“Darling, I forgot and I’m sorry.” Mrs. St Julien tries to put her arm around Scarlett’s shoulders, but Scarlett shrugs her off. “I know it’s terrible of me, but with the repairs being done and your father in London half the time, I’ve just had so much to keep track of. I really, really thought I told you and I’m sorry.”
My eyes dart from Scarlett to Mrs. St Julien to Lou. Lou keeps her head down. Scarlett grips the counter and leans across. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who’s actually more gorgeous when she cries. Her eyes become so blue they look fake. Her voice rises an octave as she says, “Charlie died.” She pauses for emphasis. “Three months ago.”
Charlie is – was – Scarlett’s golden retriever. Her Christmas present on her twelfth birthday. When Scarlett first came to Georgia, she’d FaceTime her parents every Sunday and spend a good ten minutes baby talking to Charlie. Over time it waned, but she still kept a picture of the dog in a tiny frame on her keychain and often pronounced Charlie her one true love, the one all others would ultimately fail to live up to.
“Darling, he was so old. You know that. I know it doesn’t excuse --” Mrs. St Julien starts.
“He was my Charlie,” Scarlett says and her voice breaks for real this time.
Mrs. St Julien and Lou both look at me, so I dry my hands on my apron and go put my arm around Scarlett’s waist. She buries her face in my shoulder and I make shushing noises like I’m comforting a four-year-old. I let her sobs subside a little before I speak. “My mom wouldn’t let me have a dog, but I had a cat named Ginger Ale once.”
Mrs. St Julien smiles and Scarlett hiccups out a small laugh. When she pulls back, her blue eyes are nearly iridescent. “You never told me that. What happened to her?”
“We were going to visit my aunt and uncle in Australia one summer and my mom told me she’d taken Ginger Ale to a pet sitting place and they were going to look after her while we were gone. But when we came back, she said she’d taken the cat to a family down the street for them to watch.”
“Did you go get her back?” Scarlett asks.
“No. The family had little kids and when we went to see if we could get her back, it became clear my mom pretty much gave them the cat. The kids were crying and asking us why we were taking Ginger Ale away from them, so we let them keep her. My mom tried telling me afterwards, ‘No one ever became poor from giving.’ But it’s a little different when you’re talking about fifty cents to a homeless guy versus a family pet.” I stop to swallow the lump in my throat. I hate that story. Even after twelve years, it makes me furious with my mother all over again. To be fair to her, she knew she’d screwed up and offered to buy me another cat, but I never wanted another cat. I wanted Ginger Ale or nothing.
“That’s horrible,” Scarlett says.
“You know my mom.” Her best intentions go awry almost as often as they don’t, but that doesn’t seem to stop her. Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. If my mother had a tattoo, that would be it. I shoot a glance at Mrs. St Julien, then turn my gaze back to Scarlett. “I think in the sudden loss of a pet department, your mom might come out ahead.”
Scarlett lets out a long sigh, blowing a strand of hair away from her face. “Maybe. But I still think it’s shit.”
True fact: at twenty-four years old, I’ve never sworn in front of my mother.
Scarlett’s swearing in front of her parents shocked me the first time I ever heard it and it still surprises me now, even though no one else even blinks. Mrs. St Julien puts her hand on Scarlett’s shoulder. “Agreed and again, I’m sorry.”
Scarlett nods and then lets herself sink against her mother for ten seconds before heading for the fridge. She throws open the door and says, “Chocolate is the only thing that will make this better.”
Lou speaks for the first time since the St Juliens entered the kitchen. “There’s chocolate mousse and a fondant, but only enough for dinner service. If you want something out of there, I made a chocolate torte yesterday that will go to waste otherwise.”
Scarlett clatters around in the fridge and emerges with a pie tin covered in foil. In two seconds the foil is on the counter and she’s fanning out forks, offering one to everyone in the kitchen. As if she’s scripted it, we all take one and silently take a forkful of the torte at the same time. Even Lou. I watch as the others bring the forks to their mouths and finally close my lips around the chocolate, letting it melt onto my tongue.
