Page 83 of Single-Minded
Black-and-white photos are grouped artfully along the freshly painted walls where foot traffic will flow, a revealing combination of historical photos from the Boudreaux family’s grand restaurants, to more whimsical snapshots, such as the one where Daniel, his brother Gabriel, and a slew of young cousins were photographed at about four years old, sitting all in a row at a prep station in one of his family’s kitchens, all decked out with chef hats and little neckerchiefs.
Next, I walk through the inside area, near the bar. The framers are nearly finished, and will move to the rear deck to install the last of the black-and-white photos when they’re finished inside. The photographs are stunning, and the framers have done an excellent job. I numbered and color-coded all of the pictures with accompanying diagrams to show them exactly where each photo was supposed to be hung, and they’ve followed my instructions exactly.
Maddeningly, the tables inside the bar area are nearly all covered with tablecloths and centerpieces, but the configuration is all wrong. Someone has pushed many of the smaller tables together, creating fewer, larger tables in one big island in the middle of the room. I go outside to the rear deck in search of Tina, and ask her to send a couple of staff members inside to help me relocate the tables.
“What happened here?” I ask.
“It’s a standard bar setup,” says a waiter whose name I can’t recall. Exhaustion, I guess. Usually, I’m very efficient at remembering names.
“Let’s stick to the event bible, please,” I say. “We’re going for a very specific environment here, that’s not exactly business as usual.” I open the red binder to the bar setup diagram, and point to the layout. “We need this setup exactly.”
“Sure thing,” says the waiter. “Sorry about that.” They pull the linens and centerpieces off the massive center tables and reconfigure them as I’ve requested.
“Thanks, guys,” I say. “I need to check out the back deck and then I’ll be back to make sure everything in here is as it should be. Let me know if you need anything.” I’m a bit frustrated. I spent the entire last week arranging and rearranging those tables for the ideal configuration. And I’m in no mood for rogue furniture movers. Less than twenty-four hours earlier I was fired, publicly, from a high-profile job. If I’m going to redeem myself, everything, and I mean everything, for the Boudreaux opening has to be perfect. And I’m already off my A-game.
After tweaking the placement of a few palms, I leave the waiters rearranging chairs and resetting the tables, as I move to the rear deck. The port side of the restaurant is completed, with the exception of the addition of the framed photos. It’s breathtaking, and I couldn’t be prouder.
It’s then I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Alex?” says Daniel. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
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I spin around to face him and my heart skips a beat. He’s wearing black pants, his chef’s coat, and a toque blanche. He pulls off his toque as I turn to face him.
“Nice hat,” I say. “You look like a real chef.”
“My family is down for the opening tonight. Chef, my father, is old school. I usually just wear a black skullcap. But he gave me this toque to wear tonight. It’s the one he wore when he opened his first restaurant.”
“That’s really sweet. Very sentimental.” I say. “Look, I was just heading out. I wanted to stop by and check to make sure everything was going to be ready for tonight.” He nods, wordlessly, and I continue, “I only got a few hours of sleep last night, so I’m going to go home, take a quick nap and a shower, and I’ll be back before the opening starts.”
“How’s Michael?”
“He’s in pretty rough shape, but he’ll be okay,” I say. “Thank you for sending the basket of sandwiches. It was really thoughtful.” It was. Here he has his first restaurant opening in just a few hours and he takes the time to make a basket of food for someone he barely knows.
“I cook for the people I care about,” he says. “I wish I could have done more.” His deep-blue eyes are serious. Tentatively, he moves another step closer to me. My breath catches in my chest and it’s agony. I wish yesterday hadn’t happened at all.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “But you didn’t have to be. I understand.”
“You’re my client. Your opening is important to me.”
“Your client,” he repeats slowly, shaking his head. “Could I please just explain about yesterday…” Unwelcome tears begin filling my eyes, and I wipe them away quickly, embarrassed for Daniel or anyone on the staff to see them.
“Can we not have this conversation now, please?” I whisper. “I’m exhausted, I’m wrung out, I just want to get through tonight. After that, we don’t need to see each other again.”
Daniel’s expression is crestfallen, and he slowly takes a step back. I turn quickly and walk away, leaving him standing all alone on the deck of Boudreaux.
73
I cry in my car on the entire drive to Fred’s house. My chest aches and my nose is running, but I can’t stop. Everything hurts so much. I tell myself it’s just the stress of Michael’s accident, not enough sleep, and having two major client events in twenty-four hours. But the flurry of thoughts that occupy my mind aren’t about slumber or work.
I pick up a change of clothes for Fred, and pack his toothbrush, razor, and cell phone charger, and then head back to the hospital to drop them off.
Fred naps in the corner, snoring softly, but Michael is awake. The drill sergeant nurse is nowhere to be seen. I put the bag with Fred’s things on the table, and sit at the foot of Michael’s bed.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“My whole body hurts like hell,” he says. “I think the pain meds are starting to wear off again.”
