The House on Shadow Lane: A Love Story

By Robert Heylmun

Laguna Beach, 1970s, a time when being gay began to be celebrated and for many, a time when relationships bloomed, sometimes faded, and bloomed again. Hal's has faded and he finds himself alone in his rented house on shadow Lane, wondering where his life is going. But then Tom and Mike come to rent his spare room, and then he meets handsome Simo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Heylmun
• Release date: Jun 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798890212283

Book preview

The House on

Shadow Lane

A Love Story

Robert Heylmun

The House on Shadow Lane

A Love Story

© 2024 by Robert Heylmun

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 979-8-89021-229-0 Paperback

ISBN: 979-8-89021-230-6 Hardback

ISBN: 979-8-89021-228-3 eBook

Printed in the United States of America.

Chapter 1

She arrived in a panic, bursting through the restaurant kitchen door, and knocking aside the secret service agent who had been assigned to guard that particular entrance. Completely ignoring the poor man, she shouted, E ees ere? Dey seated? Roger! Where ees dat special champagne? her piercing soprano voice now in its upper registers and producing the effect of fingernails run down a chalkboard into a preferable sound. Agent Doren regained his feet and had nearly pulled out his weapon, rightly assuming that the place was under attack by a terrorist. His job was to protect the US Secretary of State who was on his way to dine with his family, a party of five, four of whom were comfortably seated at the best table in the house, already sipping the aforementioned champagne, and awaiting the arrival of the great man himself.

She flew past Steve, the night cook, who was generally stoned and oblivious to anything going on that didn’t involve his immediate job. Positioned in front of the huge restaurant stove, he scarcely noticed the hubbub, and went about his routine, assembling dishes for delivery by the waiters, moving as methodically and imperturbably as a clock. It was up to Roger, the head waiter, to assure the hapless agent that the woman who had just shoved him into the brooms and mops was indeed the celebrity-crazed owner of Le Bleu, one Denise Labouche, autocrat, ruler, and tyrant of this small bistro which presumed to uphold the highest standards of French cuisine. Somewhat mollified, Agent Doren relaxed his gun hand, and resumed his watch at the kitchen door, this time locking it from the inside as a precaution against any future surprise arrivals.

Denise cut quite a figure as she charged into the kitchen, adorned in her best dress, which she had purchased in Paris during her vacation there last year, and it was a pip. Bright cerise for one thing, with a scoop neckline and puff sleeves. If that combination of fashion details sounds inconsistent with what anyone would expect from a Parisian designer, it may be taken into consideration that Mme. Labouche’s expertise in life found its expression in running a restaurant, and the restaurant’s success led her to a profound and unshakable faith in her estimations of fashion and good taste. Rightly judging that her knees were not her best assets, she had had the couturier lower the hemline of this day-glow pink creation, thus sparing an all too critical public the trouble of agreeing with her, about her knees, that is.

Her physique must have given the dress designer something of a challenge, shaped as she was like an oversized ironing board, or perhaps a very large cereal box; she was great deal wider from side to side than she was from front to back, an effect that made a striking impression once she presented anyone with a lateral view of herself. Broad shoulders, strong arms, thin legs, and large feet. She kept her naturally blond hair cropped like the lad on the label of the Dutch Boy paint can, had a pale, almost white complexion, wore blue-green eye shadow to accentuate her rather small eyes, and a shade of red lipstick with which she sought to make up for at least one deficit, a tiny mouth, that nature had been remiss in giving her. In short, she was not a natural beauty; she was however, imposing, and when she came into a room, everyone in it knew she was there.

Among her other purchases on that trip had been a pair of very expensive black shoes, probably designed for the petite foot of a Parisian fashion model, but which now were pressed into service to accommodate Denise’s wide Belgian peasant feet. They were killing her, and how she managed to cram into them in the first place defied several laws of physics. Her flight toward the dining room, slowing to something of a hobble thanks to the shoes, Denise peered out to see that the Secretary had still not arrived. Time to look over her jewelry ensemble. She was wearing every diamond she owned, one of which, while not the finest gem, was certainly the largest, prominently mounted onto a high platinum setting, a triumph of the ring maker’s art. The jewel towered over its companions by a good half inch, adorning Denise’s right hand ring finger.

She was looking at it approvingly but also with a view that it might be brought to a higher luster with a slight cleaning. In the small corridor between the dining room and the kitchen was a sink used solely by the waiters and busboys for the cleaning and polishing of wine glasses throughout the evening. Here Denise decided to give her beloved jewel some attention.

