“I love you too, billionaire boy,” I reply. “Now, go fix this. And if it turns out Juliette planted the camera, I will punch her.”
“Stop calling me billionaire boy,” he grumbles, though there’s a smile in his voice. “I hate that nickname.”
39
It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.
M.F.K. Fisher, The Art of Eating
Sebastian:
Helen’s voice is pitched high and her words tumble out. “Chef, thank god. You have to get down here.”
Helen manages the pass at Seb New York with complete calm. I’ve seen her deal with missing line cooks, burnt meat, overcooked fish, and she’s unflappable. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s been a fire at the restaurant.” Her voice is strained. “The kitchen’s destroyed.”
“A fire?” Every muscle in my body is suddenly rigid. There’s a tingling in my fingers and a tightening in my chest. It’s difficult to breathe. “Where? How? What happened?” I’m putting on my coat as we speak, and Daniel eyes me with concern as I pace toward the door.
“At Seb New York,” she confirms my deepest fear. My restaurant. My precious, precious restaurant. “The firemen are here now, and they think some spilled oil caused it. Ben was in the kitchen, and they’ve rushed him to ER.” Her voice catches. “They don’t think he’s going to make it.”
I clutch at the phone, my knuckles white. This is my fault. This is all my fault. Ben has shown up drunk to work, and I’ve failed to send him home, even though the kitchen is a dangerous place for someone who is inebriated. I should have fired him so he couldn’t have hurt himself. I was going to fire him after my conversation with Katya on Thursday. Now, it’s too late.
“I’ll be right there,” I tell her. What have I done?
* * *
“What’s the matter?” Daniel asks when I hang up. He’s put on his jacket on as well. “I heard the word fire.”
“In the kitchen at Seb New York,” I say. I notice he’s following me. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” he asks me with a frown. “I’m coming with you.”
“Daniel, there’s a wall of reporters outside the door, and you said that Sally told you to keep a low profile.”
“You came here,” he says. “You braved the wall of reporters.” He gives me a half-smile. “It’s time to return the favor. Sebastian, I’ve listened to Cyrus all these years, and to what end? Cyrus doesn’t care about me. He just cares about becoming the CEO of Hartman.” He shakes his head. “What’s really important is this. Us. You, me and Bailey.”
“What about the reporters? The Kansas City deal? The meeting with the board of directors? Or are you going to give in to Cyrus and resign?”
“I don’t know.” His smile is strangely carefree. “Right now, I don’t have any of the answers. Let’s go deal with the fire. Once that’s done, I need to call the president of NYU and tell him that I’m not going to stand by and watch them fire Bailey in order to sweep their little plagiarism problem under the table. Then, we talk to Juliette. The other stuff - Cyrus, the board of directors, the Kansas City deal - all of that can wait.” He looks me in the eye. “People matter more than a job, Sebastian. I think it’s time I proved that.”
I slant him a look. “You sure about this? I don’t want you to regret it.”
“I’m positive.” He sounds completely confident. “Hartman and Company is not my life. I don’t think I could look myself in the mirror if I didn’t help you.”
This is the Daniel Hartman who extended his hand to help a nineteen year old runaway from Mississippi. On impulse, I hug my best friend. “I’m glad you are coming,” I tell him. “It would be good to have a friend at my side. Thank you.”