Where Dreams Reside

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“You’ve got a special at table seven,” Graziella called out as she breezed through the swinging doors into the kitchen at Angelo’s restaurant. She dumped a stack of empty bowls with a clatter in front of Marko the dishwasher.

“What kind of special?” Angelo didn’t even bother to look up from the Veal Florentine he was plating. An almost invisible shaving of truffle, followed by a fistful of fresh mozzarella and shove it under the broiler to finish.

“Wants the chef on the floor,” she had to shout a little to be heard over the typical kitchen mayhem of orders rattling back and forth and pans clattering against the stove as Manuel, the sous chef caramelized some onions in Marsala wine adding a brightness to the richer tomato overtones that generally permeated the air.

“I’m busy.” ‘Chef on the floor’ was a stupid New York thing anyway, not Seattle. Angelo grabbed the plate as his grillardin slid a medium-rare pan-seared duck breast into a nest of slivered porcini. The dark, fatty duck and the earthy umami of the butter-sautéed mushrooms filled his senses. It was one of his favorite new dishes, because of its richness in all the senses. A sprinkle of bright green chives and deeply yellow lemon zest, as much for the color as the tang. He slid it across to Graziella.

“Told her you were, but she seemed confident you wouldn’t mind,” She dressed the duck with a side of steamed baby asparagus as he pulled out the veal and then she took both out with her. “She’s a looker, if that helps.”

Angelo tossed the latest batch of pasta with tongs, and drizzled on cold-pressed olive oil. Now he had to let number seven wait. Because if he didn’t, Graziella would assume being pretty was all that was needed to get him out of his kitchen. Definitely, let her wait.

But he couldn’t. He’d been side-tracked, knocked out of the groove. The second time his garde manger had a salad ready before Angelo had prepared the plate, he gave it up and called Manuel to take his spot. Manuel might be Mexican rather than Italian, but he could turn out a hundred complex dishes each exactly to Angelo’s recipes and repeat it night after night. The perfect sous chef.

Wiping his hands on the towel dangling from his apron’s waistband and checking that there were no flour stains on his charcoal shirt, Angelo pushed through the door into the restaurant. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the stark white and steel of his bright kitchen to the soft ambiance of Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth.

He and Russell had redesigned the dining area like a traditional Italian kitchen. A large central fireplace. Tables in small clusters scattered about the room. No booths, but comfortable chairs, tasteful paintings and photos of Italy on the walls.

On their last trip, Russell and Cassidy had taken a number of photographs of the old Italian villages that Angelo’s mother had left before Angelo’s birth. But it lent an authentic feel to the room, photos of home. It was cozy and Angelo forced himself to slow down enough to share a friendly moment or two with some of the diners he recognized as repeats, and a few that he didn’t.

“Yes, that’s fresh basil,” as if he’d use anything else.

“I used the Pacific salmon in this Cioppino, it’s a gentler flavor than the Atlantic salmon,” and it was more popular here in Seattle even if it was a bit less authentic. It gave patrons a chance to feel slightly superior for living out here on the “wilder” west coast.

“And what can I do…” his words trailed off as he reached table seven.

Jo Thompson sat there wearing a deep yellow blouse the same tone as the wall paint, but richer, more intense. Her black hair was back in a ponytail, leaving her face and neck exposed. Her skin and eyes were lustrous in the restaurant’s soft candlelight. Her cleavage, not deeply exposed, was accented by a small dangle of gold in the shape of an orca whale on a hair-thin chain. The subtle adornment made her absolutely stunning.

“Yuri and I were hoping that you could choose dinner for us tonight.”

Angelo glanced at Yuri. He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered. Angelo wasn’t that short, but he might not even reach this guy’s shoulder. His face was square and rugged in a way that he supposed women would find handsome, but he could never be sure with guys.

His hands were big and rough, a working man’s hands. Angelo’s animal brain flashed an image of those callused hands groping Jo’s beautiful skin and he felt the blood drain out of his soul.

“Of course,” his voice nearly broke, it had suddenly gone so dry. “It would be my pleasure Miss Thompson. Do the lady or the gentleman have any preferences?”

The man waved one of those hands dismissively. “Whatever you make will be fine.” His voice was deep and smooth, accented lightly with Russian heritage making it even richer.

“Jo says that your taste is impeccable and that’s good enough for me.” He rested an elbow on the table as he leaned across toward Jo. “Must say that my taste is pretty impeccable too.”

