Read Online On a Night Like This by Ellen Sussman - Free Book Online
Authors: Ellen Sussman
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the restaurant.
Blair wanted to stand in the kitchen and watch Daniel—somehow that made sense tonight. She’d just stand back and watch.
She walked around to the back of the restaurant and heard the music blasting, felt the rush of adrenaline when she entered the kitchen and saw the blur of Daniel doing four things at once: stirring, sautéing, dicing, arranging it all on a plate so it looked as fine as it would taste—damn, the man was good. Meanwhile, Manuel scrubbed the dishes, while Philippe reached back for that last entrée, and Rianne swept through the door with six plates balanced on her arm and demanded, “What the hell are you doing here, Blair? Go home, go to bed; you look like shit, girl.” Finally Daniel turned and saw her, smiled and pulled out a stool beside him.
“Sit,” he said. “I’ll teach you a thing or two.” Which is what he’d been saying for years.
“I love you, Daniel,” Blair said, perching on the stool and planting a kiss on Daniel’s shoulder. When her lips touched the cotton of his chef’s jacket, she held them there, closing her eyes, not wanting to move away.
I need you,
she could say.
Save me.
“Don’t break my concentration,” Daniel muttered. He threw sliced potatoes back on the grill, tossed them a couple of times, layered them on a plate, flipped the salmon next to them, spooned the sauce on top. He wiped the edge of the plate clean with his apron.
“Why are you here, my lovely lady?” he asked, presenting Blair with dinner.
Blair began to cry.
“Eat first,” Daniel said. “Philippe, get her wine. We’ll talk when you’re done.”
The music got louder. Blair felt that she was in the kitchen and not in the kitchen, as if she were fading as she sat there, and the whirlwind of activity went on around her, would keep going on around her. Rianne fought with Philippe about stealing table seven: “He isn’t gay; I know he isn’t gay. Once in a while a man could pay attention to me around here.” Philippe rolled his eyes and sliced chocolate cake, poured on the raspberry sauce and slithered back to table seven.
“He’ll be gay by the time Philippe is done,” Daniel told Blair.
“I hate this city,” Rianne complained. “When was the last time you had sex?” she asked Blair.
“Couple of days ago,” Blair said. “Now ask when the last time was I had love.”
“Oh, who cares about love,” Rianne wailed.
Philippe charged in. “Your table’s waiting for the check, Rianne.”
She stormed out.
“What’s wrong?” Daniel whispered.
“I’m quitting,” Blair told him, staring down into her plate. She hadn’t eaten. But she held her plate on her lap, hoping hunger would come.
“You can’t quit,” Daniel said flatly. “You’ll work till you’re too sick to work. Right now, you’re doing just fine.”
“How did you know I was sick?” Blair asked, stunned. She looked at Daniel.
Daniel was trying something new in the pan, swirling things together, creating new smells and flavors and textures. He never looked at Blair.
“I’ve lost enough friends to AIDS,” he said. “I know what it looks like.”
“I don’t have AIDS,” Blair said wearily. Though she had worried about that long enough. Every lover seemed to have had a gay lover at some time in his past.
“What is it, darling? Some new exotic disease? Or one we’ve all grown so tired of?”
“Melanoma,” Blair told him.
Daniel glanced at her quickly, then looked away. She saw him wince.
He knows what that means,
she thought.
“So you’re not contagious,” Daniel said, swirling the pan on the stove. “You’ve still got time. You’re still walking. And you’ll walk that skinny ass of yours into my kitchen every afternoon at five o’clock. Got that?”
Rianne flew in, dropping plates next to Manuel’s growing pile, downing her glass of wine while swallowing a pill. For the first time Blair envied the girl her energy.
“You headed up or down tonight, Rianne?”
Blair wanted to stand in the kitchen and watch Daniel—somehow that made sense tonight. She’d just stand back and watch.
She walked around to the back of the restaurant and heard the music blasting, felt the rush of adrenaline when she entered the kitchen and saw the blur of Daniel doing four things at once: stirring, sautéing, dicing, arranging it all on a plate so it looked as fine as it would taste—damn, the man was good. Meanwhile, Manuel scrubbed the dishes, while Philippe reached back for that last entrée, and Rianne swept through the door with six plates balanced on her arm and demanded, “What the hell are you doing here, Blair? Go home, go to bed; you look like shit, girl.” Finally Daniel turned and saw her, smiled and pulled out a stool beside him.
“Sit,” he said. “I’ll teach you a thing or two.” Which is what he’d been saying for years.
“I love you, Daniel,” Blair said, perching on the stool and planting a kiss on Daniel’s shoulder. When her lips touched the cotton of his chef’s jacket, she held them there, closing her eyes, not wanting to move away.
I need you,
she could say.
Save me.
“Don’t break my concentration,” Daniel muttered. He threw sliced potatoes back on the grill, tossed them a couple of times, layered them on a plate, flipped the salmon next to them, spooned the sauce on top. He wiped the edge of the plate clean with his apron.
“Why are you here, my lovely lady?” he asked, presenting Blair with dinner.
Blair began to cry.
“Eat first,” Daniel said. “Philippe, get her wine. We’ll talk when you’re done.”
The music got louder. Blair felt that she was in the kitchen and not in the kitchen, as if she were fading as she sat there, and the whirlwind of activity went on around her, would keep going on around her. Rianne fought with Philippe about stealing table seven: “He isn’t gay; I know he isn’t gay. Once in a while a man could pay attention to me around here.” Philippe rolled his eyes and sliced chocolate cake, poured on the raspberry sauce and slithered back to table seven.
“He’ll be gay by the time Philippe is done,” Daniel told Blair.
“I hate this city,” Rianne complained. “When was the last time you had sex?” she asked Blair.
“Couple of days ago,” Blair said. “Now ask when the last time was I had love.”
“Oh, who cares about love,” Rianne wailed.
Philippe charged in. “Your table’s waiting for the check, Rianne.”
She stormed out.
“What’s wrong?” Daniel whispered.
“I’m quitting,” Blair told him, staring down into her plate. She hadn’t eaten. But she held her plate on her lap, hoping hunger would come.
“You can’t quit,” Daniel said flatly. “You’ll work till you’re too sick to work. Right now, you’re doing just fine.”
“How did you know I was sick?” Blair asked, stunned. She looked at Daniel.
Daniel was trying something new in the pan, swirling things together, creating new smells and flavors and textures. He never looked at Blair.
“I’ve lost enough friends to AIDS,” he said. “I know what it looks like.”
“I don’t have AIDS,” Blair said wearily. Though she had worried about that long enough. Every lover seemed to have had a gay lover at some time in his past.
“What is it, darling? Some new exotic disease? Or one we’ve all grown so tired of?”
“Melanoma,” Blair told him.
Daniel glanced at her quickly, then looked away. She saw him wince.
He knows what that means,
she thought.
“So you’re not contagious,” Daniel said, swirling the pan on the stove. “You’ve still got time. You’re still walking. And you’ll walk that skinny ass of yours into my kitchen every afternoon at five o’clock. Got that?”
Rianne flew in, dropping plates next to Manuel’s growing pile, downing her glass of wine while swallowing a pill. For the first time Blair envied the girl her energy.
“You headed up or down tonight, Rianne?”
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