The Baby Truce

Tom leaned his head back and rolled his eyes heavenward.

I get it. I’m going to be a dad. I have a responsibility here. I don’t need it hammered home.

His not so prayerlike prayer didn’t make him feel any less tense. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the mother settled the child on her lap. What was it? A boy? A girl? Whatever, it was totally bald. The baby looked around, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Then his mouth opened and he let out a howl. Every muscle in Tom’s body tensed.

The mom pulled her child closer, but he pushed away with his chubby fists, turned his mouth upside down and wailed again.

“I know, I know. It’s all right,” she murmured, jiggling him on her knees, rubbing his little shoulders and neck. The kid howled some more. Tom turned to the window.

How on earth was the mother dealing with this?

The hiccuping sobs continued, and when Tom looked back—because he couldn’t help it—the kid’s gaze fastened on to his. One fist clutched his mother’s collar and she continued to soothe the baby until finally he slumped against her, pulling in shaky little breaths. But his eyes stayed on Tom until they finally drifted shut. Asleep.

He’d fallen asleep. Just like that.

The mother smiled at Tom and he made an effort to smile back. Then she took advantage of the moment to shut her eyes, too. But her arms stayed wrapped tightly around her young son, until the attendant arrived with a travel seat and the kid woke up again. Wonderful.

This time he didn’t cry. He watched in fascination as the attendant put the seat in place. As soon as she was done, a person sat in the aisle seat next to Tom, blocking his view.

The plane started to back away from the terminal, then slowed to a halt with a slight jerk. A moment later, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’ll be a slight delay before takeoff. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Tom wasn’t a huge believer in signs—well, other than the baby, perhaps—but he did believe in opportunity. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on, shielding it with his hand in case the attendant went militant. He needed to make this call now. Because he didn’t know what else to do, and he suddenly felt as if he was running out of time.

He had seven months, which wasn’t very long at all. He didn’t want to be an unemployed bum of a chef when his child was born.

By some miracle Pete answered his call.

“Pete…I need advice.”

“No.”

“Can you at least give me the name of a decent manager?”

“No, because you’ll tell him I sent you.”

“I won’t.” There wasn’t a hint of irony or amusement in his voice. “I, uh, need some advice here.”

“You’re a talented guy, but that talent’s a waste if your opinion of yourself is so high that you don’t think anyone else knows jack.”

Tom almost said, “They don’t,” but managed to hold in the words. Progress. He was making progress.

“You cut your own throat, Tom. No one did it for you.”

“I know. I know.” He didn’t want to hear about cutting his throat. He wanted to hear about saving his ass. “What can I do to uncut my throat?” That didn’t involve a lot of public kissing up.

“Nothing. And I mean that literally.”

“Nothing.”

Pete exhaled wearily. “If you can stay out of the limelight for, say, a year without blowing up or quitting or criticizing your bosses in public, then maybe I can do something for you.”

Tom tapped the tips of his fingers on his thigh impatiently. Pete was missing a fairly big point here. The job, or lack thereof, was the problem. Unless…

“What am I supposed to do? Wear a paper hat?” And he wasn’t talking a chef’s toque.

“It might do you some good.”

The flight attendant walked up the aisle, and Tom turned in his seat, shielding the phone from her. “It would kill my career if I settled for some mediocre job now.” In his gut he knew this was true, and Pete had to know it, too. Maybe he’d given Pete so much grief that he wanted him to die a culinary death. Disappear from the radar.

“Well, you might have to settle. Your only other option would be to find the backers to open your own restaurant, and with this economy, and your track record, I don’t see that happening.”

Neither did Tom. “That’s it?”

“You asked for my advice. I gave it. Work for a year without raising hell, and people might be ready to take a look at you again.”

“What kind of work, Pete?” Tom muttered in frustration.

“Hell, it could be a school cafeteria. You simply have to behave and make good food. One of those won’t be a problem.”

Tom shoved a hand into his hair. There were many other business managers out there. Ones he hadn’t yet contacted.

“Six months,” Pete said.

“Six months?” Tom repeated as the plane lurched forward and the captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing that they’d been cleared for takeoff. He covered the phone with his free hand.

He sighed. “It’s like chef rehab. Work sedately for six months, prove that you can do it, and I’ll see what I can do. Screw up and you can find yourself a new manager. Although right now, Tom…I don’t know of a reputable guy in the industry who’d take you on.”

SIXTEEN GUESTS SHOWED UP FOR A sit-down meal booked for twelve. Tracy Bremerton, the hostess, dressed about a decade too young for her age, didn’t understand why this was a problem, apparently expecting Eden and Reggie to manufacture food out of thin air. Which they did, of course. Reggie cut the rolls in half; Eden raced to the store to buy ingredients to stretch the salad. Patty, who was there to watch two of Tremont’s regular temp waiters serve, and learn the ropes so she could fill in if someone didn’t show, ended up taking Eden’s place in the kitchen while she was gone.

Thankfully, they had plenty of soup, and the entrée was a pasta dish, so it was easy to stretch. Dessert was not so easy to stretch. Reggie was not at all happy with the size of the tiramisu servings, and neither was the hostess, from the expression on her face.

When dinner was over and the van was packed, Mrs. Bremerton stepped into the kitchen and gave it a critical once-over. It was spotless, because Reggie and Eden never left a place in any other condition.

“Are the leftovers in the refrigerator?” she asked.

“There are no leftovers,” Reggie said, wondering how the woman could possibly expect any under the circumstances. Even if there’d been extra food, the contract clearly stated that Tremont did not leave leftovers. They’d had a bad experience early on with a host not storing the food properly, and then getting sick days later—and threatening to sue. It’d taken months to move past the rumors he’d started. After that they’d rewritten their contract.

“There was extra pasta and bread. I saw it.” Not much. Reggie was about to explain about the leftover policy when Mrs. Bremerton added, “I was a bit embarrassed at the size of the desserts you served.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Reggie said as tactfully as possible. Finesse was part of the game. But this was the time to be blunt. “I had a final count of twelve. We served sixteen.” And worked our butts off to do that.

“I called as soon as I found out my friend and her family would be able to make the dinner, after all,” the hostess said, taking hold of her long string of definitely not fake pearls and running them through her fingers.

“The call came a little late.” As in while they were driving to the Bremerton house high on the hill overlooking Reno.

“It seems to me that caterers should be prepared for this type of emergency.”