My Bittersweet Summer (7 page)

“Maybe three years was enough for him?” I offered.

She shrugged. “Or maybe he really is trying to change. I dunno. All I’m saying is that you might want to think about giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Hard to do that when just thinking about any of those guys triggers a migraine,” I said. On cue, a flash of pain behind my right eye zipped across my brain, and I winced.
 

She shoved a second cupcake at me. “Does this help?”

Laughing, I took it. “A little, but if I had to eat a cupcake every time one of them crossed my mind, I’d weigh four hundred pound by the end of summer. I’d rather avoid them than drown my worries in sugar and butter.”

“But for times when you can’t, I’ll definitely be your supplier, so long as you pay in cookies.”

The serious expression she wore made me giggle. I had no doubt she meant what she said, but I couldn’t help picturing back alley deals where sweet treats were traded like knock-off purses.

“I guess the only question I have for you is, what are you going to do now?”

I peeled back the cupcake wrapper. “Take it as it comes, I guess,” I said. “I just get so freaking angry when I see them. I wasn’t expecting that. I’ve never had to deal with it before. I mean, Dr. Hooper always gave me this big body pillow to scream into or punch or whatever, as an outlet, but I haven’t had to deal with it in actual conversations with real people before.”

“You did okay with Matt.” She chuckled.

“No, I didn’t,” I said with a flat look. “I rage blacked out and hit him. It’s one thing to do that to a pillow, another to do it to a human being with enough money to ruin my chances of college, or any kind of life, really.”

“Bet it felt good at the time, though,” Des said. “Do you have any idea how many people want to beat the smug smile off his face?”

“Plenty, I imagine. They’re welcome to the lawsuits if they want to give it a shot.”

We lapsed into silence, drinking our chai and watching the stars by torchlight.

“And to top it off,” I said with a sigh. “My mom told me Zach is going to work at Le Beau Tournée this summer, too.”

Her head whipped toward me. “What?”

I nodded. “Yep. In the kitchen doing dishes and stuff.”

“Geez,” she said. “Guess you really will have to keep from slugging him, then.”

I tossed the second wrapper down with the first one. “Yeah. My parents already warned me that I need to check myself. I’m not sure what I’ll do if it gets to be too much. Maybe I can go to Paris early, or spend a week or two with my friends in Newport if they’ll let me crash on the couch.”

“So just keep reminding yourself there’s a light at the end of the tunnel,” Destiny said. “Maybe looking forward will distract you from what’s behind you.”

I lifted my cup to her and nodded. “Sounds like a plan. To looking forward?”

She grinned and tapped her chai against mine. “And to ignoring the hell out of Zachary Robinson.”

The next few days were a flurry of unpacking the house and helping paint and clean Le Beau Tournée for its grand opening on June first. For almost a week I threw myself into physical work, making it so all I had energy for each night was a shower and collapsing in bed. I refused to think of anything else besides the next task I had to do, and then the next one after that, and then the next one after that. There was no time left to give any consideration to Zach or his friends.

It came to a screeching halt on Saturday morning.

Staff meeting at eleven. Can’t get away. Sending you a ride.

I stared at the text message from my mom, frowning.

Who?

She didn’t give me the courtesy of a response. Maybe my dad was picking me up instead.

I sat on the front step, reading, when I heard a car coming up the drive. The motor gunned as it pushed up the hill, and I stood, brushing off the butt of my black slacks and straightening my white button down shirt. The staff dress code was officially in effect beginning that day, including the steel-toed safety shoes all kitchen staff were supplied with.

As the blue Audi screeched to a halt in the driveway, my jaw nearly hit the ground. The driver’s window rolled down, revealing a grinning Zachary Robinson.

“Need a lift?”

I glanced at my watch and scowled. It would take me at least forty-five minutes to walk to Le Beau Tournée, and the meeting started in fifteen. Backed into yet another corner, I fixed my face into a determined mask of displeasure before heading for the passenger door. He leaned over and pushed it open for me, still smiling.

“Hey Margie,” he said.

I answered with silence and fastened my seatbelt.

