Month of Sundays by Yolanda Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

headed to a department store to buy an outfit for her company party. She was tempted to buy an ugly Christmas sweater, but she doubted if anyone but Etta would be able to tell she was being ironic instead of genuine. She settled on a white silk blouse and a pair of black slacks. To make sure no one would confuse her for a member of the wait staff, she threw in a sequined red vest she confiscated from a clearance rack.
    Closer to home, she stopped by the salon she often frequented and got her hair cut. She said she wanted a trim, but her stylist convinced her to try something different. Several passes of the clippers later, most of her hair was lying on the floor and she was sporting a fashionable new ’do that nearly made her unrecognizable even to herself.
    Etta’s friendly face was the first familiar one she saw when she walked into Match on Friday night. The greeter directed her to one of the private banquet rooms. Etta, resplendent in a beaded black dress, was standing outside the entrance. A tall man in a charcoal gray pinstriped suit stood by her side. Etta introduced him as her husband. With his razor-thin pencil moustache, soul patch, and elegant mien, Lawton looked like a jazz musician, but Rachel remembered Etta telling her once he was a retired mechanical engineer.
    “You do exist.”
    “You’re the second person who has told me that tonight,” he said in a voice as deep as Barry White’s. “I’m beginning to sense a trend.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said as they shook hands. “You’re a lucky man.”
    “Yes, I know. She reminds me every day.”
    Etta took Rachel by the shoulders and looked her over. “I love your hair like that. Are you going to keep it short?”
    “For a while.” Rachel rubbed her hand over her closely-cropped hair. The curls she used to hide behind were long gone. “It’s time I learned to walk without crutches.”
    “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. You’re looking good tonight, baby girl.”
    “Thank you.”
    She hoped Etta wouldn’t be the only woman here who thought so.

    *

    Griffin chugged a bottle of water. She could already tell the evening would be a test of her endurance and her patience. She had placed Erica Barrett, her assistant chef, in charge of the house, freeing her to take care of the private party in the banquet room. The sous chefs were divided between them, most supporting Erica as she tended to the main diners, the rest helping her cater to the needs of the gaggle of accountants she was about to introduce herself to. If that weren’t enough, the reporter from Gourmet Magazine who had interviewed her for nearly three hours on Thursday had decided to shadow her at work to “add context” to the story.
    I’d better clean up my language tonight unless I want to be painted as a tyrant.
    While the reporter watched her, she observed Erica. Though only two years removed from culinary school, Erica was preternaturally poised and exhibited tremendous promise. Griffin didn’t think it would be long before she was fronting a restaurant of her own. Tonight, however, she was being forced to deal with a chef’s worst nightmare—a hard-to-please customer. Griffin watched as the third medium rare steak Erica had prepared for table six was returned to the kitchen.
    “Looks like we’ve got a Theresa Testi,” headwaiter Paul Lacey said. Theresa Testi was the secret name the staff used to refer to difficult female customers. Thomas Testi was her male counterpart.
    Erica’s shoulders dropped when Paul placed the plate in front of her. Griffin didn’t want her to lose confidence, but she didn’t want to swoop in and bail her out. To get the experience she would need as a head chef, Erica would have to solve the problem on her own.
    “Chef?” Erica’s plaintive voice drifted across the room. She spread her arms. “I don’t know what to do. The first one was too rare, the second one was too well done, and this one is—” She turned to