August 28. It was a sweltering, humid Tuesday morning as Joey leaned against her truck, watching her boyfriend toss her packed bag into the cab. Then he walked over to talk to Gretchen as his sister got into the front seat of her Land Rover, parked along the curb in front of the truck. Pacey was starting his new job as prep cook at the Ambrosia, and she was about to head home to pack up for college. She wouldn't be back in the city until this weekend, when Bessie and Bodie took her to Worthington like all the other families dropping their kids off at various colleges around the city.
"What's with the furrowed brow and all the frowning, Potter?" Pacey said. She didn't even realize he was watching her. She smiled, and he returned it.
"I like that better," he said. Then he pinned her against the truck, nuzzling her neck, making her giggle. Pacey wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. She closed her eyes as she held onto him. "I don't want you to leave either," he whispered.
She smiled against his neck, placing a soft kiss. "I wish I could take you back to Capeside with me. Can't you quit and then start next week instead?"
He laughed, kissing her forehead before pulling back to look down at her. "I can't quit a job that I have a very strong feeling I'm gonna love before I've even started, the same way you can't quit Worthington."
"True."
"Besides, there probably isn't anything that could make me go back to Capeside at this point, even for just a few days."
"Yeah, I know. So, I guess we're just gonna have to settle with phone calls."
"If memory serves me right, our phone calls aren't so bad," Pacey said with a grin. She blushed and grinned back, kissing him softly.
"It's only four days, Jo."
"And then we'll be together every day."
"That's the plan. We're gonna be just fine in Boston. I promise."
"I love you, Pace."
"I love you, too."
"Good luck at the restaurant. Let me know how your first day went."
"I will. And thanks. I need all the luck I can get."
Joey smiled at the grin on his face and then kissed him long and hard. Pacey kissed her twice more before backing away. Reaching out, he took her palms in his hands, kissing them before opening her truck door. She got behind the wheel and watched him walk over to the Land Rover, making for the front passenger seat. Without 'goodbye' leaving either of their lips, he waved, and she waved back as she drove off.
After a fifteen-minute drive from South Boston, Pacey was being dropped off in the alley behind the Park Street restaurant across from the Boston Common. Located in an elegant townhouse in the historic Beacon Hill neighborhood, serving a blend of Italian and French dishes, the restaurant had received many awards and accolades over the years. Even the alley looked cleaner than most alleys he'd seen. The back door had the name 'Ambrosia On Park' emblazoned across it, and he banged on it with his fist. The gray steel rattled under his touch.
After only a few seconds, a young man opened the door and looked at him inquisitively. He looked to be no older than twenty, with black hair and dark eyes, slim build, average height. He wore a white chef coat and black-checkered pants.
"Hi. I'm Pacey Wit—"
He snapped his fingers. "Chef said you were coming." He inclined his head toward the restaurant behind him. "Go on in, man. They're waiting for ya."
Pacey smiled at the guy's thick New York accent and went past him. Once he was through the doors and in the back hallway, he was met by James Moore, who indeed was there waiting for him. He smiled in greeting and they shook hands.
"Well, you're on time. So, that's a good start," said a man dressed in a chef's uniform standing beside him. Unlike the young man who'd met him at the door, this man's chef coat had his name stitched across the left breast in black letters.
"This is Dominic Tucci, head chef here at the Ambrosia," Mr. Moore introduced. The man was average height, medium build, and bald underneath his cap. "He trained under a Michelin-starred French chef, and we're very fortunate to have him here with us."
"Pacey Witter," he said, holding out his hand to shake. "Nice to meet you, Chef."
As they shook hands, another chef appeared, his name embroidered on his uniform. He was also bald, but looked about a decade younger than Dominic. "And this is Armando Pérez, the sous chef," James said. "You'll mostly be working under his direction and guidance. He is essentially Chef Tucci's eyes, ears, and sometimes his voice here in the kitchen."
They exchanged pleasantries and then James escorted Pacey to an office, where he was introduced to the restaurant manager, Olivia Pérez, wife of Armando. She was in her thirties, very pretty and very pregnant. He thought the woman looked ready to pop.
"She'll be leaving us soon, unfortunately," Mr. Moore told him. "So, we're currently interviewing for the manager position."
"You won't be coming back?" Pacey said to her.
"No. I think I've had enough of the restaurant life. I just wanna stay home with my kids."
Pacey was given his own set of white chef coat and checkered pants. After he changed into his uniform and was given a locker to store his belongings, he returned to the office and filled out all the necessary paperwork.
"Let's get started, then." James looked over the papers in front of him. "This week is your orientation week, so you'll be working every night. But normally, you'll work five nights a week, three p.m. until closing time. And the days will vary, depending on the schedule."
"When does the restaurant close?"
"Ten, but you really shouldn't expect to be out of here before midnight."
Not having heard anything entirely unexpected, he nodded his head in the affirmative.
"This first week, besides prep work, you'll also be responsible for washing all the pots, pans, and dishes that are used in this restaurant," James went on.
Pacey scoffed. "Washing dishes? I thought I was gonna be cooking?"
"Eventually you will cook, but you've got to start from the bottom. There is a hierarchy in any professional kitchen, and you'll learn that very quickly. You have to earn your spot on the line, and it's Chef Tucci who will make that determination, not me."
"Understood."
As they returned to the kitchen, James went into the usual new-hire spiel. "They have a team meeting every day at four o'clock, one hour before the doors open." He walked over to the grill where one of the assistant chefs was watching over a batch of red peppers. Their skin bubbled and blackened. Pacey trailed behind Mr. Moore, eyeing the peppers.
"At the meeting they discuss the specials, any preparation issues, and they have a meal together. Nothing elaborate, it's more to keep the staff fueled for the night."