Shrugging, he turned around and pulled away from the house, driving a little faster than was probably safe on a gravel road. I cringed as a large rock flew up and hit the undercarriage with a loud clang, then realized he probably couldn’t care less about damaging the car. It wasn’t like his money bought it or would have to pay for repairs.

“Excited about our first day?” he asked when we were on pavement.

“It’s not my first day,” I answered. “I’ve been working there all week helping with refurb.”

“You have?” Why the hell did he sound surprised?

“If it’ll help my parents make Le Beau Tournée work, of course I would. Wouldn’t you?” I paused, snorting. “Never mind. Forgot who I was talking to.”

“Look, Margie, I know you’ve got issues with me, and maybe that would’ve been true a year ago, but that’s not me anymore. I’m not doing this to spite you, and I don’t have ulterior motives for taking this job.”

I nodded. “Right. Trying to be better and all that stuff. Got it.”

The car skidded over to the side of the road, jerking me forward as the seatbelt snapped me back against the seat. Before I could yell a string of profanities at him, he spun at me, fixing me in place with mix of hurt and anger in his eyes. “So, what, I don’t get be better? You get to decide who is and isn’t worthy of changing their life? Why, Mighty Mouse? You got to change. Why not me, too?”

A wave of nausea gripped me under the brunt of his sudden aggression. I pinched my eyes closed, my breaths coming in quick, shallow spurts through my nose. “You think it’s that easy, huh?” I managed to whisper. My knuckles ached as I clung to the cushion, struggling to rein in my panic. “You think I just woke up one morning and decided I was going to be different?”

When he didn’t respond, I opened my eyes and looked at him, swallowing the urge to vomit all over his car. “Six years of therapy. One before I could talk to another kid my age again. Two before I made a best friend. Three before I got a solid night of sleep without waking up screaming at least once. Four before I figured out how to step down from a panic attack in under thirty minutes. Five before I went a full day without hating myself. Six years, Zach. That’s how long it’s taken for me to say to you, to any of you, that I don’t care about you anymore. I don’t care how you feel about me, or about yourself. Apathy is the best you’re gonna get from me. Don’t talk to me about change. You don’t have a damned clue what that means.”

He stared at me, face slack in shock.

I looked away and crossed my arms over my stomach. “Drive. I don’t want to be late because I wasn’t serving your inflated ego to your satisfaction.”

Without a word, he put the car back into drive, keeping to himself the entire rest of the way. The minute we were stopped, I got out, slamming the door behind me.

I stomped up the wooden ramp wrapped around the stucco exterior of Le Beau Tournée. I had to work hard not to fling open the etched glass doors, but I was comforted a little by the results of the days of hard work on the inside, admiring the gleam of the warm wooden floorboards and noting that I managed not to get a single smudge of golden beige paint on any of the wood or stone along the walls.

Despite the murderous expression I must’ve been wearing, my dad greeted me at the door and directed me to the small banquet room in the back. The place couldn’t hold more than maybe thirty people for a private event, but that made it even more exclusive. With only seventy-five seats in the main area, reservations would have to be made weeks, maybe months, in advance. Pending my parents could turn the place into the successful establishment they wanted it to be, however.

I took a seat behind most of the twenty-some employees already there. Zach wandered in a minute or two after I did, looking completely unsure of himself. I noted the expressions on the faces of the staff when he entered. At first, I felt a zing of triumph at their hostile looks, but…

I frowned. I knew how he felt. How many times had I walked into a crowd of peers with similar attitudes toward me? I knew what they were thinking: he didn’t belong there.

When his gaze passed over to me, I gritted my teeth. Rolling my eyes to the ceiling, I nudged the chair across the table from me, pushing it towards him with my foot.

Stupid empathy. I’d have to sit next to him for the whole meeting.

Hesitant, he set his hand on the back of the chair, looking at me as though he needed confirmation of my invitation. I grimaced and shrugged at him. I might’ve felt bad about his situation, but it didn’t mean I disliked the guy any less.

