Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Juliet
As she was most days, Eileen was sitting at the kitchen island when I came downstairs. She had a cup of tea beside her and a notebook in front of her. When I walked in, she glanced up from whatever she was writing.
"You're up early, pet."
"Couldn't sleep."
Nate and I had both slept in our own rooms last night, and I'd lain awake for hours wondering if that meant what had happened between us had been a one-off. I hoped it wasn’t, but I had no idea what Nate was thinking, and it wasn't a subject I was eager to broach.
I went to the coffee pot. It was still running. I waited for it to finish and poured a cup.
"He's already out," she said.
"I guessed that." I sat down across from her. "What are you writing?"
"Menus. I do it every month so I know what supplies I'll need."
"May I?"
She nodded and turned the notebook toward me. I pulled it closer and read through the list of dishes she intended to make. Every dish reflected the kind of unpretentious, down-to-earth cooking Eileen excelled at.
I thought about the vegetable garden, the herbs she grew, the vineyard stretching down the hillside, the dining room with its long table, and the evening light coming through the west-facing windows.
"This kitchen is wasted on just the three of us," I said.
Eileen furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we could do something with it, host dinners. We could have a small number of paying guests. We could showcase the estate wines, pair them with dishes that use the produce from the gardens." I nodded toward the window. "People would come for that view alone."
Eileen was quiet for a moment. She looked at the notebook, then back at me. "A supper club."
"If you want to call it that."
She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "And who would cook?"
"We would," I said. "You and me. Nate could talk up the wine."
She picked up her pen and took her notebook back from me. She didn't speak for the longest time. I'd learned already that Eileen didn't rush to answers.
"How many guests?" she said finally.
"Twelve to start. See how it goes."
"Once a month?"
"Twice, maybe. We could switch to weekly gatherings once we find our feet."
Murmuring in what I took to be a sign of interest, Eileen began writing in the margin of the menu page.
I leaned over to see what she was putting down.
It was a list of dishes, different from the ones already there, more ambitious, better suited to a dining room full of people who'd come all the way out here specifically to eat well.
I reached for the pen, and she handed it over without being asked.
For the autumn, we agreed on a chestnut soup to start, a braised short rib, a cheese course, and an apple tarte tatin to finish. Eileen wanted a fish course. I suggested cured salmon with crème fraiche and dill, and she wrote it down without a word, a sign of approval.
For the spring menu, I wanted lamb. The salsa verde would need anchovies. Eileen and I battled over that for a while, and I eventually won. We didn't notice the morning slipping away until Nate came in.
He stopped in the doorway, took in the two of us bent over the notebook, talking over each other, and folded his arms.
"Should I be worried?" he said.
"Probably," I replied.
"Definitely," Eileen said at the exact same moment.
Nate came to the table and picked up the notebook. He read through it without saying anything. Eileen and I watched him.
"A restaurant?" he asked.
"A dining club."
"Supper club," Eileen corrected.
Nate's eyebrows lifted. "How many diners?"
"Twelve to start," I said. "Maybe sixteen once we know what we're doing."
He set the notebook down. "And you'd run the kitchen?"
"With Eileen."
He looked at her. She returned his gaze steadily.
"Let me think about it," he said.
He picked up my cold coffee, took a sip, and set it back down with a grimace. "I'll need to see numbers."
My heart jumped. He was actually considering it. I'd have to work out costs for food, advertising, transportation maybe. Then I'd need to figure out what people would be willing to pay.
"I'll have them by Friday," I said with more confidence than I felt.
He looked at me for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he put the notebook back on the table.
"Friday," he agreed sternly, letting me know he expected to see a proper plan by then.
He grabbed a bottle of Coke from the fridge and headed back outside.
Eileen picked up the notebook and looked at what we'd written. "He'll say yes," she said. "This is a great idea."
I smiled. Then I looked down at the pages covered in my handwriting, the margins full of Eileen's additions, the crossed-out dishes and the ones we'd kept, and a weight settled in my chest.
"I don't even know how long I'll be here," I said.
Eileen set the notebook down.
"I mean, I don't even know if he…" Unsure what to say without revealing more than I intended, I let my sentence trail off.
"I've known that boy all his life," Eileen said. "He has never given a woman access to the places he considers sacred. Believe me, you being here, at his vineyard, that means something."
Her words offered me just enough reassurance that a future here might be possible. After a moment, I picked up the pen.
"Okay," I said. "Let's get to work."