The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(114)

Wishing I’d come in through the kitchen door—sure would’ve made life easier—I twist my way through the sea of tables, waving, saying hi, trying not to look like a desperate animal. It is, after all, the Mirabellis’ anniversary dinner.

“Yo, Luce,” says Stevie. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Hi, Stevie,” I say distantly, not stopping. I’m almost to the kitchen, then nearly get run over by a waiter. As I lurch out of the way, I bump into Marie.

“Oh, hello, sweetheart!” she exclaims. “You came after all! Did you hear the news?” My mother-in-law puts a plump hand on my arm.

“Hi, Marie, I just need to find Ethan and—”

“He’s taking over the restaurant! Isn’t it wonderful? He’s in the kitchen now, and he told Gianni he wants to buy the restaurant!”

My mouth falls open. “Ethan wants to work here?”

“Yes!”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “What about Atlanta? You said—”

“He wants to be near the little guy,” Gianni says, joining us. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Gianni,” I say. “So Ethan’s staying? I—”

“Told me he doesn’t want a partner, either—he wants to own it outright, the little bastard,” Gianni growls, though he seems rather proud, too. “Already he’s telling me it won’t be the same. Says he’ll change it from the name on down, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, hush, you old fart,” Marie says. “Your son is buying you out. Stop complaining.”

“He’s buying the restaurant?” I ask.

“Are you all right, honey? Where’s that nice young man you’re seeing?” Marie seems to notice my disheveled state for the first time. “Your shoes don’t match, dear.”

“I have to talk to Ethan,” I say.

“He’s awfully busy,” Gianni grumbles. “Not doing too badly in there, but still. Service is a little behind.”

I dodge a busboy, then shove my way through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

“Service for table ten,” calls Micki, one of the long-time sous chefs, sliding a dish onto the heating rack. “Hurry up, Louie!”

“I need two bisques and a mozz special,” the waiter answers, grabbing the plates and placing them on a tray. “Chef, any more veal?”

“I got three more,” Ethan says. His back is to me as he stands at the stove. He flips something, gives another frying pan a shake, adds some liquid, causing flames to leap up. The smells of garlic and meat are rich in the air.

It’s like an amped-up circus in here. Two people are on salads and prep, someone’s checking something in the oven, and Ethan is stirring, flipping, banging. The dishwasher’s up to his elbows in suds, the cousin’s husband’s brother is pulling something out of the freezer, and there are about ten things cooking on the stove at once. Servers buzz in and out, calling out orders, barely noticing me, just milling around me like I’m a sack of potatoes.

Not the best time, in other words.

But.

I can’t exactly stop now.

“Ethan?” I say. He doesn’t hear me.

“Get me two crème brûlées and two tiramisus,” barks Kelly, the waitress who went to school with me. She does a double-take when she sees me. “Hi, Lucy.”

“Table four wants to know if you can do a chicken marsala without the wine,” Louie says.

“Sure. It won’t be marsala, but sure,” Ethan says, tossing some chicken into a frying pan.

“Ethan?” I say again.

He hears me this time, and his head snaps around. “Lucy. What’s up?”

“Do you have a minute?”

An eyebrow raises. “Not really.”

“Chef, table five says their meat’s not cooked enough,” a waiter says, shoving a plate across the warming area. Ethan looks at it. “It’s medium rare,” he says to the server.

“Tell me about it. He wants it darker,” the waiter grunts in disgust. Ethan nods and shoves the plate back under the broiler.

“Ethan, I really need to talk to you,” I say loudly. Micki gives me a look and continues chopping parsley.

“Lucy, there are fifty people out there who want to eat, and my dad’s chef didn’t show,” he says, sliding some vegetables from a frying pan onto two plates. He adds a veal chop onto one, chicken onto another, then grabs a bowl and fills it with ravioli, covering the pasta with sauce. Micki grabs the plates, sprinkles them with parsley, adds the garnish and puts the plates on the warmer. “Service for table eight!” she yells.

Ethan’s back at the stove, and more flames flare briefly. “Carlo, can you get some more filet from the cooler?” he calls.

“You betcha, Chef,” Carlo calls.

I sigh. Okay, it’s a bad time. Whatever momentum carried me here is gone, I guess. I turn to leave, shoving my hands in my pockets.

There’s the dime.

I look back at Ethan. Since he’s working at the twelve-burner stove, he’s standing right in front of Jimmy’s shrine. As ever, the candles are lit, Jimmy’s bandana neatly folded, his picture smiling out at me.

It’s time. I don’t care how busy the restaurant is. It’s time, damn it. “Ethan?” I say again. He doesn’t answer. “Eth?” Nothing. “Ethan, I need to talk to you now!” I yell.