Wish Upon a Star (7 page)

“Still a little cold for eating outside, isn’t it?”

I jumped in reflex, biting off a shriek. I hadn’t seen the man who stood in the shadows beside the door. As he stepped forward, I saw why I’d missed him. He wore black from head to foot, a long-sleeved work shirt tucked into worn denim jeans. A dark apron was snug around his waist, the long ties wrapped behind him, then brought around to hang in a comfortably loose bow. The guy’s hair was as dark as the shadows that had hidden him, unruly waves that clearly defied any barber’s control. He looked like he’d forgotten to shave for a day or four.

His left hand was curled around a large stoneware mug. Steam curled above the pottery, and I caught a whiff of bergamot. Earl Grey tea.

He shrugged disarmingly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, you didn’t,” I said automatically, then felt like kicking myself for the transparent lie. “I was just…”

He waited politely, but when I couldn’t come up with a story, he nodded toward the green door. “You’re here for dinner?” he asked. The smell of baking bread made me nod. He turned the wrought-iron doorknob and gestured for me to precede him inside.

The restaurant was tiny. A kind critic would call it “intimate”—there were half a dozen four-tops scattered across the scrubbed wooden floor. A square of brown butcher paper covered each table. Mismatched dishes sat in front of each chair, flanked by a chaotic tumble of silverware. The entire room could have looked like the back of a Goodwill store, but the effect somehow managed to be one of simple, easy good cheer.

That impression was helped along by the presence of four different groups of diners, all chatting comfortably. One man sat alone at the table nearest the kitchen, though, a traveler’s backpack his only companion.

My host waited patiently until I turned my attention back to him. “One?” he asked.

I nodded, and he glided toward the only open table, the one in front of the large stone fireplace. Glancing around the room, I saw that the only decor consisted of simple, framed architectural prints—line drawings of buildings that may never have actually existed. The stark artwork anchored the walls somehow, made them seem more real.

Real. I shivered, consciously forbidding myself from thinking about the flames tattooed on my fingertips, about the markings that my policeman genie had displayed on his wrist.

I wasn’t going to ponder my impossible wishes. I was going to eat dinner. Have a normal meal. In a normal restaurant. Like a normal person.

“This is your first time at Garden Variety?” The guy looked attentive, attuned to my response as I pulled my gaze back from the cozy room. I nodded, and he smiled. “We don’t have a written menu. I cook what I feel like, based on what’s in season. Tonight, we have a cream of asparagus soup or a golden beet salad, to start. I’ve got a good meat loaf, and roast chicken. Some baked macaroni and cheese.”

Everything sounded wonderful, like the comfort food I’d craved without even knowing my own desire. I was a little leery looking around, though. I had no idea how much anything cost.

But I couldn’t back out now. Not with the chef himself standing over me like a watchful ninja, waiting for me to make up my mind. Worst case, I’d charge my dinner. And then cut up my credit cards as soon as I got back home, at least until I found a new Survival Job. Throwing caution to the winds, I said, “I’ll have the salad. And the macaroni and cheese.”

He nodded, as if I’d made the decision he’d expected. “I’ll bring you some water, and some bread—it just came out of the oven. Do you want wine? I’ve got a red that’ll be great with the mac and cheese.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Sounds good,” I said, and flashed him my best stage smile, holding the grin until he disappeared into the kitchen.

I looked around the room. Everyone was wearing casual clothes. That was a good sign—if they’d been in suits and silk dresses, I would have been doomed for sure. Backpack Guy even wore a hoodie sweatshirt over torn jeans.

Feeling conspicuously single, I dug in my tote bag, trying to find some reading material. There was my bus ticket from New Brunswick, the one that I’d bought that morning. A receipt from a Starbucks I’d stopped at a few days ago. Not much else.

“Here you go.” I looked up with a start as my black-clad benefactor set a basket of bread on the table. The heavenly scent that had initially drawn me to the courtyard curled from beneath a blue gingham napkin. “I thought you might want these,” he added, producing a sheaf of magazines from the large pocket in his apron. His other hand deftly balanced a stemmed glass and an oversize bottle of wine. He poured a single sip and then said, “Help yourself to more.”