Normal chocolate cake has two hundred calories and this must be twice that. But Oh. My. God. It’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Definitely better than the doctored up Duncan Hines brownies Scarlett makes every time she breaks up with someone. I moan and close my eyes, earning a laugh from Scarlett.
“Find something you like there, Bea?”
I take another forkful and answer her with another moan before I say, “This is amazing.”
Scarlett laughs again. “Better than sex. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
I can’t imagine joking about sex with my mother and I can’t quite do it with Mrs. St Julien there either. But she’s the one who says, “Well, darling, you’re obviously having sex with all the wrong people.”
I bark out a laugh and Scarlett nearly chokes, spitting crumbs out of her mouth as she says, “Oh my God, Mum. No. That’s…no. My mother is not allowed to say that.”
Mrs. St Julien turns to me. “Did Scarlett leave a boy pining after her in Atlanta?”
“Uh…” They all pine after her. That doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing to say to someone’s mom either, so I settle for saying, “I think she left a couple, at least.”
Scarlett takes another forkful of torte but pauses her fork midway to her mouth. “No one serious. Not like Theo.”
Mrs. St Julien raises her eyebrows at me. “Theo?”
“Theodore Dasanti III.” Most people call him Das because he hates the name Theo. But I argued that I, of all people, should be able to call him Theo, and he agreed, as long as he could call me Beatrice. Thankfully, he didn’t exercise the privilege very often.
“And you’ve left this Theo person pining for you?” Mrs. St Julien leans forward and her eyes sparkle like I’m about to really dish.
Lou takes one more forkful of chocolate torte and then turns back to her pastries. But she keeps her body angled so she can hear if she wants to. I shrug as I move back to my carrots. “I doubt he’s pining for me, to be honest.”
“Oh, I bet he is in his own special way,” Scarlett says, grinning. To her mom she says, “Theo’s a PE teacher and he’s very particular.”
“He’s a nice guy.” When Scarlett laughs, I do, too, but I continue. “He is. Honestly, you can’t say he’s not a good guy.”
The kitchen door swings open and Jasper says, “Who’s a good guy?”
Oh God. “No one.”
Scarlett talks over me. “Bea’s ex-fiancé.”
“Ex-fiancé?” Jaspers eyebrows go up with his voice, but then he scowls. “The ‘ex’ part doesn’t usually precede fiancé when said guy really is a good guy. At least not in my experience.”
“Your experience is obviously vast.” Scarlett’s lips tilt up in a half smile and she turns to me. “My brother thinks study dates are actually for studying. Isn’t that cute?”
If it’s possible to die of awkward, I’m going to keel over right here, in a borrowed flannel shirt with chocolate on my lips. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go and I hold my breath for a second in hope, then let out a tinny-sounding laugh. “It depends on the subject, I guess.”
I glance up and Jasper’s eyes latch on mine. And by the look on his face, it’s clear I’m not the only one remembering the conversation we had walking down Peachtree Street eating melting Italian ice. The one where we talked about the most public place we’d ever had sex. Mine was in a rest stop parking lot on I-75. His was in a study carrel at his university library. “The library isn’t just for studying anymore,” he’d said.
Now he says
, “I take my studying very seriously.” He holds my gaze as he speaks and a flush steals across my skin. Until he glances at the torte on the table and says to Scarlett, “Cake twice in one day? I know the phrase is let them eat cake, but that seems excessive, even for you.”
I can’t tell by Jasper’s tone whether he’s being rude or trying to be funny, but Scarlett’s definitely not giving him the benefit of the doubt. “You jerk. I’ve been home less than a day and already you’re throwing your pissy attitude at me?”
“I was merely noting your cake consumption. If I was going to be pissy I would have remarked on the potential negative impact of chocolate on your skin, Spotty Scarlett.” Unlike Scarlett’s voice, Jasper’s is cool and measured, but he grins as he finishes speaking.
“For fuck’s sake --” Scarlett starts.
Mrs. St Julien steps between them. “Enough. I told you I wouldn’t spend the summer refereeing between you two and I meant it. If it means you battle it out on the tennis court, then do that. If it means you avoid each other completely, then do that. But figure it out.”
