Page 52 of Single-Minded
“What do you think of this?” I ask. It’s likely copper, judging from the verdigris patina. And the fact that it weighs as much as I do.
He laughs, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “It’s so funny you would pick that up. I’ve always loved that statue, it was my favorite when I was a kid. I was actually planning to bring it upstairs to the studio once I got all moved in.”
“You’ll have to fight me for it, it would be perfect for the restaurant.” I laugh, handing the heavy statue over to Daniel so I can make my way back through the boxes and to the doorway.
“You don’t strike me as the arm-wrestling type. What type of battle did you have in mind?”
“Sing-off?”
“No deal,cher.I can’t sing a lick. Cook-off?”
“Oh, that’s fair.” I laugh. Daniel puts the statue down just outside the doorway and extends his hand to me. My heart flutters and misses a beat or two as I reach out to hold his hand. What the hell?
“Yahtzee?” he asks.
“Oh, you’re on,” I say confidently. “That’s my game.”
“That’smygame,” he says. We stand there for a second, not blinking. He’s still holding my hand.
I take a deep breath and try to reclaim my focus. “I have another request, but it’s personal, so feel free to say no.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” he says. “Do tell.”
“Behave yourself,” I say, dropping his hand. “Would you mind showing me your living space?” I ask tentatively. “I feel like it would help me get a better sense of your style, who you are when you’re alone. Does that make sense? If it’s too much to ask, it’s no problem at all. I just thought it might… help.”
He winks at me, and takes my hand again. “Anything you need,cher.” He gently takes the lead, and I trail behind him up the narrow spiral stairway at the back of the kitchen. His hand is warm, and holding it feels like the easiest thing in the world. Too easy. I’m going to get myself in trouble.
“Are you sure I’m not intruding?” I ask. Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all.
“Not a chance,” he says.
The studio upstairs feels larger than it seems from the outside. There are more of the gorgeous leaded windows all the way around the room, offering a 360-degree view of the bay, the dock, and downtown. It’s stunning. The floors are a dark hardwood and the little wall that remains between the massive floor-to-ceiling windows is painted a creamy white. A few of the windows are propped open on either side, and a balmy breeze drifts through the room, gently fluttering the sheer cream-colored curtains that hang almost from the ceiling. The ceiling is made of wood, in a more intricate pattern than the floor, but painted the same creamy white as the walls—rather than matching the dark stain of the floors. There are three good-size skylights in the ceiling, stretching across the length of the room. Unlike the rest of the window glass in the room, the skylights look like fairly recent additions. Daniel grabs a small remote to show me the skylight view, and demonstrates how they can either open for fresh air or be covered by mechanized shades.
“I like to look at the stars when I lie in bed,” Daniel explains, and my heart flutters. The bed is centered against the wall, with a woven headboard, and a simple duvet in creamy white like the curtains, and at least half a dozen pillows in the same white cases. There’s something so inviting about the bed, I suddenly feel tempted to just crawl under the duvet and take a nap. Maybe it’s the salty air, or just the feeling of ease I always feel around Daniel. Or maybe my string of terrifying dates has left me sleep-deprived.
A small side table, made from reclaimed wood, sits to the left of the bed. It’s stacked high with books, which reach the top of an oil-rubbed bronze swing-arm reading lamp.
“I like your table,” I say. He smiles.
“An artist from Vieux Carré made it from old signs and wood he’d salvaged after Hurricane Katrina. Everywhere you looked there were just heaps of rubble, of what used to be memories and homes and businesses—and this guy looked at all those piles of heartache and saw something beautiful.” He gently touches the front of the drawer and says, “This piece of wood right here came from our restaurant on St. Peter in the Quarter. It reminds me of my home, and I love that from so much destruction came something beautiful. Plus, there’s not a chance Mama and Chef would have let me just pry off one of the floorboards at the Chevalier for sentiment, so I guess I’m lucky there was some way I got to have a bit of it with me.”
“You call your father Chef?” I ask.
“I grew up in kitchens.” he laughs. “It’s a term of endearment. And honor. My father called my granddaddy Chef too.” His voice is tender when he speaks of his family.
I reach out and gently stroke the wood of the table, I’m not sure why—maybe just an effort to soak up some of its history. It has the patina of time and humidity and is smooth to the touch.
On the other side of the bed, there’s an overstuffed chair and ottoman in the corner covered in something that looks like green sailcloth. There’s a large armoire, a piece of furniture that looks like it would be out of place in the studio apartment of a floating restaurant, but seems right at home with the rest of Daniel’s things. It’s an antique, probably a family heirloom from the grand old Southern home he talks about sometimes. His clothes have to go somewhere, the four walls are covered in windows, so it isn’t exactly ideal for a closet. A blue surfboard leans casually against the armoire, as though it’s waiting to go out.
“Eventually I’d like to put some French doors and a little balcony out here,” he says. “But that’s for another day, I guess. I’d have to find some way to reclaim the leaded-glass windows for the doors. I couldn’t stand to part with even one, never mind two.”
On the opposite side of the room is an inviting sofa and wide coffee table, a pair of cane-backed plantation chairs, and a large bookshelf that separates the sleeping space from the living space. There are photographs everywhere, artfully grouped and hung in silver frames on every available inch of wall space. Some are landmarks in the French Quarter, some are old black-and-white photos of what are presumably Daniel’s relatives going back generations, in and around his family’s various restaurants. I can’t stop myself from searching out a romantic interest for Daniel among all the photographs. They give nothing away, other than the obvious—Daniel loves his home, his family, the beach, and the legacy of his family’s eateries.
The apartment is small, but open and airy, bathed in bright sunlight and fanned by the Gulf breeze coming through the windows—evoking that large screened porch on the beach cottage where you spent the best summer of your life. Aside from the large collection of photos, and the overstuffed bookshelf, the furniture has simple lines and works beautifully in the space. It’s masculine and nautical, inviting, simple, and comfortable, an eclectic mix of old and new. It’s like Daniel.
We make our way back down the tight spiral staircase to the kitchen.
“Let’s talk about the menu. What have you finalized?” I ask.