Before I could comment on the unconventional service, Backpack Guy shuffled over, maneuvering between the tables with care. “Thanks, Timothy,” he said.

The man in black—
Timothy
—turned to his departing customer and extended a hand, like a panther offering a velvet paw. “Have a good night, Peter. Stay warm out there.”

“Thanks,” the customer said again. I smiled at him, but he didn’t meet my eyes as he hurried out the door.

Timothy turned back to me. “Your salad will be out in a minute or two.” He nodded toward the magazines. “Enjoy.”

I glanced at the stack of reading material. The current
New Yorker
. That month’s
Gourmet
. A home decor magazine,
Circle,
which I’d never heard of before. “Thanks,” I said, honestly touched by the thoughtful gesture.

He disappeared into the kitchen, and I thumbed open the
New Yorker
. There was just enough light to read the pages comfortably. I skimmed through the notices of Broadway plays.
Someday,
I thought wistfully. That’s what I should wish for, from Teel—a starring role in a career-making play. Something more appropriate for me than the Mamet play had been. As long as world peace wasn’t going to happen on my watch…

I reached for the basket Timothy had left and extracted a thick slice of bread. The texture was heavy, rich, and I suspected that I could count at least twelve whole grains if I were willing to invest the time. I dipped my knife into the accompanying pewter cup of warm butter. I wolfed down an entire slice and then forced myself to be more restrained with a second. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had homemade bread. Sam and I definitely had not done any baking on our own.

Sam. Just thinking about him made me angry. There was no excuse for his failing to return my phone call.

Gritting my teeth, I reached for the drop of wine that Timothy had poured for me. It bloomed across the back of my tongue, rich and robust, as if someone had secretly transported me to Tuscany. Shrugging, I filled my glass. If my credit card was going to end up bruised and whimpering at the end of the night, I might as well enjoy the battle.

As if in recognition of my acceptance, Timothy emerged from the kitchen with my appetizer. The beet salad was formed into a perfect circle, tossed with a fragrant citrus vinaigrette and topped with delicate wisps of fried shallots.
“Bon appetit,”
he said before heading over to clear plates from another table.

My first tentative bite left me scrambling for more. Even as I chewed, though, I told myself that I had to continue on the path to the New Me. I had to land a starring role so that I could live the life I wanted in New York. Alone. Without any lawyer boyfriend to make everything work out fine at the end of a tight fiscal month.

Timothy interrupted that grim meditation by bringing out my main dish, still sizzling from its time in the oven. Goat cheese took a central role in the baked macaroni, playing off cheddar and something mellow—maybe provolone? Buttered bread crumbs on top made the casserole thoroughly decadent, and I fought to keep from licking the generous ramekin clean.

With each bite, though, I forced myself to consider options for my theater career. It was time to seek out another audition, one where I’d get to deliver more than one line of my prepared monologue. Auditions were posted daily at Equity, the actors’ union. Tomorrow, I would sign up for the most promising show posted. I’d even make time to go onto the ShowTalk Web site, to gather all the relevant gossip. And if push came to shove, I’d invest a wish in my audition, guarantee myself a dream role.

Problem solved. At least for the rest of the night.

I allowed myself to sit back in my chair, to watch the scene around me. While I’d been eating, a woman had shuffled through the front door, burdened with three gigantic bags. Timothy had helped her transfer the luggage into a back corner, and then he’d seated her at the same table Backpack Guy had occupied. He didn’t actually take her order; he just brought out food—soup
and
salad along with a healthy serving of macaroni and cheese, and a steaming quarter of roast chicken balanced on top.

Just as I thought I couldn’t eat another bite of my own meal, Timothy paused on one of his prowling circuits around the room. “I’ve got some great strawberry rhubarb buckle tonight,” he said. “And the layer cake is chocolate, with hazelnut buttercream.”

I started to decline, but then I realized this might be the last restaurant meal I’d manage for months. “Strawberry rhubarb?”

“You’ll love it,” he promised.

And he was right. Sweet berries and tangy rhubarb baked on top of a buttery cake, all covered with a caramel streusel topping that made me wish I could take home a gallon of the stuff for breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day. With tremendous reluctance, I finally set my spoon down.

