He nodded."
I helped him prop his head up a little to swallow the pill. By the time I let him back down, I was pretty sure he was already asleep.
"Goodnight," I whispered. "Feel better."
As I closed the door, I heard him murmur something, but it didn't sound like actual words. Most likely a dream, I thought.
He wouldn't even remember this.
***
The next morning, on my day off, I got a phone call from the restaurant. I'd half-expected this, so I didn't let myself get too disappointed. It wasn't like I had any plans.
"Jill." It was Max himself, sounding a little hoarse. "Can you come in today?"
"Absolutely," I said. "Feeling a little better?"
"A little," he said. "But I can't be around the food if I'm contagious. I'm quarantined in my office. I need someone to run the kitchen."#p#分页标题#e#
"Be there in a bit."
I hurried to catch the next train, and jumped into work as soon as I arrived, not bothering to stop into the office and see if he even remembered my visit. Lunch service had to get off the ground.
In the first lull, I went to the back hallway and tapped on his door.
"Come in," he called out. "But keep your distance."
"Don't worry," I said, opening the door. "I'll sanitize myself before I go back into the kitchen."
He smiled. He was still looking a little ghostly, but certainly not like last night. I sat down in a chair in the corner, honoring his wishes to stay as far away from him as possible.
"Why are you even here?" I wondered aloud, as he huddled deeper inside the fleece he was wearing.
He shrugged. "Better than not being here," he said. "At least, I feel better being here."
"Well, okay," I said. "But if you need to go home, it's fine."
"I know," he said. "Thank you for handling everything yesterday."
"Of course," I said, unsure if he was just talking about the restaurant.
We were both quiet for a few minutes.
"I suppose this is the downside of the culinary business," he said, glancing longingly towards the door. "Garbage collectors don't have to worry about spreading germs."
I laughed. "I think there are a few other downsides," I said. "But maybe not if you're a workaholic."
"And none of them were enough to stop me," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Is 'stubbornness' a positive personality trait, do you think?"
"It is if you call it 'determination,'" I pointed out. "Did you always want to be a chef?"
He nodded. "Long as I can remember. Everybody I grew up with wanted to be a firefighter or a cop, and then there was me."
"Anybody ever make fun of you for it?"
"A bit," he admitted, smiling. "But you learn to ignore it."
He was putting a brave face on it now, but I wondered how much it had bothered him at the time.
"I suppose I was meant to feel intimidated that it's 'women's work,'" he went on. "But my mother commanded her kitchen like a four-star general. I'd love to see anyone try to tell her that handling knives and open flames is a position of weakness." He was grinning, but I could see the hint of sadness in his eyes. He still missed her. Of course he did. Both his parents had passed away, his mother most recently - just a few years ago, if I recalled correctly.
"She must've been very proud of you," I said, instantly hating how cliché it sounded. I'd never been good with grief.
Max nodded, chuckling a little. "Yeah - not of the profanity, so much, or the yelling. But she always understood where it came from. We spoke the same language, in a lot of ways. She was even more passionate about food than I am. It was almost spiritual for her."
"Not really so much for the 'spiritual' part, are you?" I was stifling a laugh. It was such a funny idea, Chef Dylan voluntarily admitting to a supreme being other than himself.
"No," he said, looking more serious than I expected. "No, I was never blessed with the gift of being able to believe in the unseen. My mother prayed on her rosary every night, but she spent Sunday mornings in the kitchen. I think for her, it was a sort of replacement, when she lost faith in the church. But I never had that, so for me - it was different."
There was a loud rapping at the door.
"Jillian?" It was Liam. "Tickets."#p#分页标题#e#
Well, that lull went by in a hurry.
***
"You know," said Shelly around a mouthful of tortilla chips, "he's not going to stay here forever."
We were at our favorite Mexican restaurant again, catching up. I'd been absorbed at work and she was in her busy season, or something - it had been too long since we giggled over margaritas and bottomless free chips.