Chapter 43
RHETT
Iarrived at the soup kitchen after most of the prep work was already done, which was exactly how I planned it. The less time I had to spend watching Clementine work in my kitchen, the better.
But there she was anyway, wearing a bright yellow chef’s coat that somehow made her look like a goddamn sunbeam, chatting easily with the other cooks as she peeled potatoes. Her laugh carried across the kitchen. It made something twist painfully in my chest.
How could she be so fucking happy when I felt like I was dying inside?
“Chef!” one of the younger cooks called. “We’re ready for your final approval on the gravy.”
I walked over and took the spoon, tasting the gravy with everyone watching. It was actually decent, well-seasoned, proper consistency. But I couldn’t let that show.
“This is trash,” I said, setting the spoon down hard. “Too thin, and the sage is overpowering everything else. Start over.”
The cook’s face fell. “But, Chef, I followed the recipe exactly—”
“Then the recipe is wrong. Fix it.”
I moved to the next station where someone had prepared cranberry sauce. I could feel the tension in the kitchen ratcheting up, but I didn’t care. Or rather, I couldn’t afford to care. I took a clean spoon and tasted it.
The cranberry sauce was fine too. Better than fine, actually. But I shook my head anyway.
“Too sweet. And what is this?” I picked up the bowl, examining it like it contained poison. “Are these walnuts? Who authorized walnuts in the cranberry sauce?”
“I thought it would add nice texture—”
“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to follow directions. Remake it. No nuts.”
“Does he know we’re volunteering?” someone muttered from the other side of the kitchen.
I spun around and looked at three chefs. I couldn’t tell who said it. “If you’ve got a problem with my high standards, volunteer at another soup kitchen,” I snapped.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clementine’s shoulders tense, but she kept working on her dish without looking up. Good. At least one of us was being professional about this.
I continued my rounds, finding fault with perfectly acceptable dishes, sending people back to redo work that didn’t need redoing. The kitchen grew quieter with each criticism, the easy camaraderie from earlier evaporating under my scrutiny.
I was in a dick mood, and yes, I was definitely taking it out on them. It was wrong, but I didn’t stop.
Finally, I reached Clementine’s station. She had moved on to the stuffing. It was my mother’s recipe, though I would never tell her that. The smell alone transported me back to childhood Thanksgivings at La Tavola, when things were simpler and I still believed in happy endings.
“Stuffing,” I said.
She finally looked up at me, those green eyes unreadable. “Yes, Chef.”
The formal address stung more than it should have. She handed me a clean spoon without a word, her fingers careful not to brush mine.
I took a bite, and fuck me, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect. The bread had the right texture, the herbs were balanced, the seasonings spot on. It tasted exactly like my mother’s.
But I couldn’t say that. Not with everyone watching. Not with the media circus still fresh in everyone’s minds.
People were already going to whisper about favoritism. They were going to be watching to see if I would go easy on her because we had been involved. I had to be harder on her than anyone else, just to prove I wasn’t playing favorites.
I had to find something wrong with it. I had to.
I took another bite, searching for any flaw, any excuse to send her back to the drawing board like I had everyone else.
But there was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all.
I set the spoon down, aware that the entire kitchen had gone silent. Everyone was watching, waiting to see what I would do to the girl who’d been splashed across gossip sites with me just days ago.
“It’s fine,” I said finally, the words feeling like glass in my throat.
Clementine’s eyes widened slightly. In my kitchen, “fine” was practically a standing ovation. Everyone knew that. But I couldn’t bring myself to give her the praise she deserved, not when it would only fuel more speculation.
“Just fine?” she asked quietly.
I met her gaze and saw the hurt there, the confusion. She knew the stuffing was perfect. Hell, everyone in this kitchen knew it was perfect. But I couldn’t acknowledge that without making everything worse for us both.
“It’s adequate,” I said, hating myself with every word. “Move on to the next dish.”
Something flickered across her face. Disappointment or maybe anger. The kitchen remained unnaturally quiet, the tension so thick I could practically taste it.
With all of the side dishes ready to go, I stalked over to the carving station. I checked the turkeys that would be carved to order. I wanted to retain as much moisture as possible.
Clementine glanced over, but she quickly looked away and continued working. Her ability to just ignore me was infuriating.
My thoughts were scattered, jumping between the woman across the kitchen and the conversation with my mother yesterday. The media shitstorm was still brewing.
“Are you ready to carve, Chef?”
I nodded and picked up the knife to start carving the first turkey. I sliced through and felt relief as the juices bubbled up. It was a free meal, but I wanted it to be good.
I sliced piece after piece. I was only half-paying attention to what I was doing. I could hear Clementine talking to someone.
What was she saying? Were they talking about me?