Pacey's eyebrow lifted in surprise. But his gaze was still fixated on the peppers. Finally, he asked, "Aren't you burning those?"
"The more burned the skin, the more smoky the flavor," answered the assistant chef. "We use roasted red peppers for a few things on the menu."
"Well, if burning menu items is a good thing at this restaurant, then I'm in the right place."
James laughed at his self-deprecating joke, and so did the chef. "Everything you learn here, Pacey, you'll be able to take with you into the real world. A man needs to know how to take care of himself first, before he can even think about being able to care for a family. Besides, all women love a man who can cook."
He smiled as thoughts of Joey filled his head.
"Well, I'd say you're ready for your orientation," James said as they stood outside in the hallway. "I'm sure the kitchen staff will make this a very… memorable week for you." His mouth curved into a knowing smirk. "Well, I'll leave you with Olivia. I'll be in New York for a few weeks. We'll speak when I get back. Don't be nervous. I've seen firsthand what you can do. You'll do fine here, no matter what those chuckleheads throw at you back there."
His brow furrowed as Mr. Moore tilted his head toward the double doors leading to the kitchen.
"Just remember to keep your cool and take it all in stride, Pacey. You'll earn their respect. I have no doubt of that."
After James left, the manager then gave Pacey the grand tour of the restaurant. "Tuesday through Friday, we open the doors at five o'clock. On Saturdays and Sundays, we also provide lunch service and open at noon. All guests are greeted in the bar room," Olivia told him, gesturing to the convivial space featuring a hostess stand, and anchored by a polished wood bar that led to both dining rooms. "As you can see, it offers several different styles of seating, perfect for whether you are simply having cocktails or enjoying our seven-course tasting menu."
The front dining room featured a muted taupe palette, dark wood floors, and shimmering antique chandeliers, radiating a quiet elegance. The front dining room also offered a picturesque view of the Boston Common and State House from an expansive wall of windows. The back dining room was a cozier space, where guests could tuck themselves into the warm leather and sage velvet banquettes.
The empty dining spaces were peaceful and serene, but the minute they walked through the double doors, Pacey found himself back in the crazy kitchen zone.
"Get the damn chicken off the grill! It needed to chill yesterday," one of the chefs yelled.
"Hey, kiss my ass!" another chef shot back. "Who do you think you are, King Farouk?" He walked away from the grill, leaving the chicken where it was.
The head chef, Dominic, was working at the other end of the kitchen and seemed oblivious to everything going on, but Pacey took it all in. The same black-haired young man who'd greeted him at the door tossed an apron at him. "Welcome to Hell Week," the guy grinned. "The name's John, by the way."
"Pacey. Thanks," he replied warily, unsure what exactly 'Hell Week' meant. Once his apron was tied around his waist, Pacey washed his hands and then went and pulled the chicken off the grill. He placed it perfectly onto a plate, then handed it off to a grateful female chef.
"Hey you!" shouted Armando. "New guy!"
He turned to see the sous chef staring daggers at him. "Yes, Chef?"
"Did you just touch the grill?"
The kitchen had suddenly gone quiet, everyone except for Dominic turning from their stations to glance at him momentarily before returning to their tasks. He could feel his face getting red. "Yes."
"Are you allowed to touch the grill?"
Shit. His heart sunk within him. He'd screwed up already. "No."
"No, you're not. You don't touch the grill until I say you can touch the grill."
Pacey clenched his jaw. "Yes, sir."
Armando threw him a shit-eating grin. "Have you met everyone yet?"
"Uh, no."
The sous chef stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. While Dominic kept on working, the rest of the staff stopped what they were doing and turned in his direction. Armando then went around the room, pointing out the kitchen staff. There were the three assistant chefs, Andrew Zimmer, Richard Ottosen, and Sean Sullivan, an apprentice chef fresh from culinary school, Charlotte Brock, the two line cooks, Juan Lozada and Jean-Claude Baptiste, and finally, the prep cook and one familiar face, John Valenzuela.
"Everyone, this is Pacey Witter," Armando said to them as he clasped his shoulder. "He's the one who accepted the open prep cook position we posted back in the spring. This is his first day, and so he'll be on dish duty tonight."
They all smiled in his direction, and Pacey thought they seemed welcoming enough.
"Oh, and by the way," Armando continued. "He's from Cape Cod, and while we had to spend months being short-staffed a prep cook to keep the position open for him, he just spent his summer sailing around the Caribbean on James Moore's yacht. Isn't that nice?"
To Pacey's dismay, he watched most of their faces fall or pinch with disdain before turning around and going back to work. Great. He noticed Charlotte smirking in his direction, but the only one who seemed totally unfazed by this information was John.
"Don't you have any vegetables to chop, or something?" Armando barked at the prep cook.
John straightened his stance. "Yes, Chef."
Pacey sighed and shoved his hands in the pockets of his checkered pants. "What would you like me to do, sir?"
Armando pointed to the dishwasher. "There is a sink full of dirty dishes for you to start with."
Once the dishes were spotless, the sous chef walked him over to an empty work station, where Pacey was greeted by the smiling prep cook who was stationed next to him. A large case of basil was then dropped on the floor beside him, the potent aroma overwhelming. "Start plucking leaves," the chef instructed before walking away.
"Man, your hands are gonna smell for days," John chuckled. "They're gonna give you all the shit work this week, so prepare yourself."
"Is he always like that?" Pacey replied, glancing over his shoulder.
"The pit bull? Yeah. You just learn to stay out of his way."
He lifted some basil out of the case. "You call him the pit bull?"
