Cook the Books

Digger hadn’t changed.
    There was Josh, creeping into my thoughts again. Instead of distracting myself with dinner, schoolwork, or television, I went into the bedroom and pulled a thick scrapbook from a shelf. I crawled onto the bed and lost myself in the pages. I’d been putting the scrapbook together to give to Josh as an anniversary present. I’d saved cards he’d given me, movie ticket stubs, takeout menus from our favorite places, pictures of the two of us, and lots of other memorabilia. The pages went on and on. Well, I rationalized, I was doing well most of the time, wasn’t I? Yes. So I was entitled to a night of misery here and there. I ran my finger over a picture of my chef. I missed that gorgeous face. I missed everything about him. Even so, I had blocked his e-mails and had changed my cell number after he’d kept leaving me messages. I didn’t want to read his words or hear his voice. I couldn’t. Why? Because as furious and confused as I was by his abrupt departure for Hawaii, I still loved him. Crap. I threw the book onto the floor and covered my eyes with my hands. I inhaled and exhaled deeply a few times, willing myself not to fall apart.
    I sat up and shook my head. I had work to do! I took my laptop and Kyle’s folder off the desk in my bedroom and carried everything to the living room, where I sat on the floor and spread the mess of notes on the coffee table. I spent an hour categorizing the papers: recipes for appetizers, soups, salads, poultry, meat, seafood, and dessert. Kyle had a number of lists, all full of ideas for chefs to contact, restaurants to look into, questions to ask chefs for biographies and interviews. He included suggestions for where pictures of the chefs could be taken and noted that the chef from Triba had a very attractive wife. Maybe they could be photographed together? I rolled my eyes. It took me over an hour to make a dent in the disastrous heap. Kyle wasn’t kidding when he’d said that he needed help! I typed up six recipes, saved the file, and shut down the computer.
    I decided to give Kyle a quick call to let him know we could meet up with Digger.
    “Hello, Kyle? This is Chloe.”
    “Ah, Ms. Carter. This is Hank Boucher, here. My son said you might be calling.”
    Oh my God! I was talking to the Hank Boucher. I’d seen this man countless times on TV and in print, but actually to be talking to him right now? How cool! I’d have bet anything that he was about to invite me out to a fabulously expensive restaurant, too. L’espalier, maybe? I’d kill to go there.
    “Mr. Boucher! Oh... it’s an honor,” I stammered foolishly.
    “I understand you’re my son’s typist, correct? Have you finished?” he asked sternly.
    Typist? I was more than a typist! Famous chef or not, Hank was not going to refer to me as a typist. “Actually,” I said with annoyance, “I am assisting Kyle with the research angle of the book.”
    “Sure, sure. Sorry. What is that secretaries want to be called these days? How about administrative assistant ? Is that better for you, dear?”
    Oh, I got it: Hank Boucher was an asshole. The realization was more than a little disappointing.
    I cleared my throat. “I’ve been able to arrange a meeting with one of the chefs from Simmer, Digger. He’s about to open a very upscale restaurant called the Penthouse. He’s agreed to share some of his recipes for the book, and we can sample some of the dishes that he’s trying out for the new restaurant. Will you be joining us? Saturday morning at ten.”
    “Certainly. Where is this restaurant located?”
    “Actually, we’re meeting at the chef’s apartment, because the restaurant is in the middle of construction right now.”
    “An apartment?” Hank made no attempt to hide his disdain. “Lord, where is this place?”
    Hank Boucher and I were destined not to be the best of friends. I gave him Digger’s address, which was in Somerville. I was beginning to hope that Digger’s apartment was as tiny and shabby as I’d been assuming. Let Hank Boucher see how most chefs lived! Kyle would probably freak out when he learned that he was to take his father to a less-than-four-star location, but tough for him. For me, Saturday’s gathering would be interesting. I looked forward to seeing how the celebrity chef would handle himself in the kind of home kitchen that a working chef could afford. Still, I cautioned myself to be pleasant. Hank Boucher’s name was, after all, what would be