My Darling Husband(8)
Flavio shoves his hands in the pockets of his tan fleece, watching me in that quiet way of his. The best thing about Flavio is that he never loses his cool. The worst thing about Flavio is that he never loses his cool.
“Okay, so worst-case scenario,” I say. “How long to get this place back up and running—four months? Five?”
“Probably more like seven or eight.”
I do the math in my head. The average weekly revenue times thirty-two weeks, and—
“That’s more than four million dollars!”
“Four point three, but yeah. I get it. It’s a lot.”
Flavio doesn’t get it. He has no idea how, without the income this place generates, I will have to do triage the next time payroll comes around. How thinking about the invoices in my inbox makes my lungs lock up and my heart pound and my vision go dark around the edges. He doesn’t know about last week’s trip to the emergency room because I thought I was having a heart attack. I haven’t told anyone about that, not even Jade. Especially not her.
At the thought of Jade, my heart double taps, and I suddenly can’t catch a breath. “What time is the insurance guy coming?”
“I’m waiting on him to provide an ETA. When I talked to him earlier, he was more concerned about the short in the wiring. He called it peculiar for a building this new. That’s the word he used, peculiar.”
I stand perfectly still despite the emotion cramping my gut. Peculiar means the inspector suspects foul play. Peculiar means attorneys and legal battles and months-long delays before I get my hands on that money.
I think about the second mortgage I just took out on the house, the price tag for Mom’s condo fees, Westmore Music Academy and the kids’ private school that costs as much as tuition for an out-of-state college, the new SUV we’ve spent the past two weekends shopping for because Jade’s out-of-warranty BMW is too expensive to keep. With my best revenue source going up in literal smoke, I am going to need the insurance money fast, or the next few months are going to be a master class in money juggling.
“Kitchen and waitstaff are going to jump ship, you know,” Flavio says. “Hostesses, too. There are a couple of folks we may want to move over to another shop so as not to lose them, but we’re going to have to replace most of the staff.”
Anybody who’s paid by the hour, which is 98 percent of my employees. They’ll leave, and hell, who can blame them? They’ve got bills to pay, too, and Lasky employees are the best trained in town. Another area restaurant will snap them up before the end of the week.
“Let ’em go. It’s probably a win-win anyway.”
Flavio frowns. “How so?”
“Come on, Flavio. This place is a disaster, and you said it yourself. We won’t be filling tables anytime soon. Better to tell the staff to find another job. And as much as I hate to say it, you might want to make a few calls yourself.”
“That seems awfully extreme. I can hang on a week or two until the insurance money bridges the gap. And Abernathy’s already called. They said they’ll work with us on the lease.”
Abernathy is the landlord, the owner of the sixty-five shops spread across the six Buckhead blocks that fan out in all directions around us. A few years ago, in an effort to boost their business, Abernathy made us an offer we couldn’t refuse: free rein on a building in the center of the development and the first thirty-six months rent-free. Three years in one of the city’s most desirable locations where we haven’t paid a cent, not one single penny, of rent. It’s the only reason I’m still standing, because this place makes a killing.
Shit—made a killing.
“They’re going to have to work with us. No way I’m paying rent on this dump, and honestly, I have real doubts about reinvesting in a shop where I don’t own the building.”
Flavio frowns. “What are you saying exactly?”
“I’m saying maybe I should just take the insurance money and run.”
It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud, and releasing them loosens the noose around my neck. I inhale and think them again. Close up shop. Wave the white flag. The air is fresh and cool and it tingles the bottom of my lungs. What if this fire is the universe telling me it’s time? Walking away from this place, from Lasky Steak, it feels like the opposite of defeat.
I don’t miss the flash of distress on Flavio’s face. “Are you serious right now? You’re actually considering shuttering your best shop?”
“Well, yeah. Because sorry, man, but do the math. If we’re lucky, insurance will pay enough for a kitchen reno, to fix up the ceiling and install fire-retardant noise absorption panels like I should have done the first time, to slap on some paint and buy some new tables and chairs. It’ll be months before you and I are drawing a salary again.”
Flavio’s expression is an elbow to the gut, and it floods me with guilt. He and his wife have one kid in college and another starting next year. He needs the income this place generates as much as I do. I’m an asshole for ever hiring him.
A muffled ring sounds from deep in his pocket. He digs his cell out and waves the screen my way—the insurance company—and I gesture for him to answer.
He wanders off to the front of the shop, phone pressed to his ear, and I turn back to the burn pattern on the wall. I stare at the markings, sooty footprints from the flames that curled up and over the edge into the dining room.