"We all do," John said. "Not to his face, of course. We call him the pit bull 'cause he enforces Chef Tucci's standards. The chef and Mr. Moore will occasionally wander through the kitchen discussing new menu items and giving tips on the proper plate design for each one. Whenever they notice a line cook with a sloppy technique, they tell Armando and sic him on the poor bastard."
Pacey got right into his assigned prep work. It wasn't long before he witnessed the pit bull in action. Armando stopped by Charlotte's station to check on her prep work. It had just taken her twenty minutes to slice a lemon rind as thinly as possible into strips. He stood next to Charlotte and massaged the lemon.
"I want it as fine as human hair," he hissed into Charlotte's ear as he threw the rind away.
Then he said more loudly so everyone in the kitchen could hear, "Have you paid your tuition yet, or are you on financial aid?"
She clenched her jaw and told the pit bull she had already paid.
"Good, then you can take the train back to school, and ask the administration for your money back because you haven't learned a fucking thing," Armando responded.
The kitchen staff exploded in laughter while Charlotte's grip tightened around her knife, but by the end of the night they would all no doubt fantasize about wrapping the pit bull in a blanket, beating him senseless, and leaving him across the street in the park. For the rest of the shift, Pacey felt as if he was walking on eggshells whenever Armando appeared.
"Fire up the back burners!" one of the cooks yelled.
"Do it yourself! I'm not your slave."
The insults escalated with vulgarity and increasingly creative metaphors, making the kitchen sound like a longshoreman's bar. Pacey was surprised that no one acknowledged Dominic, but he guessed it was due to the perpetual activity. There seemed to be no spare time, but he did notice the apprentice chef, Charlotte, looking at him more than once.
Pacey watched the head chef fire up a back burner and then start to whip something in a large bowl. The two line cooks returned to the kitchen, then started to chop and yell about extra virgin olive oil.
"I don't like this kind," one guy yelled. "It smells like fish guts!"
"Sean likes this flavor, and he's the chef!"
"He's one of the chefs, not the chef!"
A few minutes later, a hostess rushed in all flustered. She was trying to get a word in, a hand on her hip while she waited for the right moment, but nobody was paying attention to her. She was obviously frustrated, drifting her head left and right looking for somebody who could help her. Finally, she was able to make her voice heard above the squawking chefs.
"A woman is here for the position of general manager!" she shouted. "Sorry for yelling, but I had to because of all the noise." She looked at Dominic. "I put her in the office and gave her some coffee."
Juan, the short, heavyset guy, winked at the hostess. "So, what positions do you like?"
The younger chef, a handsome blond guy named Sean, then spoke in a thick Boston accent. "She doesn't want you, Juan. She likes me better, right, Sara?" He raised his eyebrows and gave her a flirtatious smile.
The girl's cheeks turned a bright red color, and she shrugged. "How would I know? I haven't gone out with you."
"That can be fixed. Let's go out." Sean smiled at her as he handed the bowl and spoon that he was holding to one of the line cooks.
Pacey laughed as all the guys started whistling and singing That's Amoré. Even Charlotte the apprentice chef joined in.
Dominic pointed at Sean and encouraged him to finish what he was doing, and then left the kitchen to meet the applicant waiting in the office. Sara the hostess wandered over to the prep side of the kitchen. Pacey thought she was adorable with her strawberry hair, big blue eyes, and petite frame. He had to tower over her by at least a foot.
"Hi, John," she said sweetly.
Pacey watched the guy look up from his work and give her a shy smile. "Hi, Sara."
"How come you never talk to me like those other guys do?"
"Uh…"
"Don't you find me attractive?"
John stared at her and swallowed while Pacey watched with amusement. "Don't you have a crazy, jealous boyfriend?"
She snorted. "Well, yeah… but that doesn't mean you can't find me attractive."
"What good would it do me?"
The kitchen doors then opened and Olivia the manager walked in. "Sara! Get out of the kitchen and get back to the hostess stand!"
Pacey grinned at the other prep cook while the hostess scurried away. "She likes you, quite a lot."
"If she liked me any more, her boyfriend would probably stab me. He's a crazy motherfucker."
He enjoyed working alongside John, who was quite the chatterbox, and found himself constantly laughing. It turned out that John was almost twenty-three years old, despite his babyface. He was a high school dropout who eventually earned his G.E.D. He also knew all the restaurant gossip.
John grinned at him. "You got a girlfriend?"
"Yep. Her name's Joey."
"I hope you can hang onto her. I couldn't hang onto mine."
"Why? What happened?"
John shrugged. "I was spending more time at the restaurant than with her. I mean, I'm here like twelve hours a day. Eventually she got sick of it and didn't want to compete anymore. So, she went back to New York. Been gone a couple months now."
"That's where you're from?"
"Yep." John grinned widely. "Queens, baby. Born and raised. Well…" He paused. "Not born, technically. I was born in Colombia, but I have no memory of the place."
"So, you're Colombian?"
"Eh, I'm a mutt. I've got a Puerto Rican grandfather on one side, and a Lebanese grandmother on my ma's side. I'm a little of everything, man." He smiled widely again. "What about you?"
Pacey returned his smile. "Oh, there's some Scandinavian in the family tree somewhere, but I'm mostly Irish Catholic."
"Yeah? How many brothers and sisters you got?"
"I'm the youngest of five. How'd you end up in Boston?"
John smashed some garlic cloves before answering. "I got in some trouble in New York, running with the wrong crowd and all that. My parents retired, and after I finished high school, they moved down to Miami to be near relatives. But I wanted to stay in New York 'cause I had a girlfriend and a bunch of friends and I didn't want to leave them. Well, I got in some trouble and then I got hooked up with this program called Cooking for the Future. It's aimed at troubled youth in poor communities around New York. It teaches you discipline and how to handle authority. I had real problems with authority, man. Especially authority that comes in a uniform."
