The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Read online

  “Okay.” I nervously cleared my throat and read him my cherished review—aloud.

  * * *

  Food Disclosure

  by Penelope Monroe

  I searched the Internet for impressive synonyms that would artfully convey meanings of the words trendy, unique, succulent, innovative, superb, ultra-chic hip, and magnificent. Those vibrant words collectively define everything that is Cristofano Woods.

  Trendy - the decor. The small, mildly toned-down younger sibling of Marty Raven is a tasteful trendsetter from floor to ceiling.

  Unique - the food. I mean, yes, it’s just pizza, but then again it’s not just pizza. You’ll have to trust me on this one. Hint: it’s not the typical-style pizza NY is known for. This is wood-fired pizza. As in baked in real eight-hundred-degree Stefano Ferrara ovens straight outta Naples, Italy. Oh and they also bake their signature pasta and veggie dishes wood-fired style, as well. In fact, everything is wood-fired. Except for their vast selection of wine. But who knows? Maybe that too.

  Succulent - back to the pizza. I mean a pizza with clams and white sauce? Yup. And every bite of it seemed to seductively melt in my mouth. And I’ve never been one to use the word seductive to define food. But don’t simply take my word for it. Go now. Get your own—if you like long lines that wrap around the block. But don’t let that stop you. The experience is truly worth the wait.

  Innovative - the total concept. Only those Marty Raven folks could pull this off. What’s their secret? If they told us they’d probably have to kill us.

  Superb - the service. Actually it was beyond superb. The team really does know how to woo guests so they’ll come back for more and more. And even more. I felt like my waitress was my BFF. In fact, I’m pretty sure she convinced me to name my firstborn after her. Rebecca. Wait. What if my firstborn is a boy?

  Ultra-chic hip - the vibe. A place where celebrities and everyday people can playfully dine alike while listening to a diverse selection of loud music.

  Magnificent - the experience all summed up. Or perhaps I should have chosen the word magnanimous because the experience as a whole was royally cool.

  I didn’t want my evening at Cristofano Woods to come to an end. But all good things must…

  Perhaps I have inspired you to find your indulgence in the magnificently trendy, uniquely succulent, superbly innovative, and ultra-chic hip, hot spot, more famously known as Cristofano Woods.

  Cheers to you and yours!

  * * *

  Garrett looked at me stone-faced, saying absolutely nothing after hearing what I thought to be a prized review. He stood up, picked up the copy of the review from his desk, and said, “You’ll have to excuse me for just one moment.” He walked out of his office and closed the door behind him. That moment seemed like an eternity before he returned with another man who had a very obvious receding hairline. He was shorter and much more rounded out than Garrett. He closely resembled an actor from an old 1980s TV show called Taxi that Sebastian and I tried to binge watch on Netflix.

  I stood up, not knowing exactly what was happening. The rounded-out man held out his hand to shake mine. I nervously wiped the sweat off the palm of my hand onto my pants before going in hard for a firm shake.

  “Penelope. Great to meet you. I’m Jake Simms, owner of The Hudson News Bee.”

  “Oh wow. Good to meet you, Mr. Simms.” I smiled generously and instantly remembered the name of the actor I thought he resembled. Danny DeVito…yeah.

  “Please, call me Jake,” he insisted, “and please, go ahead and sit back down.”

  I quickly sat back down as instructed.

  “Penelope, Garrett showed me your review, and I must say, he and I both think it’s excellent work. Print worthy, in fact.”

  “Print…um, what?” I asked, scratching my head.

  “We’d like to run your review,” Garrett interjected. “Like now. As in send to print and publish online.”

  I sat there, unable to speak.

  “And we’d like to offer you the position. Full time. Full benefits. Everything. Your writing is phenomenal. Infused with talent,” said Jake, as he paced back and forth.

  “And the title Food Disclosure? Is that something you came up with?” Garrett asked.

  I nodded yes.

