Prom Ever After

by Dona Sarkar, Caridad Ferrer, Deidre Berry

  “The classical French cooking, that came from my dad—the home cooking, though, that came from my mom. She’d take me to Hawaii every summer and I’d cook with her and all my aunties until I was fourteen when I started working in my dad’s restaurant.”

  Which more fully explained the French/Hawaiian/Polynesian fusion cuisine on which he’d built his reputation.

  “You have a car here, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The produce guy, he told me where there’s a shelter.”

  Not a question—not even a statement—just...an expectation. One I was clearly meant to accept. I should be annoyed with the high-handed attitude, and yet, understanding his intention, how could I? Not without feeling like a total Grinch.

  Once again, I cleaned my equipment, watching as he added the sausage and pork to the chicken and stock, then after seasoning it, set about cleaning his own equipment.

  “What about the noodles?” I asked.

  “Not until the end—they’re likely to sit longer in the broth than would be optimal, so no point in overcooking them excessively.” He was sharpening his knife, the blade a silver blur, the steel humming with a high-pitched melody. “Ideally, I’d scramble an egg into the soup before serving or maybe add hard-boiled egg, but again, not optimal under these conditions.”

  “It’s a nice thing you’re doing,” I blurted.

  Not that he asked.

  Not that he cared.

  The blade paused for a split second. “Chef’s just a title,” he said quietly over the hum of the steel. “Hard-earned, yeah, but just a title for someone who cooks. A cook feeds people. We have a responsibility to our community—to keep them nourished.” He glanced up, that piercing green gaze finding mine. “I may make a living off feeding the wealthy, but it’s the community that feeds me.”

  I had the distinct feeling he was saying more than what the actual words were expressing. A feeling that increased as we drove to the shelter and I watched him pull on a pair of clear gloves and serve up bowls of soup, talking easily to those who passed through the line. Even though he hadn’t asked, I nevertheless pulled on a pair of gloves and stood beside him, slicing up the loaves of day-old French bread we’d stopped on our way to the shelter to pick up—and when had he had time to make that connection, as well? I placed the bread on the trays alongside the plastic bowls of soup, content to not say much beyond “you’re welcome.” Oh, and the odd “thank you,” to the older ladies who seemed to find my hair fascinating.

  Back at the boathouse, I helped him finish up with the last of the cleaning, even though again, he hadn’t asked.

  Outside on the sidewalk, he pulled the tie restraining his dreads loose and rolled his head, allowing the golden-brown coils to settle around his shoulders in a comfortable disarray.

  Rubbing his neck he said, “Four-thirty.”

  Already used to his abrupt speech patterns and the topics that sprang up, seemingly out of nowhere, I gaped. “A.M.?”

  “Want to check out the fishmongers. The boats start coming back in by six.”

  I groaned. “But four-thirty?”

  “You want the best, you got to be first. And these cats, they don’t know me, so it’s not like they’ll know to hold the best aside.”

  “Four-thirty,” I sighed, then yelped as he grasped my wrist, his hold every bit as firm as it had been during the onions. Turning my hand over, he studied the palm in the pool of light thrown by the weathered brass sconces illuminating the boathouse’s doorway.

  “Soak, but don’t cover. Let air get to it.” One long, graceful finger traced the blister that had finally made an appearance, sometime during the cubing of the pork. “Put a moleskin doughnut on it tomorrow.”

  I nodded, even though I had no earthly clue what a moleskin doughnut was. Maybe one of the household staff would know. Luckily, I wouldn’t have to suffer through any comments from Mom and Dad about how if I was so delicate, perhaps I wasn’t quite cut out for the professional cooking world. In fact, I wouldn’t have to deal with them until Thursday when they were due to return from Napa, where they were making final arrangements for the wines and sommelier for the gala. Hell, for all I knew, they were buying a damned vineyard.

  Whatever. With any luck I’d be so busy I’d be able to legitimately avoid them until after all was said and done.

  “You hearin’ me, girl?”

  I was yanked out of my head to find him staring intently, his eyes paled to an eerie silver green in the lamplight.

  “Yeah,” I managed, realizing he was still holding my hand, but it had shifted from the peremptory grip to something not...gentle, per se, but rather, supportive. And clearly, I was exceedingly tired. Or cracked. Or both.

  I stared up at him, focusing my gaze on that thin scar bisecting his eyebrow. Wondering how he got it. Not wondering why he was still holding my hand.

  I’m sure it would be explained.

  Maybe.

  “Listen—”

  Once again, I found my wandering thoughts reined in by that lilting voice. With some effort, I focused enough to meet his gaze.

  “I don’t need to have you with torn-up hands, so do as I say.”

  I nodded.

  “And don’t go staying up until all hours. You get yourself home, take a bath and go to bed. If you’re tired, you’re prone to stupid mistakes. You’re enough of a rookie you’ll be makin’ plenty of them without being exhausted.”

  I nodded again, clearly incapable of speech.

  “Four-thirty—here. Don’t be late.”