Suddenly, a shriek heard not only throughout the dining room, but also likely by quite a few people outside some distance away as well. A shriek followed by a wail that one would imagine coming from a soul in agony, perhaps being beset by several demons in some dreary round of the Inferno. Diners stopped eating, forks in mid-air; both waiters excused themselves and headed for the kitchen to see what calamity had occasioned such a scream. As they rounded the corner into the small corridor, they were greeted by a great expanse of cerise material from which emerged the plaintiff cries of our Denise, Heet fell into zees zink! Stay away! Don’t no one use zees zink. Her make-up took on the aspects of a horror mask as she piled tablecloths over the ‘zink’. She had kicked off her painful shoes, but they lay at the ready nearby. At this moment, the Secretary of State of the United States made his entrance, was greeted by Roger, and led to his table.

Denise collected herself, regaining as much composure as she could, rearranged the rest of her rings to their best advantage, restuffed her feet into her Parisian shoes, and as grandly as possible, attempted her version of a glide across the dining room to the guest of honor’s table. Ah, Monsieur K, Ay am zo glad you could come once more to my poor restaurant. Her disturbed make-up belied the smiles, graciousness and charm she attempted as she helped seat Mr. Secretary and poured him champagne. We try to geef you and your lovely family a taste of la belle France, nez pas? she gushed, keeping one eye on the doorway leading to the ‘zink’ in which her prize jewel now lay entombed. During their dinner, Denise made frequent and rueful visits to the ‘zink’ and her ring with which she had hoped to impress the Washington nabobs. Thing looks like quartz to me, Roger said out of Denise’s hearing, and sitting up on that mounting like that, it reminds me of a teed up crystal golf ball.

The operations of the restaurant were of course crippled by not being able to use the ‘zink’ in which wine glasses were, under normal circumstances, constantly washed and restored to duty; thus, trays of dirty glasses made their way to Henry, the restaurant’s disgruntled dishwasher, who had to be cajoled into washing and drying wine glasses all night along with his usual duties.

Two hours later, the Washington guests had been sated, wined and dined, and had put up with the intermittent and adoring cooing provided by Denise who could not say often enough how grateful she was for their patronage. Speaking of patronage, what they got for free from Denise was the original bottle of champagne, a sample that the wine distributor had given her gratis in the first place. When they ordered a second bottle, it was added to their dinner check. Our Denise was not in business for nothing, nor did she consider herself in any way a source of charity; if customers could afford to come to Le Bleu, she figured that they could afford everything on its menu. Finally, the restaurant emptied out, and Roger, bidding good night to the last of the departing guests, closed the front doors.

What greeted the waiters and busboys as they went to the kitchen was another large expanse of cerise, this time stretched over the generous buttocks of Mme. Labouche, bent down under the ‘zink’, armed with a pipe wrench. A few deft turns of whatever holds the trap in place, and voila! There, shining in all of its glory was the ring, that fabulous jewel now restored to its owner. Great rejoicing from Denise, assented to by the staff, and louder than usual grumbling from Henry who came to the ‘zink’ with a tray full of clean wine glasses.

It was time to inventory the wine bottles, testimony to how much had been sold that evening, as well as time for the reckoning from the waiters as to the restaurant’s proceeds. This task was generally the very first one begun after the last customer had departed, but tonight had presented Mme. Lebouche with other challenges. She replaced the trap under the ‘zink’ as deftly as she had removed it, cleaned her beloved gem, and wearing it once more, sat down to receive the night’s receipts.

All was well, the accounting came out right, the waiters collected their tips which were shared with the busboys, and the evening, having had such a distinguished guest, was counted as a grand success. Relaxing at one of the tables, shoes very much off, Denise indulged in a glass of wine. She rarely offered a similar restorative to anyone else, but tonight her joy at having her crown jewel back again inspired her to the heights of uncustomary generosity. House red all around, one glass each.

Hal is a very fine waiter, Roger said. He learned cart service almost like he’d always been doing it, he has started to get a clientele that asks for him, and he gets along well with everyone. Hal had already drunk his single glass of red and gone home.

Ay don’t know. Ay don’t tink he will handle the rush in the summer very well, Denise said, rubbing one foot against the other. He is slow. It was now April and Hal had worked at Le Bleu for about three months.

