Chapter 8 Haisley
HAISLEY
The smells from the kitchen were torture.
Haisley recognized her recipe for corned beef stroganoff over the warm spices of cider, but had he added something to it?
She had a little hydroponic herb garden on the counter, and there was a fruity flavor to the scent that could be basil.
It was enticing, and Haisley made a mental note to try it herself in the future.
She tried to read a book to distract herself, but the sound of singing from the kitchen was worse than the tantalizing smell. She found herself reading the same chapter three times and still had no idea what happened.
Was the cook treating her pots and pans well? Had he used the correct whisk? Did he turn on the vent when he was cooking noodles to keep the kitchen from steaming up? Did he let the dirty dishes pile up?
It took all of Haisley’s resolve not to storm out and make sure that her kitchen was being treated respectfully. She mentally called him The Short Singer.
Someone was coming into the dining room to set the table now, putting silverware down with a clink.
Not the cook—Haisley could still hear him singing from the kitchen beyond the dining hall.
Someone quieter. She could hear the distinctive sound that the drawer with the placemats made; it was a vintage sideboard and took a good tug to open.
She’d left a note on it. “Placemats and table runners. Drawer sticks.”
They closed and opened it a few times, and Haisley was alarmed to hear it make sounds of stress. Was it a kid, playing around? Were they breaking it? They left, then returned swiftly, fiddled with the drawer, opened and shut it some more, and then finished setting the table.
This was absurd.
Haisley was going to drive herself insane, eavesdropping on the guests while she was trapped in her room. She couldn’t draw a bath while they were preparing to eat dinner; the sound of running water would be a dead giveaway.
“If Chef wants merlot, who am I to disagree? Have you found a corkscrew?” There was a playful edge to the male voice, like corkscrew was a sly dirty word.
“On the sideboard.” A quiet voice, to go with the first intruder’s quiet steps, but definitely male. Haisley named him Quiet Guy in her head and wondered if he was the one who had been alone outside.
Pop! Haisley couldn’t quite hear the pouring wine—he wasn’t letting it glug like some people did—but she could hear the clink of the glasses on the wood. “Goodness, this place is nicely set up. That’s some gorgeous glassware.” This one became Corkscrew Guy.
“Chef seems to think the kitchen is well-stocked, too.”
A chef so fancy that’s all they called him?
Her kitchen interloper became Short Singing Snotty Chef.
Haisley tried not to resent the fact that they’d hired their own cook rather than keep her.
She was a great cook, even if she wasn’t some super fancy certified chef.
She kept some of her Yelp reviews up beside her desk to remind her that she’d made someone happy.
More people came in and the conversation tumbled around like a pile of kittens.
Corkscrew Guy made bawdy jokes. One of the women had a calm, gentle voice, and it was clear from a few comments that she was either injured or pregnant—she was being treated with a lot of extra care.
Mom, Haisley named her, because she scolded Corkscrew Guy very kindly when he got too crude.
Someone named Wrench was assigned the seat next to her.
“Ain’t complaining,” he said in a growl. He sounded like a Wrench.
She couldn’t pick Grandma’s voice from the crowd, but there was a loud-voiced woman who was nearly as crude as Corkscrew Guy who became Loud Gal, and a man with a short, gruff laugh who said very little that Haisley called Grunt.
“This wine is lovely.” That was an odd almost-British accent. Was she Indian? Haisley didn’t want to pick a racist nickname, so she was glad when someone called, “Saina, come sit beside me!” and she answered, “I’d be delighted.”
The voice that had called her was rich and warm, absolutely full of confidence. Yas Queen, Haisley thought.
Someone called Saina my love very formally, and he became Ken Doll.
To her surprise, one of the guests was deaf. “Conall isn’t looking at you,” Loud Gal reminded someone, and they repeated their request, apparently gaining the attention of the man in question.
Conall’s voice in return didn’t have the flat sound of someone born deaf, so Haisley guessed it was a late onset deafness.
Maybe he was old? Most people who lost hearing as they aged never learned to read lips accurately, so it was either an accident of some kind, or general age.
Maybe he was too proud for a hearing aid.
He spoke patiently with someone who spoke so quietly that Haisley couldn’t hear her at all.
Whisper, Haisley tagged her. Maybe that was Grandma.
Chef came out to fanfare and applause. “A vegetarian variation for Tristan,” he said, with the clink of a dish.
Quiet Vegetarian Guy said gratefully, “Many thanks.”
Haisley’s ears perked up. Had Chef used her vegetarian stroganoff recipe? It wasn’t vegan, still relying on sour cream for that particular flavor, but it called for more chunks of chewy dark mushrooms as a substitute for beef, and a vegetable broth base.
“Having watched Tex down half a brisket in a meal, I find it hard to wrap my mind around a vegetarian bear,” Ken Doll observed.
Bear? Was Quiet Guy gay? Sometimes, stereotypes ran true.
“Panda bear,” Quiet Guy explained. “I’d live on bamboo if my bear had its way, but wood has too many splinters for my taste. We’ve compromised on dairy and eggs.”
That absurd statement was met with murmurs of amusement and understanding.
No one questioned it at all, only moved directly into praising and enjoying the food.
The meal was merry, and Haisley wondered if it was loud enough to cover up the sound of running a bath.
She decided not to risk it, and ate a very bland, boring meal of yogurt and most of a dry granola bar, reading another chapter of her book in her bathroom because that was the only place that the murmur of conversation wasn’t overly distracting.