Trent was looking directly at me when he put his whole island paradise offer out there, so the fact that Kiki is trying to tell me it was just for her is really annoying. “What makes you say that?” I ask.

An amused little laugh escapes Kiki’s crimson-painted lips, but I can tell it’s forced. “
Oh, come on. He's Trent Winchell. Look at you.” She gestures derisively in my direction. “And then look at me. It's pretty obvious.”

I feel completely humiliated. Maybe Kiki is right. I’m just some dork in a chef’s jacket, and Trent Winchell is Trent Winchell. My eyes start to sting, and I have the horrible feeling that I might actually cry. But then I get angry. I mean, who the hell is Kiki? Just some ditz that knows how to be a good waitress. She’s no prize, either, once you crack open her candy-coated shell. Maybe Trent would prefer to vacation with a woman who isn’t actually seventy percent evil.

“You know, Kiki,” I say, somehow mustering the will to fight back. “You're probably the biggest bitch in Chicago. And this is a major city.” Kiki’s eyes bulge a little. I can tell she wasn’t expecting me to retaliate, and that buoys my nerve, so I go on. “If you think you can land Trent by just waving your ass around in that tight little skirt, then go for it,” I tell her. “But I bet Trent is looking to spend time with someone who isn’t mostly manmade.”

I’ve caught Kiki so off guard that she’s actually sputtering. She flounders around for a moment before she can find any words. “
Wh... Uh... Do you seriously think you can stand up to me?”

Kiki adjusts her stance so she is facing me straight on with her feet spread hip-distance apart. She wears a squinting expression, as if the sun is in her eyes, and her right hand hovers near her walkie-talkie. Dressed in all black, Kiki looks like she’s the villain in a classic western, standing in the street to face the marshal at high noon.

Seriously tired of being pushed around by Kiki and every other person on the planet, I mimic her stance: weight evenly balanced, eyes squinting. The ladle is my six-shooter, my hand hovering near my waist ready to snatch it from where it dangles off my apron strings and fwap her over the noggin if necessary. I’m in my white chef’s coat, so I guess that makes me the lawman, determined to drive the bad element out of town. I can practically hear the Sergio Leone–style musical score playing in the background.

We’re standing, glued to the carpet; she’s not blinking and I’m not backing down. We’d probably be here all day if there wasn’t a bright “bing” as the elevator doors slide open.

“Okay, Miss Goody Goody,” Kiki snarls before either of us makes a move to step inside. “Let's see what you've got.”

*** Kiki***

I can’t believe Sue just tried to stand up to me. Out of nowhere, Miss Goody Two-shoes attempts to grow a spine! Seriously? It really threw me off there for a second. What’s next? She’s actually going to start trying to make herself look presentable in public?

I really don’t have the bandwidth to deal with whatever nonsense scenario Sue has playing in her head. Trent would never go for her in a million years. He doesn’t exactly date the natural type, and I doubt she even owns a pair of shoes with more than a two-inch heel. Still, I didn’t know the little priss had it in her. I guess she’s not entirely made of marshmallow fluff.