Dishing It Out

“But you can take him,” Jodi said.

“Of course I can take him.” There was never any question in Marie’s mind that she could take Van MacAllister, the glorified barbecue chef.

“So do the show, but make sure it’s on your terms.” Jodi stopped mopping for a second, blowing her pink bangs off her forehead. “’Cause it would be a great show, the two of you. The potential for loads of chemistry and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Jodi shrugged and turned to wheel the mop bucket back to the kitchen. “Get it all in writing, Marie,” Jodi yelled. Marie heard the water being thrown out the back door into her herb garden while Jodi’s words resonated in her head.

Get it all in writing. Of course. It was so adult, no wonder she didn’t think of it.

“’Cause a weekly half-hour show is still a weekly half-hour show,” Jodi came back into the dining room, wiping her hands on her low-slung blue jeans. “Right?”

“How’d you get so smart, Jodi?” Marie asked, feeling very fond of her punk assistant manager.

“Don’t let the pink hair fool you,” Jodi smiled, her hands on her thin hips. “Top third of my class at Berkeley.” She exhaled and shrugged. “I’m off. See you in the morning.”

Jodi grabbed her bag and scooted for the door. Marie started counting the totals for the night, wondering if she could actually do the show, handle Van and build her empire at the same time. She was good, but was she that good?

The bell rang over the door as Jodi opened it. “’Night Jodi,” Marie called out as she counted change.

“Good ni…” Jodi trailed off and Marie glanced up. “There’s someone here for you.” Jodi stepped back into the restaurant and Van MacAllister followed her in the door.

It was like having the Antichrist walk in the room.

“We’re closed,” she said.

He had changed from his all-black civilian clothes to an all-black chef jacket and pants. His name and Sauvignon were embroidered in red over his heart.

“I noticed, but I was hoping we could talk.” He took a few more steps toward her and the currents shifted. The air was heavier. It seemed like the entire atmosphere was pressing against her.

“I haven’t decided about the show,” she told him, hoping to get rid of him and his strange energy.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he was looking around the room, his eyes cataloging everything, measuring their worth in a way that had Marie wanting to run around throwing herself in front of her chutneys.

It was amazing how the inherent femininity of the place made Van seem that much more masculine. Tall, rangy, not quite handsome. Commanding in a mysterious sort of way, he was only more so in the pale blue room surrounded by the very real-looking fake grapevine she had wrapped around the rustic wooden pillars and ceiling beams. He reached up and tugged on the grapevine and a piece fell off in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, wincing, slipping the fake vine into his pocket.

Deep inside Marie’s head things began short-circuiting.

“So Van, we don’t have anything to talk about.” She grew even more annoyed when his silence continued. He bent to examine the labels on her homemade vinaigrette.

“Are people really buying this stuff?” he asked, like he was peering into the underwear rack at a used clothing store.

“Yes, they do.”

“Amazing.” His tone implied he couldn’t believe it.

Marie tried deep yoga breaths, combined with calming thoughts and it did nothing to combat her irritation. “So feel free to show yourself out.” Jodi was beginning to laugh and Marie shrugged at her assistant. What was she supposed to do? “Van…”

“Your place is beautiful, Marie. Absolutely beautiful. I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do it justice.”

Marie’s mouth fell open. She was so startled that she couldn’t say anything for a few moments. Finally, when she was getting her breath back to respond, he turned to her.

“I came to apologize for my part in the ambush today.” With a sheepish smile he held out a bottle of wine. She shifted her weight to one leg and leaned against the long wooden counter, feeling like the ground had moved under her feet. Van, apologizing? Bearing gifts? Maybe I was wrong….

She turned to Jodi, who was staring at Van like the man had come in on a golden carriage. “Jodi, go ahead and go home,” she murmured.

“You going to be okay?” Jodi asked under her breath as they watched Van turn and bend down in front of the dessert case and Marie took a moment to admire the view. Awful eyebrows, but not too bad from the back.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.

Van straightened and looked up at Marie’s ceiling. “He looks…dangerous,” Jodi breathed.

Marie frankly couldn’t agree more but she rolled her eyes and pushed her assistant toward the door. “You need some sleep. See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Jodi whispered and ran out the door.

He walked over to the dark salad case. “I can leave—after we talk.” He tapped the glass with his finger. “You buy this used? Looks used. Can you turn the light on?”

Unbelievable. The guy was just…unbelievable. Marie straightened and strolled over to the salad case, she rested her arms on it and her head was close to his.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said with a smile that was pretty hard to muster up, “and guess that you have no idea how rude you are being.”

He stood upright, obviously alarmed. “I’m sorry,” he said, wincing. “I am. I am sorry. Marie, I did not mean to come in here and alienate you further. I’ve never been here before. It’s…” He took a deep breath, his hand touched his mouth and then the scar at his lip.

That’s adorable, she thought, knowing that she shouldn’t fall for this little show of regret. “Truce. Honestly.” He put the wine bottle on top of the case and she noted that he had brought some serious ammunition with a hundred-dollar bottle of Shiraz.

“Let me pour you some wine. I can have some of your marinated root salad everyone in the city is raving about and we can talk about AMSF?”

He smiled, sincerely with warmth and it changed everything. His face became something much more than interesting. He became arrestingly handsome.

“Marie?” She realized she had been staring at Van for a few silent moments.

“Sure,” she said with far too much volume, suddenly in overdrive, despite her better sense that told her that sharing a bottle of wine with this guy in her current tired and marginally attracted state would only come to no good. “Why not?”

“Is that a mural?” he asked pointing up at the painting on her ceiling.

“Yes.”

“Are those…?” He tilted his head and squinted.

“Yes, they are cherubs wearing aprons,” she told him on a huffy breath. She almost wished he would go back to rude; she could handle rude Van.

“So?” Van looked around at all the chairs up on the tables and then at her. He raised one of those eyebrows in a silent command/query.

“Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to the chairs. “I’ll grab some glasses.”

“No root salad?” he asked and she couldn’t quite make out the tone in his voice. Laughter?

“No root salad,” she told him. She grabbed two of her red wineglasses and came back to the table. Van had taken down both chairs and from one of the big front pockets of his black chef’s jacket he pulled out a corkscrew. With smooth, deft effort that Marie was somehow compelled to watch, he had the bottle open in moments.