No he isn’t slow, Denise. He just seems that way in the dining room. Customers think he’s relaxed and he takes time with them.

He ees a German.

He has a German last name, Denise. He’s no more a German than you are. In fact, he was adopted and is almost all English and Scottish.

Dat’s what he tell you. I tink he ees a German. As a Belgian born during the Second World War, Denise and her family harbored long standing hatreds against the Germans; anyone with a last name like Schroeder was immediately categorized and if not summarily hated, at least regarded with suspicion. That was Hal’s fate at Le Bleu these days.

Roger had hired Hal as a busboy that winter during Denise’s now famous vacation in Europe, mostly because he felt that Hal could more than do the work, and because Hal desperately needed a job. It had, as Roger never tired of reminding Denise, worked out very well, and when the restaurant needed to replace a waiter, Hal got that job too, despite Denise’s instant and obvious dislike of him. She was stowing money in her purse and looked wistfully at a photo there. Oh why did Eric have to leave us? He was such a good waiter, and a gentleman. Eric had been Roger’s life partner for a dozen years; they had broken up at Roger’s insistence, and Eric now worked in the other Lebouche restaurant. Roger never allowed Denise to get away with her admiring remarks about Eric.

Yeah? Well you should have been married to him for twelve years. He still owes me money for nearly everything. You’re lucky he didn’t stick you for anything here in the restaurant. He probably would have if could have got away with it.

Cheat me? Non, nevair. E always do every ting good ere.

There was no arguing with Denise; she was always right in her carefully formed opinions, rarely changing her mind about anyone or anything once she had branded her conclusions into the rawhide of her mind.

She kept a pair of comfortable shoes at the restaurant, and it was in these that she left for the night, carefully carrying her Parisian pumps to her car as if they were on fire. The restaurant staff never saw them again.

Roger sighed and sat down in the quiet restaurant whose tables had already been prepared for the next day’s business.

Le Bleu sat in a small shopping plaza in Laguna Canyon, about one-half mile from the center of town and perhaps 100 yards from the famous Pageant of the Masters, a six-week extravaganza of tableaux vivant scenes that brought thousands of tourists to the seaside city, enriching its merchants, hotels and restaurateurs. Although Le Bleu was not located in a very prestigious area of the canyon, it commanded a site that attracted many of the theatergoers on their way to the Pageant.

Efforts had been made to make Le Bleu into something of a French bistro, and these were largely successful. Once inside its doors, patrons were generally delighted to be greeted by a kind of rusticity and comfortable ease, and were equally happy to dine on French cuisine as part of their elegant evening out. Denise, while no great arbiter of taste in clothes, certainly knew a good business venture when she saw one. She established the restaurant seven years ago and had made more than a comfortable living from it. Roger had to admire her business acumen; he benefited from it directly by managing the place, and trying to keep peace between its volatile owner and her hired help.

This latter of his jobs was not always an easy one given the tyrannical mode in which Denise ran things, brooking no arguments, and listening to no one else’s views or concerns. There had been any number of waiters and busboys come and go since Roger began working for her several years ago. Most of them had quit, disgusted and insulted by the manner in which they were treated; some were fired on the spot. The current crew seemed fairly stable, but Roger had begun to see the signs of a storm brewing between Denise and Hal.

Chapter 2

Steve, the night cook, has already made a cameo appearance here, and not much more can be reported about him. More of an automaton than a human, he worked his shift, left the restaurant after it, and presumably went home, wherever that was. But the real chef, the power behind the quality of the cuisine at Le Bleu, was one Jean-Jacques Labouche, graduate of la belle France’s most prestigious cooking school, and husband of the redoubtable Denise. When the plans were laid to open a French restaurant in Laguna Beach, California, they included, as far as Denise was concerned, having such a chef; so, she merely married one and brought him to the United States. How they both acquired American visas that provided them with long-term residency was never revealed, but suffice it to say that they were both well ensconced in the town and now reaped the profits from not one but two restaurants. The second one, located in a small town twenty miles north, saw much more of Jean-Jacques than did Le Bleu which was under the more than capable control of his wife.

