My Bittersweet Summer

by Starla Huchton

  * * * * *

  The doorbell woke me from a sound sleep, and I groaned as I rolled over to check the time. Eight-thirty on a Monday morning and I already had a text from my dad.

  Ride coming at 10. See you then.

  Damn it. That meant Zach. Why would he be going in on a Monday? The only people that would be in on a closed day were the ones in for extra training and my parents. Dishwashing wasn’t exactly complicated, and I was mostly sure he wasn’t a complete idiot.

  I unlocked the screen and texted back.

  I can walk. Good exercise.

  I rolled out of bed and dressed, a high bun my choice of hairstyle for the day. In lieu of walking to work in uniform, I opted for jean shorts and a blue t-shirt. I’d change when I got there. It was too hot for pants.

  Deciding to leave a little early, I put everything I needed in a backpack and headed for the front door. As I opened it, I realized why someone rang the doorbell. A box from a florist sat on the front step, and I checked the delivery address to see who it was for.

  Mrs. Olivia Robinson.

  I could potentially get away with saying I hadn’t seen it and let it sit on our front step in the sun for hours, but I’d feel guilty for days if I did. My conscience leaving me little choice, I picked up the box and trekked up to the main house.

  I paused at the kitchen door, wondering if I should knock or go around to the front, but immediately discounted the idea on grounds of avoiding contact with Zach. If I slipped in and put the box on the counter, no one would be the wiser that I’d been here. The maids or Rosie could see to the flowers.

  Walking in, my plans for a quick getaway came to an immediate end. Rosie looked up at me, surprised, but the shock wore off quickly as she rushed over to greet me, wiping her hands on a small towel hooked over her apron strings. To my embarrassment, the person I was trying to avoid was standing beside her place at the cutting board, his smirk further flustering me.

  “Mija! What a surprise,” she said as she hugged me. “What brings you up here?”

  Having her call me that when Zach was around made my cheeks heat, never mind that it was silly to be bothered by it. “This was delivered to my house by mistake.” I presented the box to her. “Flowers for Mrs. Robinson, I think. I was on my way to work, so I figured I’d drop them off on my way.”

  Rosie took the box from me and set it on the counter. “I’ll go get Lettie and have her put them somewhere. She’ll know where they go.”

  “Oh, I’ll get her,” Zach said, hurrying away from the cutting board. “I need to go that way anyhow.”

  I watched him zip out of the room, surprised he was so quick to help. “What’s the deal with that?” I asked when he was gone.

  Rosie chuckled and pulled out a step stool, digging through a high cabinet for a glass vase. “He’s different than you remember, mija. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

  I took the vase from her so she could step down. “I’m not judging,” I said as I set it by the sink. “Just asking what’s up with him.”

  She shrugged and opened the box, removing the packet of crystals for keeping flowers fresh. Dumping it in the vase, she filled the elegantly faceted crystal halfway with water. “The last few months have been hard on him. Death changes people. I don’t complain. I think I like who he’s trying to become.”

  I handed her the bouquet of lilies, admiring the vivid purple and orange blooms as I thought. “And who’s he trying to become?”

  Smiling, she winked at me. “I don’t think even he knows the answer to that. It will be interesting to see, though.”

  “What was he doing in the kitchen?”

  She motioned to the cutting board, a variety of mostly uncut herbs and veggies scattered around it. “He asked me to show him how I chop things so quickly.”

  I stared at the spread, dumbfounded by what she told me. Zach was asking her for help? Like with learning his job? The idea of it was so opposite of everything I thought about him, I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t completely confused by it.

  Lettie entered, her curls bouncing as much as they had the last time I saw her, interrupting my thoughts. “Flowers for Mrs. Robinson?”

  Rosie finished arranging the lilies and stuck the plastic holder and card down the middle. The little envelope protruded from the top, an incongruous eyesore to the rest of the bouquet. “Put them somewhere she’ll be sure to see them.” She handed the vase to the maid.

  “I think there’s room on the hall table.” Lettie picked up the vase and cradled it close to her body before moving for the door.

  My errand done, I hoisted my backpack up on my shoulder and opened my mouth to say goodbye.

  It happened in slow motion, like it did when I hit my head on the step. The kitchen door swung open at the exact moment Lettie put up a hand to push it the other way, Zach coming into view from the other side. With a thunk of wood smacking into her body, followed quickly by the crash and tinkle of shattering glass against stone tiles, I watched on, jaw dropped in shock and unable to do a thing to stop the disaster.

  Time sped up, and Lettie was on the floor, a small sob working itself free as Zach tried to help her up and avoid the wreckage around them.

  “Lettie, I’m so sorry,” he said as her eyes welled up with tears. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you. God, I am so, so sorry.”

  Rosie was there in an instant, examining Lettie’s cheek where the door struck her and her hands, knees, and shins for any glass damage. When the maid turned up her shaking palms, staring in stunned horror at the broken mess on the floor, I had to look away, the smeared blood pooling on her skin instantly turning my stomach. I could clean and gut fish or poultry no problem, but people with medical things made me woozy. Go figure.

  “Mija, get the first aid kit,” Rosie said to me, not missing a beat.

