Her stomach was growling by the time she was elbow deep in the pantry. It was no quick fix-she would have to pull it all out to see what was what. She'd already found a six-year-old bag of beans and numerous bags of rice, each older than the last. Helen Baynor had money to burn, but Laura had seen poverty in plenty in Jamaica and outside the walls of holiday resorts all over the world, including the United States. Wasting food was a sin. If there were already five pounds of rice on the shelf she wanted to see it so that no one bought more.
She lined up all the dry goods and decided she had to have lunch. She got acquainted with the grill by cooking two small filets of salmon, and found the utensils necessary to whisk together some blood orange-infused olive oil and rice wine vinegar for dressing on the fish and some greens. She debated whether she should look for Grace and was about to plate it all for herself when Grace returned.
"Can I offer you a small salmon salad?" She hoped she looked confidently settled in as she chose the correct cupboard for plates.
"I'd like that, though you don't have to plan to cook lunch for me every day. You often won't need to be here that early, I would imagine." It almost sounded like a suggestion.
"A special occasion." Since she was being paid a flat sum every week, she didn't see why she wouldn't have reasonable control over when she arrived and left, as long as snacks and meals were ready on time. Laura set the two finished plates on the kitchen island at the end with the bar stools. "It's just simple fare. Maybe we can go over the budget and schedule as well."
"Let me get my notebook then." Grace didn't quite sigh.
When had Grace intended to give her this information, Laura wondered, if not in some way today? Maybe she was misreading the women, but it was easy to do when someone refused to look you in the eye.
Grace had just returned when there was a knock at the side door. She stopped to let in two young Latinas, both wearing polo shirts from a local cleaning service with their black cotton pants. She gave them some instructions in rapid-fire Spanish, then joined Laura. "The girls are here for three hours on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, working on different parts of the house. They do a full-scale scrub of the kitchen on Tuesdays."
Laura waited for Grace to begin eating-a custom her mother had insisted was proper for the cook-but when Grace was slow to pick up her fork, she began eating anyway. "That's why it was so spotless this morning. Who does the dishes on a daily basis? I expect to do a degree of my washing up, of course, and leave some things to soak. I'm a tidy cook. My mother had high standards." Her sunny smile at Grace didn't get her one in return.
"The children do the dishes, including the cook pots and such. Ms. Baynor feels it's important to their life skills."
Laura digested that. "I've worked in a lot of high-end resorts where the kids were spoiled and ungrateful. Justin and Julie are teenagers, but they both said thank you for their snack yesterday. I was impressed."
"They're quite polite."
A silence fell and Laura thought that Grace didn't seem to much like the people she worked for. Or perhaps she was simply a hard emotional read.
Finally, Grace started on her salad. "It's very good."
"Thank you. Do you have any likes and dislikes I can accommodate at dinner time?"
"I'm a very light eater," Grace said. "I prefer low fat."
"Don't we all? I cook that way for myself naturally. How do you feel about spicy foods? Any vegetables you can't stand?"
It was like pulling teeth, but she finally got a few clues from Grace. They finished their salads and Grace offered to show her the household schedule. To Laura's surprise they walked to the mud room-she hadn't noticed the bulletin board opposite the door. Every member of the household had a line on a large magnetic calendar whiteboard, including employees, like the yard maintenance crew, the cleaners and service visitors. Tomorrow a carpet repair person was stopping in at eleven. Grace's days off were Sunday and Monday and across the top was the number for a local security firm, a doctor and a few more numbers with only a name next to them.
"How efficient," Laura said. She casually picked up the whiteboard eraser and marker and changed "cook" to "Laura." She noted that Julie had an afterschool meeting on Friday, and Justin had some kind of doctor's appointment next week. "I'll know exactly who will be home for dinner every day."
"It's crucial to our success." Grace seemed to brighten up, just a little. "This was my idea."
"It's excellent. So informative." She knew she was laying it on a bit thick, but it was the first genuine emotion she'd seen from Grace. "Now, about my budget."
They rinsed their dishes as Grace laid out the monthly family grocery budget and the stores where there was an account for the household. "Please use them as much as possible as it simplifies the receipts."
Laura agreed-the bread and cheese shop was on the list, for starters. There was easily enough money to feed the household, even when buying more expensive goods that she had confidence would only include the ingredients listed. When Grace went back to her part of the house she was relieved. It had been a good chat. They would all get along, she was sure.
By the time Grace slipped out the side door to bring the twins home from their private school in Menlo Park, Laura had brought order to the pantry and rollouts, and acquainted herself with what was in most of the cupboards of the large room. There were a number of unitaskers that she gathered up from the deep confines of several lower cabinets. Egg peelers, tomato dicers, garlic bashers, an electric gravy boat, even a device shaped like a hair dryer that purported to smoke food. She decided on the single most inconvenient cabinet of all and put them in the back to gather dust.
She heard their chatter before the twins entered the door to the mud room. The kitchen was looking fairly orderly, so she turned on a bright smile, offered up English muffin halves topped with toasted jack cheese, accompanied by fat, ripe seedless grapes and wasabi-roasted almonds.
