Chapter 27
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The scene was glorious.
Steam was rising from the copper pots on the stove.
There was a blur of chefs moving in mostly white uniforms to hand off one plate after another.
Madison was like the black swan to their white ones.
Stainless steel was everywhere, which would have overtaken the scene, so he’d pared back the extra noise and created a simpler kitchen for the painting from his imagination.
One with handcrafted cabinets at the back and an old wooden table in the center cut with knicks of love from use.
Like the family table in the back of the kitchen that had graced Nanine’s childhood home in Lyon.
Nanine had embraced him and agreed to be in the scene and was now kneading bread. Carl, who’d been upstairs with her, had asked if he might join them and watch Sawyer paint unobtrusively. Brooke’s father loved the arts.
Of course, Sawyer had agreed, aware he wouldn’t even sense the man was around once he got in the zone.
The lighting was softer in the scene he was painting as well, a golden honey tone. Because the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in long tubes were still a nightmare.
He switched paintbrushes, grabbing the one coated with Payne’s grey again to fill in the fictional cupboards he’d added to the right and left of the quaint old stove.
The two women in his painting—representatives of Madison and Nanine—might as well be in an old kitchen in the countryside.
He liked it better that way. Modern kitchens might be more practical, but they weren’t as romantic.
Like he’d done with his Belle Epoch painting in the main part of Nanine’s restaurant, he was creating a throwback.
What a Paris kitchen would have looked like at that time.
Butcher blocks for counters. Warm wood. Warm light.
The flash of steel from a knife lying on its side beside a tranche of beef.
A few ducks that had yet to be plucked of their feathers.
Totally old school.
He loved it!
Too bad he couldn’t capture the pleasant hum of conversation from the front of the restaurant or the way the gas gave an enthusiastic whoosh when someone turned a burner on or how the chop, chop, chop from a wickedly sharp knife sounded on a cutting board.
Nanine’s kitchen had been quiet when he’d worked here ten years ago.
Madison’s was not.
She swore, sometimes in delight or frustration, as she worked—in English, Spanish, and yes, even French.
The other chefs enthusiastically did the same with Pierre squawking around them.
This rare culinary parrot flew around to different stations, his black beak lifting in the air as he took in the scents and sometimes suggested a little more of something.
It had been a no-brainer to paint him into the scene, resting on Madison’s shoulder as she gave Sawyer her demonstration, cooking the duck with cherries topped with frizzled tarragon and plating it before him.
He’d chosen to paint the moment when she drizzled the cherry sauce on top of the dish.
The dark burgundy ribbon gave the scene movement—as did him painting Nanine kneading bread dough.
Fresh, of course, because even though little sister had left frozen dough, Nanine had insisted she wouldn’t re-knead already proofed dough.
Her white hair was twisted into a bun just off the crown of her head. Her strong arms moved with knowledge, strength, and grace—poetry in motion. But it was the warmth of her smile—that inner joy lighting her face—that had him painting faster than ever, wanting to capture her mood and the moment.
Madison was a complete contrast. She’d started off intense as she’d cooked the dish, but by the time she drizzled the sauce, she sported a smug smile.
Two women from different generations in charge of a bustling kitchen, equal in their passion.
People were going to love it. His former doubts?
He’d crushed them under his proverbial heel at last. As an art professor, he’d learned what made great paintings great.
Usually it came down to a story—or at least some mystery.
Didn’t everyone from scholars to tourists wonder why the Mona Lisa was smiling?
Tomes had been written about the artful touches that transformed the banal into the mesmerizing.
When his hands started to cramp, he stopped to wipe them.
By then, Nanine was pulling the freshly baked bread from the oven.
She’d left it for that first rise and then returned to shape it into a round country-style loaf for another, setting a timer she’d taken with her back to her apartment.
Carl was still watching, however, drinking a glass of red wine in the corner at a small worktable.
Nanine’s Bernard used to sit there and do paperwork, she’d once told him, and she’d left the chair out for it to be used by others dear to her and this restaurant.
Sawyer thought Bernard would be happy Carl was there. When you loved someone, you’d want them to find love again if you passed. He just knew it.
