“Please, have a seat.” I led us to the kitchen table. “Can I get you a tea or coffee?”
It was sort of habit to offer, but I quickly realized I hadn’t even considered stocking my own kitchen yet. I wasn’t sure if there was anything in the cabinets.
“Oh, no, that’s sweet. I’m okay. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know you’re busy,” Amelia said, pulling a piece of family stationery from her pocket, where I could see she’d jotted down a list in neat handwriting.
“It’s just a few things you can only get in town, and I always crave them when we visit. One of them is a strange request, but The Snowdrift Inn makes these special cookies. I don’t know what they do to them, but they’re amazing and they won’t ship them, no matter how much you pay. Trust me, I’ve tried. I even offered to send a private jet once,” she said, laughing at her own audacity. “They drive a real hard bargain over there.”
I amused myself picturing Pops and Delilah in the kitchen, dosing some Pillsbury cookies withTHCor just straight, uncut cocaine.
“No problem at all. I think I can manage that.”
“So, how are you settling in?” she asked. “Is the hot water working okay? Sometimes they forget to turn the water heater on in these cottages.”
I was more than a little taken aback at Amelia. She wasn’t at all what I expected. Not that I’d had much to go on, other than first impressions at lunch and Mia’s brief comments at the marketplace. I suppose I’d assumed she would take after her mother, two imposing figures that could make a polar bear shiver.
“Everything’s perfect, thank you.”
“So, is this your first time as a private chef?”
Was it that apparent? I felt self-conscious, wondering what faux pas had given me away. And how many more I’d make before I caught on to the cultural cues.
“It is. So I’ll happily take all the feedback I can get,” I offered.
Her answering smile gave me some small encouragement.
“Despite the impression I’m sure my mother’s given you, you’re doing great so far.”
She was probably just being nice, but I appreciated the effort either way.
“I hope you’ll come to consider yourself part of our family,” she said. “I know, maybe that sounds naive or disingenuous when you’re paid to be here. I really mean it, though. When you live with people, share a home with them every day, it’s more than just a job, right? We have to commit to a level of trust that goes both ways.”
Amelia had her own intensity, I began to understand. Different from her mother’s, and just as potent. The overwhelming friendliness was a lot, but it covered a deeper sincerity.
“Family is everything,” she said. “We take care of one another. So, I hope you know you can always come to me if you need something or there’s a problem. And I’ll ask you to give us the same respect.”
“Of course,” I told her soberly.
“Great,” she said, standing. “I won’t keep you then. Thank you . . .” She held out her hand to shake.
“Eleanor.”
“Great to meet you, Eleanor. Welcome to the team.”
Once Amelia left, it was time to check in on my short ribs. They were looking good, so I got to steeping the tea. Earl Grey was a delicate flavor, so I needed a lot of it to break through the sweetness of ladyfingers and mascarpone cream. Next, I ground more of the loose tea in a spice mill and whipped it into a bowl with eggs, salt, and sugar over a double boiler. I then set that aside to work on my mascarpone cream, combining chilled heavy cream with mascarpone, salt, sugar, and vanilla bean. When that was nice and fluffy, I folded in the Earl Grey egg mixture and put the whole thing in the fridge. By then it was time to pour my tea into a wide dish, to add some Grand Marnier, then toss the whole thing into the blast chiller to cool it down.
I was about to get started on the warm winter salad when I turned from the stove to find someone sneaking up behind me.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, startled, clutching a rag to my chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Mr. Hawthorne went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. “Don’t mind me. Anytime we travel, I always feel like I’m getting sick. I’m trying to knock it out before it takes hold.”
“I could make you some fresh-squeezed,” I offered. It felt like bad form to have the client hunting around in the kitchen for what they wanted.
Mr. Hawthorne waved me off. “I’m not even here. You didn’t see me.”
“Alright. But while you’re not here, are there any special requests for upcoming meals? I’m happy to make anything you like.”
He looked taken aback by my question. “I’m not sure anyone has ever asked me that before. Caroline usually handles all the menus. I had a heart attack a few years ago, so she’s keen for me to eat healthier, but I refuse to go on some kind of miserable, restrictive diet.”
