My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

Finding myself next to Esmar, I whisper, “I don’t want to jinx things, but it seems as though this is all going well, yes?”

He smiles and touches the wooden spoon sitting next to him. I do the same to banish any bad luck my words might’ve conjured.

“You are a thoughtful chef, Lorenzo. You should not be surprised that prep is going well.”

His praise means a lot to me. “Thank you, Chef.”

He scans the room, double-checking on his crew before tilting his head toward the dry storage. Silently, I follow him to the semi-private area, sure that he’s going to impart some knowledge or give me some feedback on something I can do better.

“Have you enjoyed your short time here on the island, Chef Toscani?” Esmar says formally.

“Absolutely,” I answer instantly.

The truth is, I have. More than I had anticipated.

The time in the kitchen has been amazing, but also, the time exploring the island with Abigail has been unexpected and powerful. It feels like I have this full, vibrant life where I never know what to expect—are the papayas ripe to make Aruban hot sauce this morning? Will Gilberto show up on time or will Henri have to drag him out of some random guest’s bed to get him to the line, where he’ll regale us with tales that I’m certain are more embellishment than truth? Am I playing along with some honeymoon scheme by making eyes at Abigail? What shocking craziness will come out of Abigail’s mouth when the two of us talk for hours after the sun has long since disappeared below the horizon?

It feels like every moment is full of possibility.

Esmar nods, a wide smile showing his white teeth. “Good, good. I know you travel frequently, a man who always wanders but is never lost, you are.” He makes it sound fanciful and romantic to live out of a duffle bag so small it can attach to my motorcycle. “So I know I cannot keep you locked down. But I would like to offer a position for however long you’d like it. A week, a month, six? I would be honored if you would work alongside me.”

I’m shocked. I’m honored. I’m excited. I’m . . . terrified.

“Wow, I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. “Uh, first, thank you, of course. Thank you, truly. But . . .”

And that’s where I get stuck.

This is how so many of my opportunities have come up over the years—a friend of a friend recommending me or a chef coming through a restaurant that I’m working at, or even my hearing of a chef I’d like to learn from and approaching them directly. It’s always been a buzzing thrill of ‘what if?’

If I stay here, I will get to work with Esmar, Gilberto, Henri, and more.

If I stay here, I will live in paradise, steps from the sea.

If I stay here, I will have a whole world of new foods and flavors to learn and incorporate into my portfolio and palate.

If I stay here, I will never see Abigail again.

She will go home, this I know for certain. Back to her family, her business, and her future. She is not a flower arrangement to be pulled from the dirt for transport anywhere I wish. No, she is an oak tree with roots spread deep and wide, meant to live out her life in one place.

Would Aruba be the same without her here? I don’t know.

But will returning ruin things between Abigail and me? I don’t know that, either. Perhaps this is nothing more than one of her schemes that has gotten out of hand, and when we hit the mainland, it will vanish into thin air.

Esmar senses my uncertainty. He pats my shoulder, much like a father would a son. “No rush, Lorenzo. The offer has no expiration date. I simply want you to know . . . you are always welcome here. I do not share often or well, but with you, I would share my kitchen anytime. Or if you’d rather run your own pass, there are two other restaurants on the resort grounds that would be lucky bastards to have you.”

Emotion makes my throat tight. “Thank you, Chef. Working with you has been a true honor.” I shake his hand, both our hands squeezing respectfully.

But never one to play too fast and loose, Esmar adds, “By the way, I put you on the schedule for dinner service on Monday night.”

I laugh. “My flight leaves on Sunday.”

“Aah, we shall see, Chef Toscani.”“Chef!”

I do not have time for this. Though everything is running smoothly—I touch the wooden spoon again—I don’t have time to pause for Meredith’s meddling.

But such is life.

“Yes, Meredith,” I say, not stopping my movements as I add the final touches to the tray of hors d’oeuvres.