A bartender in a cute Rosie the Riveter bandanna and plaid shirt rolled at the sleeves slid in front of her. She had two delicate gold earrings in each ear and wore her curly dark brown hair in a pixie cut. Ruddy freckles sprayed across skin that was pockmarked with acne scars. Like all the staff, she appeared overworked but cheerful. “Whatcha havin’, darlin’?” Her Southern twang sounded as cozy as hot toddies in front of a fire.
“How’s the fried chicken?” Savannah asked. “And I hope you say it’s damn good.”
“It’s damn good, Kentucky.” Then, off Savannah’s look of surprise that this woman had picked her accent so precisely, she added, “And so am I, apparently.”
Fifteen minutes later, Savannah was presented with a meal that was better than sex. The juicy, golden-brown chicken was crispy and crunchy on the outside, moist and tender on the inside. Each deep-fried piece was soaked with a spicy-sweet honey sauce that was so good, Savannah asked for an extra side of it. She resisted the urge to moan as she ate, every bite sating a desperate, bone-deep craving. Around her, the staff whirred like a well-oiled machine. The girl with the pixie cut was the most efficient of all, equally friendly and adept. Savannah had been done for less than ten seconds before she swept by to clear her plate, flashing a brief, gap-toothed grin.
“That was just about the best fried chicken I’ve ever had,” Savannah hurried to offer. “Usually the leg is my favorite, but that breast was perfect.”
“Breast is best, right? Actually the honey-fried chicken’s my recipe. Named after myself.” The woman thumbed her necklace. Honey, in cursive, on a gold chain.
“Are you the owner?”
Honey tipped her head back and laughed. “I wish! One day.” Her arms were inked with fine tattoos: a dachshund, a triangle, the words Girl Almighty in tiny block letters. The only makeup she wore was a bright slash of red across her lips. “What about you, Kentucky? What do you do?”
“I’m a wedding planner.” At best it sounded like a fantasy. At worst, a lie. It’d been almost a week since the meeting with Kamile and Dave. Liv wasn’t returning her calls. “But not a very good one. I can’t even find a caterer.”
“You live here or just visitin’?”
“I live here.”
“Then I expect to see you back here,” Honey said, sliding the picked-clean bones into the trash.
“I’ll be a regular at anywhere serving Pappy Van Winkle.” Savannah pointed at her favorite bourbon whiskey. “Best bourbon in the world.”
Honey arched an eyebrow, seeming impressed. “I agree. And we’re the only restaurant in Bushwick who serves it.” She grabbed the bottle. “This one’s on me.”
Honey poured her a glass, winked, then turned her attention to the guys at the other end of the bar. Savannah watched their eyes slide over Honey’s body, lingering at the swell of her breasts. Half the men who came in here probably fell in love with her.
Savannah had never been short of male attention, but she’d never truly connected with any of the guys in the South. They always felt too familiar or too shallow. Sexless, like a big brother or a best friend. New York had already presented one worldly lover. It was sure to present another. Someone confident and hardworking, with a cheeky glint in their eye. Maybe that was the reason why she uprooted her life and moved to a new city where she knew no one and was unequivocally the tiniest fish in the world’s biggest pond. Because if love wasn’t in New York City—where was it?
Savannah lingered over her drink, not wanting the evening to end. But when the servers started putting chairs onto tables, she knew it was time to face reality. As she slipped off her stool, Honey came out from behind the bar and handed her a folded napkin.
“Here.”
For a disorientating moment, Savannah thought Honey was handing over her own number. But the name Sam Woods and a cell number were printed on the napkin.
“Catering recommendation,” Honey said. “We used to work together. Tell him Honey Calhoun sent you.”
A wave of warm tingles prickled Savannah’s skin. The restaurant, the recommendation, even Honey herself felt like the first glimpse of that New York magic she’d heard so much about. “Thank you.”
She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to squeeze Honey’s arm. To her delight, Honey pulled her in for a hug. A real hug: warm and sincere.
“All right, Kentucky.” Honey let her go. “Even though you’re not a real Southerner, I like you. So come back soon, okay?”
Savannah nodded. “And I’m Savannah.” Not Kentucky. Not anymore.
Honey tilted her head, impressed or maybe just amused. She flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. “Good night, Savannah.”
Savannah stepped out onto the chilly street, zipped up her jacket, and dared to feel hopeful.
5
Sam Woods didn’t typically cook test meals in potential clients’ homes. But Savannah Shipley had been both insistent and charming, and so, here he was on a Wednesday afternoon, outside a lovely old brownstone. A family home. Sam felt an unfamiliar pang of envy as he pressed the doorbell.
The door was answered by a woman in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt. Unsmiling, but not unattractive. Liv Goldenhorn, presumably. She was about the same age he was, maybe a pinch younger, which was a relief: clients in their twenties and thirties tended to be too demanding or too indecisive. Her gaze flicked to the bags of groceries at his feet.
“Kitchen’s straight through, do you mind?”
He went to explain he wasn’t a delivery man, he was the chef she’d been expecting, but Liv had already disappeared up the stairs. So Sam picked up his grocery bags and did as he was told. He walked down a hallway lined with art, past a wooden staircase curling up, and into an open-plan kitchen and dining room. Certainly, the brownstone was a cozy home, exuding a familial, artsy charm; a fridge papered with school artwork, a dining room table scattered with books and unopened bills, a fruit basket piled with overripe apples and bananas. But it was also a mess. The sink was heaped with dishes. The recycling bin was overflowing. Marie Kondo would have a fit.
“H-hello? Liv?” Silence but for the faint patter of a shower. Savannah Shipley promised she’d be there. He set down the bags and moved toward the patio doors to send her a text. The overgrown backyard was dominated by a fifty-foot weeping willow. It was, sadly, dying. Several of its beefy limbs were already deadwood. The whole thing needed to be chopped down.
The text to Savannah didn’t deliver.
Unsure what else to do, Sam started unpacking the groceries. There was barely enough room on the countertops, so he tossed the oil-slick take-out containers in the trash, wiped down the bench, emptied the dishwasher, and filled it up again. After locating an apron (brand-new and floral), he began chopping onions.
Ah, the noble onion. As reliable and ubiquitous as the faithful hound. Cooking onions actually diminished their bold taste but increased the flavor of the food around them, which Sam felt was generous. With deft, methodical fingers, he peeled his first onion, sliced it lengthwise, and placed it in the center of the chopping board. Then, angling the knife, which he noted was a little blunt, he made five even slices horizontally, cutting back toward the end, then sliced vertically. The result was a small white mound of perfectly diced onion. Cooking relaxed Sam, sending his body and brain into a meditative state. When things got bad, and they had gotten bad, the kitchen was where he felt safe.