Romance Impossible(54)

I threw a celery stick at her head, which she dodged, laughing. She hadn't stopped making fun of me for that since she saw it on my shelf. I'd been given a copy for my high school graduation, years ago, and I always thought it had some good tips in it. I certainly wasn't going to throw it away just because I was allegedly a grown-up now.

"Seriously, though, kudos for figuring out a way to work with him. Lesser people than you have tried and failed." Shelly had, in that inimitable way of hers, stumbled across a good point. My gut was telling me that I needed to pull back from Chef, before my feelings ran away with me. But my gut had been wrong before, hadn't it? I was pretty sure it must have been, even if I couldn't remember any specific instance. Nobody's gut had that good of a track record.

We were all adults here. I could keep my feelings in check. If I got too cold or withdrew too far, I risked losing the level of comfort that he'd inexplicably developed with me. And that seemed crucial to our future workplace harmony.

I just had to be careful.





***



Just as I was about to close my computer that night, I heard the soft ding of an incoming email. It was my Google news alert for Max, which I'd set up just as Lydia suggested. So far it hadn't yielded much, and the whole exercise did seem a bit silly - especially now, that we were actually on friendly terms. I just hadn't bothered to turn it off yet.

But this one was a doozy. In amongst the scattered blog posts, op-ed pieces, and TV show episode recaps from some Food Network marathon, there was a handful of stories about one of Max's restaurants losing its Michelin stars.

My jaw dropped.

I called Shelly immediately.

"You're not going to believe this," I said, when she answered.

"Try me." The TV was blaring in the background, and her two Pomeranians immediately started barking at the sound of her voice.

"One of Chef Dylan's restaurants lots its Michelin stars."

"Its what?"

I could hear her wandering to a slightly quieter room. "Its stars," I said. "In the Michelin travel guide. It's like...look, just trust me, it's a big deal."

"The tire company?" Shelly was skeptical.

"They're not just a tire company," I said. "They're a travel company. They issue these guides every year, and they review only the very best of the best restaurants. It's just a few cities that they even bother with. London, New York, Paris...to even be in the guide at all is a huge deal, but then you get between one and three stars ranking on top of that. They re-rank every time they do a new guide, and this one...well, it's pretty harsh to lose stars. It means the quality of the place has slipped a whole hell of a lot. It's a big deal for Chef's reputation."

Shelly sucked in a breath through her teeth. "Want to call in sick tomorrow?"

"Trust me, I'm thinking about it." I realized I was gnawing on the end of a pencil.

"That completely blows," she said. "I'm guessing some heads are gonna roll at that place, huh?"

"Most likely. I guess I should just be grateful that I don't have to be around to see that."

Shelly chuckled. "Oh my God, can you imagine? I bet he'll bring a film crew with him. That's some must-see TV right there."

I managed a small laugh, but I actually felt terrible for him. I couldn't even imagine what it must feel like, to have such a remarkable accomplishment, only to have it snatched away. As much of a media whore as he might be, I knew there was no chance he'd commit that to film.#p#分页标题#e#

Max's reputation meant everything to him. That much, to me, was obvious. Losing a few of his stars was like losing a piece of himself.

After hanging up with Shelly, I glanced over the articles, even though I knew exactly what they'd say. He should have been more hands-on. He should have hired more reliable staff. If only he'd had a more experienced head chef, a better manager, this would have never...

I finally shut my computer, once and for all.





***



Max was deep in thought. I supposed that was better than a lot of the alternatives. He didn't even say hello when I walked in, and I decided it was best to follow his lead.

He didn't speak to me until we were midway through dinner service.

"Jill, do you have any plans for Thanksgiving?" His tone was calm, but obviously restrained.

I hesitated. As usual, I couldn't tell if it was a casual, friendly question, or some kind of test. "Not really," I said, finally. I assumed my mom was going to call in a few days and halfheartedly remind me that I was always welcome. I'd always say thank you, but I just couldn't get away from work. Truth was, if I wanted to eat stringy turkey and dry stuffing with sad slices of jellied cranberry sauce that still bore impressions from the sides of the can, I could do it alone, without my stepfather Ron glaring at me from across the table.