by Nell Hampton
“I certainly hope I never have one of those,” I said. “I like to keep my sanity. My parents are enough crazy for one person’s lifetime. I don’t need to join them.”
“You are hopeless,” she said as we stopped near her door. “But I still like you.” She gave me a hug. “Thanks for the cookies, and don’t be surprised if I happen to drop by the kitchen while your new assistant is working. I want to judge for myself on the cuteness factor.”
“I told you that Phoebe is cute . . .”
“Good night, Carrie Ann,” Penny said and waved me along.
“Good night.” I went back to my room and tried not to think about what it meant that John and I could manage a long-distance relationship for more than a year. I knew it would be hard work, but I was beginning to have my doubts about it being a relationship at all.
Chapter 15
The next morning, breakfast and lunch work went smoothly. I was surprised how much having two extra pairs of hands helped move things along. Dinner was slow-roasted lamb and was already in the ovens. Phoebe had whole-grain bread rising in the proofing oven while George went to the market for fresh vegetables.
I was making cookies for tea when there was a sudden racket from the greenhouse area. Both Phoebe and I were startled. I rushed to the door to look into the greenhouse. Workmen had taken the roof and one wall out. The noise was coming from a small forklift smashing through the remaining greenhouse walls.
“What is going on?” I asked after yanking the door open.
“Stand back!” demanded a tall man with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a square jaw. He was tan, which made his blue eyes look almost electric blue. He had thick blond hair pulled back into a low ponytail underneath a white hard hat that looked as if it was used regularly.
I took an instinctive step back so that I stood in the doorway between my kitchen and the greenhouse. “I asked what you were doing,” I said, facing him and putting my hands on my hips. “We’re trying to get some work done in the kitchen, and it sounds as if you are bringing the entire building down on top of us.” I waved toward the forklift and the knocked-over beds. “And you are.”
“This is my greenhouse,” he stated as he stepped toward me, trying to intimidate me with his height and manly chest. He wore a black T-shirt stretched over that chest and sizeable biceps. “You need to stay out until I say you can come in.”
I stood my ground and raised my chin, glaring back at him. “You need to give us warning before you start to bulldoze your way into my kitchen. If I had a cake or soufflé in the oven, it could have flopped.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Have a cake or soufflé in the oven?”
“No, but that is not the point . . .”
“Then no harm, no foul. Now this is a hard hat area and you aren’t wearing one, so I suggest you go back into your kitchen and let me get on with my work.”
“Who are you?” I asked and mirrored his crossed arms with my own, even though I had a fairly good idea to whom I was talking.
“I’m Jasper Fedman, head greenhouse gardener. Look, lady, I’m trying to do my job. You need to let me do it and go on about your business.”
“I’m Chef Cole,” I said and did my best imitation of Chef Butterbottom. “I need to know in advance of anything, I mean anything, that you intend to do that will cause dirt, destruction, dust, mold, insects, or oven movement in my kitchen.” I ticked each item off on my fingers. “I cannot feed the family food that is ravaged by construction. Is that clear?”
“Very,” he said, his mouth thinning into a tight smile. “I intend to do renovations on this area for the next two weeks. That means we will be removing all the beds, steaming the remaining floors and walls, and building new ones. So I suggest you take any cakes or soufflés off the menu until my work is complete.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“On one condition.”
“No.”
“I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”
“I’d be happy to pick you up and toss you out.”
Now, I thought of myself as a sizeable woman, but he looked as if he could easily make good on his threat. I raised my chin. “I want to have some say in what gets planted in the new beds,” I said. “It only makes sense, since the greenhouse is the family’s biggest resource for fresh vegetables.”
“The duchess has already given me a list of what she wants grown,” he said and took a step closer to me. We were about an inch apart, and I was fully aware of the heat radiating off his body. He smelled good, like spicy cologne, warm male, and garden soil.
“I want some say as well,” I demanded stubbornly.
“Get inside your kitchen, Chef,” he said and pushed the door open behind me. “Leave me to my work and I’ll leave you to yours.”
“I want—”
“Don’t care,” he said and took my right elbow in his hand and nudged me to the other side of the open door. Then he closed it.
I glared at him through the door. He simply nodded and went back to work. So I threw the bolt on the door, locking him out. It was a small gesture of defiance and not worth the effort really. That entire wall between the kitchen and the greenhouse was glass. There wasn’t a whole lot of soundproofing or privacy.
“Wow, that’s the head greenhouse gardener?” Phoebe asked. She stared at him like a hungry person looked at a cinnamon bun through a bakery window.
“Apparently,” I said, still miffed by the way he treated me. What was it with everyone around the palace? They all acted as if they were the king or queen of their own space. Why was it when I tried to throw my weight around, I got picked up and pushed back in my place?
I’d have to go see Mrs. Worth and protest that I should have a say as to what went into the garden. It probably would be smart to see what the duchess had already requested first. With my luck, I’d go see Mrs. Worth all upset only to find out that the duchess’s list matched my own.
“Check the lamb,” I said to Phoebe. “I’ll finish the cookies.”
