Southern Charmer (Charleston Heat 1)

My hands shake a little when I unlock my bicycle. Yoga always leaves me a little shaky. But I think I’m shaky with excitement, too. A little disbelief.

I don’t know what good deed I did to deserve a (temporary) neighbor like Eli. If anything, I feel like the villain of my own story right now. Like I’m tipping the karmic scales against myself for escaping a perfectly nice life. A life I chose.

I don’t understand any of it. Not Eli’s reasons. Not my own.

But my gut is telling me the key to untangling my feelings isn’t holing up and licking my wounds in private.

It’s telling me to get out. Something I don’t do often enough, especially by myself, in small town New York.

So tonight, I’m going out.Chapter SevenEliI’m still sweating from class when I pull up to The Pearl. The ninety degree temperature isn’t helping. We’re at the end of September, but the heat has yet to abate. When it’s this hot outside, it’s a fucking inferno inside the kitchen.

Greeting my prep guys who are busy making stock, chopping veggies, and butchering meat, I duck my head into the walk-in refrigerator to make sure we have a supply of clean, wet towels cooling on their usual shelf. The cooks and I will wrap ’em around our heads and necks tonight in an attempt not to die during service. Then I head for the kitchen.

My happy place.

I still get butterflies every time I walk in, even though it’s been years since I opened the place. I’ve known from the time I could walk that I wanted to be a chef. My earliest memories are all about food: sitting on Grandaddy’s lap, shoveling my mother’s famous potato salad into my mouth with both fists. Watching my uncle smoke an entire pig in a pit in our backyard, then helping him butcher it on a picnic table. Keeping quiet while Mama made mayo from scratch because “noise ruined it”.

I love food and I love family. In my kitchen, I get to have both on a daily basis, as the staff at The Pearl has gelled into our own not-so-little family over the years. We have very, very little turnover. People—whether they be line cooks, servers, sous chefs, bartenders, or busboys—like working here. I’d like to think it’s because they feel connected to a higher purpose. We’re not just filling people’s bellies. We’re filling their eyes, their heads, their souls, too. There’s an exquisite kind of beauty in sitting down to eat good food with good friends. Connecting over cocktails, forgetting worries while savoring a cup of perfect peach ice cream (hand churned, of course).

I try not to think about the family at The Jam. The one that I’m probably going to have to break up soon. Just this morning, I poured more of my own money into The Jam’s coffers—an emergency cash infusion to keep the doors open. Things are not looking good over there. So in addition to the money, I’m pulling long shifts in the kitchen there alongside Naomi whenever I can. We’re scrambling to adjust the menu while sticking to my “simple is better” philosophy. But no matter how many menu items we tweak, or how many hours I spend pouring over the books or working my ass off in the kitchen, nothing seems to help.

I feel a familiar heaviness settling on my chest. Blinking, I get to work.

Work always helps chase the anxiety away.

So does yoga, and hanging out with Olivia. I was more excited than I should’ve been to run into her in class this morning.

Just like I’m more excited than I should be to cook for her again.

Pulling a clipboard and pen from a nearby drawer, I start to jot down ideas for tonight’s specials and tasting menu. I reserve a spot or two for dishes my line cooks pitch. As hard as they work, it’s important to allow them to flex their creative muscles.

I always feed my staff before service, so I make some notes about what to cook for them, too.

I take my time with all my menus. But today, I’m especially thorough. Which may or may not have to do with the fact that I want to feed Yankee girl the best damn meal of her life. Despite the pretty smile Olivia flashed me during class this morning, there was still pain in her eyes. Sadness.

Sadness that disappeared, for a minute or two, while she ate the grits bowl I made her yesterday. A full belly has a way of making things feel a little less heavy.

A way of making you feel a little less lost.

Yoga works up an appetite anyhow. Case in point—I’m ravenous. More so than usual.

I blame it on practicing extra hard because I was next to a gorgeous woman with a hot, strong body. Girl didn’t miss a pose. And the way the muscles in her calves flexed during locust pose—