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cleaning up leftover lines of cocaine that had been neatly set up and then abandoned. When Belita looked at me, she seemed embarrassed. “Is Newbury Street sometimes.” She shrugged.
    I don’t know which I was more surprised to see: cocaine or leftover cocaine.
    When I returned to the kitchen, Owen and Snacker, to my relief, were not beating the crap out of each other. Each had, however, adopted a masculine-looking pose. Snacker was feigning casualness by leaning against a wall with both arms crossed, his chef’s coat unbuttoned halfway, and a pen tucked behind one ear. Owen stood square in front of his rival, both hands on his hips, his chin raised a bit, and his expression falsely calm. Owen was one of the most unaggressive people I knew. He looked ridiculous.
    “Have Josh call me when he gets in if you think of anything else you need,” Owen said. “I’ll probably leave the warehouse by nine, but I can always run back if you’ve forgotten something.”
    “Nope. We should be good with the list I gave you,” Snacker responded. “Hey, Santos. Can you start the stock for me? And Javier, start cleaning the walk-in when you get a chance, please.”
    Owen shifted his weight to one leg. “Do you mind if I use your fax machine quickly? Mine was down this morning. I’ve got a few more price sheets to get out to my restaurants. Hopefully that will get me a few more orders in for today.”
    “Yeah. Help yourself,” Snacker said without looking at Owen.
    Owen refrained from snarling and went to the office.
    A man’s voice rang loudly through the kitchen. “Linens! Got your fresh linens! Any takers?” A round, middle-aged man clomped his heavy boots across the floor. He carried a tall stack of what I knew were aprons, napkins, kitchen shirts, and bar towels, all cleaned, pressed, and wrapped up in plastic. “Mornin’! Got your dirties for me?”
    “Hello, my friend,” Snacker said. “Just drop those in the front and help yourself to the bags. I think they’re by the bar.”
    Once before, I’d been to Simmer early enough to see Josh open. He’d lured me there with the promise of a hot breakfast. Now, the thought of food made my stomach give an embarrassing growl. “Sorry.”
    Snacker laughed. “Hungry? I’ll make you something to eat. How about an omelet?”
    I wasn’t about to protest, so I followed Snacker over to one of the flattop grills and happily watched him beat eggs and fill my omelet with goat cheese, diced red pear tomatoes, prosciutto, and julienne of fresh basil. I grabbed a seat on a stool and scooted out of the way so that Santos and Javier could move back and forth across the kitchen as they carried pots of liquid and sharp knives. I was struck with the amount of work that went into opening the restaurant each day. The cleaning, the scheduling, the food preparation and cooking, the need to take inventory... The work seemed endless!
    Isabelle entered the kitchen, her dark curls pulled back from her face, her cheeks glowing with a hint of pink blush. “Good morning, Chef,” she said softly. Isabelle had quickly learned to address both Josh and Snacker as Chef. In all other respects, the kitchen was informal; in that one, it definitely was not.
    “Miss Izzy Belle! How are you, darling? Ready for a big day? We’ve got that party later, so when you get settled, would you start the prep work on the salads?”
    “Of course, Chef.” She hung her bag on a hook by the office.
    “But go get yourself a cup of coffee first if you’d like. Might as well enjoy the calm before the storm.”
    I was pleased to see that Snacker, as well as Josh, was taking good care of Isabelle. Chefs were notorious for their brash, demanding, and even manic personalities. Consequently, it was wonderful that Josh and Snacker hadn’t yet scared off my young friend. Josh and Snacker were both devoted to the kitchen. They were demanding leaders and true perfectionists. Still, thank goodness, neither of them resembled