“I can tell. You’ve peeled that pear down to the core,” she said gently, and I looked down. I had indeed.
“Oh for the love of—” All the peel was piled up in the sink, along with all the pear. “I’m so sorry, this is terrible. Let’s talk about you—what’s going on with you?” I swished all the peel down the drain and started on a fresh pear.
She gave me a look that told me we weren’t done with this, but she’d play along. She told me all about the new season of the show, then told me a few secrets from the set of the new Time movie Jack had just finished, a successful film franchise based on a series of erotic short stories. A time-traveling scientist schtupping women across time . . . not a bad way to spend an evening at the movies. By the time dinner was almost ready, I’d almost managed to forget that other than this wonderful client, I was now a private chef without a private kitchen.
I was just taking the steak out of the pan and setting it to the side to rest when headlights shone through the back window as a car swung into the driveway. I turned to see Grace beaming as bright as the headlights, even blushing a little. “Jack’s home.” She seemed so genuinely happy that I had to smile too, even if she did remind me of my perpetually lovesick mother for a moment.
I looked around the kitchen, with its warm honey wood and giant marble island. Pictures of the couple and their friends hung on the walls, not fancy artwork. Flowers spilled casually out of mason jars and Bakelite pitchers—no enormous florist arrangements in this house. Because it wasn’t just a house, it was a home. Unlike any of the other houses I’d cooked in. Grace and Jack were that impossibility in this plastic town: real people. I missed real people.
But I didn’t need to be the third wheel for the remainder of their real-people evening. So as Jack banged in through the back door, I gathered up my tools.
He immediately called to his fiancée, “C’mere, Crazy, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you all—oh! Hey, Roxie.” Jack smiled lazily over the top of Grace’s red curls as he tucked her in for a hug. “I forgot you were here tonight. Smells great, what is it?”
“Sliced hanger steak marinated in a little coriander and soy sauce, sliced on a bed of baby arugula and frisée, with roasted Jerusalem artichokes tossed lightly with lemon juice and pecorino cheese,” I said, taking their plates to the table. “Jack, you’re also getting prosciutto-wrapped bosc pears and a big slice of your favorite English cheddar. Grace, you just get pears.”
“How come she doesn’t get fancy pears too?” he asked, sitting in his chair and trying to pull Grace onto his lap.
“I don’t get fancy pears because I have a sex scene to shoot in two weeks,” she said lightly, planting a kiss on his cheek and barely escaping his grabby hands.
“And since I’m skipping the fancy pears, I get to have cake later on,” she said, digging into her salad. “And I might have licked the beaters.”
“Wish I’d been here to see that,” Jack said under his breath.
I shook my head and quietly finished cleaning up the kitchen as they ate their dinner. Which they loved.
After I poured lemon honey glaze over the still-warm pound cakes and prepared to go, Jack and Grace began imploring me to stay.
“You should have some cake with us,” Jack said, moving easily around the kitchen.
Jack Hamilton with an armful of Tupperware: I could sell that picture to a magazine and never have to work again.
“Can’t, but thanks for the offer. I’ve gotta get home and figure out some stuff,” I said, sliding my last knife into its sheath just as my phone rang. Unreal timing, my mother. I’d deal with her later.
“Everything okay?” he asked, concern in his warm eyes.
Unbelievably, I felt my eyes burning a bit. I swallowed hard around the sudden lump in my throat.
“She’s good. I’m going to walk her out,” Grace said, looping an arm through mine and heading toward the back door.
“Brilliant dinner, Roxie, really excellent. Thanks again,” Jack answered, whistling as he turned his attention back to rearranging the inside of the fridge.
I breathed in a huge, watery sigh as I headed out into the night air. “I’m so sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me just now.” I sniffled a bit, dabbing my eyes as we walked out toward my car.
“You’ve had a shitty day—it happens. Talk to your mom.”
“She’s just going to talk me into doing this for her,” I said, setting my things in the back of my car.
“I hate to say this, because it’d mean your pound cakes are leaving—but maybe you need a break. Maybe this would be a good idea. Get out of town for a while, clear your head.”
“If I leave, I’m leaving everything.”
“You already lost most of your clients, Rox,” she said. “Except for us, of course, your favorites.”
“Of course.” I sighed. “You know why I love cooking for you?”
“Because you get to stare at Jack?”
“Obviously. But other than that, I miss cooking real food. Homey food. Calories be damned.”
“Real food in the real world. I hear that.” Grace laughed. “Call your mother, talk it out, and decide what you want to do. Even if you leave, you can always come back.”
“Oh, I’d come back. It took me eighteen years to get out of that tiny town—there’s no way I’d stay there for good,” I said, shaking my head. Population two thousand and thirty-crap?