“You’re going to just keep working while that is out there? You’re stronger than I am,” Phoebe said. She fanned herself with her hand. The whole time, she didn’t take her eyes off the eye candy that continued to create earth-shattering noise outside.
“What’s going on?” George asked as he came in with a cloth bag filled with fresh root veggies to roast with the lamb and kale, spinach, and chard that we would wilt and serve as a side dish.
“Mr. Hotness is tearing down the greenhouse with his little forklift,” Phoebe said.
“We’re stuck with the noise for two weeks,” I grumbled. “So we can’t plan to cook anything that is fragile in the oven.”
George put the bag on the counter. “So spinach soufflé?”
“No,” I said and frowned. The noise grew even louder. I turned to see Jasper deliberately smash through three beds, pushing them through to the outside edge of the parking area. I gritted my teeth. “No soufflé until he is done making as much noise and dust as possible.”
“There is some dust coming through,” George pointed out.
“Go get some plastic. We’ve got to trap some air between us and the windows to collect the dust or we’ll be spending all our time cleaning, not cooking.”
“I’ll get some from the hardware store,” George replied.
“I’ll need to requisition it first,” I said. “Phoebe, finish the cookies. George, start the veggies and keep an eye on the lamb. I’m going to see Mrs. Worth.”
“Good luck, Chef,” Phoebe said.
I pulled out my phone and made a short video of the noise and destruction along with the dust gathering on the windows. “I won’t need luck when she sees this.”
I made the trip to Mrs. Worth’s offices quickly, fueled by my indignation. I flung the door open and came face-to-face with her secretary. “Chef Cole,” Mrs. Perkins greeted me. “What brings you into our offices today? Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I said. “I have an immediate issue that needs her attention.”
“She’s in a meeting right now,” Mrs. Perkins stated. “I can make an appointment for next week.”
“I need her now,” I said. “I have an issue in my kitchen that will affect the family’s meals.”
Mrs. Perkins studied me for a moment. “I’ll see if she can squeeze you in between appointments.”
I paced in front of her desk as she dialed a number and spoke softly into the phone. I thought I heard her say something derogatory about me, but I couldn’t be sure. I glared at her, but she refused to make eye contact. Finally, she said, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that.” She hung up.
“Well?” I stopped in front of her desk.
“She can see you for five minutes. I certainly hope your issue is important or I may lose my job. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I fully understand.”
She rose. “Follow me. She said I could let you wait in her office.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “If Mrs. Worth deems your ‘need,’” she said, using air quotes, “as frivolous, you will lose your job, too.”
“Thank you for the concern,” I said as I entered the quiet office. “I’m certain she’ll be happy you squeezed me in.”
Mrs. Perkins flattened her mouth. “I hope you are right.” She closed the door behind me.
Mrs. Worth’s office was cool and modern. Her desk was sleek Scandinavian; I would say midcentury modern. Two modern chairs made of light wood with metal legs stood in front of the desk.
On the desk was a framed picture of two adults hugging each other. They looked like Mrs. Worth, likely her adult children. It was odd for me to imagine prim, proper, and in-charge Mrs. Worth having children. Grown children to boot. I wondered if she had grandkids as well. I wondered what her children thought about her running the royal family’s household.
I noticed a bookshelf on the far wall and went over to view the titles. They were all leather-bound classics. It made sense, I supposed. Mrs. Worth must have been well read to get and keep a job as important as hers.
The door opened. “Chef Cole,” Mrs. Worth said as she stepped inside. Her tone was brisk. “You have two minutes.”
“I need to requisition heavy duty construction plastic to seal off the kitchen windows from the greenhouse while it is under construction.”
“Why? You have windows. Keep them closed.”
“Because the dirt is coming in through the windows.” I opened up my phone and showed her the video. “I refuse to feed the family food that is prepared under such circumstances.”
“I see,” she said and took my phone to play the video again. “This won’t do. It won’t do at all.”
I felt my heart lift for the first time. “So I’ll get my plastic?”
“No,” she said and handed me my phone back.
“But the food . . .”
She raised her hand to hush me and grabbed her own phone, dialing quickly. “Chef Butterbottom,” she said. “You must make room for Chef Cole and her assistants for the next two weeks.”
I could hear the protests on the other side of the phone. Mrs. Worth’s expression and tone did not waver. “The greenhouse repairs are making the family kitchen impossible to work in. I suggest you clear out a corner of your kitchen. Chef Cole and her crew will be cooking there starting with dinner this evening.” She paused while he said something. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could hear his tone. “It is your kitchen, Chef,” she said, and my heart sank. I didn’t want to work under Chef Butterbottom for two full weeks. The man did not like me. Not one bit. The only reason I could figure is because I was American. Or maybe he thought the family should be served by the main kitchen. Was I some kind of threat to him? I couldn’t see how, though chefs are notoriously insecure. I knew, not only because I was one, but because John was too.
“But the corner you give her will be her kitchen,” Mrs. Worth continued. “If I need to put down tape to section off the space, I will, but I hope that you will have a more mature attitude regarding this matter.” She glanced at me. “Chef Cole will give you your space. I suggest you give her hers. This is about the family’s health and well-being, not your little fiefdom. Am I clear?” she asked, looking at me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said and heard muttered agreement on the other side of the phone.