  With that, he dropped my hand and loped off in the direction of his hotel while I stood there a moment longer shaking my head before I took off for home and hopefully, the discovery of what in the ever-loving hell a moleskin doughnut was.

  Eight

  “You’re alive.”

  I cringed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, I know you’ve been busy, it’s just—”

  “It’s just you’ve called and texted and I kept promising to call when I had a minute, but by the time I have a minute it’s just so late and then I’m generally up by around five and—”

  “Peyton—”

  “And it’s been insane and Kai’s crew arrived yesterday and Mom and Dad returned today and just ‘popped by’ the boathouse, ‘just to check on the progress and we do hope Peyton’s not been too much of an imposition’ like this is just some fucking lark they’re indulging—”

  “Peyton—”

  “And I honestly have no idea what the hell Kai’s thinking or what he might have said to Mom and Dad, especially after I killed that batch of duck confit and we had to start over from scratch. Luckily, we had the time to do so, but oh, my God, I thought he was going to tear me a new one. I mean, who knew the boathouse had acoustics like that—”

  “Peyton.”

  I yanked the phone away, my ear ringing. “Sorry.”

  “S’okay.”

  “Is it?”

  “Not really.”

  I sighed. “At least you’re honest.”

  “Sorry, that was shitty of me.” His sigh was long and full of all the frustration I was feeling. Actually, check that. All the frustration I would be feeling if it wasn’t for the fact that I was way too freakin’ tired to feel anything other than way too freakin’ tired.

  And...?

  Not now.

  Yes...now.

  Okay, fine. And absolutely exhilarated.

  Which prodded another emotion to the surface—guilt.

  I knew I should be feeling guilty over missing prom but I...kind of wasn’t. And I felt guilty because I...wasn’t.

  I did miss Eddie, though. A lot.

  I wished I could be sharing more of this with him.

  I wished he
was here.

  Do you, now?

  Yes. Now, shut it.

  I did wish he was there—I did. If only because everything had been so amazing and I wished I could share it with him and with Claudia and even David, because they would get it. At least, Claudia and David would. They’d understand, because they were of the same mind-set, how amazing it was to be immersed in something you loved beyond all imagining.

  And Eddie... Well, even though he hadn’t yet developed that sort of all-encompassing passion for anything, he’d understand because he understood me. Understood what this meant to me.

  “Are you okay, really?”

  “Yeah,” I managed around yet another huge yawn. “Just wrecked.” I rolled over in bed and reached for my Diet Coke. I probably shouldn’t be drinking it at midnight, but then again, so...freakin’...tired. And I was going to have to be up by five-thirty, so I could be back at the boathouse by six.

  “Aren’t there labor laws in Massachusetts?”

  “Sure. But I’d actually have to be employed. Technically, this is ‘volunteer’ work. Do you know my parents actually had the nerve to say that to me today? That it’s the sort of thing that would look good on my university records.” The can made a loud, metallic crunch as I closed my hand into a fist.

  “Not even bothering to pretend, are they?”

  “Nope.” I yawned again, my jaw aching with the strain.

  “Then why even bother showing up tomorrow? What’s the point? You could always blow it off and come back down. That way you at least don’t have to miss prom.”

  “The point is, so long as I show up and do my job, then I have a chance—infinitesimal as it might be—to win. Or at least make a point as to the seriousness of my intent.”

  “Do you honestly think they even care? And what makes you think they’ll stick to the promise they made, even if you do win? If Mr. Cranky French Chef says you’ve got the goods to make it as a pro?”

  Couldn’t blame Eddie for asking. There was no guarantee they’d stick to their promise. Except, I knew if I did pass this test, I was going to cooking school—no matter what they decided. If I had to take out loans and work in kitchens washing dishes to do it, I was going. I’d figure it out. Cooking—it was in my blood now.

  Whether my parents ever realized it or not, all they’d done is solidify my path.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I slurred, the room fading in and out.

  “Damn girl, you are twelve kinds of brave.”

  “Or twelve kinds of idiotic.”

  “I’ve heard it both ways.”

  I laughed even as I fought to stay awake. Kind of felt it might be a losing battle.

  “Peyton?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Think I might be able to borrow some of that brave?”

  I perked up momentarily. “For what?”

  He hesitated—long enough for sleep to start pulling me under again. And much as I wanted to know—knew this was what he’d been dancing around for a couple of weeks now, and wanted to be there for him, wanted to be just as supportive and there as he’d been for me, I just couldn’t. I was so drained and I just couldn’t give him the attention he deserved.

  “Peyton—”

  I snapped awake.

  “God, Eddie, I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.”

  His voice softened. “I know, baby. It’s cool.”

  My eyelids already drooping again, I managed, “Tell me tomorrow?” before completely succumbing.

  I woke up the next morning with a vague memory of hearing a soft “Promise,” but beyond that, didn’t have much time to think of anything that wasn’t chop, slice, julienne, brunoise and chiffonade—not to mention stir, fetch, wash, baste, tie and plate, since I’d been assigned as the swing chef’s assistant, basically doing whatever was needed. Which included staying the hell out of Kai’s way, since he was in full enfant-terrible mode. He was a black-T-shirted missile as he moved from station to station, voice rising as he barked orders and got ever more scathing if they weren’t carried out double-time and executed with the same amount of skill and finesse he demanded of himself.

