Hot Flash (19 page)

Unsure what I’d done wrong, I returned to the bathroom with my unpurloined items and finished getting ready.

A short time later, Connie rang the bell and I let her in. I checked her face for signs of stress or tears thanks to Mike, but she looked great. Better than great. She was glowingly happy. It didn’t take an advanced degree to figure out that she’d given up abstinence since Mike’s return.

She jiggled a tote bag filled with flyers and booklets. “This is for Stephen.”

“What is it?”

“He asked for information on France and some French museums.”

“He never mentioned it to me.” Since Connie’s a travel agent, it made sense that he’d go to her.

“Well, he called my office a couple of days ago and it was no bother.”

“That’s really nice of you.” While I was pleased he’d had the gumption to ask Connie for help, to say I was surprised that he’d done so without telling me about it was a vast understatement.

I tapped on Stephen’s door and told him Connie was here. He came out, saw the bag in her hand, and his eyes lit up.

“Here you go,” she said.

“Merci.”
He took the bag and looked inside, grinning at what he found.

“I threw in some stuff on Italian art museums, too. Just in case it might interest you.”

“Merci, merci.”

“You’re welcome. Any time.”

“You ready to go?” I asked her.

She nodded.

“Okay. We’re off.” I told Stephen where we’d be, then Connie and I headed out.

As we walked to the car, I said, “You look great.”

“I feel great, too.” Connie did a little spin. “I’m so happy.”

“Mike?”

“I think he really means it this time, Jill. He’s out right now, looking for a job.”

“What’s he looking for?”

“I suggested something in sales, but he thinks it would be fun to do retail. He’s over at the mall, going store to store and putting in applications.”

Mike had never been much of a go-getter, except when it came to separating Connie from her money. He’d get it, then go. So this was a huge departure from his past behavior. “I hope he finds something quickly.”

“He’s so good with people, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s hired on the spot.” Connie’s voice lowered. “He said that without me in his life, there just wasn’t anything to live for, anyone to aspire for.”

Now that sounded more like the Mike I knew and detested. How anyone as smart as Connie could fall for his sweet-talking, smarmy lines was beyond me. I kept my lips zipped.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Connie said as she punched the button on her key ring that unlocked her car doors.

“You do?”

“You’re thinking that Mike’s just going to hurt me. Maybe you’re right. But I’m being very careful this time.”

We climbed into the car and she added, before starting the engine, “I told him he wasn’t getting a red cent out of me. Not a penny. If he wasn’t sincere, don’t you think he’d have left?”

“Maybe.” I kept my opinion to myself, but I seemed to recall her having told him that in the past and then coughing up the cash when push came to shove.

“Instead of leaving, he said he deserved my insults. That money wasn’t why he was with me.” She looked straight into my eyes. “I believed him. I believe him.”

Maybe we all believe what we want to believe. Maybe we hear what we need to hear? I just couldn’t imagine a snake shedding his skin and turning into a lamb.

“I love seeing you this happy.” It was the total truth. What I didn’t love was the sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. Helping Connie through Mike’s next desertion would be even more difficult than the first two times.

La Papillon Casino and Hotel is controlled by a respected Japanese conglomerate. As a result, upper management at my place of employment is all Japanese.

It was Thursday and I had a meeting scheduled with management between breakfast and lunch. I’d brought a fresh set of whites to wear to the meeting since I can never seem to leave the kitchen without wearing the day’s menu.

I quickly changed clothes and headed upstairs, stopping in at Mandy’s office on my way.

“I’m meeting with Mr. Nagasaki in fifteen minutes,” I said as I took a seat in her office.

“Do you think it’s about Chef Radkin?”

“Yeah.”

Mandy looked at me consideringly. “How long have you been sous chef?”

“Over five years.”

She grinned. “It’s past time, then, for them to promote you.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” I inhaled deeply, almost as if by drawing in the breath I’d bring some good luck along with it. “I’ve been doing Radkin’s job for four of those five years, along with my own. It’s about damn time I’m made chef.”

“You deserve the recognition.”

“The extra money wouldn’t hurt, either.” Any kind of raise would help cover Stephen’s tuition, no matter how miniscule. I checked my watch. “I’d better run.”

Mandy came around her desk and gave me a big hug. “Good luck! I’ll say a mantra for you.”

“Thanks.” I quickly headed down the corridor to let Nagasaki’s assistant know I was there.

Within a few minutes, Nagasaki sprang out of his office (and I don’t say that casually; Nagasaki always seemed to spring whenever I saw him—he was a definite candidate for ADD medication), then came to an abrupt halt in front of the chair where I was sitting.

I stood.

He bowed.

I bowed.

He bowed again then gestured toward his office. “Come in, come in.”

He frowned as I passed him, I think probably because he’s not very tall and I’m not exactly short. He always tended to frown whenever we were standing.

As I entered the office, he said, “Take seat.”

I did as instructed, figuring he’d be more comfortable if I was off my feet.

While he circled his desk to his own chair, I casually glanced around his office. There wasn’t much reason for the hotel sous chef to spend time with management, and so I hadn’t been in his office more than a handful of times—and I loved it here.

The room was decorated with a mix of American modern and traditional Japanese. Even Nagasaki’s desk was a work of art. It was formed from a wide expanse of cherry mahogany, with only a few odds and ends scattered on it, all black.

There were no papers—there never were—except a small piece of origami.

Cool.

“Did you make this?” I asked.

“My son did,” he said proudly, lifting it to show me the shape of a bird and how a twist of one corner made the bird move its neck.

“Very nice. Origami is one of my hobbies.”

“Very nice,” he said, except of course, his “r” was pronounced as an “l.”

“What medium do you prefer?”