He was a small man like many native French, with dark hair, not bad looking, generally affable, and extremely well trained. Le Bleu was not one of those fine restaurants that required a skilled chef to be on hand for every evening’s dinners, however. The menu consisted entirely of items that could be brought together quickly in the kitchen, once ordered from the dining room. There was no room for creative cuisine, and certainly, Steve would not have been capable of anything more than his marijuana-saturated brain currently allowed. For instance, when a customer ordered canard a’ l’orange, the pre-roasted half of a duck was put into the oven for another crisping and roasting. Earlier in the day, Jean-Jacques would have produced a large supply of the sauce that would adorn the bird, and a small boat of it accompanied the hot duck when the waiter brought it to the table to be flamed and sauced from his cart. All Steve was required to do was to make sure the portions were hot and presentable. Such a system may sound like ‘fast food’ but it was not; indeed, many fine restaurants adhere to a similar mode of operation.

A favorite was veau cordon bleu. Here again, the sandwiched combination of veal, ham, and cheese had that morning been pre-formed and breaded, then refrigerated, awaiting a vigorous heating in the kitchen oven, then sauced and presented. Nothing to it, and the restaurant was a great success with such a system and without the temperament that many chefs display in finer establishments. It is important to understand these rather tiresome culinary details to also understand how Le Bleu operated night after night.

One of Jean-Jacques’s delights was to poke fun at what he felt was his wife’s execrable French, his being native, hers being Belgian. Lacking much in the way of a sense of humor, particularly when the joke was aimed at her, she parried as best she could in her ‘inferior’ dialect, maintaining arguments that entertained the eagerly listening staff from time to time although no one understood a word. Jean-Jacques had fun with everyone, never missing a chance to level some remark toward Roger and Hal, both gay men, who took his ribbing like any employee would who wants to keep his job. Who clean up the sheets after you doing all those tings in them? Must take up lots of soap. What you guys do to each other to make zee mess?

Roger had at first evaded these jibes but over time, he got used to them and now answered them candidly with vivid descriptions of gay sex that will be left to the reader’s imagination here. Jean-Jacques received this raw information with good humor, sometimes keeping up the banter for some time. Hal simply left the room if that was possible, not caring to add details from his own bedroom experiences to Jean-Jacques’s burgeoning storehouse of stories of gay escapades.

The truth is that the staff rarely saw Jean-Jacques; he spent most of his time in the Labouche family’s other restaurant, Le Mistral where he could creatively cook. Denise did not seem to mind this arrangement, preferring to run things at Le Bleu without anyone’s interference, even her husband’s, and run them, she did.

She watched Hal constantly, keeping up a continual criticism of how he served dinners, how he flamed entrees, how his tuxedo didn’t look right, how he poured wine, how much time he took with customers, and the list went on. The truth is that he cut a rather good figure in the dining room, not handsome exactly, but tall enough and good-looking in his tux. His pleasant face smiled easily, and he won the confidence of his customers with his nice manners that maintained a proper decorum without being stuffy. As Roger had pointed out to Denise, Hal had developed a regular clientele, people who asked for him when they came to dine. These attributes did nothing to mitigate Denise’s obvious and often vocal dislike for him. He bore her comments and groundless complaints with a grudging equanimity until one night, when he gave a free dessert, a small chocolate mousse with a candle in it, to a customer whose birthday it was, and provided his wife with one as well. Big mistake. Denise was on him like a sweatshop boss. Vy do you give out my desserts like zees? You give out only one, to the birthday person, not to everybody else at the table.

There is only one other person at the table, Denise, his wife. It seemed rude not to give her one too.

Ay don’t care bout dat rude or not. Her voice rose, more than audible in the dining room. You don’t do dat, ever!

Do you want me to go get it back? An eighty-five cent dessert from a regular customer of this restaurant? Hal’s back was getting up too.

Of course not! Vy you talk back to me like zees? Ay don’t need you to tell me how to run my restaurant!

This increasingly dramatic scene took place in July, the busiest season for Le Bleu, catering as it did to the crowds of Pageant of the Masters theatergoers. It was also taking place in the middle of the evening shift; the restaurant was full with other people waiting to come in.

Hal had put up with five months of Denise’s insults, taunts, outright anger, and prejudices. Fine, you stingy bitch. I’ll pay you the eighty-five cents that the mousse is worth right now, and then I’m out of here. You can do what you want with the place full of customers, and before I go, I’m going right out there and explain to those people in a voice as loud as yours, the kind of grasping, stingy, low-class hag you really are. He was taking off his tux jacket and staring her down.

Roger intervened. Calm down, both of you. Everybody can hear you out there.

