“I’m here,” I said. I tried again. He still wasn’t aware of me. “I’m here,” I declared. Tom looked up and raised his eyebrows.
“So you are.” He put down his mug and the paper.
“Do I have the time right?” I asked. As I neared the table, I saw that my memory had been correct. His eyes did match his shirt. I felt a little tickle right below my stomach. “Where’s your mother?”
“She has a Ladies’ Altar Society meeting this time every week.” He put his mug in the sink. “Let’s get started.”
I felt shy knowing we were alone. I followed him into the little kitchen and saw an array of knives and measuring cups laid out in neat rows on the countertop.
“Right, measure a teaspoon of flour into that bowl there.”
I examined the measuring spoons for writing. There was none. I took a guess and picked one up. I glanced at Tom, who nodded. Confident, I scooped out a measure of flour and poured it into the bowl. I waited for my praise.
“Wrong.”
My heart sank.
“You don’t know what kind of teaspoon. Level, heaping…it makes a difference. Try again.” For half an hour, Tom made me ladle sugar, oil, butter, and flour into bowls using everything from teaspoons to half-cup measures to the palm of my hand. It was fiddly work, and the likelihood of missing the mark felt high-stakes. I told myself that mastering this was important because the book required that I keep my kitchen position. I pushed aside the truth that I wanted Tom to approve of me.
“Can’t I just riff? You know, put my own spin on it?” I liked rules, but this level of rigor was like being in prison. I thought about how great I’d been on the debate team and at taking essay tests. In those realms you win by emphasizing what you know and taking the spotlight off of what you don’t.
“Sure, you can improvise if you never want to be a baker. Baking is pure science. There’s delicate chemistry involved and there are universal laws of physics at play. But if you like your bread rolls to sink in water, then by all means wing it. Once you know how much salt fits in your palm, you have freedom. You won’t be tied to utensils,” he coached. “It becomes intuitive. Don’t be in such a hurry to master this. It takes time and practice. Try again.”
I filled a measuring cup with softened butter and leveled the top using a butter knife the way he’d shown me. I tipped it toward him and he nodded. I carefully ran the knife around the edges to get every dab and transferred it to a bowl.
“That’s right,” he said, with the trace of a smile. “Was that so hard?”
“It’s just that when you said ‘wrong,’ it reminded me of my father. Nothing I ever do with him is good enough, if you know what I mean.” I wiped my greasy hands on a tea towel, and wondered why I was telling Tom this.
He leaned against the counter. “I can see why your Da would have high expectations. There’s a spark about you, like any minute you’re going to do something remarkable.” He stood up and started whipping the ingredients I’d measured into a dough. “I mean to say, it’s clear that you’re a bright woman. Let’s move on to knives.”
For the next hour, I memorized the names of every knife in the kitchen, and their uses. French, chef, paring, serrated, fish…and on and on. We sliced tomatoes, onions, potatoes, bread, mushrooms, and blocks of cheese.
“I wish I had some Kalamata olives for you to try. Slicing around the stone is tricky. I picked up some pointers from a chef in Greece.”
“I saw that picture of you there.”
“What picture?” He took his hands out of the dough he was working and waited for an answer.
I had no choice but to answer truthfully. “The one in your bedroom. With…a woman.”
“You mean my old bedroom,” he said. He washed his hands. “Funny you were in there.” I used an old trick of Hank’s. I stayed silent. It worked, and eventually Tom went back to the lecture. “You choose your knife based on the texture of the food. Some foods require sawing, some pressing. The sharper the knife, the better, especially for something with multiple textures, say, like a tomato.”
“Sharp knives scare me,” I said.
“You’re less likely to get cut on a sharp one than a dull one.” He glanced at me. “But I’m not sure that rule applies to you, Sheila Doyle. I’d better use caution.”
Embarrassed, I needed something to do with my hands. Taking initiative, I started chopping the lettuce leaves we’d set aside, before he stopped me. Gently, this time. He took the knife from my hand and explained about the living cells in fruits and vegetables. Tearing lettuce, or using plastic knives designed for the purpose discouraged bruising and oxidation. “Now, use your hands to shred the rest of that head into small pieces, while I pop this into the oven.” He paused. “Please.”
