Fatal Reservations (10 page)

“We were for a while, but he’s been distant the last
few weeks. I think he’s mostly worried about his mother, but I’m afraid to ask. What if it means he’s cooled off about me?”

“Better to know that early, I suppose,” she said. “I’d love to come but I’m feeling so sick to my stomach.”

“But the dinner’s twenty-four hours away. I bet you’ll be feeling much better,” I said. “Please, I need you.”

“I can tell this is not the kind of flu that passes by in a day. I’m sorry,” she said. “Ray would be thrilled, though. He was disappointed that we had to cancel our reservation at Deuce’s.” She hollered for him and he came on the line and agreed that he’d meet us tomorrow night at the boat at six thirty.

I went inside to appeal to Miss Gloria. “I only have three now for tomorrow’s dinner,” I told her. “A trio will be awkward no matter how hard we try to pretend it isn’t.” I flashed my most piteous and beseeching look.

“No can do,” she said, borrowing my turn of phrase. “I’ve been looking forward to this mah jong party for months.”

I sighed and nodded. I couldn’t think of another friend who’d accept a last-minute invite on Valentine’s Day. Only one avenue remained open: Palamina.

I punched her contact on my phone list. “It’s last-minute,” I said when she answered. “I didn’t mean . . . I don’t want to imply that you don’t have your own date for Valentine’s Day. But if you don’t, one of my friends got sick. Would you like to join us at dinner on the floating restaurant?”

“Yes!” She answered without hesitation, sounding genuinely thrilled. “I look forward to seeing you in action.”

After we hung up, I started to worry about her watching me while I ordered and took notes on the food. I scolded myself for worrying: I was a pro. I knew how to eat and write a review.

Then my thoughts seesawed back to the cake and which recipe would rise to the occasion of the after-party. Though some people might find this a sacrilege, Wally was not a fan of chocolate. And I tried to cook with whatever’s in season in South Florida. Raspberries were not on that list in February, but I’d seen a couple of boxes at Fausto’s market this morning. They were organic and outrageously priced, but plump and soft red. I could imagine them folded into a cream cheese icing with powdered sugar, turning a luscious pink color as they released their juices into the creamy frosting. I could make the cake tonight and finish up with the frosting tomorrow.

But would this cake transmit the message that I cared a lot, but without any pressure, and that it was for Valentine’s Day, but no declaration intended, nor anything expected in return? Would it send the message of love and care, without appearing needy, too sweet, or clichéd?

This, I realized, was a lot to ask of any cake.

8

A hulking braised lamb shank in midwinter was more blunt than focused, while a lukewarm pork chop that was probably never going to get off the ground didn’t get much aerodynamic lift from the mushy, oily mass of pine nuts and raisins on top.

—Pete Wells, “Stepping Into the
Role of the Ringmaster,”
The New York Times

The next night, Wally swung by our houseboat half an hour before the reservation. His hair was still damp from the shower, his cheeks a little gaunt, his eyes tired. Without thinking, I flung my arms around him and squeezed. Then Miss Gloria burst out of her cabin, dressed in a red sweat suit with hearts sprinkled across the chest, and demanded her due.

“You look fabulous,” Wally told her when she finally released him, touching the white curls she had worn tightly wound in rollers all day. And then the headband
with hearts on coiled wires that bobbed endearingly when she moved. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Oh, you!” She slapped his arm. “It’s just the mah jong ladies. Our Valentine’s Day tournament: Busy minds and hands don’t get lonely, you know. But Hayley sure has something for you.” She smacked her lips and tipped her bobbling hearts toward the kitchen, where the glorious pink cake studded with raspberries waited in the fridge.

He looked distraught. “Oh my god. It never even crossed my mind to get you anything.”

“It’s a cake—that’s all,” I said, smiling to cover my disappointment. Even though I told anyone who would listen that Valentine’s Day is a trumped-up Hallmark holiday designed to put pressure on single people and struggling couples, some buried piece of me still yearned to be part of the lunacy. “We’ll have some after dinner. From what I’ve seen on their online menu, the desserts at this restaurant tend toward bean-paste confections.”

“Ugh!” said Miss Gloria. She pinched her nose and then reached over to squeeze Wally’s wrist. “Thank goodness this girl is thinking ahead.”