"Hey, this looks good," Justin immediately said. Comfortably rumpled in cargo pants and a well-worn flannel shirt over a black tee, he devoured one muffin half in three bites. With a bready "Thanks" he headed toward his room, snack plate in one hand, backpack dangling from the other, and a growing trail of almonds behind him.
Julie hesitated before taking her plate.
Aware that the girl probably had questions, Laura still said to Justin's departing back, "Yo-you're losing food."
He paused, looked behind him and seemed utterly amazed to see the nuts on the floor. "Five-second rule."
"Gross," Julie said. "I can only imagine where your feet have been."
"I was walking in pastures filled with cow sh-manure. Acres of manure," Justin said as he juggled his plate and backpack and managed to pick up his fallen almonds. "Mmm, I love manure on my nuts."
"You are so sick." Julie tossed her head in a gesture that vividly reminded Laura of Helen. She added primly, "Laura will get the wrong impression of you. No, wait, I guess she's getting the right impression."
"As long as you pick them all up," Laura said. She glanced at Julie, who had retreated from the kitchen to hang her black sweater on a peg next to the door. Compared to her brother she was very reserved in crisp jeans and a cami under a cute little vest. Laura wondered if the polar differences in their personal styles was a subconscious way they tried to be dissimilar, even though, Laura thought, most people wouldn't immediately guess they were twins. They really only mirrored physically in the pointed chins they shared with their mother.
When Julie paused again to consider the snack plate Laura was offering, Laura went on, "The cheese is made in Monterey, and is free of any kind of dye-that's why it's not darker. The English muffins are from the shop on Main Street, where you've always gotten your bread."
"I'm not crazy about grapes, but I get it. They're good for me." Julie took her plate to the table in the bay window and opened her weighty backpack. Several thick books and a slim laptop were quickly spread out. Julie hunched over her binders, frowni
ng and reading as she absentmindedly finished her snack.
Laura continued her tidying up, grateful to be at the stage where things went back in assigned places in the cupboards and pantry. When Julie paused to stretch, Laura broke the silence with, "So what else is on your list of foods you don't care for, in addition to grapes?"
Without hesitation, she answered, "I really hate bulgar. Please don't make tabouleh. And mint in general doesn't work for me. I've tried and I just don't like mint."
"No bulgar-that doesn't break my heart," Laura admitted. "And I'll watch my use of mint. How do you feel about quinoa?"
She wrinkled her brow in a way distinctly reminiscent of her mother. "I don't think I've had it."
"There's a bag in the pantry just dying to be opened. I'll make just a bit of it at dinner and you can tell me. It's a seed that acts a lot like a grain, ends up being similar to couscous in texture. It's really nutty, low in fat and loaded with protein. Kind of a wonder food and it's good for you, but unlike most things described as good for you, it tastes good." She grinned, liking that Julie was still listening. "Especially with butter."
Julie nodded with a glimmer of enthusiasm.
"Chicken? Fish? Shrimp?" All nods in response, but, "Beef?" got a shake of the head. "Why not beef? Politics? Taste?"
"Sometimes it tastes tinny to me. I don't seem to mind burgers, but steaks..." She put one hand to her jaw. "It's weird. And yeah, shrinking planet and all that."
"How about meatballs? In spaghetti sauce?"
"I like turkey and stuff like that in meatballs. I like soy meatballs too. Justin doesn't like them though. Mom really hates them. She says they taste like poi, but I've never had that."
"I have," Laura admitted. "You have to do a lot to poi to get it above wallpaper paste in flavor. Think mashed sweet potato without the sweet or potato flavors." No soy meatballs for Helen, when she might be having the meal with her kids, then. "But maybe I can make them once in a while, when your brother is out somewhere, since you do like them and I'm sure they're good for you."
"Okay." Julie brightened a little bit.
Justin returned, looking ravenous and hopeful, holding his plate like a lanky Oliver Twist.
"How would you feel about spaghetti and meatballs for dinner? Some broccoli. A Caesar salad. And a little sample of something called quinoa so I know if I can make you a meal using it?"
"I could seriously get down with that." Justin still looked hopeful. "Is that, like, ready now, or how long?"
"About an hour. There are some beautiful apples and I chopped some fresh carrot sticks, and you can have both of them right this minute."
"You've been listening to Mom." His head stuck deep in the refrigerator, he added, "I could make popcorn."
"You'll spoil your dinner." She got up to run water in a large pot. "And yes, your mother said I should be certain to suck all possible joy out of your nutritional intake."
"She's making soy meatballs," Julie said.
"Is not." Justin took a large chomp out of the apple he'd rummaged out of the crisper.
"Is so, really. They're yummy."
Justin gave Laura a panicky look. "Seriously?"
She shook her head just slightly. "There's ground turkey and some ground pork in the freezer, panko bread crumbs and I'm pretty sure I saw buttermilk. They'll be soy-free."
Justin smacked his sister not so lightly on the head. "Liar."
"Made you ask." If Julie had been several years younger, Laura was certain she'd have stuck out her tongue.