Part of me felt protective of her. If anyone talked shit to her, they were going to have to go through me.
I was so distracted that I didn’t see the knife slip.
“Fuck!” The word exploded out of me as pain shot through my palm. Blood immediately started pouring from the deep gash across my hand.
The kitchen erupted into chaos. Three young cooks rushed over, all trying to help at once.
“Chef, let me see.”
“Get him a towel.”
“Should we call 911?”
“Get away from me!” I snarled, clutching my bleeding hand. “All of you, just back off!”
They scattered like startled birds. I felt like even more of an asshole than I already was.
Then Clementine was there. She wrapped a towel around my bleeding hand and pushed me away from the food.
“Simone!” she called. “First-aid kit, now. Conroy, you’re my second. Everyone else, back to your stations. We have three hundred people expecting dinner in thirty minutes.”
She didn’t even look at me, just started issuing orders with the kind of calm authority that made everyone snap to attention.
“Fisher, toss that turkey. Get the sanitizer. Clean up the station. You, Carly, start slicing the next turkey.”
I stood there holding my hand up with the towel wrapped around it.
“Go,” she said to me, finally meeting my eyes. “Let Simone patch you up. I’ve got this. See if you need stitches.”
“This is my kitchen.”
“Not tonight it isn’t.” Her voice was firm but not unkind. “Go before we have to sanitize this whole kitchen again.”
Simone appeared at my elbow with gauze and antiseptic, guiding me to a corner of the kitchen where she could work on my hand. From there, I had a front-row seat to watch Clementine transform into someone I’d never seen before.
She was a chef in her element, completely in control of the kitchen. When one of the line cooks started to panic about the timing on the vegetables, she was there with a reassuring smile and a solution.
“Behind!” she called, carrying a pan of perfectly glazed carrots to the pass.
I watched the stiff and strained kitchen transform before my very eyes. With me out of the way, it was like everyone could breathe again. That was just a little bit of a blow to the ego.
She was running the kitchen like a well-oiled machine. Pans of food were being sent up. I could hear the din of conversation flowing from the front of the house.
From my corner, I watched Clementine grab a spoon and taste the mashed potatoes that had just come up from one of the stations. Her face scrunched slightly, a expression I recognized from our time together. Something wasn’t right.
“More salt,” she called to the cook, handing back the spoon. “And a touch more butter. These people deserve food that tastes good, not cafeteria slop.”
The cook nodded and hustled back to adjust the seasoning. I found myself oddly proud of her standards, even as it stung to watch her command my kitchen better than I had tonight.
She moved to the next station, tasting the green bean casserole with the same critical attention she would give to a dish at a Michelin-starred restaurant. “This needs more pepper,” she said. “And the onions are undercooked. Give them another few minutes.”
“But, Chef,” one of the volunteers protested. “It’s just a soup kitchen. Do we really need to go all out?”
Clementine’s head snapped up, and for a moment I saw a flash of something fierce in her green eyes.
“Just a soup kitchen?” Her voice was dangerously quiet.
“These are people. Human beings who deserve dignity and respect, not your scraps.” Her voice carried across the kitchen, commanding attention.
“Some of these folks haven’t had a good meal in weeks.
Maybe months. This might be the only hot food they get today.
So yes, we’re going to make sure it’s perfect. ”
The volunteer looked properly chastened. “Yes, Chef. Sorry, Chef.”
I felt something twist in my chest watching her defend those people with such passion. This was who she really was, not the naive girl I tried to convince myself she was, but a woman with fierce convictions and the backbone to stand up for them.
“Behind, behind!” she called, carrying a massive pot of gravy to the pass. Where the hell had she learned to run a kitchen like this?
“Five minutes to service!” she announced. “I need eyes on everything. Test it. Have a buddy test it. Do not bring me anything you wouldn’t serve in your own restaurant!”
“She might be better at this than you,” Simone said quietly, not looking up from bandaging my hand.
Clementine laughed at something Conroy said. I watched her encourage a nervous cook with a gentle touch on his shoulder. She was bossy but she smiled when she did it. And that ridiculous yellow top literally made her look like a ball of sunshine moving around the kitchen.
“Yeah,” I said, surprising myself by smiling for the first time in days. “I think so.”
She was a diamond under pressure, brilliant and unbreakable. I had been too wrapped up in my own bullshit to see it before. This was what she was meant to do and who she was meant to be. Not my apprentice. Not even my equal.
My better.
“Rhett,” Simone said, testing the tightness of the bandage. “You know you’re an idiot, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, still watching Clementine command the room with effortless grace. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
“I think this is good. You should probably have an actual doctor look at it, but I don’t think it’s deep enough for stitches.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ve had worse.”
“Put on a glove and get back in there,” she said with a pat on my back. “And quit being an asshole to everyone.”