Midlife Do Over

“Fine, but there’s something you should know about Dark Horse.”

I waved off her concern with a literal swipe of my hand. “Nothing can be as bad as dealing with Rodrick.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she mumbled, but I was already heading down the first floor hall to the guest room.

Inside my room, I pulled open the first suitcase I found, relived to see it was stacked with work clothes. “Black won’t work, I think I need to wear something colorful. Something delightfully southern.”

“Delightfully southern?”

“Yeah, you know, something colorful and feminine. But capable.” I pulled out my favorite red slacks that hugged my backside like a lover. “How about this with my black silk top? It says capable and strong but feminine, right?”

“Yes. With those insane black stilettos you’ll look gorgeous. As always.”

I rolled my eyes at my best friend’s compliment. “Thanks, but I’m just interested in looking like a good front of house manager.” I changed quickly and then dug through the lone box that wasn’t sitting inside a storage locker, and found my power stilettos, capable of turning any woman into a superhero. “How do I look?”

“Like the world’s best front of house manager?”

My shoulders relaxed at her perfectly placed words. “Thanks. Hair?”

“Keep it down,” she said and closed the distance between us, scrunching my natural waves with her fingers. “Perfect.”

“If I get this job, you, me and the girls are going out for dinner tonight. On me.” I hugged Valona and held her in my arms for a longer than necessary. “Thank you for bringing this up.”

“Don’t be silly, I’ve just got you back in town and I’m not ready to lose you to the big city again.”

“That’s not going to happen. I’m sorry I stayed away for so long and missed so many years with the girls. It feels silly in hindsight, to let him keep me away for so long, but after things fell apart with Dexter, it just brought it all back to the surface.”

“It’s all right, Pip, I understand. Randy died in the middle of divorcing me, so trust me when I say that I get the baggage. If not for the girls having a solid community here, I would have gone away too.”

I squeezed my best friend a little tighter. “I’m so happy I get to hug you anytime I want now.” I pulled back with a smile, kissed Valona’s cheek and rushed out the door with my black purse flung over my shoulder, car keys fisted in my hand. “Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it,” she called after me and I let those four words boost my confidence as I took the short drive to The Old Country House, which was even more gorgeous than the photos, and took the left lane that led to Dark Horse.

I sat in my car for exactly one minute, calming my breaths and giving myself a quick pep talk. “One jerk of a chef in Chicago doesn’t define you. You know your stuff and you are an asset to any restaurant smart enough to give you a chance.” I let my eyes connect in the mirror and smiled. “You got this.”

I rushed inside, lest anyone else show up and try to take the job that was—clearly—meant to be mine.

Less than a minute after I entered, a long and lean man in a three piece navy blue suit with merlot window pane pinstripes strolled out to greet me with a pleasant smile. He looked as if he’d stepped right from the pages of a fashion magazine, which put him dressed even more fancy than me. “Welcome to Dark Horse. What can I do for you today?”

I put on my biggest welcoming smile and held out a hand. “I’m Pippa Carson and I am your new front of house manager.”

“I’m Devon,” he said with a hint of a smile and motioned me to a booth in the middle of the dining room after I handed him my resume.

I look around the place, excited about making my mark on a brand new restaurant. “The décor is beautiful, a bit rustic, but no doubt this is a fine dining establishment. It has character and that can go along way for helping a new restaurant stand out in a crowd.” I was rambling, I felt it down to my core, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “This place will do good business even without the built-in help from the events taking place on the property.”

“Tell me about Chicago.” His words were short and to the point, delivered without emotion.

I nodded, feeling my nerves rise as I recounted the events that led to my demise in a clipped, emotionless tone. “The chef, Rodrick, grabbed me by the arm and then squeezed when I told him to let me go. He didn’t, so I hit him with the leg of lamb he refused to redo for a paying customer.” I shrugged as if getting fired didn’t still burn. “The lamb was dry and he wouldn’t hear of it, refused to even taste it and instead got physical with me. It wasn’t my finest moment, but he’s the only temperamental chef to ever get that reaction out of me.”