Claudia, loyal roommate that she was, offered to walk over with me. Nice of her, but not really necessary. Shock and curiosity at their unexpected appearance aside, my parents didn’t make me nervous.
At least, not any more than talking to polite strangers made me nervous.
I knocked on the heavy carved wooden door and waited for the dean’s melodious “Enter” before pushing it open.
Dean Winchester, very elegant and French, even after thirty years in the States and almost that many years of marriage to a Texas-born neuroscientist, smiled. “Bonsoir, Peyton.”
“Bonsoir, madame.” My smile faded as I turned to the couple seated by the fireplace. “Mom, Daddy... What a surprise. I thought you were in—” I paused, kind of wishing I’d thought to check my calendar before I hoofed it over here, then mentally shrugged and said, “Brisbane.”
“Buenos Aires, actually.”
Whoops. Still, though, at least I had the Southern Hemisphere part right.
“We arrived back in town this morning.” With a smile, Mom tilted her head slightly, the summons clear. I stepped forward and placed a dutiful peck to her porcelain-cool cheek, still smooth and unblemished, thanks to some tasteful and very expensive work she thought no one knew about.
“You must be exhausted, then.” As if from a distant corner of my mind, I could hear my voice taking on the clipped, patrician cadence with which I’d grown up. A cadence that had been fading more and more of late. “Which begs the question, why are you here?”
Daddy stood from his chair to give me his kiss, perfunctory and somewhat distracted. So that was as usual. Moving to stand before the fireplace, he studied me with a pale blue intensity that was incredibly familiar and yet not. I’d seen that gaze thousands of times—discussing a business deal, the America’s Cup, a new vintage of Bordeaux, or how to perfect his golf swing. What was unfamiliar was seeing that gaze focused on me.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure the man had ever looked at me so intently in my entire life. It left me with the distinct sensation he was actually seeing me for the first time. Maybe ever.
“In part, Peyton, because of the email I received from the bank regarding a substantial withdrawal from your trust, paid to Johnson & Wales University. An institution that frankly, I had no idea even existed, let alone that you had any intention of attending.”
Oh, crap. I mean, I knew I’d have to tell them eventually. I’d just hoped maybe to put it off for a while. Like, until graduation.
Not from Warrington—Johnson & Wales.
Hey, a girl can dream, right?
“I had no idea you were still being informed of the activity on my trust account now that I’m eighteen.”
His eyes narrowed. “While you have control, we still maintain a supervisory interest until you turn twenty-five.”
“Ah.” Crap. “It might have been nice to know that.”
“Would that knowledge have changed anything?”
I tilted my head as if considering. “No...not really.”
And, hey, listen to that. My voice was steady and cool, with just a hint of the distance I’d heard him employ on countless business calls throughout my life. As if there were no real questions to be posed and I was just the slightest bit bored.
Never mind that my heart was pounding and a knot the size of Plymouth Bay had appeared in my stomach. If they were still being informed of the movement on my trust, did that mean they could also reestablish any measures of control? Because if they could, I was, in a word, screwed.
I fought to keep my swallow unobtrusive. I could play this stupid, but not only would that not fly, it really wasn’t my style.
“You have an objection to my postsecondary plans, then?”
Dad’s gaze narrowed further, but instead of answering me directly, turned to Dean Winchester instead.
“Were you aware of any of this, Hélène?”
She leaned back against the front of her desk and crossed her arms. What did she see, I wondered? Certainly not a happy family unit—not in the traditional sense at any rate. Ironic, really. While my family and its name stood as a bastion of American tradition, it was likely the last word anyone would use to describe us.
“I was,” she finally said. “Peyton came to me when she was weighing her decisions and asked for some advice and guidance.”
“And she didn’t listen?” Mom’s voice reflected as much emotion as I’d ever heard from her. Guess she had listened all those times I expressed admiration for my school’s headmistress.
Dean Winchester lifted one shoulder in a quintessentially Gallic shrug. “I advised her to carefully weigh the pros and cons of what she was considering.”
“So she didn’t listen,” Dad muttered.
“And,” Dean Winchester went on, with an added sharpness that suggested she didn’t much appreciate being interrupted, “I told her that ultimately, it was her decision and she had to choose what she felt would make her happiest.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Dad exploded. “Do you know what she wound up choosing?”
The dean nodded calmly.
“And you didn’t think there was anything wrong that a girl with her academic credentials chose a goddamned cooking school?”
The only indication that Dean Winchester was at all shocked by Dad’s outburst was a subtly raised eyebrow. While I, on the other hand, stood there gaping like a landed trout. Dude, I’d never heard my father’s voice hit that sort of volume—not even when watching the Red Sox from his box at Fenway.
“I will admit, Richard, it did come as a surprise when Peyton expressed her interest in culinary school. Frankly, I had no idea she even knew how to cook.”
“Neither did I,” Mom murmured.
Not such a surprise. In my family the kitchen was where you went to microwave something. If you could get to the thing before a servant appeared to ask if you needed help pushing the buttons.
