The Caterer

Chapter 1

A LICE DREW THE SHREDDED PORK from its marinade of blood oranges and red wine, slipping it into three homemade tortillas she’d pressed that morning. She turned to the prep table on the other side of the food truck, topping the pork with mango salsa and pickled red onion before handing it to Valencia, who sprinkled on the cilantro. The garlic and the onion of the meat hit Alice’s stomach, making it growl. Valencia handed the lidless to-go box to the man outside the window, who commented on the variety of color. Valencia smiled and drew in a long breath before starting off on the flavors of a meal, the true experience of well-made food when all the flavors blended perfectly. She set her dark hand on the back of her hip, the other waving in front of her square face. Valencia became more animated when she talked about food. Alice knew the feeling. The mixture of unexpected flavors, how it would hit a person in waves. The way the texture complemented the hints and tones of a perfectly assembled dish. The right food could take a person on a journey, transport them to another place.

The man told them to have a good day before sitting with his friends in the park beside the food truck. Alice glanced at her watch; she needed to leave for her event in an hour and a half .

“Mi querida, the line is getting long. Switch with me.” Valencia preferred to be on the grill juggling orders while Alice managed the front, probably because Val loved to talk, whereas Alice could take orders and call out numbers. Alice stepped to the side and let Val slip back to the cooking area. She wiped her forehead with the top of her sleeve and moved into position.

The next time she looked up from giving the customer his change, twelve people waited in line. Where did they come from? If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be late to her event; Carver would kill her.

“Your event, mi querida.” Valencia looked her way. “You’re late.”

“I can stay.” Alice glanced at the sidewalk, the line almost gone.

“Go. Go. We’re almost out of things anyway.”

“I can’t let you clean all this up by yourself.”

Valencia put her hand on the counter and cocked her head.

“Go. Tell me all about it lunes . Go.” She pointed to the back door.

Alice sighed and slipped off her purple apron. “Thank you.”

“Believe in yourself!” Valencia called as Alice stepped out of the food truck. She unclipped her bike from the side and started to ride. After being in the food truck all day, the rush of air was a welcome relief. A rare, perfect D.C. summer day—warm but not overly muggy. She meant to leave enough time to take a shower and change, but now she’d arrive smelling like cilantro and sweat. If all went to plan, she would go unnoticed. Normally cooking dinner for ten people wouldn’t be that big of a deal, except for the client: Delany Clare, former point guard for the Wizards. The team’s top shooter for close to a decade until he tore his ACL one too many times. She attended Delany’s last home game the month before, her father a season ticket holder. The idea of him not being on the court in the fall still felt odd. He’d been with the team since Alice was in high school .

She locked up her bike and went inside his apartment building. Please let there be a bathroom in the lobby. She did a quick scan, not seeing one.

“Can I help you, miss?” the man at the desk asked.

“Alice Gibson. I’m here for Delany Clare.”

“Ah yes, his assistant told me to expect you.” He did a once-over on her and her short red jumpsuit and forced a smile before handing her a key card. “He’s on the top floor, and I’ll need that back when you’re done.”

“Of course.” Alice shifted her messenger bag and got on the elevator. Please don’t let Mr. Clare already be there. Give her one break today.

The elevator opened to three doors. Alice found the one Mr. Clare owned and knocked. A woman her age answered, a few inches shorter with paprika red hair and eyes the color of limes.

“Ms. Gibson? I’m Katy O’Toole. Come in.”

Alice stepped inside the apartment. The front area went down three steps into the living room with a long L-shaped leather couch and a massive TV in the corner by the windows that offered a panoramic view of The District from the Capitol all the way to Rosslyn, including The Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial.

“What you requested is in the kitchen. Dinner should be ready to go around seven.” Katy led her to the narrow kitchen, most of the appliances on the far wall across from a long and skinny island with a series of stools on the far side. A small dining table sat before a set of windows, a built-in coffee bar to the right. Carver forced a smile from the stove. God bless her business partner for covering her butt.

“If you need to change, there’s a guest bath around the corner,” Katy said.

“Thank you.” Alice smiled weakly. Katy left them alone.

“You’re late!” Carver whispered .

“I know, I’m sorry. Where are we?” She took the lid off the leg of lamb she’d left marinating for two days.

“I started that about twenty minutes ago. I’m washing the veggies now.”

Fresh flowers and edibles waited on the counter along with the oils and dressings they needed. She washed her hands and set their food processor on the island to make the pesto.

Sensing a quiet moment, she reached for her messenger bag and found the bathroom Katy told her about. She took out her slacks and a polka-dot blouse. After being in the food truck her chocolate-colored hair laid flat, but some goo helped bring it back to something fun and whimsical. By luck, she grabbed some body spray that morning. Alice slipped into her flats, shoved her dirty clothes into her bag and went back to the kitchen. A purple apron rested on the counter alongside the appropriate wine for the night. Carver worked to finish accenting the tiramisu.

“You can go if you want.” Alice leaned her hip into the counter. Carver glanced at her, a hint of annoyance in his gaze. She studied his black eyes and diamond face. He belonged in a Motown band, smooth darker skin, easy smile. He wore colored chinos with a white cotton, collared shirt, and a black chef’s apron

“It’s okay. My wife is taking the kids to a movie at the zoo.”

“I can handle ten people.”

Carver put the hand strainer on a paper towel to not get cocoa on the counter.