From time to time, his mind would tell him Phoebe had not yet come. His phone had not beeped. When he spied Nanine’s clock in the kitchen with the second hand for the chefs to time things like sauces and the like, he realized it was nearing eleven.
Ah! That was why the movements of the chefs were slowing.
A few were cleaning up, he realized as he stretched his stiff fingers.
Madison and Pierre were clustered together near the pastry section with a chef, watching him plate a special classic French chocolate tart with a mulled wine sauce.
He could attest to how delicious it was because Madison had served him a slice with the duck with cherries.
The back door opened, and suddenly a gust of cold wind was fanning through the kitchen, causing him to shiver. His roommates and their Plus Ones filed in, one after another—everyone but Thea and Jean Luc, of course.
“You still painting, Doc?” Dean strolled over, standing beside his canvas. “Madison invited us over for an after-shift drink. Nanine said she’d baked some kind of holiday bread.”
His stomach grumbled. “I guess I can take a break.”
Kyle pointed to the canvas. “How’s it coming?”
He flexed his fingers. “Good. Real good.”
“Music to our ears.” Dean hooked a thumb at Brooke. “That one had me a little worried after she ran me through today’s events.”
Axel came over and stood beside Sawyer, not bothering to ask if he could view the work. He realized he hadn’t tensed up out of habit and felt downright victorious.
“Come see what you think,” he told the new arrivals. “I’ve got a bit more to do, but I’m pretty happy with it so far.”
“You’ve been painting, what?” Axel asked, resting his chin on his large hand as he studied it gravely. “Seven hours?”
He did the math. “I guess so. I lost track of time.”
“You’ve made good progress.” Axel’s large hand swept the air.
“I love the warmth of the scene. Its nostalgia. You capture Madison and Nanine beautifully. Both passionately pleased with their work as they co-exist in harmony side by side in the same kitchen. It has the feel of feminine companionship as much as excellence. Well done, Maestro.”
“Thanks, Axel.” He didn’t get a knot in his throat after hearing Axel’s praise, not like he first had a couple months ago either. “Once I got going, it went pretty easy.”
“Something to remember, then.” He suddenly sniffed the air. “Ah, but something smells like mulled wine. One of my favorites this time of year.”
“Ask Madison if there’s a slice of the chocolate tart left,” he told him. “It’s served with a mulled wine sauce.”
“I will at that.” Axel patted him on the back before heading off.
Brooke came over and gasped. “Oh, Sawyer! It’s beautiful! I know you need this for your show, but I want this one. Name your price, and I’ll pay it.”
“Sales go through his agent,” Kyle said pointedly with a laugh as he came around to view the painting. “Ah, I can see why you want it. I might bid against you.”
His roommates were bidding against each other for his work? He wanted to give another wolflike howl.
Dean peeked around and whistled. “God, Doc, you captured them brilliantly. I mean, Madison looks like the cat who got the cream. Pierre is his usual trusty companion self. And Nanine…”
“Looks like an angel sent from heaven,” Jacqueline added, making a humming sound. “I know you do not need my praise, Sawyer, but you have it all the same. This painting is beautiful.”
“Let me see.” Madison crossed the kitchen with Pierre. “Sounds like Doc didn’t paint me cross-eyed. Oh! Oh, wow! That’s— I look—”
“Beautiful,” Kyle interjected softly as his gaze lifted to hers. “He captured your essence perfectly, especially when you cook.”
Her mouth parted before she snapped it shut, narrowing her golden eyes to slits. “I’m going to have to work on appearing scarier, I see. How about this?”
No one commented on the contorted face she made.
She huffed out a sigh. “My staff will be completely out of control by Valentine’s Day, one of our biggest days of the year, if I don’t stop looking like a sap.
But great job, Doc. Looks like the paintings we saw when you dragged me to the Louvre ten years ago.
Something I shudder about to this day. Not because of the art.
But because of the massive numbers of people.
I challenge anyone to come up with a place that contains as many people as the Louvre on a given day. ”
“Charles de Gaulle,” Jacqueline said with a chuckle. “But I agree. It is difficult to enjoy art amidst such a crowd.”
Suddenly the back door blew open again, and this time the person arriving threw his entire system into fifth gear.
Phoebe!
“Good!” She stalked inside after slamming the door. “You’re all here.”