Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [131]
“What? Mira?” asks a voice, not Enid’s.
My stomach lurches, releasing a surge of bile that tastes like beer and salsa.
“Oh, shit, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Ah, no,” I say, sitting up and looking wildly around the apartment. Could I be dreaming? I crane my neck to peer behind me at the clock in the kitchen. It’s barely seven o’clock in the morning.
“Jake?” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Ah—” My mouth is open and fulminating, my brain a vacuum; nothing, not a sound, not a thought, can escape.
“I know; it’s been a while. How have you been?”
I sit up and look over at Richard, who is snoring in his hospital bed by the window.
“I’m fine. We’re fine,” I tell him.
“Good. That’s good,” Jake says.
“What do you want? Is something wrong?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
“What makes you think I want something?” Jake asks. “Can’t I call to see how you’re doing? How Chloe’s doing?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I know I—I missed her birthday.”
“Yeah, you did.”
He must have the phone jammed to his ear because I swear I can hear him swallow. “How is she?” Jake asks, his voice hollow and distant, as if we’re talking on two tin cans strung together across some great divide.
“She’s perfect,” I say, my voice catching.
The silence on the other end of the phone feels like a black hole.
“Listen,” Jake finally says, “I’ve got something really big on the front burner here—a real deal . . . that I thought you might want—”
“I already know you’ve opened a new restaurant. I read about it.”
Jake pauses. I don’t know if he’s expecting me to congratulate him on his latest venture or what, but if that’s what he’s waiting for, then he can wait. I’d rather chew tacks.
“You thought I might want what?” I ask him. Coffee. I need coffee. I head into the kitchen and loudly begin scooping espresso into my macchinetta. Richard stirs in the corner.
“I thought you might be interested in a business proposition, that’s all,” Jake says.
I set the macchinetta on the stove, turn on the gas, and go to the refrigerator for milk.
“But you just opened another restaurant. Clearly you didn’t need me,” I tell him, pouring the milk into the saucepan and setting it to simmer.
“Look, Mira, we’re not just talking about Il Vinaio here. That’s small potatoes compared to what we’re envisioning.”
“We? Really. By the way, is it true you’re moving from Grappa? And who’s this executive chef from Vegas you’re bringing in?” I demand, my voice fueled by the impending arrival of caffeine in my system.
“Who told you that?” Jake asks, instantly suspicious. “Never mind,” he continues. “Just hold on and let me explain. A lot of the top guys, Batali, Keller, Lagasse, have all opened satellite places in big American restaurant markets like New York, Vegas, LA, even Orlando, all of which, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, have been tremendously successful. Look, it’s not just another restaurant I’m opening, it’s a whole restaurant syndicate we’re talking about here. When these guys approached me—”
“Who approached you?” I ask.
“Look, they’re good guys. Smart business people. And they want to talk to you.”
“Me?” I ask, surprised. “Why would they want to talk to me? Who are these guys?”
“Philippe—he’s the guy I tabbed to run Grappa just until I got Il Vinaio up and running—is Nicola’s cousin. Used to be a banker, but he got tired of the life and moved to Vegas and apprenticed himself to Paul Bartolotta. Always wanted to cook. Anyway, he introduced me to the group. He used to work with one of the guys in the conglomerate when he was in finance,” Jake says.
“Well, I have it on good authority that this guy—what’s his name—Philippe isn’t doing such a great job,” I tell him, remembering Enid’s comment several weeks ago.
Jake is silent.
“Jake, why wouldn’t you let Tony run Grappa?”
“I’m getting to that,” Jake sighs. “Nicola and I are in as founding investors in this restaurant syndicate, and I’ve offered Tony a share as well. He’s in—a small share—but he’s in,” he says. I can hear the strike of a match as he lights a cigarette. He coughs discreetly. “Nicola wants to go back to Vegas