Taste: A Love Story (25 page)

“I do. I think the carpaccio is a great idea. It’s a definite showcase dish. I think if Garrett can get us those clams we will be a hit.”

Logan nodded, grateful to be talking about something other than Kara.

“I also think you need to lock those legs down and take that woman on a proper date. You know, a meal or a movie, or hell, just get her into your bed. That is if you ever actually use the damn thing.”

“Great. Thank you for that valuable input.” Logan dried his hands and threw the towel in Travis’s face. “We open in two hours. Summer will be here in”—Logan glanced at the large round clock above the entry pass from the kitchen to the serving window—“twenty minutes. Mushrooms are already done, but you’re going to need to finish this sauce for me. All it needs is cheese,” he continued, taking his apron off.

“Where’re you off to?”

“All this talk about Restaurant Week made me remember the chandelier over the private dining area. You know that lamp I bought for the dark corner?”

“Lover’s cove?” Travis wiggled his eyebrows.

Logan laughed—he couldn’t help it. “Anyway, I love that lamp and I want to see if we can commission the artist to make the ceiling piece for the private dining room. You know, like a chandelier, but better. According to Jill at zenDeluxe, the artist uses sea glass and repurposed brass lamp bases. I was thinking it might be cool if she could use some of that old green bottle glass we saved.”

“The stuff from the garage door panels?”

“Yeah, maybe incorporate some of that into the design.”

“Great idea. Who’s the artist?”

“Not sure. She was supposed to call me back with the name, so I’m going to give her a call now.”

Logan walked out to the bar, grabbed a phone, and called zenDeluxe. After some paper shuffling, Jill, the owner, came back on the line.

“Sorry, here it is. We are expecting two more pieces from her next week, but you wanted something special if I remember, right?”

“Yes.” Logan grabbed a piece of paper from the bar register.

“Okay, well I’m not sure if she does commissioned work, but give it a shot. The artist’s studio is on the grounds of her private residence and her name is Winnie Parker—”

Logan froze and almost dropped the phone as Jill kept talking in his ear.

“So, did you get that e-mail address, or do you need me to repeat it?”

“I know her, um, know it. Thank you.”

Logan hung up, told Travis he might be late for lunch, and grabbed his keys. He wasn’t sure what game she was playing this time, but he wasn’t going to be left standing in some lobby, that was for damn sure.

Kara loved a new year. She’d made a pot of tea and was grooving around her studio to R. Kelly’s “Ignition.” It was her feel-good song. R. Kelly had just gotten to the “toot toot, beep beep” and Kara was rolling as his lyrics suggested. She dropped into her chair and wheeled up to the counter space that took up an entire wall of her studio. Her hands were in the air, she was in full dance club mode, when the lights blinked off and on again. She turned and immediately started patting her hand on the counter for the remote to the stereo because Logan was standing in the doorway. The look on his face was one of shock, similar to the look she’d left him with in the lobby of his apartment a little over eight years ago in Paris.

“Christ, Kara, what are you doing?”

“Well, I’m dancing around my studio, what does it look like I’m doing?” She tried for casual in contrast to the thundering in her chest.

“Winnie Parker designs lamps now?”

“She does.” Kara held her ground. There was nothing else to do at this point.

“What is this?” Logan moved toward her. “Some kind of game?”

He surveyed her space as if something on the walls or sitting on her work table would give him answers and explain why she was once again standing in front of him as Winnie Parker. He wouldn’t find any answers; those needed to come from her.

“You’re not going to understand.”

“Try me.”

“This is who I am,” she attempted a start.

“You mean, this is who you are when no one is looking? You’re a grown woman. What is so wrong with just being you—one you—if you even know what that is?”

“No. You don’t get to do this to me, this holier-than-thou, farm boy shit. I know who I am. Maybe I just don’t choose to share it with you?” Kara stood face-to-face with him.

“See? Games.” Logan’s eyes changed and he backed off.

“Goddamn it, Logan. Stop poking and joking, like what I’m doing has anything to do with you. We’re not even a defined . . . thing, so what makes you think you can barge in here and make me feel foolish.”

He turned to leave.

Kara sat, prepared to let him. She saw no point in stopping him; there was no way to make him understand. Her heart took her back to the Christmas trees, the time they’d spent together. This was past Paris, and if she let him walk out, she would never know what came next. She took a deep breath and tried to share herself.

“When I was seven, I cut my own bangs.”

Logan stopped, let go of the doorknob, and turned back around.

“It was, of course, a mess: crooked and choppy. Mother was livid. It was the morning of some event we were supposed to go to. I don’t remember what it was, but I remember my dress. It was blue with this eyelet overlay.” Kara touched her shoulder as if she were touching the dress and then shook her head. “Anyway, I wanted to be pretty. I remember wishing I could walk through those doors and have everyone say what a beautiful daughter Senator Malendar had.”

“You were seven?”

Kara nodded.

“I’d just watched some documentary on Coco Chanel. I wanted to be different like that. So, I cut my own hair, thinking bangs were exactly what I needed. My mother almost left me at home. I was an embarrassment. I looked ridiculous, and even her stylists couldn’t fix it, that’s what she said. My father insisted that I go. There were about two dozen reporters when we stepped out of the car.” Kara picked her cup up off the counter and sipped her tea, still not looking at him. “Two of my cousins were with us. Sixteen and eighteen, blonde, both gorgeous, or at least I thought so at the time.”

