Can't Stand the Heat

CHAPTER 1

(Unwritten) Rule No. 1 of the GibbonsFamily Handbook:

A woman must embody grace, sex, and glamour at alltimes. She is the image of perfection in the eyes of allmen around her.

Not feeling very graceful, sexy, or glamorous at this earlyhour of the morning, Lauren was in no mood to follow thefamily rules today. Respectfully, the old family handbookcould just go to hell right now.

Damn, it's hot, she thought after she slammed her car doorshut with her hip and made a mad dash across the nearly emptyparking lot. Rivulets of sweat streamed between her breastsand down her back in the scorching Virginia sun, causing herT-shirt to cling to her like a second skin, making her silentlycurse her car's busted AC. Her curvy bottom shimmied as sheran in her khaki shorts.

As sous chef of Le Bayou Bleu, Lauren tried to be one ofthe first to arrive at the kitchen for prep work for the lunchand dinner service, but she was running a little late today.

"Hey, Lauren!" Malik called out with a smile.

The willowy line cook leaned against the soot-coveredbrick wall near the doorway. His white short-sleeved shirtwas unbuttoned, revealing a white tank top and a pack ofcigarettes tucked inside the waistband of his jeans. He tappedhis lit cigarette, spilling ashes onto the concrete.

"What's up, beautiful? You just gettin' in?" he asked.

"Don't remind me!" she shouted back with a laugh.

"¡Oye, mi amiga!" shouted Miguel, a plump fry chef whosat kitty-corner to Malik. He was hunched on a wooden cratewith his squat legs spread wide. A cigarette hung limply fromthe side of his mouth.

"Hey, Miguel!" Lauren yelled back.

She didn't break stride as she spoke, making her way towardthe heavy steel door leading to the restaurant's kitchen.She tugged the door open and stepped inside, letting it slamshut behind her. She was instantly met with the sound of clashingsteel, stacking glasses, the steady churn of mixers, ovendoors opening and closing, and shouting voices. To her ears,it was more melodious than a Beethoven symphony.

Lauren bypassed the kitchen and went straight to thewomen's locker room. She usually shared it with the waitressesand the only other female chef at the restaurant, Paula Wakeman,who was a wizard when it came to pastries. But the roomwas vacant today. It was dimly lit and smelled of old greaseand dirty socks.

She opened her locker door and quickly retrieved a pair ofjeans, her apron, and a petite-sized chef's coat. She took offher strappy sandals and traded them for a pair of sportssocks and scuffed tennis shoes from the bottom of her locker.She put on her jeans and pulled back her shoulder-length hairinto a ponytail, securing it with a scrunchie she had worn onher wrist. After tying a red bandanna on her head and buttoningher coat, she was ready to go. She climbed over thelocker room's wooden benches with apron in hand and headedto the door. As she neared the exit, she glanced at herself inthe room's only full-length mirror and paused, momentarilytransfixed. She stared at her reflection.

Seven months ago, she wouldn't have been caught dead inher current ensemble. Instead, she would be wearing a tight-fitting,low-cut dress, towering high heels, and jewelry thatcost more than what she could now afford with her currentmonthly paycheck. She wouldn't be slaving away in the kitchenof Le Bayou Bleu either, but would be one of the restaurant patrons,dining at one of the best tables in the house on her richboyfriend, James's, tab.

What a difference seven months can make, Laurenthought.

Back then, she had been the happily "kept" woman shehad always been taught to be—going to spas and shoppingduring the day, pleasing her man at night. That life seemed solong ago and so far away. She had been so scared back then,so worn down by James's constant browbeating that it hadtaken her too long to realize that ...

Lauren shook her head, cutting off those dark thoughts.

"You can take your trip down memory lane another day,"she mumbled to her reflection. She hated to wallow in thepast, in self-pity. It was time to move forward. "Time to getto work."

"Mornin', guys!" she said as she rushed into the kitchenseconds later, tying her apron around her waist.

"Morning! Mornin'. ¡Buenos días!" a few voices answeredin return.

Lauren looked around the room. "Where's Phillip?" sheasked no one in particular. "Anybody seen him around?"

Phillip Rochon was the executive chef of Le Bayou Bleu.The dark-skinned, jolly, loud-mouthed man was from a smalltown not far from New Orleans, where he had learned tocook gumbo, jambalaya, and crawfish étouffé at his grandmother'selbow more than forty years ago. He had openedrestaurants in New York City, Chicago, and Washington, DC,specializing in a high-end interpretation of down-homeCreole cuisine. He had decided last year to open Le BayouBleu in Chesterton, Virginia—Lauren's hometown.

"Has anybody seen Phillip?" Lauren repeated, louder thistime, stepping farther into the kitchen.

"I think he's in the front of the house," one of the cooksmurmured as he laid a series of thinly sliced potatoes onto acookie sheet covered with wax paper.

"Out front?"