Pacey chuckled, and then sighed heavily. "Yeah, I know what you mean."
"And working under these chefs, well… you either learn to get over your authority issues quickly or get the hell out. Anyway, James Moore usually hires graduates from the Cooking for the Future program to staff his restaurant's kitchen, and I ended up at the Ambrosia in Manhattan. But eventually my past troubles kind of came back to haunt me, and I needed to get out of the city. Mr. Moore was kind enough to offer me a spot here, and I've been in Boston since January. Moving in the middle of winter is a real bitch, let me tell you."
Once the restaurant's doors opened at five o'clock, the kitchen became unbelievably busy, considering there were ten cooks, two dishwashers, and a steady stream of servers and runners passing through the kitchen. Other than Armando, who glared as if daring him to make another mistake, and Dominic, who seemed to have forgotten he existed, most everyone Pacey met was friendly and helped put him at ease. From the time the doors opened to the time they closed, he worked alongside the two dishwashers, Gary and Sheldon, and did nothing but scrub and rinse every pot, pan, and dish that was used, not to mention the glasses and silverware.
It was just after midnight when Pacey got back to the apartment in Southie. Exhausted, he climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and collapsed on the bed. For a brief moment he registered the glittering stars on his ceiling, and smiled as Joey's face swam in front of his eyes, before he slipped into unconsciousness.
The rest of the week proved to be mostly the same. However, eager to get back to work, Pacey would find himself arriving at the restaurant a little earlier each day. On Friday, he met John at the back door at one o'clock.
"I knew it," the guy said with a big smile. "You're just like me, man. There's no place you'd rather be, right?"
Pacey grinned, and then shrugged casually. "Well, my girlfriend's not in Boston right now, so I've got time on my hands."
"Sure, sure." John clearly wasn't buying the excuse.
In the afternoon the kitchen was usually in a state of controlled chaos. Crumpled, stained recipes were pulled from a folder, ingredients were carried in and out of the walk-in refrigerator, and the counter was covered with cutting boards. The slicer, burr mixer, food processor, and the cheese grater were removed from the shelves and set to work. Scale, mixing bowls, and baking pans were moved methodically from the counter to the dishwasher and back to the counter again. The stove was crowded with pots that were loaded with sauces, vegetables, and desserts that all had to be finished before dinner. The dense, moist air became filled with the smell of the kitchen.
It was Pacey's favorite time of the day. There was something magical about the way dishes came together. Throw chicken bones, celery, and carrots in a pot, and out came soup. Combine eggs, cream, and sugar, and crème brûlée was born. Any of the chefs always had at least three projects going in the afternoon. While Dominic fileted and portioned salmon, he was roasting parsnips in the oven, simmering his tomato sauce, and waiting for the shrimp to chill in the fridge.
Each kitchen employee had a different job to do, and everything came together just before dinner. The afternoon prep work fascinated Pacey, and it was a lot of fun. The chefs were usually relaxed and talkative while they rotated through their duties. While Armando kept an eagle-eye on everyone, Dominic was usually laid-back. The chefs gossiped about the waitstaff, talked about their wives, and argued about where MSG came from. They didn't use it, but the Chinese restaurant that Andrew ate in last night nearly killed him.
"But I just can't live without the pork dumplings," he admitted.
The afternoon was a time for gossip. Even though chefs didn't get out of the kitchen very often, there was a network of restaurant rumors that traveled between employees and salesmen. Some of those stories became legends, like the one John told them about the line cook somewhere in New York State who came to work in the morning, went to light the stoves, and blew the building up. There was an empty swimming pool below the kitchen that had filled with leaking gas during the night. There was also the rumor of the two Japanese chefs who stabbed each other to death after an argument about money, and the chef convicted of attempted murder after throwing hot oil at his sous chef.
Pacey thought it didn't really matter if those tales were true because they at least provided for interesting discussion during the afternoon and good reasons to avoid violence while at work.
On Friday afternoon, once he'd finished washing the sink full of dirty dishes, Armando gave him a prep assignment. Pacey received black olives. They were not the black olives that he was used to, however. They didn't have those entertaining holes used by children as a place to stick their fingers. They didn't even come in a can. No, they were Kalamata olives and they arrived in a five-gallon bucket. Pits included.
"It will be your job to remove the pits."
Armando actually demonstrated the squeezing procedure necessary for pitting. Then he carefully separated the pit from the flesh in each hand and looked at him very intently.
"This is the pit," he said slowly. "And this is the part that we keep."
He held up each piece so that there would be no confusion. Pacey fought back the urge to say, "Bite me," and got to work. It took him a full three hours to pit those five gallons of olives. He didn't think he would ever forget that stubborn flesh forced between his thumb and index finger, the squeezing and squishing that eventually yielded the unwanted pit.
When he had completed his task, Pacey called out to Armando to tell him that he was finished. When the sous chef came to retrieve the olives, he handed him a bucket of all the pits he had squeezed from the olives—Pacey had carefully saved each one. Armando looked at him, wondering for a minute if he had really kept the wrong part, looked back at the pits, and as the kitchen exploded in laughter, realized that he was messing with him.
"Smartass," Armando snapped, and then threw the pits away. The staff only laughed harder.
Grinning, Pacey caught Charlotte's eye. She was looking at him again. She smirked, and then went back to work.
Despite the fact Chef Tucci mostly ignored him, Pacey was growing to like him. It soon became clear that Dominic talked more than yelled at his staff, and tried to get the most out of them. He seemed to want them to strive for their best and to know that he needed them to get the job done. He had the ability to work with them as a group and encourage them toward greatness under his rules. Pacey could see the assistant chefs and line cooks respected that and understood what he expected from them in return.