  “It’s freaking awesome,” said Jake. He approached me, bending down at eye-level, placed his hands on my shoulders, and looked me in the eyes the way my dad used to whenever he wanted to have a heart to heart. “We’d like to give you the opportunity to write a column under that title, every month, at first. Then, if it helps us sell more papers and online subscriptions, you’ll eventually write for us every week,” he added.

  And that, my friends, is how it all began.

  I gratefully accepted their offer, signed an employment contract, and Food Disclosure launched my career as a food critic. My reviews went from a monthly, to a bi-weekly, and then to a weekly column. I visited and reviewed all types of New York based restaurants—Michelin starred to quaint local bakeries. Just as I hoped, I became known only by name, being careful in keeping my identity concealed. Only the newspaper, family, some college classmates, and Sebastian knew I was the Penelope Monroe. Restaurant owners, chefs, and CEOs would religiously read my weekly column, as my written reviews would either make or break them. A good review meant a surge of business. A bad review meant an obvious loss of business, or even a decline in a Chef’s overall reputation as in the case of one semi-famous chef and restaurant owner named Jonathan Knight.

  Garrett and I began dating about six months after I joined The Bee’s editorial team. We got serious enough that I assumed he was going to propose. I was so in love with him. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to find him screwing some stupid bitch in my office.

  And now, today, meet the new me: Penelope Monroe, the brokenhearted, unemployed food critic.

  Ugh.

  I fucking hate Mondays.

  Chapter 2

  A cloud of mental clarity hovers over me like a beacon of hope, early the next morning. Bless you, Tuesday. I simply adore you.

  Thanks to the loft’s considerably thin walls, I can hear Sebastian rattling dishes in the kitchen—something he does when trying to entice me out of my bedroom. I managed to avoid him altogether yesterday. Selfishly, I needed the downtime. However, Sebastian is my best friend, and I do owe him a complete account of yesterday’s events.

  Forcing myself to roll out of bed, I pull my hot-pink satin robe over me, slip into my pink, furry, Powerpuff-girl slippers, and check my reflection in the antique mirror that hangs at a crooked yet complacent angle on the back of my bedroom door. The whites of my eyes are now a blazing red, thanks to the tsunami of tears that flowed down my face last night. And for the record, I’m not, by any means, a crier. But seriously, that shit felt like a rusty crossbow had savagely fractured the heck out of my gullible heart.

  Believe me, it hurt. Badly.

  But I’m totally over it. Not really.

  Time to move on to bigger and better things. Whatever that is.

  As I enter the kitchen, Sebastian greets me with a smile while he stands behind the wide granite breakfast bar, munching on what appears to be a blueberry scone. He has a peculiar obsession with scones—and green tea lattes. He is smartly dressed in black chino pants and a grey pullover sweater that brings out his dark blue eyes. He’s always appeared handsome to me; I always seem to gravitate toward the light-haired blue-eyed type. The smile fades off of his cheerful face once he catches a glimpse of the grim expression on mine.

  “Oh-My-Freaking-Gosh. What the hell happened to you?” he mumbles, appearing to make a concerted effort not to spit out remnants of scone crumbs everywhere. “You’ve obviously been crying. What the hell did he do to you?”

  Sebastian has never liked Garrett. In fact, he’s hated him since the moment I began dating him. The more serious I got with Garrett, the more Sebastian hated him. He referred to him often as the bitchass rat. And now I totally concur, of
course.

  I morosely drag my furry slipper-covered feet over to the cupboard where we keep our coffee mugs. Out of habit, I grab a mug inscribed Hudson News Bee. Ugh.

  “Coffee. I am in need of coffee,” I mumble pathetically.

  Sebastian grabs a hold of my hand and drags me over to one of the barstools. “You better sit. I’ll make you some coffee.”

  I ease onto the barstool and lay my head onto the counter. Seconds later, he places a mug full of coffee in front of me.

  “Start talking.” He stands behind the breakfast bar counter, arms folded, with a contentious glare in his eyes.

  I take a long whiff of the coffee, take a sip, and begin sharing my saga with Sebastian. “Okay, so I went back to the office yesterday evening because I forgot my journal. You know how much I depend on my journal notes.”