I couldn’t get the hang of mincing garlic. No matter how hard I tried, I wound up spraying large chunks of garlic, all of varying shapes, off of the cutting board and onto the floor. A judgmental look flashed over Tom’s face. I saw him consciously calm his expression.
“Here, let me help.” He sprinkled a little salt on a few whole cloves. “This helps keep the garlic from sticking to the knife.” He slid behind me, and put his hand over mine on the tang of the chef’s knife. “Make sure the tip stays in contact with the board, like so,” he said, moving my hand in rhythmic motions. “Let the weight do the work.”
As I leaned in to relax my shoulder so I could chop, my hip pressed into the space between his legs, and his zipper was flat against my waist. My body flicked and Tom lost control of the knife. “Careful, you’ll get us both hurt.”
We stood there together, turning cloves into slices, slices into sticks, and sticks into mince. “Work from root to tip, using a rocking motion. There, that’s the way.” After we’d gone through two heads, I began wondering how much garlic two people could need.
“There,” he said, separating his hand from mine and stepping away. My palm tingled from where he’s applied pressure. He poured tea into a mug and handed it to me. “Why don’t you step out into the garden for a few minutes? I’ll call you when it’s ready?”
The tea tasted good. I needed it. After such an early rise, and the effort of riding the learning curve, I felt I could take a nap right there in the warm sunshine. Nap the dog cemented himself to my calf and sat panting contentedly. The pressure was like a hug. I had just begun to wonder why Tom invited me over when he knew his mom would be out when his voice through the window called out, “Sheila!”
Nap pressed through the door with me when I opened it, and I tried not to call attention to the fact. Having him there calmed me. If Tom noticed, he didn’t let on. “Have a seat,” he said.
I’d only been outside a few minutes, but he’d laid out a feast. There was a basket of freshly baked soda bread, a large green salad, and two steaming vegetable omelets flanked by a pile of fried potatoes.
“This is unbelievable!” I said, taking my seat. Nap hid himself, curled under the table by my feet and put his head in my lap. Clever dog. “How did you make this so fast?”
“I made the bread while you were chopping,” he said, slathering butter onto a slice, “and you prepped everything else. That’s why a chef de cuisine has a sous, a station chef, a commis and so on. The final execution and plating is simple if you know what you’re doing. I’m like the doctor who steps in at the last minute and takes credit for delivering the baby after the support team and the mother have toiled over the labor for 18 hours.”
I savored the freshness of the summer-ripe tomatoes and the creamy eggs. “I’ll happily give you credit. I’ll give you anything you want if you keep putting this kind of food in front of me.” He tilted his head at me. Luckily he was chewing. “I mean, any kind of credit,” I said quickly, before he could answer.
We ate companionably. He asked me about what kinds of foods I did or didn’t like, I asked him about the grounds. Our words were small talk, really. All of my understanding about Tom came from a gesture here, a frown there. Our increas
ing ease around one another developed during the pauses. I could feel that he was starting to understand things about me. That pressed against the walls of my comfort zone, but I pushed myself to tolerate it. I sensed there would be a payoff. From time to time, I slipped morsels of food to Nap. We didn’t get personal.
When the meal was over, and no more tea could possibly be drunk, Tom said, “I’d never have pegged you for a softie.”
“What do you mean?”
“That dog. Mam’ll have both of our hides if she finds that animal in the house eating off her china.”
“Oh,” I said, standing. “Come on, Nap. Out you go. Shoo.” He went promptly and obediently. It was clear that he’d enjoyed the time-out from the rules, and he knew not to push it. My hand on the doorknob, I took in the picture of Tom leaning back, relaxed in his chair, legs splayed, arms open. I followed Nap’s example.
“Thank you for the lesson and for the meal. I really need to go and organize my room.”