Wally grinned. “Can we give you a lift?” he asked her.

“Oh no,” she said. “I’m picking up two of the ladies. I’m the only one in our crowd who’s still allowed on the road at night.”

“God help us all,” I said, pressing my palms together like a prayer.

Ray arrived just then, cutting off my rant that driving at night should be reserved for younger rods and cones, which wouldn’t have made a dent in her denial
anyway. Simple truth: Nagging seldom changes anyone’s opinions. We all started up the dock to the parking lot, where Wally had left his beater Jeep.

“You be extra-careful!” I hollered to Miss Gloria, and slid into the backseat, which had barely enough room for a small person, certainly not for Ray.

“What kind of food are we eating tonight?” Ray asked as we pulled out onto Palm Avenue. “I didn’t even think to wonder. I guess that goes to show that I have a very open palate.”

“Or no palate at all,” Wally added with a laugh. “Hayley says your wife has the stomach flu?”

Ray glanced at him and then back at me, a curious smile on his face. “I thought you might have figured this out already. It looks like she’s pregnant. Morning sickness, except for her it seems to be morning, noon, and night. Not a lot of fun.”

“Oh my god, Connie’s pregnant?” I squealed and threw my arms around his neck from the backseat. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.”

“She wanted to tell you in person, not over the phone. And now she’ll have my head because I blurted it out before she could. Honestly, we’re scared to death.”

“Total idiots manage to raise kids okay,” Wally started.

“Thanks, man,” said Ray, punching him in the shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Wally laughed. “I think you’ll be super parents.”

“You will,” I said. “You’ll be the best dad. And Connie will be an amazing mother. What fun!” I pulled out my phone to text Connie a message so full of
exclamation points she might have found it hard to read. Wally pulled into the parking garage on Caroline Street and we started to walk toward the bight.

Half a block ahead, I spotted Palamina waiting for us, dressed in a stylish black maxi-dress covered with gold shooting stars that made her look even thinner than she actually was. I waved at her and picked up my pace. “So glad you could make it,” I said when I reached her, not sure whether to hug her or shake her hand. I did neither, my arms swinging awkwardly by my sides. Palamina kissed Wally’s cheek and shook Ray’s hand, congratulating him after I blurted out the unnecessary details of his status as father-to-be.

“Shall we head in?” Wally asked.

We strolled up the dock, past the Hindu sailing vessel and a luxury yacht. A wide-plank walkway led us from the dock to the floating restaurant, which bobbed as we stepped aboard. I paused for a minute to admire the reverse view of the harbor—the lights twinkling from Schooner Wharf and Edel’s Bistro and all the other restaurants lining the dock. And behind them, the lights of the brand-new exquisite and pricey Marker resort. Locals had some concerns about how this place would fit in with the scruffy, down-home establishments along the harbor. All that remained to be seen.

A man dressed in a white shirt and black pants emerged from the cabin onto the deck. “Can I help you?”

“Reservation for four in the name of Wells,” said three of us at once.

Ray—the only one who hadn’t answered—raised his eyebrows and grinned, as we trooped behind him. “Lots of chiefs in this crowd.”

Inside the cabin, we paused to adjust to the dim
lighting, and the host seated us at a low table surrounded by cushions arranged on the polished wood floor. I pulled out my phone and jotted a note:
Some tables inaccessible to diners with disabilities—ask to be seated at regular tables in bow.
A waiter wearing a short black kimono over black pants presented the menus, followed by fruity drinks topped with little pink paper umbrellas.

“Our liquor license is in process,” he said. “So the cocktails are on the house, along with a complimentary glass of sake or beer with dinner. I’ll leave you with the menus, but please note that our special appetizer tonight is a traditional cold bento box, with two kinds of tofu including the Kyoto yudofu, the tuna and salmon roe sushi, and our edamame and daikon radish salad. We also have a few servings of puffer fish sashimi. If you decide you’re interested, we will tell you the price. Oh, and Chef is also serving one special entrée tonight: flambéed grouper served in a nest of locally sourced seaweed.” He bowed and backed away.

“The puffer fish?” Ray asked. “Isn’t that the one that’s poisonous if the chef isn’t perfectly skilled?”