“But the more I thought about it, the more I thought it a splendid idea for her. The students here, they’re so focused and directed and that’s a true joy, do not get me wrong. However—” she paused, her gaze turning inward “—these years they should also have adventure. New worlds and people and exploration. Quite honestly, Peyton is the last student I would have ever thought would embark on such an adventure, and perhaps was one of the ones who needed it most.”
She turned my way. “Rarely have I ever encountered such a determined, single-minded soul in my entire life, which is admirable—” she smiled “—but perhaps a bit limiting at so young an age?”
“All this soul-searching sounds lovely and might be fine if Peyton was an average or even above-average student,” Mom said. “But Hélène, we both know Peyton’s intellectual gifts are exceptional. It was bad enough she was determined to waste them on remaining in academia rather than joining any of the family’s businesses. But at least a tenured professor position at a top university carries with it a certain cachet.”
I watched as Dean Winchester’s eyebrow rose a fraction higher. Whether it was at the sideways slam at academics or the overall snobbery, I wasn’t sure. Probably the slam at academics, given that Warrington drew its student body from snobbery of all stripes.
“Moreover,” Dad added, “I did not gift this school with an extremely generous endowment in order for you to send my only child off to become a...a...servant. Preparing food for the masses.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you make it sound like I’m going to be wearing a hairnet and asking ‘Do you want fries with that?’”
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard Dean Winchester make a noise that almost sounded like a laugh. Covered up an instant later by a cough and Dad’s aggravated, “You stay out of this, Peyton.”
Oh, he did not just say that. “Stay out of it?” I spluttered. “Stay out of it? It’s my life. And since when
do you give a shit about it anyway?”
“Peyton—” Dean Winchester’s voice remained outwardly mild, but I could hear the warning.
“But Dean—”
She held up a hand. “In a moment.” To Dad she said, “Richard, I understand how upsetting Peyton’s change of heart must be—how...disappointing, even. However, the simple fact of the matter is that for a student of her magnitude, the Oxfords and Harvards will always be there and will always be fighting to have her attend. What is the harm in allowing her to explore this newfound interest?” A canny expression crossed her face. “With Johnson & Wales’s position as a traditional university as well as a top-notch culinary institute, she could also earn a business degree. Quite valuable if she’s to open her own restaurant, as she expressed interest in eventually doing.”
Oh, she was good. Hit Dad right where he lived. Naked ambition wasn’t necessarily a desired trait—so...common, darling—but a sound plan executed with solid business acumen?
How could he argue with that?
An equally canny expression crossed Dad’s face—an expression echoed by Mom as they exchanged glances, and an uneasy shiver skittered along my spine. Because Dad, he was good, too. A master, really.
“You make sound points, Hélène,” he began in a cultured, affable tone.
Crap.
I knew that tone.
“Especially about the schools still being there should she opt to attend at some date in the future.”
“However—” Mom picked up the narrative with a small smile and my heart rate escalated to something approximating mambo speeds “—one could argue the reverse is also true. That, after completing a degree at, say...Oxford, for example, that culinary school would still be there, yes?”
Dean Winchester looked remarkably unperturbed. The random thought that I’d hate to face her across a poker table flitted in and out of the transom of my mind. Never mind that I had no clue how to play poker. Had never even had an interest in playing poker.
I wondered if this was what a breakdown felt like.
“One could argue that most effectively, yes,” Dean Winchester said. “But ultimately, this is a decision that lies with Peyton, would you not agree?”
It felt like a chess match was being fought—and I was the key pawn in the middle.
Still, a pawn was never without some power.
“Out with it.”
Three heads turned to face me.
“You’ve got something in mind.” I looked from Dad to Mom. “So quit tiptoeing around and just spit it out already.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed again and oh, my, was that actual shock? “You’re going to need to learn a bit more finesse Peyton, if you’re to succeed in business.”
“I’ve got time.” I crossed my arms. “Well?”
Dad resumed his seat beside Mom. A power play. While some thought that looming over your opponent was a sign of strength, it was actually the other way around. Kind of like royalty on the throne. Handing down decrees.
Or death sentences.
“We have a proposition.”
Or...worse.
Five
“You aren’t seriously going to do this.”
“What choice do I have?” I typed a name into the browser’s search window while Claudia wore a hole in the rug between our two beds. I wanted to tell her to stop with the agitated pacing, but not like I had room to talk—not with the way my foot was twitching, hard enough I could barely keep my laptop from taking a header to the floor.
She froze, midpace, and hit me with a hard stare. “You could say no.”
My hands froze on the keyboard. “I know,” I said slowly, my cheeks burning. “But Claudia, they’re expecting me to fail and I can’t. Not at this.”
This, being the proposition my parents had presented me with.
See, there was this charity dinner they’d soon be hosting to benefit... Hell, I couldn’t remember if they’d even said. No doubt some fashionable cause that had captured their fancy, was politically advantageous and would provide a nice tax write-off. A high enough profile event for them to have secured the services of one Kai Belizaire—very French, very accomplished and currently one of the hottest young chefs on the planet.
