“Thank you.”
Something in the man’s pleasant demeanor hardened. The man reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and slid a business card across the table, face down. She reached for it, but he placed his hand over the card before she could pick it up.
“Before you do,” he said, “hear me out. Have you heard of theSavillecase?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, like an actor from a movie everyone else thought was good but she hadn’t seen.
Was he going to tell her about a male chef he thought she should study because obviously a female chef—she hated whenpeople referred to women as females—could improve with some male guidance? Maybe he’d even ask for a job.
“I’d love to chat more, but I need to get back to the kitchen,” Sullivan said.
“It’s a marriage fraud case that the fraudsters lost. Our attorneys will use it to nail you to the wall.”
Sullivan’s breath died at the bottom of her lungs. The man was from Mega Eats.
“Good night.” Sullivan rose.
“Your grandfather started the process of getting his land surveyed and his lot lines redrawn but died before he could register the paperwork.”
“Excuse me.” Sullivan turned away.
Customers at nearby tables were watching.
“A third of your house is in the Bois. The lot line goes right through what I’m guessing is your kitchen. Mega Eats is going to win this case, and if you don’t help us, we’re going to build anything we want, and we’re going to build right up to the lot line. Do you understand what that means? We’re going to shear off a third of your house.”
He was bluffing.
“That’s not true, and even if it was, you can’t do that. Lot lines get adjusted all the time.”
“Not when Mega Eats wants them to stay the way they are.” He reached in his pocket again and passed her a flash drive. “All the documentation is here.”
Her home was her sanctuary. The Bois was her cathedral and her meditation room and the place where she talked to her grandfather when she was worried or sad or excited. Mirepoix was her pride and joy. She looked around the restaurant at the servers moving gracefully between tables. She’d have to lay everyone off.
“I am not putting your virus-laden drive anywhere near my computer,” she spat.
The man shrugged. Sullivan sat back down so as to draw less attention from her customers.
“If you came here to intimidate me… fine, I’m intimidated. Job done. And I’m comping your meal, but you’re leaving right now.”
“I don’t want to intimidate you. I want to help you.”
Fuck off, Sullivan mouthed.
“You see, Mega Eats wants the Bois, but more than that, we don’t like to lose. We don’t want to give the impression that a couple of lesbians—”
“I’m not—”
The man rolled his eyes as if to say,Whatever, close enough.
“Nothing can stop Mega Eats. Not everyone appreciates a Mega Plex until it moves into their neighborhood.”
Sullivan clasped her hands tightly, feeling the strength of her chef’s scars.
“If we let citizens,” the man went on, “neighborhood associations, etcetera prevent us from building, people will never know how much they really do want to try our new Mega Southrn Cook’n.”
“That name is offensive. The south can spell perfectly well.”
“But you aren’t the issue. You’re not trying to buy the Bois. You’re just one local who doesn’t like change. Our problem”—he enunciated each word—“is Kia Jackson. So here’s the offer. You file for divorce and you testify in court that Kia Jackson tricked you into marriage. Spin that however you want. You were lonely. She promised you a payout. Whatever. For that, Mega Eats will amend the lots. We’ll leave fifty feet of green space around your house and around Mirepoix.”