The kitchen staff respected the manager, Olivia, too, but in a different way. They had a vague understanding of what she did, but they often thought of her as a secretary or merely as Armando's wife. They were also puzzled by her vegetarianism. They didn't get it, and they enjoyed teasing her about it.
It was almost five o'clock on Friday when she wandered through the kitchen just as they finished prepping for the foie gras course. "Olivia, I saved some goose liver for you," joked Jean-Claude Baptiste, the Haitian line cook, in his accented English.
"No thanks," she replied.
"Why not?" Pacey asked, joining in. "It's vegetarian."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
Pacey grinned. "Seriously. It's just corn filtered through a duck."
As the kitchen burst into laughter, Olivia said, "I know they nail their feet to the floor and force-feed them with a tube."
Armando shook his head. "No, honey. They don't nail their feet down anymore in the United States, but I think they still do it in some other countries. They must have the best foie gras ever. Can't get it in this country, though."
When it was nearing closing time, Pacey stood out back in the alley with John while the prep cook took a smoke break. Something had been on his mind the past few days, and he decided to say something. "You, uh… you know, Charlotte, the apprentice chef?"
"Charlie? Yeah."
"She keeps staring at me."
John laughed. "She's not interested. Trust me, man."
"Okay, and I honestly didn't get that kind of impression, but that doesn't change the fact that she keeps looking at me."
"Well, unless you're hiding a pussy under there instead of a dick, then she's not interested."
"Huh." Pacey shrugged. "I don't know why I keep catching her staring at me."
Shaking his head, John laughed again. "I don't know why either 'cause she only dates women. And a lot of them, too. She goes out to these bars after work, and that's where she meets 'em. She'll bring 'em by the restaurant, show 'em off. Gorgeous women, too. She's been here since May, but I never saw her with the same girl twice. Every other day, it seemed like there was some different chick leaving with her, or dropping her off in the morning. Charlie gets more ass than a toilet seat."
"I haven't seen her with anybody," Pacey said.
"Nah." John shook his head. "Not lately. She says she's dating somebody, but I haven't seen her with anyone for over a month. No girls coming by the restaurant. Nothing."
After John put out his cigarette, Pacey followed him back inside. Shortly after ten o'clock the front door was closed and locked, and the lights were turned off. Once the dishes had been washed and the kitchen was spotless, and all the other closing procedures finished, Pacey started heading for the back door.
"Where you goin'?"
Pacey turned to see all the chefs sans Armando, who'd gone home with his pregnant wife, seated around the large island in the middle of the kitchen. Dominic was pouring tequila shots. The dishwashers, Gary and Sheldon, were smoking pot and fiddling with the radio. "Uh… home."
"Dude, it's Friday," Richard said.
"Poker night," Andrew explained.
He glanced at his watch. It was going on midnight. "It's really late, and my girlfriend is moving into her college dorm in the morning. I said I'd meet her there to help out."
They all stared at him, the disapproval on their faces evident.
Sean Sullivan scoffed. "Does this lace curtain Irish motherfucker think he's better than us?"
"What the hell did you just call me?" Pacey glared.
"Please. You're from the Cape. That tells us everything we need to know."
Eyes narrowing, Pacey walked away from the double doors and toward the island. Chef Tucci shoved a shot of tequila in front of an empty stool. "Fine, but you're gonna regret wanting me to play poker with you."
He was right. When Lady Luck smiled, Pacey always rode her hard. He was soon wiping the floor with them. Every hand he got he knew how to use, whether it was a flush or nothing at all. Never mind that his brain felt fried from drinking too much tequila or that his mouth tasted like cardboard. So far, he'd won more than three hundred dollars at this makeshift poker table. The other chefs were stumped.
"Fold," Sean sighed, throwing his cards on the table in annoyance. "How did you get so fuckin' good at this?"
Pacey shrugged. "Practice."
Eventually his new coworkers got tired of losing, and the game came to an end. As he staggered towards the double doors, Charlotte caught him by the arm. "I'll drive you home," she told him.
"Weren't you drinking, too?" he said.
"Nope. I'm stone-cold sober."
"Why?"
"Because I'm the lone woman in a room with twelve guys. I need my wits about me."
Pacey frowned as they went out the back door to the alley. "I'd never hurt you."
Charlotte smiled and rubbed his arm as they walked. "I know."
"You do? But you barely know me," he pointed out as they made for the nearby staff parking lot.
"I've heard a lot about you, Pacey."
"John talks a lot, doesn't he?" His tongue felt heavy, and he knew he had to be slurring his words, but he was too tired to care at the moment.
Charlotte laughed as they reached her black Toyota Celica. "Uh… well, yes, that's true. The guy never shuts up. And he does like you a lot."
After getting into the passenger seat and buckling his seat belt, Pacey leaned back and closed his eyes. Charlotte started the engine, and then they were on the road heading towards South Boston.
"So, uh, you worked on Mr. Moore's yacht this summer, huh?"
"Yep."
"And so, you got to work with Mao Jingchen?"
Pacey opened one eye and turned to glance at her. "Yeah. Why? You know him?"
Charlotte put on her blinker and made a turn before she answered. "I do. He was my favorite instructor. He alone made going to school worth it, really."
"You mean culinary school."
"Well, I sure as shit don't mean cosmetology school," she snarked, and Pacey laughed breathlessly. "Did John tell you that he's going next year?"
"Going where?"
"The Culinary Institute of New England, duh. Where all of James Moore's prodigies go, including yours truly."
Pacey wanted to change the subject. "How old are you?"