He didn’t move. He looked up at me from under the heavy lids of his eyes and said, “Sounds like the right thing to do.” My heart raced as I closed the door to the cottage behind me. “Well, you did have two pots of tea,” I told myself. I saw Mrs. O’Grady in the distance, coming from the direction of the church. I walked leisurely back toward my dorm, half-glad and half-sorry that I’d chosen the right thing to do.
Chapter Twelve
Trouble shared is trouble halved.
As I cut through the lobby, I felt like a million bucks. The sun was out, and I’d carefully chosen a bright outfit to wear to reflect the cheer of the spring-like weather. Granted, by bright I mean khaki trousers, a taupe blouse, and a navy jacket, but at least it wasn’t black. Brigid had lent me a statement necklace that she’d made herself, strung together from large, pale-pink stones, so I felt I was making strides toward fitting in. My hair, however two-toned, was bouncing with joy at not being confined in my skullcap. Being freshly showered and wearing street clothes with a swipe of lipstick was such a treat. I almost felt like me.
After nearly a week of long shifts in the kitchen, I had a half-day off. My hands were nicked in several places, I had a long burn along my forearm where I’d backed into a line cook holding a hot pan (my fault), and every muscle in my body ached from standing, hauling and bending. Still, today I felt light and strong. Better even than when I used to go to the gym. Plus, now I knew how to make soda bread, wash spinach (the real kind that’s gritty with sand, not the pristine bagged baby leaves), chop any salad vegetable you could name into the most appetizing shape for its genre, and even make gazpacho. Bill still hollered at me and gave me all the worst jobs, and Tom — I simply cannot call him Chef unless I’m backed into a corner and there’s no choice: even then, I squirm — would never defend or protect me. The hierarchy of a kitchen is like a dog pack. I could not be farther from alpha, but as I’ve said, my eye is on the prize, so I’ll suck it up. It couldn’t be clearer that Bill thinks I should be fired, and he’s trying to figure out why I haven’t been. So am I, to tell the truth, but I’m thanking my lucky stars. Meanwhile, I’m trying to make every minute I have here count. Shoes have been known to drop in my life without warning. Making hay while the sun shines only makes sense.
Tom O’Grady, decked out in freshly starched chef’s whites pushed in the front door, eyes to the ground, cutting a swathe through the guests milling about the lobby. He didn’t have his head wrap on and his wavy blonde hair seemed to have carried in the sunlight. He clipped my elbow and looked up apologetically. “Sheila?”
“Tom? Chef! Hello.”
He looked me over. He looked like he was about to say something important, but thought better of it. I watched him shake it off.
“What?” I asked bluntly.
“Nothing,” he retorted. “What do you mean what?”
“I don’t know,” I said, balling up my fists. “You were looking at me as though you were about to say something.”
“I wasn’t staring at you,” he said with a raised voice.
This was escalating quickly, but now I was so hot under the collar I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “I didn’t say staring. You said staring!” He was officially ruining my day.
“Pardon me, Chef?” a short middle-aged lady in a powder-blue pantsuit inquired.
“What?” he snapped. “That is to say, how can I help?”
“I just wanted to let you know my husband and I ate in The Grange Hall last night and I can honestly say I’ve never had a better meal.” She hooked her arm in his and steered him toward the ballroom. “The smoked salmon and capers, together with the dulse oatcakes were a triumph…” she continued talking as they drifted farther away. He threw me one last scowl over his shoulder before he disappeared.
“Sheila,” Catherine, the receptionist, beckoned from behind the desk. She was wearing a lavender suit jacket, and had a navy and white scarf tied high around her throat. It looked perfect, the way scarves always do on flight attendants. I’ve never worn a scarf out the door. I always tie them on, filled with confidence and purpose, and wind up stuffing them in my bag before I make it past the hallway. “You have a telephone call.”
Could it be Des? I wondered. He hadn’t crossed my mind since he groped me in full view of everyone in the hotel parking lot the day he dropped me here. Don’t tell me he somehow found out it was my day off so he could invite himself into my bed? My one stab at being a “bad girl,” and it was going to haunt me forever. Couldn’t his fiancée keep him on a shorter leash? I could see the phone’s light blinking on the phone by Catherine’s computer.