Clearly dismissed, Angelo turned for the kitchen. Once back in the world of white and noise, back where the sizzling of the deep fryer battled the dish boy for sonic ambiance, and oregano and garlic scented the air along with the undertones of port reductions, he let his hands fall to his sides.

Cook for them? Non possibile! Twice he went to step forward, but he had no idea what to make. So, he’d just make…something.

After his third attempt at a Roasted Artichoke and Venison Carpaccio Bruschetta, he had Marco send out a simple Antipasto-su-baguette. From there it went downhill. Working beside a flustered Angelo, his grillardin slid out of the groove. He ruined the last duck breast, then burned a sirloin so badly that they’d had to open the back doors and turn the fans up to full roar to avoid the charred scent reaching the dining room.

The disaster rippled through the kitchen. The friturier dropped plastic tongs into the deep-fryer, which melted and permanently merged with the fry basket before he was able to recover them. They’d be throwing that basket away. The potager grabbed the salt instead of the sugar and then knocked the last of the asparagus soup across the patissier’s station taking out a whole tray of Torte della Nonna.

Angelo considered going to apologize to the patrons at large, but couldn’t face Jo’s disappointment. Clearly she’d been intending a romantic dinner to show off her savvy in choosing his restaurant. Instead, Angelo took the coward’s way out and stayed hidden in the kitchen. Tonight, he knew, he was going to be drinking far too much wine. And with Russell in goddamn Italy, he was going to have to face tomorrow’s hangover on his own.

Jo knew she’d made a miscalculation the moment she saw Angelo’s face. Not only that, but his hands, normally so expressive, had dropped to his sides and hung there. But she didn’t know how to take it back. She should have taken Yuri anywhere in Seattle but Angelo’s restaurant.

Yuri had called, saying that he’d be in town and he’d love to take her out to dinner. She’d suggested Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth without even thinking. The food was exquisite and the atmosphere quiet but cozy. It didn’t force absolute isolation like in an American steakhouse with booths so deep and tall that you could be the only couple there. Nor the merry mayhem of the Moroccan place they gone to for Cassidy’s bachelorette party. Jo still wasn’t sure quite how Perrin had gotten Cassidy and Jo up with her to join the belly dancer, much to the entertainment of other customers.

Angelo’s offered quiet tables, the gentle strains of fine Italian singers sounding from a discrete sound system rather than an uncomfortable trio traveling from table to table. Tasteful. She liked that about his choices, his restaurant was immensely tasteful. It had seemed the perfect place to bring Yuri, especially as fine Italian dining wasn’t something easily found in Alaska.

Jo had spent a lot of time with Yuri Andreevich over the last two years working on the Alaskan fisheries lawsuit. He was one of the Russians who had immigrated to the Alaskan coast seeking the rich American life. Unlike most, he had found it. Many of his countrymen had simply traded one fishing boat for another. Yuri had used the lawsuit to leverage himself into position as a “voice of the fishermen” and proven himself to be capable and successful as such. He sounded as if he were the hero of the two-brother boats eking out a family tradition, rather than in the pay of the conglomerates launching hundreds of craft and being sued for price control by the state on behalf of the fishermen.

She hadn’t much enjoyed the ethics of the whole thing, but she’d ultimately justified it to herself that the individual fishermen’s claims were even more unfair than the conglomerates’ practices. And the fees had been astonishing which had paid off her condo and left her little excuse to complain. She’d spent two years ignoring the sharp pinch and it was now past time where she could change anything.

Yuri’s big voice was romantic, and his heavily-accented English caused several heads to turn at other tables when he first spoke. It wasn’t a booming voice, but it carried, and attracted attention. It had also worked well in interviews and, she had to admit, on the phone with her. Jo liked Yuri, and there had been a connection there. Or at least she’d thought so.

She’d been feeling lonely after the wedding. With Cassidy out of town and Perrin immersed in another of her design frenzies from which she might not emerge for days or weeks, Jo was discovering quite how pitiful her social life had become. She couldn’t even throw herself into the next lawsuit, it was only starting to trickle in. Dinner had sounded like a fun and easy answer to an otherwise quiet Thursday evening alone.

But when Angelo saw them, he had looked as if he’d been shot. She’d known he was attracted to her. It was plain to see, but his feelings had left him awkward in her presence. And, she had to admit, it had left her awkward as well. They’d danced together a few times at the wedding last weekend but he’d said little and she’d said less.