“Good. Problem solved.” She hung up the phone and eyed me. “I will have Mr. Fedman inform me when the greenhouse is ready. Then we will move you back to your kitchen. In the meantime, I expect you to work well within Chef Butterbottom’s parameters. I don’t want to see you back in my office for any other emergencies. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Thank you, ma’am.” I turned and left, closing the door behind me. Mrs. Perkins stood when I came out. “She understood the emergency,” I said. “So you can breathe now. Thank you for trusting me.”
“Good day, Chef Cole,” Mrs. Perkins said with a nod. “And please don’t make a habit out of this.”
“Trust me, it’s not my intention to,” I said and left the offices.
Having to move my dinner and all my things from my cozy kitchen to the stainless steel, industrial city that was the big kitchen was not something I looked forward to. Chef Butterbottom made no qualms out of the fact that he didn’t like me. That was fine. I would just keep my head down and do my job.
I just hoped the corner he gave me would be enough room to get what I needed to do done.
* * *
I ran into Ian Gordon on the way back to my kitchen.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked.
“I need to move my kitchen up to Chef Butterbottom’s,” I said and tried not to sound exasperated. “Mr. Jasper Fedman is making a mess of the greenhouse, and it’s affecting my cooking space. So Mrs. Worth has assigned me a corner of the big kitchen.”
“I see,” Ian said and held the elevator door open for me. “Well, good luck with that situation. How long will you be upstairs?”
“Mr. Fedman said two weeks.”
Ian grinned. “It’s going to be an interesting two weeks,” he said. “I won’t be surprised if you or Butterbottom end up on the wrong side of Mrs. Worth. I’d be very careful if I were you.”
“I know how much Chef Butterbottom resents me,” I said. “If ever there was a make-it-work moment, this is it.”
“And you think you will still have time to prove Mr. Haregrove’s innocence?”
“Well, let’s say I’m going to try,” I said, sticking my chin up in the air yet again. “Who needs to sleep, anyway?”
Ian chuckled. “Best of luck to you.”
“Thanks,” I said and hit the button to the floor I wanted. I watched as the door closed between us and then rested my forehead on the cool steel of the elevator door. My life had just gone from bad to worse.
Was it possible to get into any more trouble? I certainly hoped not.
Chapter 16
“We need to pull the lamb out of the oven and move everything up to the big kitchen now,” I said as I entered my own kitchen. One of my staff had taken towels and hung them in front of the greenhouse windows to attempt to prevent the thick layer of dust from entering the kitchen further.
“Wait, what? I thought you were going to get plastic,” Phoebe said. She had been peering behind the towel-curtain when I came in.
“We’re being moved upstairs instead,” I said. “Grab a cart each. George, you take the vegetables and everything you need to make them for the evening meal. Phoebe, take the bread and the lamb and prep it for moving. The main kitchen is an elevator ride away.”
“Yes, Chef,” they both replied.
I filled my cart with the dishes I needed along with my menus, notes, and computer tablet that I used to communicate with the rest of the staff regarding the meals for the week.
George and Phoebe hurried out and up the e
levator. I took one last look around, grabbed my extra chef coats, and scowled at the noise and dust behind the wall. Because of Jasper Fedman, I was going to have to spend the next two weeks in Chef Butterbottom’s horrible kitchen.
I hurried out, pushing my cart and barely making the elevator in time. We pushed down the hall and stopped in front of the doors to the big, bright, spotless, stainless steel kitchen.
“Stay here a moment,” I said and left them in the hallway. I wasn’t about to assume which corner he would give us, and I needed to get that lamb back in an oven with as little fuss as possible. I pushed the door open to see the kitchen staff bustling. It seemed there was to be an event at the palace that night.
The kitchen was up to full steam. There must have been ten staff members chopping and cooking away. The scents of fresh herbs, spices, and sweet cakes filled the air. I made a beeline for the back office. I gave one knock and a slight pause before I entered the lion’s den.
“Which corner do you want us in?” I blurted out. “I have lamb roasting, and it needs to go back into the oven as soon as possible.”
“There is a test kitchen on the other side of this office,” Chef Butterbottom said without looking up from his paperwork. “It is yours for the duration.”
“Okay,” I said. “How do we get to it?”
He looked up. “Through my office.” He pointed at a door on the far side of his office.
“You want us coming and going through your office every day for two weeks?”
“I want you out of my kitchen,” he grumbled. “Since that is not possible, you are to use the test kitchen. It has everything you’ll need.”
“Fine,” I said. “Your hospitality knows no bounds.” I walked to the door and opened it. The door squeaked on its hinges. I hoped the sound grated on his nerves because he was going to be hearing it a lot. I opened the door to find what must have been a large walk-in closet at one time. It was small, with a double oven, a single stovetop with four burners, a sink, a small refrigerator, a work table, and fluorescent lights. Not a window in sight.
“This will do,” I said and turned on the bottom oven to preheat for the lamb. I wasn’t about to show him any sort of emotion. Let him think what he would. I walked through his office and out into the busy kitchen with large strides and grabbed my crew and carts in the hallway. “Follow me,” I said.