"I don’t give a damn if they can hear me out there. I’m not working here anymore for this unreasonable bitch who thinks she can bawl me out in front of everyone and get away with it. Who do you think you are, Denise, a Nazi Gestapo agent? This remark hit home and stung Denise whose mouth dropped open. For a Belgian to be accused of being a Nazi was as insulting as Martin Luther King being accused of having secret ties with the Klan. She stomped off into the kitchen. You tell her, Roger, that either she apologizes and right now, or I’m leaving. I’ll be back in five minutes." He left for the dining room to take care of his customers.

What’s going on back there, Hal? the birthday boy asked.

Nothing unusual, actually. But I may be quitting as of tonight. She’s too much to put up with. Hal briefly explained what had happened.

Let me talk with her, birthday boy said. Where is she?

Coming out of the kitchen right now.

There ensued a discussion between birthday boy and Denise that took place outside the main doors of the restaurant, during which birthday boy informed Mme. Labouche that if Hal left, he would never set foot in her place again; furthermore, he would be happy to spread it around town the kind of employer she was. He worked at city hall, did she know? And he knew a great many influential people. The general import of this exchange was reported later to Hal.

Denise reentered the restaurant a shade lighter than her naturally funereal pallor, and strode into the kitchen. Hal followed in a few minutes with another order from one of his tables, saw her very disturbed visage, and said, What’s it going to be Denise?

Quite a long pause as she looked away from him. Finally, I vant you to stay.

And the apology? I’m waiting for that.

An equally long pause. Ay should not have got mad at you in front of people. But you got to quit giving food away.

I’m sure that’s the best you can do since the words ‘I’m sorry’ aren’t in your poverty-stricken English vocabulary. I accept your apology. Don’t ever let it happen again. And I don’t give food away. He returned to the dining room to deliver Table 4’s dinners.

Hal knew that insisting on Denise’s quasi apology had even more seriously jeopardized his standing at Le Bleu, and that she would likely fire him as soon as the high season was over. That would be in about six weeks. It didn’t matter. He had scored one on the dragon woman and he felt good about it. Even if it would turn out to be a Pyrrhic victory, it was a victory nonetheless.

The next weeks continued to be busy and everyone was making money. Hal for school, Roger for whatever he spent it on, and Denise for Denise. She hardly spoke to Hal, having given up her previously constant berating, an effect of their fight that he counted as a plus. She left him entirely alone as he worked, matter of factly taking her proceeds from his till at the end of each shift. If she planned to fire him, she said nothing since it was in her best interests to keep a valuable and well-trained, well-liked waiter on staff.

==

A week before the Pageant was to conclude, Jean-Jacques had a talk with Hal. Ay know dat you can cook. Ay was here one night when you repair zat hollandaise sauce when Steve he let it butter out. You know what to do in a kitchen and Ay want you to come here in the mornings and cook for the evening shift. You know, prep work. Roast ducks and chickens. Make desserts and crêpes. Everything. What do you say?

I say no. How do you expect me to work with Denise who is also here then? Just the two of us? No way. We can’t stand each other.

Ay will take care of Denise, don’t you worry. She will leave you alone. She will do the vegetables and salads. You do everything else. Ay will pay you good.

I’ll try it out, Jean-Jacques, but if things go bad, I’ll have to leave.

Hey, eet’s OK. You good worker, and Ay make you good cook. You come in tomorrow morning and ay show you everything to do. 9:00 o’clock.

I’ll be here but not to clean toilets or sweep floors or vacuum the restaurant. If she’s still too cheap to hire a cleaning lady, that’s her problem. Let her know that, okay?

You be here at 9. Everything gonna be okay, you see.

And it was. Hal had already figured a lot things out, and after a few mornings working with Jean-Jacques, he knew exactly what to do to prepare for the evening’s shift. He worked with Denise who kept her distance, blanching vegetables and cutting salad. Slowly they began to talk, mostly about the restaurant and the town. General topics but ones that at least kept the atmosphere in the mornings less frosty.

The Pageant of the Masters concluded on September 4, and so did the regular 5:00 PM seating at Le Bleu. Now customers arrived later at a normal dinnertime, and they would do so throughout the rest of the year until the Pageant resumed next summer. Among the dining room staff, only Roger, Hal and one busboy were kept on full-time, and the two waiters alternated nights during the week when business was very slow.

It was Denise’s custom to throw a party for the restaurant staff after the Pageant had concluded, and this year’s bash was scheduled for a Wednesday night, late in September. The restaurant closed for this extraordinary gesture of generosity that must have caused Denise a great deal of