“At least, I think the call is for you. The girl down the phone kept saying ‘Shay-la, but I suppose that’s her American accent. And she asked for ‘Shay-la’ Sheridan. Sounds like a solicitation call, though why they’d bother to track you down across the sea is beyond me.”
My heart soared — Maggie! I went to pick up the receiver and Catherine laid her hand on top of mine.
“Sheila?” she said, with the air of a hospital nurse informing a family member of bad news, “While it’s not strictly forbidden for you to be in the lobby with the guests, it’s discouraged.”
“Poppycock!” erupted the Earl, who was sitting in an ornamental chair next to a tall plant stand.
“Good morning, Your Lordship,” Catherine trilled, temporarily losing her composure. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”
If she didn’t, it was certainly understandable. He was wearing a brocade dressing gown that rivaled Joseph’s biblical Technicolor Dreamcoat, and an embroidered silk cravat to top it off. It was hard to tell where the chair ended and he began.
“Treat the estate as a home, and the guests will feel welcome, I always say.” Then he muttered under his breath, “When the lads and lasses running the place have it their way, even I don’t feel welcome.”
I watched the hold light blinking, worrying about how much this phone call must be costing Maggie.
“That’s a lovely sentiment, Your Lordship, and one worth remembering. I was simply following the guidelines handed down from the managers via Mary.” She offered him a serene smile.
“When I’m toe-up in the ground and the builders change the name out front to Castle Manager, you can turn all of the lively youngsters out of the main house, but until then stuff the guidelines. You there,” he called to me, “I’m spitting cotton. Order tea for two and join me at the table by the front window. We’ll look at people’s clothes and wager on what country they’re from.”
“I’m just about to connect her to an overseas call, Your Lordship.” She spoke to him the way solicitous ladies speak to the elderly.
“No need to shout. I’m old, I’m not deaf. So you order the tea! You,” he called to me, “first do your chatting, then come and have a sit-down.”
I reached for the receiver, but Catherine’s hand was quicker. I pulled my own hand back, and waited. “One moment for your call,” she said, brightly. She handed me the receiver and pushed the
button with the flashing light. She made no signs of stepping aside to give me my privacy, so I turned my back on her, whispering, “Mags?”
“What the hell?” Maggie exclaimed. “I’ve been on hold half my life listening to those jigs and shanties. I think I just earned an honorary degree in Irish folk music.”
“Hi! I’m so happy to hear your voice,” I cradled the receiver between my shoulder and chin, and cupped my hand around it to muffle my conversation. Catherine set to work cleaning the computer keyboard with a tiny brush and a can of compressed air. Turning my back further, I said, “I’m sorry I haven’t called. I haven’t had time to set up a phone plan. The days just keep getting away from me.”
“Never mind that, spill, and it better be good. I honestly thought you’d been abducted to Brunei and added to an international harem.”
I whispered the condensed version of how I wound up as Sheila Doyle, kitchen assistant, all the while aware of Catherine’s commitment to a spotless front desk. Maggie punctuated my stories with various exclamations, including but not limited to, “You gave it to my cousin, you dirty bird!” and “I told you to stay away from him…being engaged doesn’t mean he’ll keep it in his pants!” and “I didn’t say engaged? Oh, that’s on me, then” and “If your name’s Doyle now, then you’re my real sister and not just my sister from another mister!” and “I can see you as a lesbian, you’ve certainly got the shoes for it.”
After catching me up on some office gossip (Nate is definitely doing Padma from legal, and Matty is still a dick) she dropped a bombshell.
“I really hate to tell you this over the phone, Shay, but you need to know sooner rather than later. Eric asked me to move in with him, and I said yes.”
“Congratulations, Maggie, that’s great,” I said, trying to sound cheerful despite the shock. Of course that made sense. I just didn’t see it coming this soon, especially while I was out of the country. Even though the wind had been knocked out of me, I put a smile on my face, so the goodwill would shine in my voice. Maggie deserved my support. “I’m happy for you. Really.” I heard my friend let out a heavy sigh.
Summer at Castle Stone Page 15