“Don’t worry.” I snickered. “They aren’t going to want to poison someone during their first week open.” I made some suggestions about what we should order, explaining to Palamina that I try to cover all the bases in my reviews, from the sure-bet crowd-pleasers to offbeat dishes that might demonstrate a chef’s imagination and potential.

We all studied the menu, and from the long pause in the conversation, I suspected that they were having as much difficulty sorting through the options as I was.

“I can’t figure out what kind of food this is. The appetizers definitely sounded Japanese, but the entrées
are sort of trying to be everything for everyone,” said Ray. “I’ll taste whatever you order. Since you’re the expert. You know I am not a fan of tofu.” He grinned. “But if you say it’s good, I’ll eat it.”

“Man, what a sport,” said Wally. “If you’re going to eat tofu, I guess I will man up and eat it, too.”

“You guys rock.” I turned to face Palamina, who still had her head buried in the large menu. “Anything in particular you want to be sure to try?”

She grimaced. “So many choices. If it was me writing, that’s where I’d start the review,” she said. “What does it say about a restaurant when the menu is two feet long?” She handed her copy to me. “I went on a business trip to Tokyo and Kyoto about five years ago. I remember loving the shabu-shabu. And of course any kind of sashimi or sushi works for me. Except for that puffer thing.”

The waiter approached the table again and I smiled up at him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll order for my friends.”

He folded into a formal bow that didn’t quite mesh with his sun-bleached hair and tan face. “So you are the Japanese expert.”

“Not exactly,” I said, “but apparently I’m in charge for tonight. We would like to try your specialty, the cold bento box. And then we’ll have several small plates, the chicken yakitori, the vegetable tempura, the beginners’ introduction to sashimi and sushi, the buckwheat soba noodles with bonito flakes and mountain vegetables. And the shabu-shabu sampler. Anything I left out that might be a specialty of the chef?”

“Grouper fish flambé, of course,” he said. “The owners caught the grouper themselves last night. And we
went out with Chef early this morning and gathered the seaweed from Smathers Beach.”

I had to bite my lip to keep from snickering: hard to picture the restaurant staff moving among the early spring break revelers, scooping up seaweed.

“Okay, we’ll try that, too.”

“That’s a lot of food,” Palamina said. “Are you sure?”

I nodded and continued to focus on the waiter. “And for our landlubbers, how about a hamburger all the way with truffled fries and the Maryland chicken. And the vegetarian pad thai and an order of Vietnamese spring rolls.” I settled back into my chair, realizing how ordering in front of Palamina made me feel tense—as tight as one of the Cat Man’s felines on a high wire. Almost as if I was auditioning for my job all over again. “I know it seems like more than we can eat, but I take leftovers home or give them to my homeless buddies,” I explained to her while attempting to uncrick my stiff neck. “The main thing is to try a fair sample of the menu. The budget doesn’t allow for multiple visits. Or at least it didn’t under Ava.”

“I see your point,” she said. Though she didn’t sound convinced. “I’m glad to hear you’re thinking about the budget.”

After selecting complimentary beer and sake to go with the dinner, Wally and Palamina began to talk shop about future financial planning for the e-zine. Ray and I wandered out to the deck to admire the night again. Across the harbor, the lights of the restaurants winked, reflecting a swash of stars in the sky. The air smelled like salt and fresh fish, with a dash of diesel fumes to keep us moored in reality. I suspected we were both
thinking of the last time I was here with him—I’d been shot and in serious shock. I plucked at the rubber band on my wrist, which Eric had suggested might distract me from unpleasant recurrent memories.

“Your new boss is a little intimidating,” said Ray, his eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“She’s not so bad,” I said, leaning on the railing and looking over the side. Gray shapes glided through the water underneath the boat. “You should’ve been around when Ava Faulkner was in charge. Palamina is a walk in the park compared to that witch.”

He grinned. “I’m glad to hear it. When you first moved down here, you were anxious about everything. I think you’ve developed more of a backbone.”

“It wouldn’t take much to improve from those days, would it?” I asked with a snort of laughter. We strolled around the outside of the restaurant and headed back into the dining area.

Ray held up his phone. “I’m going to give Connie a buzz, make sure she doesn’t need me.”