I responded to every comment, congratulating, commiserating, offering thanks and advice, grateful for the distraction, for every post reminding me that I had readers, friends, and followers outside Bunyan, North Carolina. I had an identity: Jo March, the Hungry blogger, biting into everything life had to offer.

I typed “Gusto” into my browser, immediately noting the Times review near the top of the search results. I clicked and read eagerly. The restaurant was an unpretentious oasis, the monkfish seasonal, stylish, and straightforward, the quail with fig puree uninhibited and presented with flair. Yay! Not that one review would change Chef’s opinion of food critics, but . . .

On impulse, I sent a message to [email protected]:

Something to be thankful for.

With the link.

And waited.

No answer.

I closed my hand on disappointment. Well, what did I expect? It was barely midnight. The last orders would be trickling into the kitchen at Gusto, the cooks already packing up their mise en place, scrubbing down their stations, snapping towels and cracking jokes and counting the minutes until they could all go out drinking. Plenty of bars open in New York at the end of the night, even on Thanksgiving. Chef would stay behind, calculating portions and proteins and the night’s receipts. He wouldn’t be wasting his time checking the restaurant’s e-mail accounts.

I tossed back the quilt and padded half a flight down to the bathroom, feeling my way in the familiar dark, my feet wincing from the cold plank floor. Trying to soothe myself with rituals like a child, one more drink of water, one more trip to the potty, before I returned to bed.

A message lit my phone screen. I snatched it up.

He ordered the fish, Chef had typed.

I grinned foolishly. In the hustle of service, I’d missed the orders going out to the VIP table. They always do, I typed back.

I climbed into bed, staring at the little screen, my heart beating unaccountably fast as three dots appeared, followed by, How was your dinner?

Not a terribly personal question.

Good, I replied. Thanks for the time off. I hesitated. I’d read the restaurant menu: turkey two ways and planked salmon, grilled lobster and roasted root vegetables, brussels sprouts with lardons.

I made green bean casserole, I confessed.

A pause.

With the little fried onions on top?

Yep.

A longer pause. I pictured him sitting alone in his office as the clamor of the kitchen faded, surrounded by paperwork, the task lists and shopping lists for the morning.

My ex makes that. The boys love it.

Aw. The boys. His sons, Bryan and . . . Who was the other one? Alex? Alec. They must spend the holidays with their mother. I wondered if he missed celebrating with his family or if he was glad to be in New York, cooking dinner for paying guests with discriminating palates. But then why bring up his sons at all?

Chefs at the holidays. It would make a great blog post.