If it had been purely physical, that might have been fun as he was very nice to look at. But it wasn’t her body that he was always watching, but rather her eyes. Not a good sign. She didn’t need any attachments right now. Especially not one that would be complicated by being her best friend’s husband’s best friend.

Russell was good for Cassidy. If it had been Jo, she would have killed the man inside the first week, but he was good for Cassidy. His carefree attitude forced his wife to loosen up and relax, something she did only a tiny bit better than Jo. Jo had never “gotten the hang” of letting go. Didn’t have time for it, truth be told.

Russell’s ease, mixed with his ramrod forthrightness, made Cassidy face decisions head-on rather than sliding by them. It did make him the perfect man for her.

Angelo unbalanced Jo and so she determined it was best to simply not consider him at all. But she hadn’t meant to wound him by flaunting Yuri in his face. She was always fumbling in Angelo’s presence and it was a feeling she wasn’t used to. And one that the confident counselor in her didn’t like at all.

“This is the Earth calling to the Jo Thompson,” Yuri sounded like a Russian flight controller with his gentle destruction of proper English syntax. “Where did you go off flying to just now?”

Jo shook her head.

He was about to press when the appetizer arrived. She took one of the tiny antipasto sandwiches to stall, not one of her usual tactics.

It was good, but nothing exceptional. She’d been here a couple of times with Cassidy and knew this was merely one of Angelo’s standard, albeit wonderful, dishes. Clearly not the exceptional food he made for friends.

She had hurt him and he was being petty and spiteful. Yet another reason not to be attracted to him. Spiteful men always became worse with time. She’d focus on Yuri, he was her date after all.

“I was just thinking about the next case I’m taking. It will be bringing me back to Alaska.” Now why had she said that? During the fisheries lawsuit, Yuri had been one of their main spokesmen. They had worked long hours together honing both the public talking points and the court messages. Jo had been very careful to make sure the relationship had remained professional. This was the first time they’d seen each other since she’d won that case.

She’d also only recently emerged from a rather intense, even by her standards, lawsuit regarding the crabbing practices along the U.S.-Canadian border, again on behalf of the larger fishing corporations. That particular suit had bankrolled her a very comfortable savings account.

As she’d dressed for dinner, Jo had been uncertain of her own feelings. So, she’d chosen attractive but conservative attire, her yellow St. John blouse buttoned fairly high, with black Donna Karan slacks and sensible heels, that sent a clear message. “I will make myself pretty, but the verdict is still out on whether or not we will be spending the night together.”

“Good. Alaska is very good,” Yuri sounded very pleased and leaned in a little closer.

No, Alaska really sucked, but she wasn’t going to say that aloud.

“You are a woman who it would be a pleasure to see more of, Jo.” The momentary dip of his eyes without lingering and his smile might have been charming under different conditions. Had they been sharing sushi at the Old Power House in Kodiak, it probably would have worked.

Sitting in Angelo’s, he struck her as not quite coarse. That was the wrong word. Perhaps as a touch crass.

“The case will take me more North Slope than southern coastal,” she did her best to backpedal. As if anywhere in Alaska was better than any other. She’d escaped at sixteen—her career constantly forcing her to return was not one of life’s little ironies—it was one of life’s monster-sized ironies.

“It’s about the Arctic’s continental shelf rights. Who gets to drill how deep and just where do international waters begin when we’re talking about the mineral rights beneath the sea bed where everything converges toward the pole. The state, after losing to me so badly last year, wants me to protect their interests. They’ve learned that if the corporations don’t get what they want, the state won’t get their tax revenue.”

“That is still good. You will fly through Juneau and I will meet you there. It will be good to see you more often and away from the laws, Jo.” And he sounded sincere.

Jo knew what she was looking for in a man. The criteria would change in another three to five years. But for now, she was focused on her career and could afford to dally a bit here and there. When she was ready to settle down more permanently, then she’d pick a quiet, intelligent man. He’d be well-educated and have already passed through whatever crises men passed through. Then she’d think about family.

Each thing in its order. It was a safe maxim, one she’d always liked. There was still plenty of time. She wouldn’t “settle” when she was making that final choice, not one little bit.