She let out a shocked breath of laughter. "Didn't anyone tell you never to ask a woman their age?"
"I thought that was only for women who were over thirty. If you're under thirty, why should it matter? And honestly, if you're over thirty, who cares? Nothing wrong with that."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm twenty-four."
"John tells me you got a girlfriend."
It seemed like a long time before Charlotte answered. "Yes, I do."
"Have you ever had a boyfriend?"
"Oh, sure. I've had plenty of both." She paused a moment. "Well, I don't know if I would call them boyfriends, or girlfriends. I never really stayed with anyone long enough to give them that title." She sighed. "Well… I did have one girlfriend. In high school. We started messing around in eighth grade, and then it got serious. I was crazy about her. Like, out of my fucking mind in love. We were together all through high school. Then she ripped the heart from my chest, stomped all over it, and set it on fire. And I've never had a girlfriend since."
Pacey looked at her for several seconds, studying her. Sunkissed skin, small-breasted, slender, strong. Sometimes she looked more like a boy than a woman. But that was when she tied her hair up and donned herself in the chef's uniform, blending in with the rest of the kitchen staff. As she ran a hand through loose golden-brown hair that he now saw fell way past her shoulders, there was no mistaking her for anything but a woman.
"Until now?"
Charlotte checked her mirrors, and smiled to herself. "Until now."
"You love her?"
There was another long silence before she answered him. "In fairy tales, love strikes like lightning. In real life, lightning burns. It can fuckin' kill you."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Jesus Christ, you're getting awful personal, don't you think? Well, what about you? You love your girlfriend?"
Pacey smiled widely. "Yes, I love her. She's obstinate and impertinent and opinionated. And she never backs away from an argument or a challenge."
Charlotte laughed. "You say that like those are her good qualities."
"They are. I want a girl who will argue with me, not just roll over like a doormat. My first girlfriend, Andie, she was opinionated, too, and we fought about everything."
"That doesn't sound like fun."
"They weren't nasty fights, just differences of opinion. Keeps things interesting."
"So, the reason you love Joey is because she argues with you?"
"Well, that's just one reason out of many. I love her in all the big and tiny ways you love a person. I love the cute way she flips her hair behind her ears. I love the way she chews on her bottom lip. I love her sarcasm that is so sharp she could cut a man in half. I love how she desperately tries to control her life by structuring the hell out of it, and then suddenly she'll just blow that structure all to pieces by doing something crazy and unexpected like… jumping on a boat and sailing to Key West with me.
"I love her and she loves me, and it's the healthiest, most balanced and loving relationship I've ever had with another person. It's the one I've been waiting for my whole life, the one that fits perfectly into place, that makes me realize what love really is and how relationships should be."
Then Pacey ran his fingers through his hair and scratched his head. "I… I, uh, don't remember saying her name was Joey."
"Oh. Must've heard it from John."
"Huh." He sighed and looked out the window at the passing cars and the city lights. "Joey's the most beautiful thing I've ever laid my eyes on. She makes me a better person, makes me want to be the man I always wanted to be but never thought I could be. She's the best thing that ever happened to me. Every girl I met before her pales in comparison, and every girl I meet after her won't stand a chance. If she wanted to get married, I'd propose. If she said she wanted to have kids, I'd give her enough to fill a hockey team. If she wanted to move to Siberia, I'd pack my bags and start learning Russian."
"Jesus, kid. Does this girl have a magic vagina, or something?"
He sighed happily, a broad smile spreading across his face. "Yes. Yes, she does."
"Would she do any of those things for you if it were the other way around?"
"Well… I don't know about Siberia," he grinned.
Ten minutes later, the Celica was parking along the curb in front of 370 East Eighth Street. Pacey stared at Gretchen's Land Rover parked in front of them, and then up at the apartment building. "Um, I don't remember giving you my address," he said, his brows furrowing with confusion.
"You must've. Or maybe it was John."
"No, I really don't think I gave anyone at work my address. And yet here we are."
Charlotte smirked. "Well, then it's a miracle. Also, you're drunk. I'm surprised you remember anything you may or may not have told people at work."
Minutes later, they were walking up the stairs to the third floor. "I don't need you to walk me to my door, you know," Pacey complained, but he staggered and she caught his arm, helping him regain his balance.
"You're an eighteen-year-old kid living in a bad neighborhood. You're new to the area and you're drunk. Of course, I need to walk you to your door."
"Are you from Boston?" he asked. "I don't really hear an accent."
"Yep. Charlottetown. And no, I don't have much of an accent. My grandparents raised me and they always said the Boston accent sounds ignorant."
"Charlotte from Charlottetown," he chuckled. "Is that why Sean doesn't give you shit? 'Cause you're a townie?"
She smirked. "That lace curtain comment is really bugging you, huh?"
"I'm not rich," he muttered.
"Look, you're from the Cape. Expect folks around here to be up your ass about it. And as if you Islander people don't shit on Mainlanders, am I right?"
Pacey scowled, but found he couldn't exactly deny it.
Her brow arched. "Uh-huh. That's what I thought."
"Well, I don't shit on anyone," he pointed out.
"I'm sure you're the Mary Poppins of Cape people," Charlotte snarked.
With her hand grasping his arm, she led him to the door with the number six and then knocked. His brows furrowed. "Okay, now I know for a fact that I didn't tell you my apartment number."
"You're really gonna have to sleep off that tequila," she replied evasively.
"I have a key, you know. We don't have to knock. I live here." Pacey reached into his pocket and pulled out his key just as the door flew open.
His sister was standing there, crossing her arms. She did not look pleased. "It's three o'clock in the morning. Didn't you get any of my phone calls?"
"Sorry, Gretch. I haven't even looked at my phone."
