Page 50 of Single-Minded
I no longer care about being a thirty-one-year-old woman previously afflicted with gay-husband virginity, or the fact that the one straight guy I had sex with isn’t even interested enough for a second date (or, if I’m being completely honest with myself, a first date,) or even a courtesy call. And I no longer care that Darcy and Michael think my number of sexual partners is too low—I’m done with Operation Naughty Nine. I’m not going to modify my past, my life story, or pad my sexual résumé just so some guy-to-be-named-later won’t run screaming from my shortcomings. If I’m going to date, have sex, or even fall in love again with a man, any man, he’s just going to have to accept me for all my weirdnesses.
42
Over the next few months, I throw myself into my work. Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington, my socialite client running the Wildlife Foundation benefit, is an endless pit of neediness. She calls me at all hours of the day, every day. We meet twice a week, sometimes three times, and she requires far more hand-holding than all of my other clients combined. She changes details, like the specific accent flowers she wants in the centerpieces, and then changes them back, and then changes them back again, updating me constantly on the endless minutiae of her day and her thought processes. She’s not a happy person; eventually I start wondering if maybe she’s just lonely, and complaining is her way of connecting with the world.
I feel sorry for her in some ways, but it doesn’t make her endless demands any less taxing.
My favorite client, Daniel Boudreaux, and his fanciful floating restaurant, is something else entirely. I stop by at least two or three times a week, and Daniel always treats me with some sample of whatever new menu item he’s trying out for the restaurant. I’m endlessly inspired by the space and the chef himself, and find myself sketching variations for his restaurant in nearly every free moment. It’s exciting to work with someone so creative and passionate, a counter to the emotional drain of clients like Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington. I try to focus on the outcome with her, rather than the experience. If the Wildlife Foundation benefit is a big success and meets its goal of a 20 percent fund-raising bump, it will open the floodgates for more high-end fundraising business for me, which in turn will bring me more corporate business. The job is murder, but the potential payoff is worth it.
43
After stopping by a small ad agency downtown that has me on retainer to rearrange furnishings of their common creative areas every couple of months to boost creativity, I decide to make an impromptu visit to Daniel Boudreaux’s restaurant—down at the marina, less than half a mile away. It’s nearing eleven, still too early for lunch, but a girl can dream.
I park, put up the top on my Mini, and pull the scarf from my hair. As I get out of the car, my hair whips in the wind coming off the water. Trying to smooth it out with a hairbrush would surely be a losing battle, so I decide to just let it fly. The day is gorgeous, already mid-seventies, and I watch a pelican swoop down and skim the surface of the sparkling water. This is the first time I’ve ever stopped by Daniel’s job site before noon, and I wonder if he’s up and moving around yet. Restaurant owners and chefs are almost always night owls, by nature or by circumstance.
No need to worry. As soon as I near the floating restaurant I can see the boat is teeming with construction workers, busy on the deck. I make my way up the makeshift gangplank and onto the boat, and the workers wave and nod as I tiptoe through the mess to the rear deck. I’ll check the kitchen next, but it feels like less of an intrusion to look outside first.
Daniel’s there, in a white T-shirt and loose olive-green shorts, his toned back turned to me. He’s fussing with a long banquet table loaded high with sandwiches and salads, veggies and a too-elegant bucket filled with ice and bottles of water. Clearly he’s expecting company.
“Daniel,” I say just above a whisper—I hardly want to send him nose-diving over the railing again. Hardly.
“Hey, Alex,” he says, smiling as he turns around. He rambles over to where I’m standing and gives me an easy hug, like we’ve known each other forever.
“Uh, hi,” I say, pulling myself more slowly than I should from his embrace. He smells good. Too good. I have to get a hold of myself.
“You’re just in time for lunch,” he says, grinning.
“Oh, no.” I stammer, feeling my face flush from embarrassment. I don’t want him to think I’m some pathetic orphan, conveniently showing up around mealtimes. “I was just at a project site a half mile away and I thought I might stop by to set a meeting with you to go over the, er, concept and the plans for the restaurant. I’m so sorry to intrude… it looks like you’re having guests.”
“This?” he shrugs. “I was just putting out a spread for the workers. I find most people work better when they’re well fed.”
“That’s so nice of you,” I say, eyeing the table. Mufalleta and po’boy sandwiches are piled high, there’s a huge iced bowl of boiled shrimp, greens and salads galore, and loads of fresh fruit and veggies.
“Stay, won’t you?” He smiles and my face flushes again.
“I really wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say. “Besides, I don’t want you to get the idea I’m always expecting you to feed me anytime I drop by.”
“I’d sort of like that idea,” he says. “You’re one of my favorite people to feed.” I can’t stop a smile from bubbling up.
“Stay,cher,” he says, grasping my hands gently in his. “Besides, you don’t want to miss out on my spicy shrimp.”
“Well,” I grin back at him, “if you insist.” He selects one from the bowl and playfully pops it into my mouth. Divine. “Oh. That’s good,” I say. “Really good.”
“Let me just call the workers for lunch, and then we can sit down and talk for a bit about our plans for the ol’ girl.”
“No woman likes to hear a man disparage her age,” I crack.
His response is a wide-open smile. He gently pats the railing, “She knows I think she’s a beauty.”
I laugh.
He excuses himself and disappears around the side of the boat, returning less than a moment later followed by a swarm of workers who look like they might trample one another to get to the mouthwatering spread Daniel has so generously laid out.
“Please help yourselves, boys,” he says, a split second before they rush the table. “There are plates and silverware at the left end, and sweet tea and water at the other end.” He grins at me and I grin back. Daniel is the consummate host, he never seems happier than when he has guests. He takes so much joy from feeding people, and I wonder if the rest of his family is the same. That joy, plus his family’s legendary skills in the kitchen, is undoubtedly the reason for the Boudreaux family’s incredibly successful restaurants.
After the workers have helped themselves to the food, and sit strewn around the boat deck smiling and talking, Daniel and I prepare our own plates. Anytime I pass something by, he swoops in and scoops a little of it onto my plate and says, “Oh no,cher,you don’t want to miss this one.”
He’s right, of course, everything is delicious. The workers linger over their meals, and return to the table for seconds and thirds. There’s still enough food left to host at least another twenty people.