That was an odd place for Phillip to be. Usually he waselbow to elbow with the other chefs, preparing vegetables,dressings, and pasta dough that would be used later that day.He was a James Beard award winner and had led restaurantswith Michelin stars, but Phillip was far from a diva. He believedtrue head chefs still worked the line and shared celebratorydrinks with their staff after a hard day of work.

To leave these guys alone to do prep work, something hasto be up, Lauren thought. She walked through the kitchen tothe swinging door that led to the front of the house.

Lauren rarely got to see this half of Le Bayou Bleu. Everytime she entered it, she would marvel at how beautiful thespace was. The tone of the restaurant matched the food thatwas served there: sophisticated but earthy, cool but classic.The two were a perfect match.

The walls were set with a rich mahogany wood paneling,and over the onyx bar was a huge chandelier dripping withcrystal. Along each side wall were booths with cream-coloredfabric embellished with a navy blue damask pattern. Theback wall of the restaurant was lined with state-of-the-art refrigeratorsfilled with wine bottles that had vintages dating asfar back as the early 1900s. At any given time, jazz or soulmusic would play over the hidden speakers, giving a mellowvibe to the space despite the grandeur of the surroundings.

Unfortunately, Lauren wasn't enjoying those grand surroundingsthis morning. She was too concerned about Phillip.She found him sitting alone at one of the dining room tables,with a glass of red wine and a half-eaten beignet on a dinnernapkin in front of him. Chairs were still stacked on the tablearound him.

"It's a little early for wine, isn't it?" Lauren asked with awry smile as she walked toward him. "Is it starting off to bethat kind of day?"

He didn't respond.

"Phillip," she said as she drew closer. "Phillip!" She pattedhim gently on his plump shoulder, making him jump insurprise. He quickly looked over his shoulder at her.

"Aww, chérie, what you doin' sneaking up on me likethat? You damn near gave me a heart attack, gal!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." She took one of thechairs off the table, setting it beside his. She sat down. "Icalled you a few times. Guess you didn't hear me." Shescanned his face. "Hey, are you OK?"

His brow was soaked with perspiration. His eyes lookedsunken and haunted. He seemed to be breathing hard throughhis parched lips.

"I'm ... I'm fine," he said with some effort. He swallowedloudly and wiped his forehead with a linen napkin."I'm just ... I'm just feeling a little peaked this mornin'."

"You look more than a 'little peaked.' You look like youneed to go to a doctor."

"Naw, chérie, it ain't nothin' like that. Just ... just giveme a few minutes to get myself ... together."

She stared at him, sensing that he was vastly underplayinghow bad he felt. He didn't look like he could stand up forvery long, let alone spend several hours in a steaming hotkitchen.

"Why don't you go home, Phillip? We can handle the prepwork. Come back for lunch service in a few hours."

"Cain't do that." He shook his head, sending his slicked-backponytail flying. "You know how those boys are. If Iain't there to crack the whip behind them, who knows whatkinda mess is gonna come out of that kitchen. Everything onthose plates has my name on it."

Lauren held back a smile. She and Phillip knew that theline cooks were capable of handling prep work on their own.They didn't need anyone to supervise them, but it made Phillipfeel better to believe that his presence brought order to thekitchen.

"I know, but let me crack the whip, OK? You're no helpto anyone if you're sick. Just go home, get some rest, andcome back later. We can handle it."

He gazed at her warily, looking as if he wanted to mountanother argument but couldn't work up the energy to do so."OK, chérie." He slowly rose from his chair. "I'll headhome." He pointed a finger down at her. "But you makethose boys mind. Everything on those plates—"

"—has your name on it. I know." She nodded and smiled."I've got it covered, chef. We won't let you down."

She watched as he walked toward the center aisle. Hegave one last uneasy glance over his shoulder at her beforeheading to the restaurant's front door.

"Phillip! Phillip!" Nathan, Le Bayou Bleu's floor manager,shouted as he sashayed into the kitchen.

Despite his shrill cries, everyone ignored him. They werefirmly in their dinner rush mode, and besides, no one wasparticularly fond of Nathan. He looked down on most of therestaurant staff, particularly the line cooks and dishwashers.Now that he had stepped into their domain, none of themwas about to give the condescending bastard the time of day.

Nathan peered through levels of stainless-steel shelves liningthe front of the kitchen. He stared at the faces that dartedfrom counter to stove top and back again.

"Phillip! Phiiiiillip!"

He suddenly narrowed his eyes at Lauren. She was cleaningthe edges of a plate of risotto with the corner of a dinnernapkin.

"Hey!" He snapped his fingers in her direction. "Hey!"

"My name is not 'hey,' Nathan," she replied, placing thefinished plate on the top shelf. "It's Lauren. Miss Gibbons, ifyou're nasty." She then gave an impish smile. "Black-eyedpea risotto with bacon ready to go!"

A food runner shoved Nathan aside, walked to the counter,and grabbed three plates, including the risotto dish.

"Watch it!" Nathan snapped.

The runner ignored him. Nathan let out a beleagueredsigh, like a king who has been forced to leave his castle andsocialize with the peasants.

"Lauren, where in the hell is Phillip?"