Two other people came in after us, a pair of college-aged girls, bringing the total number of staff up to twenty-three by my head count. My parents handed out packets on procedures and duties, making it clear to everyone who was responsible for what and how they were expected to act. Work schedules and paydays were discussed in depth, as was dress code, break times, and potential for raises and moving up in the restaurant. I wasn’t too concerned with most of it, as I’d already memorized the policies after my parents had me double and triple check every version of the stuff before they passed it to Mr. Robinson for final approval. After forty-five minutes, the only thing left to discuss was the menu, at which point my ears perked up; it was the first time I’d get to hear about the actual food.

My mom talked as my dad passed out photocopies of the menu. “Most of the dish names are in French, so you’ll need to be up on pronunciation. If the phonetic spellings aren’t enough help, you can ask for clarification from myself, Mr. Walsh, or Margie, over in the back there.”

As she motioned to me, all eyes in the place turned my way. My face flushed, embarrassed, but I gave a little wave of acknowledgement.

“Even if you’re not bar or wait staff,” my father said as he rejoined my mother, “you should familiarize yourself with the menu anyway. Any time you’re on the main floor, you could get asked a question. If you don’t know the answer, report it to a server and make sure it’s addressed quickly.”

My attention drifted away from the talking, focusing instead on the paper packet before me. Each dish was titled in French, the pronunciation beside it, a description of the dish below it, followed by a list of ingredients, including marks for potential allergens or gluten contents or vegan options. I drank it in, savoring each detail and building plates in my head, going so far as to remember some of my father’s wine pairing tips. Since I was eighteen and about to head to a place that served wine with everything, it would probably help to know what the stuff tasted like. His descriptions of floral, fruity, woody, or chocolate notes made it sound amazing, but for all I knew I’d hate it.

“Any questions on the administrative stuff?” my mom asked. “Before we open for business, we’ll have a tasting for the staff, so everyone will get to try at least a bite of the food they’re serving and helping create. A well-informed staff is a helpful staff.”

No one asked anything, and we moved on to the tour of the building. Again, my mind wandered, still going over the menu repetitively. I lingered in the kitchen as my parents pointed out the various pieces of equipment, running my fingers over the empty knife block by the prep station. That one would be filled with nice knives later, but the one by the ovens and stove would stay empty for the head chef’s utensils. Every chef worth their salt had their own knives. The better the knife, the better the chef.

Someday, I’d have a set of my own.

“Didn’t take ‘em, did you?” Zach said under his breath, close behind me.

His proximity made me shiver. “Don’t be stupid,” I muttered back. “I haven’t earned knives yet.”

“Earned?”

I cast a withering look over my shoulder. “Not everything can be bought, Zach. Some things you have to work for.”

Wandering away, I spared him one last comment. “You’d better pay attention or you’ll miss seeing how the dishwasher works.”

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I refused to let Zach take me home, opting to help my parents put away kitchen items instead. Loading up another rack of plates, I brought the large metal hood over top of it and cranked down on the lever, hitting the “wash” button that sanitized everything inside.

“While I appreciate the extra set of hands,” my mother said as she leaned up against the scrubbing sink to my right, “it wasn’t necessary for you to stick around here.”

I gave her a flat look. “Because I had so many other things to do today? Come on, Mom, this is the whole reason I’m here.”

“You could be out having fun,” she said.

“Destiny is working today. I’d be sitting at home reading when I could’ve been useful instead.”

“There are other people around here besides Destiny Plummer.”

I snorted. “Like who, Zach? I’ll pass, but the suggestion is noted.”

“Did you talk to him yet?”

“Sure did,” I replied, opening the hood and sliding the rack out. “Still don’t care. Besides, even if I did care, our social circles aren’t exactly compatible.”

“That didn’t stop your father and Terrence Robinson from becoming friends.”

“Oh? Does torturing the hired help’s children and trying to make up for it run in the family?”

“Watch your tone, Margaret,” my mother said. “Terrence and Olivia have been amazing friends to this family longer than you’ve been alive. Without Terrence, your father might not have made it through culinary school, and without Olivia, I might never have met him. You owe them more than you know. Being nice to their son, regardless of how he treated you when you were kids, is the least you could do.”