I gulped, not wanting to admit that most of mine was made of toilet paper, and not wanting to lie because I always feel guilty if I try. “Tissue paper,” I replied, thinking that tissue and toilet paper were pretty much the same thing.

He nodded and I nodded back.

“Ms. Morgan Storm, you’re a very good sous chef.”

“Thank you.”
Here it comes
, I was thinking. The promotion I was dreaming of.

“You’re doing a good job of covering for the chef.”

I swallowed, framing what I wanted to say without sounding too pushy. “Well, Chef Radkin has been … shall we say, indisposed … for some time. I’ve been covering for him for quite a while.”

“You’ve been doing his job along with your own?” He looked surprised, maybe even a little disbelieving. That wasn’t exactly the reaction I wanted.

Not wanting to sound like the job was too difficult or too easy, either, I shrugged. “I come in early and leave a little later than usual.”

“You’ve done this for how long?”

“Four years.”

He opened a drawer, riffled in it for a moment, then pulled out a file. After turning a few pages and scanning them, he looked back up at me. “You like working at La Papillon?”

I nodded eagerly. It was about to come, I could feel it all the way to my toes which were beginning to wriggle in my shoes. The promotion was right around the corner.

Someone once said, “Savor the moment just before.”

This was the moment just before and I took a second to enjoy it to the maximum. My stomach did excited flip-flops like when you’re on a roller coaster and approaching the big plummet.

Nagasaki again nodded at me, turned a couple more pages in the file, then seemed to come to a decision. “You will be happy to know, Ms. Morgan Storm, that things will be changing to the better.”

“Yes?” Oh, Gawd, I wasn’t sure if I could breathe properly. I almost felt as if I’d been running.

“Human Resources is in the process of interviewing several candidates to replace Chef Radkin. We should select someone within a few weeks. Until then, if you will continue running the kitchen—”

“What?” I cut him off. I knew disappointment was written all over my face, but, dammit, I was disappointed. This was supposed to be my chance! I couldn’t believe it. I had to have misunderstood him. “Can you please repeat that?”

“You’ll continue running the kitchen?”

“No, the other part.”

“Human Resources will replace Chef Radkin within a few weeks.”

“Do I get to interview for his job?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not one of the candidates under consideration.”

“Aren’t I doing a good job?”

“You’re doing an excellent job. Exemplary. I made a note in your employment file.”

So that’s what his file was. I tried to read upside down whatever the page was he was looking at, but half the scrawls were in Japanese scriggles, not something I could read even if it was right side up. “Since I’m doing such a good job, why aren’t you considering promoting from within?”

His lips narrowed and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were praying I would hurry up and commit hari-kari and get out of his perfect office.

I added, “There was a memo about promoting from within just last month.”

“Whenever feasible we try to promote from within. In this case, it’s not possible.” He opened his eyes. “I can promote you to Chef if you’ll take the second shift?”

“You know I can’t do that. I’m a single parent.”

He scooted back his chair and came around his desk to take a seat in the chair beside me. “Can we talk plain?”

“Yes, please.” I plainly wanted to know why I was being skipped over.

“You don’t have the name to be a draw. The Chef at La Papillon must be well known.”

I bit my lip, regretting that I’d set myself up for this. I should have known better than to hope for Radkin’s job.

“Write a cookbook, get it published, become famous, then we’ll talk again.”

“I don’t think I can write a cookbook.” I had actually tried once, but MaryEllen said it was like reading recipes written by Alzheimer’s patients.

“I’ll give you advice, then.” Nagasaki looked genuinely upset over having to tell me the straight facts.

“Please.”

“If you tell anyone I said this, I will deny it.”

“I promise not to tell.”

“Start your own restaurant, like Kurt.”

“I can’t. No money.”

“Investors?”

I shook my head.

He smiled then, as if he’d come up with the perfect idea. “Go to work somewhere else.” He waved his hand toward the hotel across the strip from La Papillon. “Then maybe I can hire you back as Chef. Later. When you have a following.”

He patted my knee, then rose.

I signaled for him to take a seat again. “Mr. Nagasaki, I’ve got a kid to support. I can’t leave La Papillon. Even with the extra time I’m putting in, no other kitchen would allow me to work such reasonable hours.”

“Ms. Morgan Storm, you will always have job as sous chef at La Papillon. I’m sorry I can’t offer more than that.”

“I understand. I’m sorry I can’t take the night chef job. Right now I’m trying to find the money to pay my son’s college tuition.”

“Have you applied for the hotel scholarship?”

“There’s a scholarship offered through La Papillon?”

“Yes. All children of employees who have a 3.0 or higher can apply.”

“That rules out my kid. He’s got a solid 2.3.”

“Does he play sports?”

“No. He’s into art.”

“Sorry. I can’t think of anything to help, but tell you what, I’ll keep thinking.” He tapped his forehead, then walked to his office door and opened it for me to leave.

Obviously our interview was over. As I left, he said, “You’ll think over my suggestions?”

I nodded. “I will.”

He bowed.

I bowed.

He nodded.

I nodded.

I could tell he wanted me to leave first. Maybe it was a Japanese form of politeness? So I bowed and again, then headed down the corridor. Once I was no longer in his field of vision, I slumped against the hallway wall.

Damn, damn, and double damn.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Dear Jill,

There’s nowhere on this survey to tell about how thoughtful your spouse is. Gifts are material objects and can’t replace kindness, thoughtfulness, and courtesy.

We’ve been married forty years. He travels with a rock band (he’s a sound technician), but he’s always thinking about me. He tucks notes in the refrigerator, beneath living room pillows, even in my underwear drawer. His notes say he’s thinking of me. I never know where I’ll find one!