"Pacey, are you drunk?"
"Um, a little bit, yeah."
He walked into the apartment, Charlotte following him inside.
"I can't believe you got my brother drunk," Gretchen hissed.
"Hey, it wasn't me! It was… you know, his initiation. Besides, it was poker night."
"He should've been home three hours ago. You all spend twelve hours working, and then don't want to leave. You have to spend another two hours drinking or smoking or playing cards instead of just going home to bed. I'll never understand kitchen people."
"That's why you're a bartender."
Pacey pulled a face and then spun around. "Do you two know each other?"
They stared at him like deer caught in the headlights. "No," they replied in unison.
His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but the thought of his bed diverted his attention away from them. "I'm taking my ass upstairs. Goodnight. Thanks for the ride home, Charlie."
"Yeah, sure thing, Lace Curtain," she snickered.
With a groan, Pacey climbed the spiral staircase. He kicked off his shoes and climbed on his bed. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed Joey's number, but the call went to voicemail. He left a message and then turned off his phone. As his eyes drifted closed, he thought he heard a lot of giggling downstairs, and then sleep quickly pulled him under.
September 1. Early on Saturday morning, Joey's face was stretched in a wide grin as she looked around her bedroom one last time. She was doing it, finally going to live her life away from Capeside, and however she saw fit to live it. And now, after years of struggling to achieve perfection in school so she could escape this dreary town, she was finally going to let loose a little, have the college experience—whatever that would entail—and hopefully find out what she wanted to be in the process.
Classes began in three days. She had her dorm assignment, her roommate had written, her bags had been packed—and Worthington College awaited the arrival of Joey Potter. Not for the first or last time, she thought of her parents and all that they'd wanted for her. The life and the future they'd wanted to give her. She knew that leaving Capeside and going to a school like Worthington wasn't just her dream come true, but it was their dream, too.
While she had packed up most of her clothes and personal items to take with her, the box filled with her precious treasures, like her mother's jewelry, her dad's letters, Pacey's pictures, all the notes he'd left in her school locker, the nude drawing of him she'd sketched over winter break, and other sentimental trinkets and mementos, was stashed high on the shelf of her closet and pushed back into the corner. The things in that box were priceless and irreplaceable, and she couldn't bear the thought of losing it in the move to Boston.
Her packed luggage, as well as the new bedding and other dorm essentials that Bessie had gotten for her on their shopping trip to the mall in Hyannis, were stored in the trunk of Bodie's new SUV. Sitting on her bed was the teddy bear Pacey had given her for Christmas junior year. She'd been very sick with the flu, and he'd spent the holiday taking care of her instead of being at home with his family. The red ribbon that fell from the bow tied around the bear's neck had 'Be My Sweetheart' written in gold lettering. Smiling, she grabbed the bear and left her bedroom.
They drove past the Capeside town limits sign just as the clock struck eight.
Almost three hours later, Joey was standing in front of Plymouth Hall. Students and their families as well as members of the college's administration and faculty crowded the Worthington campus. Her new roommate had yet to check in to their dorm assignment, a large room on the first floor. In the e-mails they'd sent back and forth over the last couple weeks, she'd learned that her roommate wasn't going to arrive until Sunday evening. They'd also discussed what items they would be bringing for their dorm room, which came already furnished with beds, dressers, and desks. Joey picked her side of the room, and then Bessie and Bodie helped her move her belongings in and get settled.
They returned outside to say their goodbyes. Bessie held Alexander in her arms, and was barely holding it together. "I wish Mom and Dad were here to see you," she said tearfully.
"They'd tell you that you did a good job raising me," Joey said with a smile, and then her sister really lost it. She threw Bodie an apologetic look as Bessie buried her face in his shoulder.
"It's okay, hon," Bodie murmured.
Tears stung her own eyes and Joey blinked them away. She really didn't want to spend her first day on campus an emotional wreck. Her potential dormmates and classmates could see her and then she might never live it down.
"Bess, I'm only two hours away. Three hours if traveling on a holiday weekend. You'll see me. I'll be home for Thanksgiving, and then Christmas, and then I'm sure I'll be back to annoy you all summer long. This isn't goodbye."
"I know it's not goodbye. I'm not crying because I'll miss you, Joey." Bessie wiped the tears from her face as Bodie took Alexander from her. "Even though I will. It's just emotional. I'm so proud of you, of how hard you worked to get here despite everything our family has been through."
Then Bessie and Bodie pulled her into a hug.
"Hey, hey!"
Joey turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Just as he'd promised, Pacey had arrived to meet her on campus.
"There's my college girl," he said with a growling laugh as he hurried towards her.
In an instant, she jumped into his arms. He caught her and swung her around in a wide circle while she laughed, her arms around him and her scent filling his head, making him feel dizzy with excitement. Pacey stopped spinning and looked into her eyes. "You're at Worthington!" he said.
She laughed, her face going all red. "I know!"
"Pacey!" Alexander shrieked, reaching for him. Laughing, he took the toddler in his arms. The boy hugged him tight around his neck.
Bodie and Pacey then shook hands. "You know, this is the first time in almost six years that this girl won't be living under my roof."
"Technically, it's my roof you are living under," Joey quipped.
"Okay there, girlie. Whatever. There is a roof, under which I was the adult and the provider and the protector, and you were the child."
She smirked, rolling her eyes playfully. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Pacey chuckled, and Bodie looked at him again. "I want you to look out for her. This is a big city, and we won't be around to help her out if she needs it."
"I will, sir," he deadpanned.
Bodie burst out laughing. "Don't you sir me, Pacey. Now, I've been to college, and I know what these college boys are like. So, you have my permission to put any fool in their place who tries anything fresh with her."