That’s when she knew that Yuri would be sleeping alone tonight. Despite the romance that Cassidy’s wedding had briefly awakened in Jo’s heart, she wouldn’t settle even during the dating phase of her plan, and that’s what sleeping with Yuri would be. Not only wasn’t he Mister Right for the future, he wasn’t even Mister Right for the present.

Thankfully, before she had to respond, the soup arrived. The aroma was rich, the fish broth revealing a depth that even her childhood-in-Alaska trained senses couldn’t fault. It was a cheerful mixture of clams, mussels, and salmon.

Yuri took a spoonful first and nodded his head as if saying, “Good enough.”

Jo felt a heat rise. Angelo’s cooking deserved more than a “good enough.” His ingredients were always the finest. The proteins were always finished impeccably and his seasoning balance was exquisite. He had been written up by so many critics that he was causing some embarrassment to the city’s other restaurateurs. For six months his write-ups had commanded as much print and blog presence as all of the others competing for the high-end market combined.

She allowed herself a moment more to appreciate the scents and presentation of the soup. Even the dark blue stoneware bowl, that just happened to match the room’s paint accent, against the soft yellow tablecloths promised a depth that a white bowl would not have.

The broth delivered its richness to her tongue as her nose had promised. Living through college with Cassidy, even before she became such a renowned food-and-wine critic, had trained Jo’s palate well. She could appreciate the interplay of the basil and oregano and the way they complemented the clam-based broth.

Then it hit her. Square in the center of the tongue, the impossible-to-miss bright sweetness of sugar. It broke the broth. The dusky clam and the subtle salmon were washed beneath it like an ocean wave. Another spoonful from elsewhere in the bowl had the same issue.

It was good. Would have been fine in some spaghetti-house type of restaurant, but it didn’t belong in Angelo’s.

She barely paid attention once Yuri began creating a fantasy weekend of small fishing cabins along the Sitka shore during a Pacific winter storm. She’d always paid meticulous attention to not revealing her past. As far as anyone other than Cassidy and Perrin knew, Jo Thompson had been born the day she arrived at college.

Yuri would have no way of knowing that she’d dedicated her younger existence to escape exactly such a place that he thought so charming. Since she escaped to college at sixteen after busting her ass to skip two grades, she had never been back. She occasionally met her father in a restaurant in Ketchikan when she was flying through, but she never went back to the hovel filled with too much fish and too much alcohol. At least he’d been a quiet drunk, albeit a morose one.

If Yuri thought he was painting a romantic scenario, he couldn’t be more completely wrong. He might have risen to a fishing consultant sought out by corporations and the media as an expert in the field. But at his core, he was still a fisherman who would be happiest out on his boat with the wheel in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.

After the soup, a tiny entremets arrived. Angelo had taken to adding little dishes between courses as accent marks, a common enough action in modern French cuisine, but he was perhaps the first to apply it to traditional Italian dining. Definitely the first to do it so successfully. The between-course dishes typically completed the last flavor of the prior course or hinted at the next. Occasionally, they stepped wholly out of the bounds of the meal and were brightly amusing which somehow heightened her awareness of the dishes to either side.

This appeared to fall into the last category. Two delicate shrimp tempura on a single plate, set curve-to-curve so that they nestled together like a yin and yang symbol. They rested upon the sheerest smear of what might be a blackberry sauce set off by the perfectly white plate. The dish might be Japanese in form, but Jo would wager it had some Italian twist to the flavoring.

She took hers, refusing to be embarrassed that Angelo had sent a lover’s dish to her table. The first taste pleased her, she’d been right about the blackberry sauce. The second almost made her gag. A sharp bite of plastic rolled along the edge of her tongue and even a swallow of the red wine did nothing to cut the acrid bitterness.

Jo was going to kill him. This wasn’t only rude, it was downright nasty.

An exclamation from the next table over drew her attention. A fork clattered down in disgust and a plate was shoved aside, though the others at the table continued to eat. The protesting patron had a different dish from the her own. Something wasn’t right.

She looked about the room. Most people were continuing to eat, but here and there, plates were returning to the kitchen, their purported delicacies abandoned.

That just didn’t happen here. At Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth, people mopped their plates clean with their bread so as not to lose the least drop of sauce. Working here as a dishwasher had to be one of the easiest jobs in the kitchen.

Not tonight.

But if it wasn’t personal… Jo began to worry.

Something had definitely gone wrong in the kitchen.