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Chapter Four
All next week was the same story. Rachelle watched her phone like a hawk, waiting for some sign, anything from Frank. When the storms cleared, she got up the nerve to walk past the restaurant and seek him out, if only to try out what her mother had told her. Perhaps she needed to tell him what she wanted when she wanted it. Maybe that was the secret to life. But the restaurant was dark and locked, the chairs on the tables. It looked on the verge of closing up for good.
When she called Frank, he texted hours later. “Hey, Rach! See you April first!”
“That’s it,” Rachelle said, planting the phone on the counter between her and Darcy. “That’s confirmation it’s not me.”
“You don’t know that,” Darcy assured her. Even as her eyes echoed the truth, it seemed clear it was over. Someone else would be the head chef. For now, at least.
Darcy wore a little black dress, a pair of tights, and boots that shot up far beyond her knee. She’d been asked out by an islander named Steven, who played in a band and said he wanted kids by the time he was thirty. Darcy thought he was “cute” but unserious. “I can’t have kids with some guy in a band,” she’d said. “And you know I’m not ready to settle down, anyway!” There was an air of mystery to Darcy’s tone, one that made Rachelle wonder if, in actuality, Darcy did want to settle down soon. She had a steady career. She had a lot of love to give.
“What’s the plan tonight?” Rachelle asked, throwing her hair behind her shoulders, trying to distract herself.
Darcy explained they were headed to dinner and a movie. “Isn’t that so old-fashioned?” She laughed.
After Darcy left, Rachelle sat on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn, trying to make use of her anxiety. The Cooking Channel was the same as ever: men and women in the kitchen, speaking to the camera as though whoever watched was their dearest friend. For a little while, Darcy watched as a chef from France made a very complicated pastry—one that most people shied away from due to its intricacy. The French chef was very slender and beautiful. Rachelle couldn’t help but guess that she wouldn’t be allowed to eat any pastries after she finished making them. She had to stay trim for the cameras.
It felt like a horrible fate. Chubby male chefs were “trustworthy” and happy. But to be a woman in the world, a woman on camera, you had to look like a supermodel. Rachelle sighed and turned off the television, eyeing the kitchen counter. She itched to make something. And by the time Darcy returned that evening, wearing a sunshine-y smile and chatting happily about Steven, Rachelle had made beautiful lemon pastries with powder sugar—most of which the sisters ate standing up at the kitchen counter, talking about everything as the clock ticked past midnight.
It was a beautiful life.
April first brought thunderous clouds back to the island. The sound frothed and shook, and many ferries were canceled due to inclement weather. Although she normally walked to work, Rachelle decided to drive to avoid looking like a wet rat upon her arrival.
When Rachelle pulled up outside the restaurant, she was surprised to find nearly every parking spot taken. Two large white vans were parked sideways along several parking spots, and eight men and women in black raincoats hovered around the vans, peering into them. When Rachelle got out and walked a bit closer, she was sure she saw camera equipment behind the men and women in raincoats, still protected in their vans.
It reminded her of a news crew. Were they filming the fresh start of the restaurant for the local channel?
Rachelle hurried inside to find Eddie already in the dining room. It had been over two weeks since she’d seen him, and a shiver raced down her spine and made her stomach churn with nerves.
“Hey, Rach. You hear the news?” Eddie smiled, cutting a dimple.
“No?” Rachelle smiled foolishly and glanced across the dining room, taking stock of Frank on the other side of the bar, Benny and Paul playing cards at one of the tables, and the other servers hovering around with their hands in their pockets.
Just then, two men from the parking lot bucked into the dining room and made a beeline for Frank.
“What’s up?” Frank asked, clapping his hands.
“We’re all set up if you’re ready for us,” one of them said.
“Let me give these guys an introduction first,” Frank said. “And you have those forms, don’t you?”
One of the guys removed his backpack and retrieved a large stack of papers. Frank rummaged behind the bar to procure three ballpoint pens.
“Where is she?” one of the guys asked.
“She’s in her office,” Frank said, waving his thumb toward the back of the restaurant. “I told her to make herself comfortable.”
Her! The pronoun rang through Rachelle’s mind. It felt like sunshine after so much rain. Now that she was coming around to the idea of not securing the head chef position, it pleased her to think the position may have gone to a woman.
They needed more women in the culinary world. That was her motto. She would support this woman with everything she had.
Frank clapped his hands again. “Everyone! Welcome back! I hope you had a wonderful vacation. As you can probably tell already, there are numerous changes around here. I hope you’re ready for one of the most exhilarating and challenging eras of your life.”
Rachelle’s heart thumped.
Frank gestured toward the two men beside him. “Last month, I was contacted by these gentlemen from the Cooking Channel,” he said. “They asked if I was interested in hosting one of the top television chefs of the world here at our restaurant. I figured it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so I didn’t hesitate to say yes.”
Rachelle felt bubbly with surprise. She thought of all the female television chefs, trying to visualize one of them in the back office, where Chef Matthew used to stew with resentment. There was Rosemarie Conley, who’d had her own cooking show for years. Georgia Spelling, who specialized in French cuisine and had made those pastries on television just a few days ago. Violet Greenburg who went to very rich people’s homes and taught them how to cook.
