Shit. I thought about the fried chicken, red meat, and copious amounts of butter I was serving this man. That was all I needed. Bang the son and kill the father. What sort of messed up version of fuck, marry, kill was I perpetuating on this family?
“I can try to make you healthier versions of your favorites, if you want. It’s no trouble.”
Mr. Hawthorne gave me a noncommittal nod as he poured himself a glass of juice. He gulped it down, then poured another.
“I do love a good banana bread,” he said after a moment. “See what you can do with that.”
He took the second glass of juice with him and left. I decided that Mr. Hawthorne was a bit aloof, but friendly. Clearly Mrs. Hawthorne was the hard-ass of the family. So, it was her I’d endeavor to impress.
That meant not screwing up this polenta. The trick was constant stirring. Aggressive, obsessive stirring. After my salad and gremolata were prepped, my ladyfingers were soaked, and my tiramisu was setting up in the fridge, I poured all my attention into babying that polenta into the perfect creamy base for the short ribs.
At quarter to eight, Ali entered the kitchen. I decided changing for dinner had been a good move on my part when she showed up in a crisp, black button-down shirt, black trousers, and leather loafers.
“The family is starting to gather for drinks,” she informed me. “How are you doing on time?”
“Right on schedule.”
I pulled out my short ribs to rest and dressed the warm salad. The dessert needed all the time it could get to set up, so I’d portion it once they started clearing the main course. And because I always made extra, I quickly fixed Ali a plate with a little of everything on it.
“Let me know if you think it needs salt,” I offered.
She didn’t need to know that this was my way of winning her favor. Plus, I was now mortally terrified of inducing a heart attack in Mr. Hawthorne by oversalting my dishes.
Ali grabbed a fork and dug in.
“Oh, this meat is so tender,” she said, watching it crumble under her fork.
“Thank you.”
She hummed and fanned her mouth, the food still very hot.
“The seasoning is perfect,” she said, swallowing. “Don’t touch a thing.”
With that, I began plating. The salad first, which the waitstaff came to collect. And while the family ate that, I composed a creamy pool of polenta with short rib in the center and a generous heaping of gremolata.
“Would you like to introduce the main course again?” Ali asked when they came back to collect the next course.
“No, I don’t think so. I need to portion out the tiramisu. Better if I hang back,” I said.
Thankfully, she didn’t object. So, after dessert was served and dinner concluded, I sighed with relief that I’d made it a whole meal without another run-in with the Prodigal Son.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.
Chapter 10
Breakfast the next morning wasn’t until 8 a.m., which was sleeping in for me. I was up at six to shower and dress, then make myself some coffee and toast in the primary kitchen, since I had failed to stock my own. I knew there was a staff meeting at eight too, which Ali had said I wasn’t required to attend, so while I was making breakfast for the Hawthornes, I whipped up a simple spread for the crew too. Ali arrived first.
“You’re early,” she said, walking in with a clipboard. “Excellent.”
“I wasn’t sure if I’m supposed to serve staff meals as well,” I told her, pouring her a cup of coffee.
“No, it’s not necessary.” She helped herself to some toast and jam with a few pieces of fruit. “Though if you did, I’m certain no one would complain. It’s been a long time since we’ve had anyone on a consistent basis in your position.”
Ali sipped her coffee at the island. While she mostly had a stringently professional demeanor, I sensed food was the key to her candor.
“While I’m waiting on the others,” she said, “I’ll go ahead and let you know the family is out of the house all day and will return later for dinner.”
Ali handed me a few sheets of paper, which outlined the family’s schedule for the week; who would be in the house and for which meals. Also, if anyone would be with them as a guest.
