"It's Holly," Michael says, with a look of dread.
I cross my arms, preparing for the worst. "Go on … "
"Now I don't know this for sure," Michael says, holding his palm up as if I'm a lion he needs to placate. "I just heard this. I'm trying to get through to her now, but … she might be pregnant."
"No. That can't be."
Martin gulps audibly.
"The rumor is that she went to Cancun with her ex-husband to get things working again about a month ago and … well, they worked. Too well. She's still there, and I'm having a hell of a time getting in touch with her, but she told Kyle that she might never come back-that she might just build a new life there."
I turn away from Martin to pace a little.
"And I'm only finding this out now? Less than three weeks before the opening?"
"Maybe she'll come back," Martin says, optimistically. "And we can start looking for replacements in the meantime."
"Replace my head chef? Just like that? You think chefs like Holly grow on trees? You don't ‘replace' Kobe. Fuck!" I say, kicking a veiled chair into the wall. "Three years I worked with her. Three years! She knows my recipes as well as I do, and now she's ditching the greatest opportunity of her career for long walks on the beach with a guy she already dumped once?"
"Cole … " Martin says gently.
I march back toward him, finger jabbing at the air.
"This is what happens when you trust people. Time and time again. They leave you in the lurch."
"She might not really be stayi-"
"What is it about cooks?" I shout, the drilling stopped now, as the workers watch me pace the room in frustration, slamming my fist against a wall. "Am I the only one who respects loyalty anymore? Is everyone in this business just out for their fucking selves? Those criminals I worked with on the reality show had more integrity than most of the so-called professionals I've worked with."
"Cole," Martin soothes once again. "If she's really not coming back, and if she can't work, maybe we can move Michelle here for a while. She knows the ropes."
///
I stop pacing to stare at Martin disdainfully.
"Michelle's serving eight hundred eaters a week in L.A. The place is killing it-why would I jeopardize that?"
"It's just a last resort. It would buy us time. Plus, the L.A. crew have worked together for years, they could survive without her for a little while."
I calm down just enough to take a few deep breaths and put a grateful hand on Martin's shoulder.
"Ok. You're right. I'm not happy. But ok," I say. "I'll try to think of who we could get to fill the spot-you do the same."
"Of course," Martin says. "And if you don't mind me saying so … maybe you should take the night off, go blow off some steam, you know? You staying in Vegas tonight?"
"No chance," I say, already pulling out my phone as I head toward the door. "Releasing this kind of tension is gonna take a hell of a lot more than some slot machines, my friend."
Luckily, I know just the thing.
8
Willow
It's Friday, and through some miracle of scheduling magic, I've got the night off. The idea of an evening with no responsibilities, nowhere to go, and utter freedom feels like a gift from God. A little time to think, to process things. To put my feet back down on the ground and see where I actually stand.
And it's not like I'm short of things I need to untangle. Fucking your boss when you were expecting him to fire you is something that you don't just set aside easily. Fucking your boss when he's an internationally-renowned celebrity chef is something that deserves a little reflection. Fucking your internationally-renowned celebrity chef boss, then having him take one of your recipes and put it on the menu of the hottest restaurant in L.A., without giving you any credit, is a hell of a lot to unpack.
And as if all of that wasn't enough, there's the sudden, unexpected potential for my dream of owning my own restaurant to come true once again. An upcoming investor meeting that I barely even remember agreeing to, let alone feel prepared for.
So on my day off I do the only thing that feels right with so much going on-I shut down. I sleep almost to midday, prepare a large batch of cheesy nachos and guacamole, then start binge watching the latest season of a TV show about supernatural detectives that's just about dumb enough to follow without my full attention, and just visually interesting enough to keep me above the level of comatose.