  “Right, I know. But, girlfriend, I have also highly encouraged you to catch up with us Electronic Savvy’s and log those journal entries into your iPhone or iPad,” Sebastian reprimands, taking a seat in the barstool next to me.

  I completely ignore his ‘savvy’ talk and move on to what’s the real issue at hand. “Anyway, I walked into my office only to find Garrett with his editorial assistant.”

  “Wait. When you say ‘with,’ do you mean he was—?”

  “Yes,” I interrupt, covering my ears, not wanting to hear him say it.

  “Shit no!”

  “Um…yeah. But that’s not all,” I say, adding even more theatrics to the story.

  “And what could possibly top that?”

  “He fired me.” I begin bawling. Honestly, at this point, I have not decided what part of yesterday hurt the most—the part when I caught Garrett in the act with that slushy chick, or the part when he fired me afterwards.

  “Wait. What? He fired you?”

  “Yes. Fired. As in, I no longer have a j-o-b. As in, my career? Over.”

  Sebastian leans in to hug me. “Sweetie, I’m so very sorry this happened to you,” he pulls away, seeming to examine my expression, “and yesterday was a Monday of all days too!” He hugs me again. “That freaking bitchass rat can’t fire you. I mean you helped make that paper what it is today. Can’t you like go to Jake or something?”

  “No. Well I mean I probably could go to Jake. But do I really want to? You know, work with Garrett? Besides, Jake is like a father figure to Garrett. Whose side of the boat do you think he’d jump on? Not mine, that’s for sure.”

  “So, what are you going to do, sweetie?”

  “I have no clue. But don’t worry. As far as rent money goes, you know I’m good—”

  “I don’t mean what are you gonna do about money, sweetheart,” he interrupts. “I mean what are you gonna do…like as in your career? You’ve worked exclusively for that newspaper ever since you started writing restaurant reviews publicly,” he asks, sparking even more uncertainty.

  The tsunami of tears makes an unwelcome return.

  Sebastian reaches over to grab a hold of my hand. “It’s gonna be okay. I mean you are the one and only Penelope Monroe,” he assures.

  “True. My name is one thing Garrett can’t take away from me.”

  Saying that aloud conjures up an epic idea.

  “My page! My followers!” I shout in excitement.

  “Honey, if you are thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, you better get to work,” Sebastian says as he raises himself off the barstool and glances at his teal blue iWatch. “I’ve gotta run to work, baby girl. Uber is waiting for me outside. You be sure to update me later,” he says before kissing me on the forehead. He grabs his keys, briefcase, and a bottle of Perrier out of the fridge before disappearing through the long hallway that leads to the front door. The tumultuous sound of the door slamming is my only confirmation Sebastian has left.

  Feeling a rush of confidence come over me, I walk over to the Keurig to brew another cup, then make my way to what used to be the dining room. Sebastian and I creatively converted the space to a home office since we rarely have visitors needing to be entertained in a formal dining room. I turn on my desktop computer as soon as I get to my desk and sit, waiting impatiently for it to boot up. Once my home screen pops up, I click the Facebook icon and log on to my Food Disclosure page. I click my way through the administrative settings and spitefully delete my ex-boss-friend’s access.

  You messed with the wrong girl, Garrett Harrison.

  You see, I created my Facebook Page when I first started writing reviews for the paper, and it has grown quite the following over the last couple of years—all nine-hundred-thousand, eight-hundred forty-two Food Disclosure followers deserve a declarative dose of real disclosure.

  * * *

  July 19, 2016

  Greeting Foodies!! Thank you all so much for your loyal following and support! You are the best! I wanted to reach out to you all to share some #breakingnews that I want to be sure you hear from me first. As of yesterday, I am no longer a part of #thehudsonnewsbee team. While I can’t disclose anything further, I want it known that Penelope Monroe will continue to publish restaurant reviews each week; only those reviews will now come via this Facebook Page. I hope you will continue to follow me as I venture into a new food journey—with you.