  Popping to attention out of habit, I went straight to the pantry to fetch the white plastic box. I met them at the sink and retreated to the less nauseating task of floor cleanup. Armed with a broom, I tried to ignore the sounds of glass hitting the stainless steel basin as Rosie plucked shards of it from Lettie’s palms.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Lettie.” Zach bent to the floor, sweeping glass into a dustpan. “This is completely my fault. I know better than to not warn people when I push through a kitchen door. I’ll tell my mom I’ll replace the vase. Don’t give it another thought.”

  My broom ceased all motion as I stared at him. What the hell? He was the same boy that tried to blame me for the flowerbed he trampled when we were eight. He picked up each lily one by one, shaking it free of glass and setting it on the island, the whole time frowning to himself and shaking his head. Glancing at Lettie’s face, tears of pain and relief dripped over her cheeks, one side red with a forming bruise. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I returned to sweeping. The only one to speak the rest of the time was Rosie as she offered quiet reassurances that everything would be fine.

  With cleanup done, I needed to get going. As it was I’d have to bust my butt to get to Le Beau Tournée on time. I gave Rosie a hug and a smile to Lettie, making sure to tell her to let me know if she needed any help around the house the next few days, on account of her now-bandaged hands. I was six steps outside the door when it opened and closed behind me again.

  “Hold up,” Zach said, eliciting a grimace from me. He caught up to me, hefting a backpack of his own. “Need a ride?”

  I kept on walking. “No thanks. Rather walk.”

  “But your dad said—”

  “The exercise is good for me.”

  He chuckled a little. “Come on. It’s like ninety degrees already, and you’ll be late if you start walking now.”

  “I’ll be fine, but thanks.” I rounded the side of the house closest to the garage, still not slowing.

  Zach stopped, then suddenly sprinted ahead of me without explanation. I shook my head, determined to keep going despite him.

  I was halfway down the winding driveway when his blue Audi pul
led up beside me. The passenger window rolled down, and Zach peered out at me from behind dark sunglasses. “Don’t be stubborn, Mighty Mouse. I won’t bite.”

  “Pardon me for having my doubts about that. And quit with the nickname.”

  The car kept pace with me as I walked, nearing the end of the drive. “You do realize I’m going to follow you the whole way, right?”

  “I’m sure the cops won’t have a problem with you blocking traffic.”

  “You could save me the tickets and just get in the car.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “I owe you for helping me clean up my mess in the kitchen. Let me do this much, okay? Please?”

  His words gave me pause, and I thought back to Rosie and what she said about him. His treatment of Lettie was a pretty good demonstration that he actually was trying to fix himself, but I wasn’t convinced that wasn’t an act for my benefit.

  Still, what if it wasn’t an act? Had I hardened my heart that much not to give him the tiniest bit of credit?

  We stopped at the entrance to the main road and I took a deep breath. Admittedly, it was really hot.

  “Please?” he asked again.

  My arms flopped in resignation. “Fine,” I said and reached for the handle. I ignored his grin and buckled my seatbelt, staring out the window instead.

  “So…” he started, then paused, picking at something on the steering wheel as he drove. “I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

  “If this is about dinner, the answer is still—”

  “No,” he interrupted, then tried to backtrack. “I mean, unless you changed your mind, then yeah, but—”

  “I haven’t.”

  He sighed. “Okay, well, I asked Rosie if she’d teach me a few things, but she doesn’t cut stuff the way they do at the restaurant.”

  “She’s not a classically trained chef,” I said. “She’s a great cook, but the kind you find in an awesome diner, not a place like Le Beau Tournée.”

  “Which leads me to my question.” He took a deep breath as he turned a corner, coming on to Main Street. “Could you maybe show me how to prep the right way?”

  I looked at him, watching his face to see if he meant it. “You want me to teach you how to chop things?”

  “And clean them, and peel them. You know, the way you do it.” The tips of his ears flushed the tiniest bit, and I had to fight back a smile.

  “Why?”

  He glanced at me briefly. “Because I want to do a good job. I can’t if I don’t learn how I’m supposed to do it.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to show you the right way to handle a knife,” I said, half joking.

  When he frowned, it was clear he missed the humor. “I’m not going to hurt you, Margie.”

  I hadn’t expected it to, but his statement shook me. In seven words, he more or less expressed the very core of my worst fear about him. Truthfully, I didn’t really fear him in a physical sense. Not anymore, though I couldn’t have said when that change happened. So what was I really afraid of then?

  I swallowed my nerves and looked away, watching some early tourists strolling down the street. “I was kidding.”

  “So… you’ll help me then?”

  Six in, twelve out.

  “Yeah. I guess I can show you a few things.”

  Zach put the car in park, and I reached for my seatbelt. As it released, he set a hand over mine, startling me at the contact.

  “Thanks, Margie.” The way he looked at me…

  My cheeks burned, and I was sure I was positively splotched in blushing embarrassment. “It’s no big deal,” I said, pulling away as I grasped the door handle. “I’m sure it’ll make my life easier in the long run if you can do some of the prep work, too.”

