Page 10 of This Is Who I Am

Her gaze finds mine. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”

I wasn’t expecting that. I look a mess and I’m exhausted from that surfing lesson, from putting my body through motions it’s not used to. I also don’t want to give her the wrong idea.

So, of course, I can’t say yes. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I’ve made that mistake too many times before—letting someone in, thinking that maybe this time will be different, maybe this time they’ll understand that intimacy isn’t always physical, that love can be both tender and fierce without lust.

“I should go home, take a shower.” I point at my hair that’s a mess. “Sadie took it out of me.”

“Sure. No problem.” The warmth in her smile doesn’t fade because of my rejection. “Thanks again for your kindness.”

“My pleasure. I will see you on Friday.”

“Good night.” Cass gives a small nod and walks up the steps to Savor. I watch her until she disappears inside the building.

On the way to my dad’s house, I replay our short walk and the surprisingly deep things we talked about. Ten minutes, and suddenly we’re not strangers anymore. Or maybe Cass is just easy to talk to. One of those people who’s so easy to be around, that they’re made for the hospitality business. I glance backward, at her restaurant, happy for her. That it’s hers. And that I get to go back on Friday under slightly different circumstances.

I also consider what might have happened if I’d said yes to a drink. Probably nothing, except rehydrating my body. But still. You’d think my heart was strong from all that breaking, but it’s still too soft for my own good. For me to say yes to a drink with a kind and special chef I’m getting to know.

CHAPTER7

CASS

In that hazy time between sleeping and waking, I see Estelle, graceful on her board, not tipping into the water but staying upright, negotiating one of the ocean’s more challenging waves like she has done nothing else all her life. Because this is a dream, her long curls are not wet but bouncy and, somehow, naughty, and she’s not wearing a wetsuit but a skimpy bikini.

A precise pounce on my full middle-aged lady bladder shatters my dream. My cat, August, barely eight pounds of ginger fluff, somehow manages to land with the impact of a bowling ball.

He settles into his morning ritual: first the rumbling purr against my ear, then the deliberate sweep of his fluffy tail across my face, like a feather duster with attitude. This has been my wake-up call every single morning since Sarah left.

“Gussie, for crying out loud,” I whisper. “I was dreaming of a hot lady. Why can’t you respect that?” I surrender to August’s demands and rise, padding to the kitchen where his food bowl awaits. But maybe I should be happy my fluffy ginger woke me up. Who knows where that dream might have ended?

Clearly, though, that walk home moved something in me. And I feel something, perhaps even attraction—although, truth be told, that would be rather baffling.

Either way, Estelle refused to come in for a nightcap. The question was out of my mouth before I could think it through. She could have so many good reasons for refusing my offer. She’s been through a lot lately, that much is clear.

I feed August and cast my gaze over the ocean. My apartment is above the restaurant and has a breathtaking view from the cliffs. I brew myself a cup of coffee and count the hours until Estelle will come to Savor. Damn it. What the hell is going on with me? Or should I just, innocently, enjoy this sensation of sudden attraction? There haven’t even been any hints that she’s gay, although it’s as though I can sense it. Somehow, it’s like I know that she is.

I sip my coffee, my gaze drifting over the ocean’s gray expanse. The waves are wild this morning. They look untamable, yet I’m sure if I walk down the boardwalk, I’ll see a couple of Irelands trying to.

As often happens during my morning coffee moment with the Pacific, inspiration strikes. An idea for a new dish pops into my head. Something I could present to Estelle on Friday to impress her in the language I speak best.

August finishes his breakfast with fastidious precision, then leaps to the windowsill in one fluid motion, settling beside me to survey his territory. As I scratch behind his ears, I say, as though he can understand me and is very valuable in my brainstorm process, “What do you think, Gussie? Shall we come up with something spectacular for Friday Woman?”

In response, August leans his soft head into my hand and I take it as a yes.

It doesn’t take me long to make my way down to the restaurant, put on my chef’s whites, and start experimenting.

* * *

After years of working in kitchens under shouty head chefs who squeezed their staff dry until they quit, I wanted to do things differently in my own restaurant. Staff retention is how I measure myself as a boss and apart from a pastry chef who moved to San Francisco and a sous chef who wanted a career change, my employees have all been with me since the very beginning of Savor. Because we are only open four days a week, from Tuesday to Friday, my staff get plenty of time off and they have weekends to themselves.

Today is Tuesday, three days before Estelle’s next reservation, and we’re only open for dinner, giving me plenty of time for experimentation.

I start with clams. They’re fresh, briny, and taste of the ocean. The best dishes don’t come from overthinking—they come from instinct, from curiosity, from standing in an empty kitchen and letting the ingredients tell you where they want to go. And perhaps, if I’m being honest, sometimes also from wanting to impress someone. Estelle is on my mind, but I’m putting the thought of her to the best use I know: inspiration.

I set a pot on the stove and let butter melt, the sizzle filling the space. Garlic follows, then shallots, softening into something fragrant. I pour in a splash of white wine and watch it hiss against the heat before it settles into a simmer. The clams go in next, their shells clinking against the pot. I clap the lid on and step back, inhaling deeply.

It smells divine already. The clams are starting to open, revealing their tender center. Remembering a divine bouillabaisse I once had in a small Greek taverna years ago, I reach for the Metaxa. I drizzle in just enough for warmth, depth, and for something unexpected.

The scent of the Metaxa, mingling with the briny sweetness of the clams, fills the kitchen. It’s a fragrance that speaks of places I’ve been and memories I’ve held onto, infusing the dish with a little of my own story. Cooking is a way to connect without words. A way to say, “I hope you feel welcome here.”

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