  More to come later this week...

  Cheers to you and yours!

  Penelope

  * * *

  Only minutes after publishing my post, the sought after indicatory likes and comments begin to flood the page. And that’s not all. My iPhone blows up with tons of text messages, including one from Jake Simms.

  Jake: Good morning…

  I immediately reply.

  Me: What’s up?

  Jake: Saw your recent FB post. Can we talk, please?

  Me: Talk about what exactly?

  Jake: Your employment contract.

  Me: Contract? Ok…what about it should we discuss? Thought it was pretty much void since I got fired. You know…a minor technicality.

  Jake: Penelope, I don’t know exactly what happened, but I don’t want to lose the weekly column.

  Me: Right. And I can’t ever work with Garrett again. Not after what occurred yesterday.

  Jake: So are you resigning? Because you’re not fired.

  I stare at his response, feeling my blood begin to boil.

  Me: I was definitely fired yesterday—was even told to clear out my office and everything.

  Jake: Can you come to my office today? We can work this out.

  Me: Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.

  Do I really want to show my face there? Nope.

  A little over an hour later I stand here in the booming lobby of The Hudson News Bee headquarters in front of the huge double-doored elevators. I can see my reflection glaze through the glossy chrome-plated doors that repeatedly open and close; I’m unable to muster up the courage needed to actually step onto the elevator and ride up to the twelfth floor. I have just about convinced myself to leave—hurry back to the sanctity of home, but realize I must do this. The elevator doors slide open. It’s her. The salty floozy I caught Garrett with yesterday who has the nerve, by the way, to brazenly look me up and down as she slithers past me.

  Now, there’s all the courage you need.

  Infuriated, I stomp onto the elevator, armed with uninhibited emotion, push button twelve, and before I know it, I storm into Jake’s office.

  “Penelope,” Jake rises up from his desk chair, “glad you made it in.”

  “Right. So, why did you want me to come in today?” I slide into the chair closest to the door, cleverly outlining my escape plan.

  “Yes. Um, well I finally got Garrett to cough up what the hell happened between you two yesterday.”

  “Uh-huh,” I manage.

  “And uh, well I’m truly sorry he fired you. His behavior was completely unacceptable.”

  I offer a firm nod in agreement.

  “On behalf of the paper, I want to assure you, you’re not really fired. He had no sustainable grounds to terminate you.�
��

  “Okay. So what does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means you can continue working here. I want you to continue working here.”

  “But like I said in my text message, I can’t work with Garrett.”

  “Look, Penelope, you know Garrett is like a son to me. I can’t fire him simply because you caught him cheating.”

  Simply because? “Then I guess we are done here.” I get up, grateful I’m only a step away from the door.

  “Wait!” He rushes to the door. “It’s your contract, Penelope.”

  “Void. Fired. Remember?”

  “There’s a clause.”

  “I am fully aware of confidentiality constraints. I know what I can and cannot share.”

  “No. There is more than the confidentiality agreement.”

  I close the door and sit back down. “What do you mean?”

  Jake retrieves a file from his file cabinet and hands it to me. “Look inside. Page three. Paragraph twelve. I highlighted it for you.” His voice is subdued and shaky instead of its usually vivid baritone.

  I copiously peruse over the highlighted paragraph.

  * * *

  ‘Anything created by the employee for the company belongs to the company. The title “Food Disclosure” was developed by the contracted employee prior to employment contract development. However, it was agreed upon by employee and Hudson News Bee to utilize the title “Food Disclosure” upon commencement of employment. In the event the contracted employee and Hudson News Bee terminate employment contract, by any means, Hudson News Bee can continue the use of the title “Food Disclosure” by the agreed monetary purchase amount of $250,000. After which, contracted employee no longer has rights to use the title “Food Disclosure” with a competitive newspaper, magazine, blog, or any other social media outlet.’

  * * *

  Uncertainty causes me to read the clause again. Admittedly, I didn’t read this part of the contract when I was hired two years ago; I was most likely too excited.