Scarlett’s jaw sets. I recognize that expression and I brace my knees in anticipation. I glance at Jasper, but he’s crossed his arms over his chest and looks almost bored. Mrs. St Julien has her hands on her hips like she’s waiting for one of them to say the wrong thing and I bite the inside of my lip because if I had money, I’d bet Scarlett is the one who blows.
But before anyone has a chance to say anything, Lou says, “You nearly done with those carrots, Bea?”
I am not. I chopped one before getting distracted by chocolate torte and family drama. I wipe my hands on my apron even though they’re not dirty and say, “Sorry, no. I’ll do it right now.”
Mrs. St Julien smiles at Lou, but when she speaks her tone is firm. “Here we are taking over your kitchen with nonsense and you’ve got a dinner service to prepare. Scarlett, Jasper, let’s get out of Lou’s way. Scarlett, you can help me see if the dining room is ready and, Jasper, will you make sure the bar is stocked? We might need another keg.”
Both Scarlett and Jasper nod and follow Mrs. St Julien silently out of the kitchen. I let out a long breath and pick up my knife. As I let it thwack through the carrot, Lou says, “After you finish chopping those, you can start taking the nibbles out. We put peanuts and breadsticks at the bar and a tapenade, pesto, and tomato relish set on each table to go with the bread.”
I nod. “Okay. Should I do one before the other? Does it matter?”
“No. They both need doing and it’s close enough now to opening nothing will go off.” Lou shrugs. “The dining room is mostly ready, aside from the place settings, but you can help make sure there are enough glasses at the bar.”
For a fleeting second, I think Lou is sending me to the bar because Jasper’s there and I open my mouth to deny the tiny leap my heart makes, but shut it before I say anything dumb. I glance at Lou, taking trays out of the oven, pushing her dirty-blonde hair out of her eyes as she stands. She doesn’t know me; my paranoia about Jasper is just that – paranoia. Although, judging by the way the tension exploded between him and Scarlett, that paranoia suddenly feels mighty justified.
Chapter Four
I restock glasses in the bar – alone; carry condiments to tables in the dining room – alone; and line bread baskets with napkins – alone. There’s no sign of Scarlett or Jasper and, aside from Lou’s perfunctory directions, I work in silence. It gives me plenty of time to observe Lou, who works with steady efficiency, moving from one task to the next as if she’s checking things off on a mental list.
As she puts a tray of roast potatoes back in the oven, I work up the nerve to ask, “Are you the only person who does the cooking?”
She turns and I see the first hint of a smile. “Tonight I am. With your help, of course.”
My heart plummets. I remember Hannah said something about the massage therapist girl being out for the count, but I thought surely there’d be someone else. I try to smile, but can’t quite do it. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize…”
“It’s only sixteen. It will be fine.”
I can’t imagine serving dinner to sixteen people – and that’s if they’re all eating the same thing. “But they order from a menu and stuff, right? I mean, they have choices?”
Lou’s smile widens. I actually see her teeth. It doesn’t feel like a victory. “The menu is very straightforward. There’s a chicken dish, fish, steak and ale pie, and a vegetarian option. But it’s summer and lots of people order the platters.”
“Um…?”
I don’t get any more out before Lou continues. “We have three. A meat platter with chorizo, salami, mini meatballs, and chicken skewers. A Ploughman’s with cheese, bread, ham, and chutneys. And a meze platter with olives, cheese, bread, hummus, and cold spinach pie. The only cooking we have to do for those are for the mini meatballs and the chicken skewers.”
Gah. I wish I had a notebook to write all this down because there’s no way I’m going to remember all of this. I haven’t felt this out of my element since my first days of student teaching, but at least then I was twenty-one and it felt acceptable. Now, three years later, I can wrangle a class of twelve-year-olds, but I’m overwhelmed by a simple dinner menu.
Break it down, Bea. Do what you’re good at.
I startle. The voice is my head belongs to Theo, of all people. I can even see his face as he says it – his blond eyebrows furrowed, those brown eyes trained on me willing me to try. His belief in me was simultaneously the best and worst thing about him, but it got me through that god-awful half marathon he talked me into. Because if I could break down the thirteen point two miles into manageable segments, including time and distance targets, it was only three segments of four miles, plus a little bit. I figured out my pace and my splits based on the time I wanted to achieve and used that to guide my training plan. Theo laughed, but I explained it helped me feel less anxious if I knew exactly what I needed to do.