If Lauren hadn't enjoyed tormenting Nathan so much, shewould have told him Phillip wasn't there. He hadn't returnedsince the morning. At the start of lunch service, she had gottena call from him saying that it looked like he was going tohave to bow out for the day.

"Not gonna make it, chérie," he had drawled tiredly intothe phone. "Gonna have to hand my baby over to you. Treather well."

Lauren had immediately told him she could handle it, butthe instant she hung up the phone, she stood in the kitchen,paralyzed with fear. She had never taken over a service byherself before. What if she screwed up? What if the servicefell apart?

After all, when Phillip had hired her, he'd admitted that,of all the candidates for the job, she was the least qualified onpaper. All she had was a degree from culinary school; no professionalexperience behind the burner. There were severalother cooks who wanted to work as one of his line cookswho had better résumés than she, but Lauren wouldn't takeno for an answer.

She didn't use her feminine wiles to win Phillip over. (Thatwas an old crutch that she had given up for good when sheleft James.) Instead, she did her research—reading old Food& Wine and Bon Appétit articles about Phillip—and showedup at his home one day unannounced with a platter of his favorites.She put the dishes in front of him, hoping he wouldfocus more on her plating technique than her cleavage. Hewas surprised by her presumptuousness but also impressed.After sampling each dish, he said he'd try her as one of hisline cooks on a trial basis.

"We'll give it a few weeks, chérie," he had said as he shoveledanother forkful of creamy shrimp and grits into hismouth, smacking his lips. "We'll see how you get along."

She had "gotten along" well, quickly falling into rhythmwith the diverse, rowdy group of cooks. Despite her greenness,the others respected her and admired her natural talent.

When the first sous chef Phillip hired left two months afterthe restaurant opened to take a higher-profile job in NewYork, Phillip shocked Lauren when he told her he wanted herto fill the position until they could find a suitable replacement.

"It'll be a few weeks. Not much more than that," he hadassured her. "Think you can handle it, chérie? Help me out ina pinch?"

But a few weeks had turned into a few months. Now it nolonger seemed that Phillip was looking for a replacement. Shewas permanent sous chef at Le Bayou Bleu.

Phillip trusted her and had taken a chance on her. His voteof confidence meant more than anything. Tonight she vowedthat she wouldn't let him down.

Lauren turned her back to Nathan, focusing her attentionon one of the line cooks. "Watch the heat on those onions,Enrique!" she shouted as she walked across the kitchen. "Iwant them caramelized, not burned!"

"Yes, chef!" Enrique said with a nod as he removed thepan from the blue flame.

Nathan slammed his hands on the stainless-steel countertop."Damn it, where is Phillip?"

"He's not here, Nathan," she finally answered, shoutingover the kitchen din. "He didn't feel well so he went home."

She pulled a ticket and started to bark orders. The kitchen'smanic activity continued.

"Went home? When?"

"A while ago."

"So who's in charge of the line tonight?"

"Me." She frowned down at a plate that had been handedto her. "Way too much parsley, Tony!" She then began to addressthe offending parsley herself.

"You? But you're just—"

"But I'm just what? Phillip put me in charge. That's allyou need to know," she said firmly, daring Nathan to questionPhillip's judgment.

Nathan closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath."OK. That's OK. If Phillip can't come out, then ... thenyou'll just have to do it."

"Come out where?"

"Come to the front of the house to meet our VIP guest,"Nathan said with a flutter of his luxurious fake eyelashes, asif she should already know the answer. "He liked his dishand he wants to meet the chef. Phillip's not here and you're incharge, so you'll have to do." He snapped his fingers again,motioning for her to follow him.

"Oh, I don't think so. It's not just Phillip.... Two otherguys called in sick, so we're shorthanded and we're alreadywell into the evening rush. I'm not coming off the line. Notnow."

"But he's a VIP guest! We can't turn him down! Do yourealize he's a—"

"I don't care who he is, Nathan. Short of being JesusChrist himself, I'm not leaving the line for him. That's that.Just tell him that we're glad he liked the food but to comeback another day when the head chef is around. We're toobusy now."

Nathan's olive-toned face reddened.

"Now, if you'll excuse me." She turned her back to himagain. "I'd like to get back to my work." She pulled anotherticket. "Turtle soup, blackened redfish, jumbo crab cakes!"

Nathan was summarily dismissed. On one side of thekitchen, some of the line cooks began to snicker.

Nathan's nostrils flared. "You'll regret this, Lauren," hesaid menacingly, pointing at her. "You'll regret this."

He then stomped out of the kitchen, letting the doorswing wildly behind him.

"You'll regret this," she mimicked in a pinched voice. Shemade a face and grinned.

Lauren wasn't intimidated by Nathan. She'd spent twoharrowing years with James Sayers, the biggest, baddestbully in Chesterton. If she could survive James, she could definitelyhandle this guy.

The rest of the evening progressed at the usual backbreakingpace, but it was uneventful. By eleven o'clock, the dinner rushhad ended, so they turned off the burners and packed up forthe day.

(Continues...)