“Kara.”

“Most of the picture captions wondered what my stylist was thinking, but there was one, this one”—Kara stood, her back straight as if she was facing off to defend her younger self—“it was some stupid society rag. They led with a picture of me standing by my mother. The headline was ‘Ugly Duckling.’”

“Jesus.” He moved to her, but Kara held up her hand. She grew suddenly cold, as if letting in any emotion might sink her.

“When I was twelve I got braces. For over a year, it seemed like every picture they took of me had my mouth opened and I’m pretty sure there were a few where I had food from lunch still in my braces. My mother made me carry this tiny toothbrush around to avoid such embarrassments, but they managed to catch me anyway.”

Logan said nothing. There was nothing to say; she simply wanted him to understand.

“My junior prom date, a guy I had a huge crush on, sold his story to the local paper. Not only was it intimated that I slept with him on prom night, but he hinted I was kinky. That led to the headline . . .” She watched him, knowing he could figure it out.

Logan shook his head, “‘Kinky Kara’?”

“You’ve got it.” The pain spilled out of her small laugh. “All this crap, and plenty more, can be Googled for fun. My entire life—awkward, out of sync, every mistake from zits to bad dates—is there for the world to see. I’m not saying the world is all that interested anymore, because thankfully since I’ve been in hiding, there’s not much to report.”

“Can’t your parents get some of this shit taken down? Aren’t there laws?”

“They tried in the beginning, but when that didn’t work, they put it on me. It became my responsibility to look perfect, act perfect. ‘Don’t give them anything’ became my life motto. I accepted it and became what I needed to be. I’m not telling you this so you can feel sorry for me. I’ve led a very privileged life, I know that, but that’s why I don’t share. I know who I am. I’ve spent years working on the me who lives behind closed doors.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t need to be sorry. You didn’t know. I get that it’s weird and I seem like I’m screwing with you, but I’m not used to this.”

“Used to what?”

“You. What you are, your family. I want . . .”

“What do you want?”

“I want to trust that what I’m feeling is right, safe, but I’m always reluctant to share. So, you see, I’m not playing games, Logan. I’m just keeping myself safe.”

“I understand.”

“We both went to UCLA at the same time. I didn’t know you, and you didn’t know me. I was very good at being invisible my first three years.” Kara sipped her tea again, aware of the warm cup as she cradled it in her hands. “I went to Paris for the exchange, where we met, because it was an election year and there was some buzz, according to my father’s campaign, that I was having an affair with my Humanities teacher.”

“Where do they get this crap?”

“Freshman year, I was expected to pledge a sorority. Kappa Kappa Gamma. My mother was in Kappa, so were all of her friends, blah, blah. Anyway, I didn’t rush because I didn’t want to join a sorority, but that pissed some of the Kappa girls off. I was labeled a snob. Being called a snob by a sorority was really quite an accomplishment.” Kara tried to smile. “The whole thing was stupid, but I’m sure that’s where the slutty Kara rumors came from. To be honest with you, I’d learned to ignore most of it, but this one—the affair rumor—prompted Stanley, my father’s campaign manager and an all-around asshole of a guy, to decide that I needed to be sent away.”

“So that’s why you went to Paris?”

Kara nodded.

“But then why were you dragged back home?”

“Story blew over. Turned out my Humanities teacher was sleeping with half of the Kappa house. The heat moved off me and my mother ordered me home to help with the campaign.”

“They just move you around like that?”

“Not as much these days, but yeah I guess to someone else, I’m still moved around. But after Paris, things changed.”

“What changed?”

“I did. I stopped going to office hours with my teachers, took some classes online if I could, and I learned. I basically learned how to handle things.”

“By locking yourself away?”

Kara laughed. “I’m not locked away, Logan. I have my job. I attend the functions I need to, and I have this.” She gestured to her studio.

“Hidden.”

“Safe.” Kara turned from him and set her empty teacup on the counter.

Logan walked past shelving underneath a massive pen-and-ink print of a wave. There were four or five table lamps in progress and a large art deco column lamp without a shade.

“What goes into your creations?”

“The lamp bases are antiques, most of them, and the rest is sea glass. I collect it.” Kara gestured to her work counter, which was old wood and scattered with pieces of sea glass.

“Is this driftwood?” Logan ran a hand along the smooth surface.

“Yes, several pieces actually. Put together by a friend of mine, Oscar. He’s a surfer. He makes boards and he made me this from pieces I collected.”

“You collected?”

“Yes. Pretty much everything in here has been touched by me in some way.”

Logan glanced back at the print.

“You?” he asked walking over to get a closer look.

“Yes, that’s me too,” Kara said, with what almost seemed like embarrassment. “I took an art class a few years ago. That was my final project. I thought it turned out nicely, so I put it there.”

“Nicely? Kara, it’s incredible.”

Logan took a closer look.

“I can tell it’s a wave. I love the broad strokes, but what makes up the shore here? Tiny letters, are those Japanese?”

“Very good.” She seemed a little more comfortable with him in her space.

“What do they say?”

“It’s a letter my Nana wrote to me when I graduated from college. It’s a personal note about being strong. I didn’t want people to read it, but I wanted it included, so I decided to put it in a different language. I thought the Japanese letters went well with the wave. Grady actually had it translated for me and then I made those letters the beach under the wave.”