This isn’t a half marathon by any stretch, but it doesn’t mean the same principles don’t apply. I take a deep breath and turn to Lou. “Can I see a menu so I know exactly what’s on it? Also, do we make the platters up ahead of time to save time or do we do it as they’re ordered? For the other meals, can you tell me what I have to do to help you with each one so I’m not getting in your way when it’s busy? Once someone orders, is there an expectation about how much time it takes until they’re served?”
Lou steps back and puts her hands up, barking out a laugh. “Whoa, stop. How about we tackle one thing at a time?”
“Sorry. I get…when I get anxious, I figure the more information I have, the better.” I manage a smile, but I’m not sure it comes out as one on the receiving end.
Lou nods like this makes sense and walks me through the menu, the process, and how we’re going to fulfill the orders when they come in. She’s patient and kind, and even though I follow her around like a puppy, I feel almost calm by the time Scarlett walks into the kitchen, tying a black apron around her waist.
Her dark brown hair is swept into a messy bun and she wears a gauzy gray shirt and at least six strands of silver beads around her neck. There’s no trace of her earlier upset over Charlie, the dog, or Jasper, the brother. In fact, she grins as she says, “Ready or not, our first customers are at the bar.”
Claire comes in shaking her head. “Nope. Moving to their table as we speak.” She looks nothing like the girl who showed me to our cabin earlier. Gone are the hoodie and shorts, replaced by a black skirt only slightly longer than her apron and a tight white V-neck T-shirt. Like Scarlett, she wears her hair up in a bun as severe as Scarlett’s is messy. The most surprising thing is the amount of make-up she wears. I can see the foundation line at her jaw and the skin tone of her face is at least two shades darker than the rest of her. It looks weird and, even though her eye make-up looks good, the overall effect looks like something you’d see as a Cosmo Don’t.
I half expect Scarlett to say somethin
g or shoot me a judgy look, but she’s busy opening the fridge, asking, “What’s left for us tonight?” To me, she says, “Lou usually puts our food on for about six-thirty. It’s early, but it’s either that or eating at ten.”
As Lou answers, I realize aside from the chocolate cake, I haven’t eaten all day and suddenly six-thirty seems far away, even though it’s less than an hour. I hear Lou say chicken marsala and then she says, “Since we’ve got three couples at seven tonight, I’ll put your tea on for about six-fifteen. Do you know if anyone else will be eating at the house tonight?”
I catch myself before I ask, “What house?” as Scarlett shakes her head. “Jaz has his very important phone call with Emory, and Mum made something at theirs.”
“Don’t your parents live here?” I blurt out.
“Yes.” Scarlett furrows her brow, then evens it out with a grin. “Oh, right. The apartment has a small kitchen. Mum and Dad used to eat Lou’s cooking all the time, but Mum said she either needed to stop or resign herself to becoming half-ton Hannah, so she makes them eat salads and shit. But my dad likes to come in and pinch a bite of real food every now and then.”
“Resistance is futile,” Claire says. “I always put on at least half a stone every summer.”
Half a stone? I scramble my tired brain to remember how much a stone is. Ten pounds? Twelve? I know it’s in the double digits. Ugh. I run three times a week to maintain my current weight and it’s a struggle as it is. My mother always says I’ve got her Ellicott genes to thank and used to bemoan my hereditary thighs to the point I wouldn’t even wear shorts. When Theo got me into running, it was another point in his favor. Not only was he such a nice boy, but such a good influence, too. And, well, Bea, it’s so important to take care of your body. After all, it’s the only place you have to live in.
Alas, wishing doesn’t make it so. If I didn’t give in to the combined pressure of boyfriend plus mother, I’m quite sure I’d do yoga a few times a week and sit on my ass the rest of the time, resigned to my size fourteens. I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I suspect I might be happier on some existential level where size genuinely doesn’t matter. Instead, I alternate yoga with running to squeeze into size ten jeans like I’m the PE teacher, not my ex.
A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) Page 3