“It’s a big night, Lil. I know you can do it, but we’re in this together.” If he was really irate, he’d call her Alice. Thankfully, he used the nickname only close friends called her.

“I don’t want you to miss time with your kids, Carver.”

“Let’s see where we are after we get the main course out. You’re doing cleanup, believe me.”

“I figured that.” Alice set the vegetables to roast in the oven. Katy came into the kitchen, asking if they needed anything else .

“Is this the wine for tonight?” Katy picked up a bottle.

“I was told Mr. Clare didn’t have any alcohol preferences.” Carver wiped his hands on his apron.

Katy put the bottle down. “He owns a vineyard in Napa. Let me grab you some of his stock to use.” She walked to a wine fridge by the windows, Carver following to investigate.

“Does Mr. Clare have a full bar?”

“I’ll let you answer that,” Katy said, and they walked to the main room, Alice unable to hear their conversation. Carver came back into the kitchen, a wide smile on his face.

“This just got fun!” The last bit of annoyance faded as Carver got lost in concocting a fun drink to pair with the lamb. He brought a sample for Alice to taste. She didn’t drink often but could help with flavors.

“Try rosemary.” She went back to work as the door opened multiple times, and the conversation in the front got louder.

“Five minutes.” Katy poked her head in. Alice ran her hands over her purple apron and looked at the tomato, aubergine, and mozzarella mini tarts with local flowers on top. Katy came into the room and gave her the thumbs-up, before sitting at the end of the island. Alice hadn’t run food in years, but hoped her skills from her catering days would come back as she balanced four plates to deliver.

The table for ten sat against the full wall of windows with a view of the city all lit up. Alice kept her gaze down, desperate to steady her nerves. She started at the far end, slipping plates into places. Carver carried three more plates behind her. On the next trip, Alice grabbed two bottles of the drier red wine. She filled people’s glasses, leaving the rest on the table. Back in the kitchen, she put a tarte next to Katy, who thanked her, looking up from her laptop.

“What do you do for Mr. Clare?” Alice asked.

“I’m his personal assistant, so I keep his life running, and yeah, whatever he asks.”

“How did you get hired for that?”

Katy bobbed her head and finished her bite. “Ad in the paper. I moved here after college about five years ago and had no desire to work on the hill or rot in an office. Why not travel the world and have no social life?”

Alice laughed as Carver came in with dirty appetizer plates. The second course featured lamb shanks with locally sourced fingerling potatoes and mini carrots, topped with a pesto made from local edibles, including chickweed and dandelion leaves. Alice plated the lamb as Carver came back for the plates, not wanting them to get cold. He asked her to take the last three, grabbing the pitchers of rosemary margaritas he prepared.

“That last plate is for you,” Alice said to Katy as she followed Carver back to the party. She set the plates down while Carver told the table about the drink and how it should hit their palate and interact with the lamb. She left two bottles of Mr. Clare’s red wine on the table, doing a quick sweep of the party. Mr. Clare sat at the head, a beautiful Black woman with a long face and close-set dark eyes to his left. She touched his forearm as Carver talked. A heavier-set Black man sat on his right, drinking a whiskey, a skinny woman to his left. The rest of the party appeared to be couples, well-dressed, wealthier.

“Seriously, I normally just raid the fridge for leftovers,” Katy said when Alice came back.

“Well, that’s silly.” Alice started to break down the pans, pulling together the last of the vegetables and extra edibles onto a plate. Alice ate a few pieces of lamb from the pan then started another pitcher of margaritas, asking Katy if she wanted one.

“Please!” She moaned. “God, the lamb is heavenly!”

“I run a food truck on K Street.” Alice got a glass from the cupboard to fill.

“The Cuban food one? I love that place!”

She took the pitcher to the table, clearing bottles and plates. Carver pulled his tiramisu from the fridge. Alice carried two carafes of coffee to the table. Delany stood and offered espresso drinks, three people going with him into the area by the wine fridge. Carver went to serve his dessert, the swooshing of steaming milk filling the air. The kitchen looked like children made the meal. Alice would never have left it in such a state if she knew Mr. Clare might see it. She tried to pull things together, hiding plates in the sink, and trying to stack the pans better. She wiped down the island, throwing the crumbs in the sink.

“I’ll be right there,” a voice said. “Hi, I’m Delany.” He was shorter for a basketball player. Tailored, tan slacks showed off his slender frame, dark blue button-up rolled almost to his elbows.

“Alice Gibson.” She ran her hand over her apron before shaking his.

“The food’s delicious. I’ve never seen anyone put flowers on a quiche before.” His eyes reminded her of the moonless nights at her parents’ house near the Pennsylvania border. The well-kept beard on his rugged chin highlighted his full lips.

“They’re local and completely edible. I hope that’s okay.”

“No, I liked it.” He smiled and touched her arm, warmth flooding her body. “I didn’t realize Carver had a catering arm.”

“We’re just getting going. A way for us to have fun with food.”

“You certainly did that. The meal was delicious.”

She smiled. Someone called Delany’s name.

“It was nice meeting you, Alice.” He walked away. Alice leaned forward on her tiptoes. Holy cheese puffs, he was hot up close.

“Yeah, I know, right?” Katy said from the end of the island. Alice froze, forgetting Katy was there. She came back down and went to collect the dishes. Katy laughed from her place.