He took aim to smack her again when Laura said, "If you have the energy to hit things, I have vegetables that need chopping and washing. I am always on the lookout for sous chefs. Kitchens are for working or eating, plus talking. Not hitting. Break the rules, you get K.P." To the blank stares she added, "Kitchen practice."
"I have stuff I gotta do."
"I see," Laura said. "An appointment with that skate rail I spotted in the carport perhaps?"
"That's for weekends. No, I have homework. Chem and math, some history." With that he got another apple and left again. Laura didn't think he'd make it an hour before he returned.
Julie said abruptly, "Mary-that was the previous chef. She didn't like us hanging out in here when she was cooking."
Laura blinked at that bit of news but only said, "You'll find that I am nothing like the dearly departed Mary."
"Good. I think she was making me sick on purpose. I complain about food a lot. It's not personal." It came out in a rush, and Laura wondered if she'd told her mother her suspicions.
"I get that. All I'm ever going to ask is if you'll give something one bite-it will always be something safe for you." She fetched a glass and filled it with water, then paused next to the table where Julie was working. "I've worked in many settings, and I think I know the difference between when someone is having issues with food they have no control over and when they're being a brat. Lots and lots and lots of people have food issues. I'm the rare chef that won't eat walnuts. I will pick them out every time."
Julie leaned back in her chair and Laura took that as an invitation to sit down for a short chat. "I like walnuts."
"I'll cook with them but I won't eat the result. But the way they make my mouth feel is something I can't really explain and I really don't like it. But try saying to a bunch of foodies that you won't eat a food and it's not because you're allergic, but because of this...funky..." She ran her tongue along the roof of her mouth. "And my gums get kind of squeaky... I can't help but think they make me feel weird because somehow they're not good for me. And you have plenty more reason than I do to worry when something makes you feel odd."
She glanced at Julie and was surprised to see the girl was tearing up. She started to apologize but Julie said, "I'm not a brat. But I think Mary thought I was."
"No more Mary. You got me, girl." She quickly added, "I lived in Jamaica with my mother for years, and girl is like friend, orwoman younger than me that I'm comfortable with. I'm sorry. If I say it, it's not because I think you're a child."
"I prefer my name."
That serious streak must really come from her father, Laura thought.
"But I don't mind girl. How long have you been back in the U.S.?"
"Hmm, well, I left Jamaica permanently decades ago. But I worked in a resort there for about six months some four or five years ago. Until a few months ago I worked in a very ritzy place in the Florida Keys."
"What happened a few months ago?"
"I quit. Artistic differences, so to speak, and I was tired of that kind of kitchen."
Another glimmer of a smile went with the next question. "You like this kind of kitchen?"
"This is a bloody fantastic kitchen. And I'm going to be exploring working with other artisans in the area, too. It was time for me to reboot."
The clatter of a pan lid over boiling water drew her back to the stove. She went about blanching tomatoes while Julie returned to her homework. Justin flitted in and out for another apple. They were used to meeting new people, it seemed, and having nonfamily members in the house. It was so different from Laura's own experience. Her mother, too, had had an intense schedule with school and two jobs. But there had been no nanny or cook. She'd spent a lot of afternoons and evenings alone with the television and her books. She'd learned to crack and fry eggs at six. Neither of the twins saw her as a servant or social inferior, and that was a relief too.
All was serene in this lovely home. This job was going to work out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friday performances always had an extra edge. It was party night in New York and the energy from the audience was markedly higher, for one thing. Helen had never met a performer who didn't respond to that extra surge of applause. No matter how new performers were to the Broadway stage, they all quickly learned that a Friday crowd could turn grouchy if the show's energy didn't match their mood. That meant on Fridays that backstage was overflowing with nerves.
Neil was telling a joke
to someone nearby that included bursting into song. Given his impressive voice, it was distracting. The doors were thin and the Do Not Disturb was only so useful. At least there were no VIPs backstage tonight. Getting out her phone to call the kids because she wouldn't be able to later, she was surprised to see a text from Cass. Business on a Friday night? The words, 'One time deal, have to answer now,' were rare from even drama queen Cass, so Helen got out her earpiece and called.
"Can you take a leave of absence from the performance in two weeks?"
"Why would I? Probably not."
"I'm serious." Cass sounded as if she was in a crowded bar and had just moved into the ladies' room. "It's 8K for a couple days' work. And you're on a week-long cruise. And this kind of deal leads to more of their kind. Easy money, sweetie. Only thing better is voice-overs."
"I'd have to go without pay here. Where does that leave me?"
"You're still better off."
"I don't want to piss Nancy off. She's been great about my schedule. That matters in this business. I'd work for Nancy again in a heartbeat and I want her to feel the same way."
"Ask her. That's all you can do. They hired a twenty-something ingénue for this Stars of Broadway cruise and she just cough-cough sorry cough-cough sprained an ankle, but if you check the society pages she's in Cannes with a new boyfriend cough-cough sorry cough-cough recovering. I know being a second choice is unattractive-"
"Second or fifth? Be honest."
"Second. Honest." Cass sounded sincere, but she was probably lying and viewing it as part of her job. "To benefit pre-natal screening, care and education for poor women, especially those with AIDS. How can you say no?"
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