Page 32 of The Sweet Spot

“How was practice?” she asked.

“Training day, and it was boring. I’m going to change, and then we can head out for lunch.”

She nodded and returned to her scribbling. Five minutes later, we were out the door, and when we got into the car, Wolseley gave me an address to a restaurant called Passionfruit. I plugged it into my GPS, and we were on our way. According to my GPS, it was less than a ten-minute drive.

“Why’d you pick this place?” I asked.

“I’ve been told by my fellow chefs that it’s the best vegan restaurant in town, and since I haven’t had a chance to check it out, now is the time.”

When we got there, the place was packed for a Tuesday afternoon, and I thought we’d have to wait for a few minutes, but Wolseley went up to the hostess, they chatted for less than a minute, then the two of us were escorted to a small booth.

The place was rustic, the booths and chairs made from what looked like repurposed wood. Lighting was at a minimum, and with the dark brown paint, it made it a little like walking through a dense forest, but then I guessed that was the idea.

“How did we bypass the line?” I asked.

“I told them who you were.”

I smiled, and she smiled back. “Sneaky,” I said.

“But effective.”

I grabbed the menu, but she quickly snatched it.

“I don’t want to be that person, but today, I’m making an exception. Lunch is on me because I’m going to do the ordering. You better be hungry because I want to try a lot of things.”

She permitted me to order a sparkling water, then she bombarded the poor server with ten different dishes. Red cabbage salad, the passionflower hummus—whatever that was, but it didn’t sound like Wolseley’s hotmus invention—the passion pizza, the everything burger, chickpea fries, marinated vegetables, mushroom dumplings, an artichoke dip with house-made corn chips, mac and cheese, jackfruit tacos, and finally dessert, which consisted of passionflower pie and passionflower sorbet. Wolseley told the server that the food didn’t have to come all at once, which seemed to relieve the poor young woman.

“What are they using in place of dairy?” I asked as the server scooted away.

“Usually, it’s made from almonds or cashews. Think almond milk or cashew milk.”

“Ah. Right.”

I watched her look around the packed restaurant, eyeing people, or was she more interested in what they were eating? Hard to tell with Wolseley.

“Ever think about opening another restaurant?”

She fixed her gaze on me, her large, doe-like brown eyes looking a little sad.

“I don’t know. I’d love to, but after the disaster at the Oak—the name of my restaurant—I don’t have the stomach for it. Or the money. But mostly the stomach.”

“I’m sure it’s still fresh,” I said. “Give it some time. You are a great chef. You haven’t made me something I haven’t liked.”

She frowned again, and I immediately regretted bringing up the subject. She was already upset about something, and I’d gone and made her feel shitty again, even with the compliment. But since I’d done that, maybe now was the best time to see if she’d open up.

“You know that I know that something crappy happened to you. You said it wasn’t about Daniel, so what gives?”

She bit her lower lip as if mulling over what she wanted to say.

“Tangi said something to me that surprised me. It was hard to hear, and I got upset. It’s not a big deal, and I’ll get over it.”

“That doesn’t sound like Tangi.”

Wolseley puffed out a breath. “See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. You like her, and you’ve never seen that side of her.” She paused. “To be honest, I’ve never seen that side of her either.”

“I’m guessing you don’t want to tell me?”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s between me and her. I’m just going to chalk it up to what she says is her baby brain, or whatever it is with her hormones.”

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