Dude had cooked for heads of state, rock stars and Johnny Depp, all before most people in this country were of legal age to drink.
Well, what with my interest in cooking and in the restaurant world, wouldn’t this be just the perfect opportunity to see if I had any real aptitude for it?
That little tidbit delivered with a smile that clearly conveyed what they thought.
So they’d approached Chef Belizaire with a request: allow their aspiring-chef daughter a place on his cooking team for the charity event.
I might have expected a chef of Belizaire’s stature to respond to that sort of high-handed request-that-really-wasn’t with a hearty, “Oh, hell no.” Or maybe more accurately, given what I’d heard about the man’s temper, something like, “Bite my shiny French ass,” in some creatively profane combination of the multiple languages in which he was allegedly fluent.
No doubt massively insulted that a chef of his magnitude was being asked to babysit some overprivileged neophyte who hadn’t yet had so much as a formal cooking class.
There was no way he’d ever agree.
Except...he’d agreed.
I couldn’t help but wonder how much of an investment they’d promised for whatever his next new restaurant venture would be.
Cynical?
You bet your sweet bippy. I might not have had an interest in finance or business as a career choice, but it didn’t mean I didn’t understand how the game worked. I was a Chaffee, after all.
Which meant I also understood Mom and Dad’s game even before they finished fully outlining it.
What it boiled down to was simple: succeed, by Belizaire’s famously exacting standards, and Mom and Dad would lay off and cease all interference with my plans to attend culinary school.
Fail, and I’d give up my place at Johnson & Wales, relinquish control in my trust until I turned twenty-five—so as not to make any further rash decisions—and enroll at Oxford, which was their first choice for me. Oh, and forget mathematics and an academic career. I’d be enrolling in the business school so I could employ my gifts to their fullest extent and to the benefit of the family, as was right and proper.
Their faith in me was touching, really, it was.
“I feel you—and you know I totally get where you’re coming from.” She lowered herself to sit at the edge of my bed. “But Peyton...what happens if you do fail?”
My hands clenched into fists. “I gave them my word.”
She shook her head. “Girl, I keep telling you, there is some Irish in your woodpile, what with the red hair and the crazy-ass stubbornness.”
“Or maybe it’s just a genetic predisposition toward insanity.” I sighed. “I mean, there are a few cousins and great-aunts who are only spoken of in polite whispers.”
She grinned. “See, another difference between you starchy WASP types and Cubans—we don’t hide our crazy relatives. We put them out on display and do a compare and contrast.”
I drew my brows together and let loose with a haughty sniff. “Oh, my dear, that would be entirely too tasteless.”
She waved an airy hand. “Tomato, tomahto—what’s tasteless and outrageous to your family passes for any given Thursday night dinner in mine.”
She skewered me with that dark brown gaze—long enough to leave me squirming just a little. With a nod, as if satisfied, she finally said, “Okay, what gives? What haven’t you told me?”
With a sigh I closed the laptop and set it aside, exchanging it for one of the oversize throw pillows littering my bed. “The night of the dinner.”
<
br /> “What about it?”
“It’s a week from Saturday.”
I watched the comprehension dawn.
“Son of a bitch.”
I clutched the pillow tighter. “More or less my reaction, as well. For which I was chastised, because ‘such language, Peyton.’”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you think they knew about prom?”
“I don’t think so—” I sighed “—but after I mentioned it, it turned out to be a convenient piece of leverage for them.”
“Proof of how much you really want to do this.”
Claudia’s face reflected the equal amounts of anger and frustration I had felt as I’d watched my parents’ expressions shift. They’d exchanged these glances that left me feeling like a piece of chum dropped straight into shark-infested waters.
“Yeah.” I wasn’t ashamed to admit I’d gotten just a little desperate. “I offered to take their challenge on any other day. Asked why it had to be this particular event—I was sure they’d have others or I could even apprentice in a kitchen of their choice during the summer, but they were adamant. Said they knew me well enough to know I’d want to challenge myself with the best—”
“And right now, the best is this guy.”
“Yep.” I shoved a hand through my hair, impatiently pulling my ponytail free of its elastic. “Hoisted by my own petard, as it were.”
“Yeah, but this is beyond unreasonable. Even for them.”
“I know...” I hesitated. What had also emerged during that segment of this evening’s festivities was ugly and kind of made my skin crawl, and yet shouldn’t have come as such a huge surprise. “Which made me think one reason they dug their heels in was because of Eddie.”
Claudia’s eyes widened so far she almost looked like a manga drawing.
“Come again?”
“Turns out they’re not happy I’ve been seeing someone they don’t know.” How they even knew I’d been seeing anyone had been a mystery until they mentioned that a friend of a friend had seen me looking “rather cozy with someone we didn’t recognize, darling. Appeared to be a local,” on Lincoln Road Mall. The way Mom relayed it, you’d have thought I was caught on camera in a compromising position with a leper.
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