“Are these local?” I asked.
Chef snapped a kitchen cloth in my direction. “Do not infect my vegetables with your grubby hands. And, yes, they’re local.”
I lifted an eyebrow at him. “Is that any way to speak to the man who pays your salary?”
“Fine, put your paws all over them.” He picked up a giant roasting pan full of chopped vegetables and carried it to one of our industrial-sized ovens. “And when you pass Giardia to your guests, you can explain to the health department how it happened.”
I backed away from the vegetables. “It’s not like I’ve had my hands in cow excrement today, but okay.”
Serenity looked over at me, waiting to see if I was going to push things further. I wasn’t. Damon was sober, the kitchen smelled delicious, and, by the look of things, the meal would roll out on time. All this good news had me feeling downright optimistic.
“And I’m not making chicken tenders for those kids out there,” Chef said. “If they want shitty food, they can go to The Marmot.”
The Mangy Marmot was a bar and grill owned by a good friend of mine, and I didn’t appreciate his slight on her establishment. “Fine, if anyone requests chicken tenders, Serenity will cook them because we’re here to make our guests happy, even if we think it’s beneath us to do so.”
Chef whirled around and headed to his rack of saucepans. “Fine. Now get out of my kitchen.”
I was pretty mellow when it came to his moods, but I was still his boss, and he needed to show me some basic respect. “Excuse me?”
He lit the burner, sighing deeply. “Pleaseget out of my kitchen so I can focus.”
“Slightly better.” I plucked a bean out of the colander while his back was turned and winked at Serenity.
Out in the dining room, Gigi was already sitting at our usual table, head bent over a book. None of our guests had arrived yet, so I chomped on the green bean as I headed over to my daughter. Before taking my seat, I tipped my head so I could read the title on the cover.
“Another dystopian novel, huh?” I couldn’t imagine finding it entertaining to read about the end of the world, especially when it seemed to be happening in real time, but to each their own.
“Uh huh…” She didn’t look up when she spoke.
“Please put the book away now that I’ve joined you.” I took it out of her hands and marked her place before closing it.
“You’re not supposed to fold the pages!” she squealed. “Our school librarian told us that’s one of the worst things you can do to a book.”
I tried to undo the damage by smoothing out the crease I’d made. “Sorry.”
She pulled a bookmark with a stallion on it out of her back pocket and slid it between the pages. “Seriously, Dad, you should know better at your age.”
It was bad enough I made her eat in the dining room when she’d begged me to eat in the staff kitchen instead. Now I tried to fold a page down in her book? The audacity.
“Who’s that lady?” she asked, pointing to Lauren who was entering the dining room. From her silver sandals to her silky black dress, all the way up to her delicate diamond earrings, she was the picture of elegance and grace. She gave me a little wave as she took a seat at a window-adjacent table, and I smiled back at her, trying to look like a professional ranch owner and not a goofy bumpkin.
“Don’t point,” I told Gigi. “She’s a guest from New York. Lauren Wagonblast.”
“What?” Gigi bugged out her eyes. “I know we’re not supposed to make fun of people’s names, but Wagonblast? That’s awful. Poor lady. And she’s here all by herself. Do you think she’s alone because of her terrible name?”
“No, Gigi, I don’t think that’s the reason. Some people like to travel by themselves.”
She had a point, though. I couldn’t ever remember a woman coming to the ranch by herself.
Gigi shrugged. “Okay. She just looks like someone who would go to a big city on vacation to visit museums or something like that.”
She was right again. Never in my life had I used the word “chic” but when I looked at Lauren Wagonblast (unfortunate name aside), I understood she was the definition of it.
“Maybe she wanted a change.” I thought about her request for matcha lattes and hoped the change she wanted included her beverages.
“Maybe she’s a fugitive from justice,” Gigi suggested. “Or a government spy.” She watched Lauren with the eyes of someone with a big imagination. “She could also be here to give us a review. You should treat her really well and make sure she has a good time.”
The deluxe ranch treatment, I thought with a cringe. I didn’t believe for one second that a magazine or website sent Mrs. Wagonblast to review the ranch. We should only be so lucky.