  Desperately needing space, I got out of the car and headed for the rear entrance. He was at my heels the whole time, so it was difficult to keep from hyperventilating. I needed to put the brakes on. I paused at the door and held up a hand, stopping him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I closed my eyes and blew out a calming breath. “I just… I need some room, okay? You want a chance to prove yourself, or whatever, fine. I dictate the terms and you keep your distance. I can’t deal with you always breathing down my neck.”

  He took a big step back, pinching his lips together to keep from grinning. “Better?”

  Eyes narrowed, I let my expression do the talking.

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Fine. Ask.”

  “What are my chances now?”

  I let out a sigh of exasperation, and turned to the door, punching in the access code a little harder than was necessary. Hand on the doorknob, I waited a heartbeat or two, thinking.

  “Maybe eighty-twenty,” I grumbled before I opened it and trudged inside. “Still not in your favor.”

  I didn’t see it, but I’m pretty sure he mentally high-fived himself.

  Chapter 9

  “I’m going to cut my thumb off if I try that,” Zach said, watching me slice through cucumbers at lightning speed.

  “If you go this fast before you learn the right way to do it, yeah.” I scooped the slices into a bowl. “First you learn the technique, then the speed. I’ve been doing this for years, so it’s not like I just picked up a knife and became some kind of ninja.”

  I grabbed the silicon mat from under the counter and placed it on the butcher block, setting the knife to one side. “The most important thing you need to do is practice, but not waste a ton of vegetables doing it. So, I’m going to teach you how my dad taught me.”

  Reaching past him, I grabbed a small white ramekin, half a cup of flour mounded inside. I dumped some of it on the mat, spreading it in a three-inch wide river and motioned for him to pick up the knife.

  “You want me to chop flour?” he asked.

  “No, I want you to practice technique and uniformity.” I stepped back from the cutting mat, letting him take my place. “You can see your cuts in the flour, and just smooth it over to start again.”

  “I guess that makes more sense than burning through a crate of cucumbers.”

  “Now hold the knife,” I said, prompting him to begin. “Set your index finger against the spine for more control, and then sort of rock the knife down, tip first.”

  Zach set up the way I directed, and I watched him do a few cuts.

  “Like that?”

  “Here.” I adjusted his wrist and fingers, and set my left hand on the board as though I were holding a vegetable down. “Your other hand goes here, fingertips tucked under so you don’t slice them off. You want them relatively close to where you’re cutting to keep control, walking and rolling them back as you go.”

  “That’s a lot of things to remember just to cut something,” he said, his eyebrows bunched.

  I crossed my arms, giving him an impatient look. “You were the one who wanted to do this, remember? We can quit any time. Won’t bother me a bit.”

  His expression immediately shifted. “Can you show me the finger walking thing again?”

  Of course he wasn’t going to let me off that quickly. Nothing was going to be easy with him, and I’d only been back a little more than three weeks.

  I walked him through it one more time, showing him the uniformity I’d worked hard to perfect before wiping away my marks and unleashing him on the flour. When I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to lose any appendages, I left Zach to practice on his own and went in search of Kareem. He was still having trouble with the truffle cream sauce, and Chef Antoine was losing patience with him.

  We were walking through all the steps of the sauce when my dad strolled in. He watched on quietly for a while as I explained how I adjusted the heat during cooking to get the sauce to thicken properly before leaving again. I’d figured out the first few days that the stoves were finicky and liked to spike in heat at what I’d originally thought was random intervals. I finally realized that it was directly correlated to
the stove at the prep station. It was something to do with the gas pipes, but whenever the prep stove turned off, it sent a little more gas to the stove on the line. So while the prep stove was always consistent, the line suffered for it.

  “My dad said they’re having someone look at it next week Monday, so you’ll have to make do until then,” I said. “I can make the sauce back there in the meantime if you like, if you’d rather not deal with it.”

  Kareem chuckled, the lines around his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Now that I know, it should be easier,” he said in his deep baritone. “I don’t understand his complaint about the seasoning, though. I follow his recipe to the letter.”

  I leaned in conspiratorially. “Wanna know a secret?” I giggled. “He over-salts nearly everything. Reduce that by a third, and if he calls for garlic salt, use powder instead. If you can sneak it by him, use the garlic paste I keep in the back. I make it every night before I leave and stash it in a jar in the walk-in. All the way in the back, top right corner.”

  He laughed. “You’re smarter and more talented than he gives you credit for.”

  I grimaced. “I wasn’t aware he even knew my name, let alone that he’d talk about me.”

  Waving a hand dismissively, he grabbed a water bottle, taking a long drink. “He sees plenty, and I think he used to be very good at what he did, but he got a little full of himself somewhere along the way. He forgot that a chef can only be as good as he’s trained those around him to be.”

  “Then he should be looking pretty good by the time I get through with everyone,” I said with a giggle. “Between me and my dad, we might not need him at all in a month or two.”

  “Need who at all?” My dad rounded the corner to the line from somewhere in the back.

  I grinned at him. “No one in particular.”

  He settled a slightly displeased gaze on me. “Be nice, Margie. We hired him for a reason.”

  “For the rec letter I’ll never get because he can’t remember my name?” I asked helpfully.