Time to face the music. Too sated to give in to true dread, I closed the
New Yorker
and waited for Timothy to bring me the fiscal bad news.

But first, he cleared away my dishes. He brought a tiny treat from the kitchen, a fragile white patty of crumbly mint candy, like the inside of a York peppermint patty, but with just a quarter moon of dark chocolate ganache kissing the edge. I was surprised as he hooked the chair next to me with his foot, lowering himself onto its seat with a lithe grace. He produced a pencil from that capacious apron pocket and starting writing on the table’s butcher paper.

“Let’s see. Beet salad. Mac and cheese. Buckle. Wine.” He lifted the bottle and tilted it a little, gauging the level against the fire’s flicker. “One glass, I think.”

One generous glass. One
very
generous glass.

He tallied the column of numbers quickly, underscoring the result with two firm lines. “There you go.”

“That can’t be right,” I protested. He frowned and started to review his arithmetic, but I clarified, “It’s not enough.”

He laughed, the sound blooming deep in his chest like a purr. “This isn’t exactly the Rainbow Room.”

“No,” I said, smiling as I took out my wallet. “It definitely isn’t.” I could easily pay in cash, with enough to spare that I didn’t have to worry about the rest of the week. I set down the bills, along with a thirty percent tip.

Back to my life reorganization mission. Next up: Replace the Survival Job. I took a deep breath and said, “I have a question for you.”

Before I could go on, though, the hungry woman with three bags stepped up to the table. “Mr. Timothy,” she said. “I can use the restroom, before I go?”

Okay. That was strange. But Timothy didn’t seem the least bit fazed. “Of course, Lena,” he said.

As she hunched toward the back of the restaurant, I chickened out. I couldn’t ask this guy for a job, not while I was sitting here as a customer. When Timothy looked back at me, I said, “Please! Go ahead. I didn’t mean to keep you from your work. Go get her check.”

His eyebrows arched for a quick second. “Actually, Lena’s a guest.”

Involuntarily, I flicked a glance toward the large bags stacked in the corner. It took me a second, but then I realized what was going on. Lena was homeless. Backpack Guy, too. Timothy was running his own luxury soup kitchen, at least at the table closest to the kitchen.

Wow. What would it be like to work in a place like this? Good food, good deeds… I forced myself to meet Timothy’s inscrutable gaze. I was surprised to see that his eyes were amber brown, calm and serious. They seemed to belong to an older man than the guy with the scruffy beard sitting beside me. The flesh-and-blood Timothy couldn’t be more than thirty years old.

“Any chance you’re hiring? I’ve done a fair amount of catering before.”

He stretched and sighed. “I’m afraid not. I’m all set for now.”

Disappointment soured the memory of the wine I’d just enjoyed. Of course he didn’t have a job. Not for me. No one in their right mind would trust me with customers and gourmet food. Concerned Caterers might as well have stamped a brand on my forehead.

But I could do better than catering, I chastised myself. I was moving on in my life. I was taking charge. Bigger, better, more successful—that was the template for the new Erin Hollister. That was the Master Plan. I even had the peace lily to prove it, back in my apartment.

Obviously unaware of my interior pep talk, Timothy said, “If you leave your name and number, I’ll keep you in mind, when I need someone.”

I almost said no. I almost told him that I’d been mistaken when I’d asked about the job. I almost explained that I didn’t want to wait tables, that I wanted to act, that I wanted to launch my professional career into the stratosphere.

But he didn’t care about all that. He was only a restaurateur, although admittedly one who had just fed me the best meal I’d ever eaten in New York. There was no reason to insult him, just because my personal life was in shambles.

I took the pencil that he offered and ripped off a corner of the butcher paper, adding my name and cell-phone number with elaborate care. I could always decline the job, if he ever called, after I’d become a huge success.

He glanced at my information before storing the scrap in his apron. “Thank you, Erin,” he said seriously, putting just enough emphasis on my name that I knew he was committing it to memory.

I felt myself respond to that personal touch. I started to lean a little closer, to duck my head with just a shadow of flirtation. My hands started to flutter; my fingers thought they wanted to settle on his sleeve.