  Needless to say, the entire day was a blur. Well, except for the one, glorious moment when my parents swept in with their usual sense of entitlement, no doubt to see how “things were going,” and had their asses absolutely handed to them. Kai’s sous-chef had tried to usher them out with some grace and diplomacy, which had been met with predictable disdain. However, before the condescending expressions could even fully form, Kai had swooped in, chef’s knife glinting dangerously, and told them to get the hell out of his kitchen.

  Mom—not all that quick on the uptake—had started to protest. Dad, with a cautious eye on that knife, had merely said they’d return at the end of the evening.

  I’d smiled for the next half hour, until Kai’s screaming fit because we were falling behind schedule and where in the fucking fuck were the Vietnamese cinnamon sticks? No time to dwell on the Chaffee takedown or do much more than breathe as I slipped into a sort of twilight-zone state, my entire world narrowed down to whatever task I was charged with completing.

  The kitchen chatter, the clink of crystal and china, the pop and sizzle of food, the smells, everything—it all faded into a hum that surrounded me in a protective bubble as I worked in my own little vacuum.

  “Peyton—”

  I would’ve jumped except I was restrained by a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Dammit, would you quit it with the stealth act?”

  Kai’s brow rose and before he could say it, I sighed. “Yeah, yeah...I know. Your kitchen.”

  To my surprise, he grinned—that big, full-out grin with the teeth.

  “Time to take a break.”

  “But—”

  “Crew’s got this in hand.”

  Before I even fully registered what had happened, I found myself outside, breathing deeply of the cool night air and realizing, for the first time, just how hot I was after hours spent in the confines of the kitchen. The room that had been comfortable with only two cooks in there had turned into something approximating Dante’s Inferno what with the cooktops, rotisseries, ovens and salamanders going full tilt for hours. Not to mention all the bodies from the cooking team down to the waitstaff, bussers and cleanup crew making the cavernous room feel as if it had shrunk to the size of a bathroom stall.

  Ever aware, Kai pressed a bottle of water in my hand as he urged me onto the wood-and-wrought-iron bench across the street from the kitchen’s entrance. With a sigh of relief, I sank down, the wood slats providing welcome support. Only now did I realize just how rubbery and achy my legs were.

  “You should go to CIA.”

  I blinked, not quite processing. “The Central Intelligence Agency?”

  With an impatient sigh, he poured water into his hand and flicked it in my face.

  “Hey!”

  “Wake up—Culinary Institute of America.”

  Still not quite processing. But just as he was preparing to flick more water in my face, the pieces finally fell into place.

  “You’re saying I’m good enough to do this.” Because it would just be a waste of time to be coy and ask him to spell out what he was saying. A week of exposure to Kai had rendered me familiar with his speech patterns—and his lack of patience.

  Coy wouldn’t cut it with him.

  “I’m saying you have potential. And it should be nurtured.” He leaned back against the bench and stretched his arms out along the back.

  “But my parents—”

  The eyebrow rose. “Thought it was a done deal, eh? That they had me in their pockets?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “No one owns me.”

  “That’s going to come as news to them.” I sighed. “Not that it’ll
matter.” I knew in my gut Eddie was right—regardless of outcome, they weren’t going to stick to their promise.

  In the lamplight, his narrow gaze took on that eerie silvery-green cast, rendering them even more startling than usual against his skin. “Do you want to do this or not?”

  I nodded. “I won’t lie—it would be a lot easier if I had their support, but since that’s never going to happen, lack of interference would work.”

  He made that noise low in his throat that translated to something between scorn and agreement.

  “So now what?”

  I shrugged. “I guess I contact Johnson & Wales and start seeing about student loans and scholarships.”

  “I’ve got contacts at CIA. Could get you scholarships. And you could work for me.”

  Again, I struggled to process. “But...Johnson & Wales—” And Cuban cooking and Miami and the Abreus, who were more family to me than my own, and Eddie.

  Oh, God, Eddie.

  “It’s a good school, but CIA is the school. And New York is the epicenter of the culinary scene. Anything you want to learn about cooking—you learn it there. It’s an education in and of itself.”

  “I...”

  He made an abrupt shift, turning to face me. “Girl, listen to me—you’ve got potential, but more important, you’ve got the heart and the soul for food. You’ve got the passion for it.” His hands closed around my hands in that oddly supporting grip I recalled from the other night.

  “Word ’round the kitchen is you missed your prom to do this.”

  No point denying or even asking how he knew. He just did. All he wanted was absolute confirmation.

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “So you’ve got the nerve for this, too.” His eyes narrowed. “This is a hard bitch of a business, girl. It’s husband and lover combined, consuming you from the bones out, understand?”

  Swallowing hard, I nodded.

  “There’s no guarantee you’ll make it—but what I can guarantee is with my help, you’ve got a better shot.”

  No doubt. But, you know, I was my parents’ child when it came down to it and I was nothing if not a cynic.