Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
She thought for a moment. “I guess that would be okay. If he’s not too busy. But don’t let him do it for free.”
“I won’t.” It wasn’t really a lie because Austin wouldn’t be doing a damn thing. I was going to take her car to an actual mechanic. “Where should we go for a drink?”
“There are a few new places on Main Street,” she said. “A wine bar called Lush and an English-style pub called The Mermaid. We could try one of those.”
But the bars along Main Street were all closed—it was a Sunday night, after all, and not quite tourist season yet—so we walked three blocks north and ducked into the town’s gas station convenience store. There, we bought a six-pack of beer, a bottle opener, and two hot dogs. After warming them in the microwave, we decorated them with condiments, and Ari wrapped them back up in foil while I paid for everything.
“Nice night,” said the woman at the register, looking back and forth from me to Ari.
“Perfect for a picnic,” I said with a smile.
She stuck the six-pack in a brown paper bag. “Enjoy.”
Outside, we headed down toward the harbor and crossed Bayview Road. “Want to go sit by the water?” I asked.
“Sure.” Ari glanced toward the marina to our right and Waterfront Park to our left. “Seawall or dock?”
“Let’s walk out on the dock,” I said.
We skirted around the darkened restaurant at the Pier Inn, where I’d spent many summers working, and walked out onto the dock. The planks creaked beneath our feet as we strolled past sailboats and cabin cruisers and speedboats bobbing in the dark to our right and left. At the end of the dock was a bench that faced the lighthouse.
“This okay?” I asked.
“Sure.” Ari sat down and placed the bag with the hot dogs on her lap, unwrapping them to see which was hers—mustard only—and which was mine. “I’m hungry.”
Dropping to the bench on her left, I pulled two beers from the pack, pried off the caps, and handed one bottle to her. She placed it on her other side, then set the bag with the hot dogs and napkins between us. “Bon appétit.”
For a few minutes, we said nothing, just ate our dinner while listening to the slap of the water against the pilings and the metallic clang of a nearby flagpole. When we were done, we put the trash back into the bag, and Ari walked it over to a bin at the end of the dock.
“So graduates of the Culinary Institute still eat gas station hot dogs, huh?” I asked as she sat down on the bench again.
“This one does.”
Smiling, I stretched out my legs, crossing them at the ankle. The moon painted a silvery ribbon on the dark surface of the lake, and the lighthouse beacon flashed at regular intervals. It was familiar and peaceful.
I tipped up my beer. “I can’t remember the last time I sat out here like this.”
“You probably don’t miss it. You’ve got the ocean and all.”
“It’s not the same. I do miss it,” I said, realizing it was true. “I never thought I would.”
“Same. When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to get out of here. And I never thought I’d come back.”
I looked over at her. “What were you going to do?”
“After culinary school, I was going to go to New York or Paris or Tokyo—a huge city with millions of people and a fabulous restaurant scene. I was going to work in famous kitchens for world-renowned chefs before opening up my own place. I would earn Michelin stars and James Beard awards and publish cookbooks and maybe even have my own TV show.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Reality, I guess.”
I studied the shimmering water again. A breeze rippled its surface. “Mabel said you lived in New York for a while.”
“Yeah.” She was silent for a few seconds. “I had a rough time there.”
“What happened?”
She brought her heels up onto the bench, wrapping her arms around her legs. “I was recruited by a chef I really admired—I’d met him when he guest taught at my school—to come work in his restaurant. He made it sound like he saw something special in me. Like he would be a mentor to me. He talked about my raw talent and wanting to mold me.”
“What happened?”
“At first, it was great. I was thrown in over my head for sure, but he was patient with my mistakes, and I was learning. And then . . .” She shook her head. “Gradually, he was less understanding. More temperamental. ‘Good enough’ wasn’t going to cut it in his kitchen. I had to be perfect.”
“He sounds like an asshole,” I muttered.
“He is. But he’s also a genius.”
I took a swig of my beer.
“And he knew just how to manipulate me. If he gave me even the smallest amount of praise, I felt like a million bucks. I’m already a pleaser by nature, and he just had this extra talent for making me crave his approval. So I did everything he asked me to.”