“Oh for the love of—” All the peel was piled up in the sink, along with all the pear. “I’m so sorry, this is terrible. Let’s talk about you—what’s going on with you?” I swished all the peel down the drain and started on a fresh pear.
She gave me a look that told me we weren’t done with this, but she’d play along. She told me all about the new season of the show, then told me a few secrets from the set of the new Time movie Jack had just finished, a successful film franchise based on a series of erotic short stories. A time-traveling scientist schtupping women across time . . . not a bad way to spend an evening at the movies. By the time dinner was almost ready, I’d almost managed to forget that other than this wonderful client, I was now a private chef without a private kitchen.
I was just taking the steak out of the pan and setting it to the side to rest when headlights shone through the back window as a car swung into the driveway. I turned to see Grace beaming as bright as the headlights, even blushing a little. “Jack’s home.” She seemed so genuinely happy that I had to smile too, even if she did remind me of my perpetually lovesick mother for a moment.
I looked around the kitchen, with its warm honey wood and giant marble island. Pictures of the couple and their friends hung on the walls, not fancy artwork. Flowers spilled casually out of mason jars and Bakelite pitchers—no enormous florist arrangements in this house. Because it wasn’t just a house, it was a home. Unlike any of the other houses I’d cooked in. Grace and Jack were that impossibility in this plastic town: real people. I missed real people.
But I didn’t need to be the third wheel for the remainder of their real-people evening. So as Jack banged in through the back door, I gathered up my tools.
He immediately called to his fiancée, “C’mere, Crazy, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you all—oh! Hey, Roxie.” Jack smiled lazily over the top of Grace’s red curls as he tucked her in for a hug. “I forgot you were here tonight. Smells great, what is it?”
“Sliced hanger steak marinated in a little coriander and soy sauce, sliced on a bed of baby arugula and frisée, with roasted Jerusalem artichokes tossed lightly with lemon juice and pecorino cheese,” I said, taking their plates to the table. “Jack, you’re also getting prosciutto-wrapped bosc pears and a big slice of your favorite English cheddar. Grace, you just get pears.”
“How come she doesn’t get fancy pears too?” he asked, sitting in his chair and trying to pull Grace onto his lap.
“I don’t get fancy pears because I have a sex scene to shoot in two weeks,” she said lightly, planting a kiss on his cheek and barely escaping his grabby hands.
“And since I’m skipping the fancy pears, I get to have cake later on,” she said, digging into her salad. “And I might have licked the beaters.”
“Wish I’d been here to see that,” Jack said under his breath.
I shook my head and quietly finished cleaning up the kitchen as they ate their dinner. Which they loved.
After I poured lemon honey glaze over the still-warm pound cakes and prepared to go, Jack and Grace began imploring me to stay.
“You should have some cake with us,” Jack said, moving easily around the kitchen.
Jack Hamilton with an armful of Tupperware: I could sell that picture to a magazine and never have to work again.
“Can’t, but thanks for the offer. I’ve gotta get home and figure out some stuff,” I said, sliding my last knife into its sheath just as my phone rang. Unreal timing, my mother. I’d deal with her later.
“Everything okay?” he asked, concern in his warm eyes.
Unbelievably, I felt my eyes burning a bit. I swallowed hard around the sudden lump in my throat.
“She’s good. I’m going to walk her out,” Grace said, looping an arm through mine and heading toward the back door.
“Brilliant dinner, Roxie, really excellent. Thanks again,” Jack answered, whistling as he turned his attention back to rearranging the inside of the fridge.
I breathed in a huge, watery sigh as I headed out into the night air. “I’m so sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me just now.” I sniffled a bit, dabbing my eyes as we walked out toward my car.
“You’ve had a shitty day—it happens. Talk to your mom.”
“She’s just going to talk me into doing this for her,” I said, setting my things in the back of my car.
“I hate to say this, because it’d mean your pound cakes are leaving—but maybe you need a break. Maybe this would be a good idea. Get out of town for a while, clear your head.”
“If I leave, I’m leaving everything.”
“You already lost most of your clients, Rox,” she said. “Except for us, of course, your favorites.”
“Of course.” I sighed. “You know why I love cooking for you?”
“Because you get to stare at Jack?”
“Obviously. But other than that, I miss cooking real food. Homey food. Calories be damned.”
“Real food in the real world. I hear that.” Grace laughed. “Call your mother, talk it out, and decide what you want to do. Even if you leave, you can always come back.”
“Oh, I’d come back. It took me eighteen years to get out of that tiny town—there’s no way I’d stay there for good,” I said, shaking my head. Population two thousand and thirty-crap?