"I'm pretty sure Jo is more than capable of causing groin injuries and broken noses," Pacey grinned. "But I will do my best to defend her honor."
"He won't even be on campus most of the time. He has a job." Joey huffed, crossing her arms. "And the last thing I need is Pacey throwing punches around here."
Raising his hands in surrender, Bodie gave a shrug. "I'm just saying… if the situation calls for it…"
Bessie slapped his arm. "Enough of this nonsense. We have a bed and breakfast filled with guests, and we need to get back by three o'clock."
They all gave one last hug, said their goodbyes, and then Joey watched her family walk away.
Pacey started rubbing his palms together. "Okay. Let's see this dorm room."
Giggling, she took him by the hand and led him inside Plymouth Hall. Joey unlocked the door to room one-twenty-seven. Looking around, his mouth fell open. There were two twin beds against opposite walls, and Joey had clearly chosen the right side of the room as the other was still bare.
"This place is huge."
"And we get our own bathroom," she said excitedly, opening the door to reveal the toilet, sink, and shower stall.
"Damn. This place goes all out for you smart chicks."
She arched a brow. "Chicks?"
He pursed his lips and pulled a face. "Girls. Women."
"Are you starting to talk like those guys you work with?"
"Well, I like most of them. They're funny. And they do swear like a trooper, I have to say. But then again, doesn't everyone in Boston?"
Pacey fell back on top of Joey's bed and she climbed up next to him. He glanced at his watch. It was almost one o'clock. He groaned. Then he leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. "I have to be at work in two hours."
She snuggled against him as he wrapped an arm around her. "You're tired, huh?"
"Yeah, I'm tired," he breathed. "But it's a good tired. I'm also slightly hungover."
"Hungover?"
He opened his eyes to see her staring at him in surprise. "Friday night is the chefs' poker night. I had a little too much tequila, but I also won over three hundred bucks. So…"
Shaking her head, she lay on her back with his arm cradling her. She pulled the Motorola cell phone from her pocket and turned it on. She glanced at Pacey. "I have a voicemail."
After putting in her code, she brought the phone up to her ear. Joey smiled. "You left me a message?"
"I did?" He furrowed his brows in confusion.
"You don't remember?"
"No."
Joey laughed before closing her phone and tossing it to the bedside stand. "So, apparently, you drunk-dialed me, told me you loved me and my magic vagina, and then hung up."
He snorted with laughter. "Okay, now it's coming back."
"What am I gonna do with you, Pacey Witter?"
"Well, for starters, I hope you'll let me christen this bed before your roommate gets here."
"What did you have in mind?" she smirked.
Pacey leaned closer and pressed his cheek against hers. "I want to put my mouth on you. Kissing you with long, slow, deep kisses. Hard, sucking kisses on that spot that makes you cry out my name. Then, when you're wet and soft and ready for me, I'll slide deep, deep inside you," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "I want to fuck you slowly, make it last so I can savor everything about how you feel, inside and out… how hot and tight you are, the way you moan when I thrust high and hard, and the way your soft breasts and hard nipples feel rubbing against my chest. But nothing is better than the way you feel gripping my dick as I come."
"Wow, I really do have a magic vagina."
Laughing, Pacey pulled back to look at her, then tipped up her chin, and kissed her—not just a kiss, but one of his slow, deep kisses she felt down to her toes. His kisses breathed life into her, and she kissed him back. It could never be so good with anyone but him. It was as though he could see inside her, could read her as if he was her.
He was a mirror, the person who showed her everything that was holding her back, the person who had brought her to her own attention so she could change her life. And she'd changed it, irrevocably for the better. He'd changed his life, too.
They were mirrors to each other. Soulmates.
Joey broke their kiss. She caressed his face with the back of her fingers. She saw loving tenderness in his gaze, but he could barely keep his eyes open. "I think any christening will probably have to happen later."
As she looked into his blue eyes, as deep and changeable as the ocean he loved so much, the raw emotion she'd been fighting out on the college green was now threatening to rise up. Tears pricked her eyes. "We did it, Pace."
"What did we do?"
"We got out of Capeside."
He smiled. "I'm sure glad I never bet against that Potter girl."
The tears brimmed over and she sniffled. "I never would've made it out without you."
"Yeah, you would've."
"I don't think so. I probably would've self-sabotaged out of fear, like when I bombed at that Worthington party last December. Or if I did get out, then I would've just let Dawson take me wherever he was going. I'd still be that scared little girl who couldn't let go, no matter how much I needed to. And he wouldn't be able to let me go either. So, I'd be living under his whim, forever obligated to cater to his moods and feelings, and I'd never be able to break free from his controlling behavior.
"You know, I'd still be that girl… lingering on the clutch, unable to shift into gear and move on with my life, and I'd only end up damaging my transmission. Like you said."
He wiped the cascading tear from her cheek with his thumb, and remembering their driving lessons, gave her a knowing smile.
"I think back to the start of junior year. I was a real mess, wasn't I? These past two years could've been absolute hell for me, and instead they were some of the best years of my life. And all because of you, Pace. I love you. You're my best friend. You're the reason I'm here." Her voice choked on emotion. She brought her hand to his face, softly tracing his chin and then his mouth with her fingertips.
"I love you, Joey Potter."
"I know. Me and my magic vagina."
He chuckled and closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he pulled her closer.
She could see his body was desperately trying to succumb to his exhaustion. "You should get some sleep, sweetheart."
Pacey shifted lower on the bed, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his face in her breasts. "Wake me up at two-thirty," he said, his tired voice muffled by her shirt.
Joey slid her fingers through his unruly brown curls, and kept her eye on the clock.