Chapter 2 #2
Chloe beams at me. “I knew you would. I had kind of an off-the-wall idea for the food, actually. I was thinking street food. With cute stalls and everything. I can call in some favors and have them made custom to look like stalls from places we’ve visited and loved. Something different, you know?”
“Oh how fun!” I can envision the whole thing now: tacos al pastor and tamales to pay tribute to their trips to Mexico with a churro station for the kids.
Arancini from Italy and banh mi from Vietnam.
The stalls are a super-clever touch, and the right caterer might even be willing to buy them after the wedding for use at future events.
A list of contacts starts swirling in my brain.
A picture of a stereotype fit for Merriam-Webster: Robin actually clutches at the rope of pearls around her neck. “Heavens, no. Why not hold the wedding at a theme park if you’re going to make a joke of it?”
Chloe steams and I open my mouth to defend her. “I think—”
Robin holds up a hand to silence me. “Nice try with the diversion, but we weren’t done with you yet. Tell us why you left that promising job in Paris for some pokey old cow town?”
I stand straighter, eschewing my usual tendency to slouch in my mother’s presence. “It’s not about the location; it’s the job. It was time to move on, so I did.”
I suspect Robin has loved telling all her friends about the far-flung European cities where I’ve worked.
Occasionally I found myself on the East Coast but have avoided the US west of the Mississippi from a professional standpoint since I went away to school.
Not because there is any shortage of incredible restaurants here, but, well .
. . to paraphrase Elizabeth Bennet, it is possible for a woman to be settled too near her family.
And me moving someplace as prosaic as Denver would give Robin a lot less to boast about.
She puts one hand on her hip and heaves a dramatic sigh. “How typical. You got bored and left. How many jobs is this now?”
I do the mental math and opt against full disclosure. “Just the right number.”
“That’s quite enough sass for one night, thank you.” She takes a swig from a flute of champagne. “And quite enough aimless job-hopping for one lifetime. Once Brian and Annabelle and the kids head back home, you can have your room back and we’ll discuss your plans.”
Before I can say, “Like hell we will,” she spins on her heel and shoots one last look back at Chloe. We aren’t finished here.
“I’m so sorry, Sabrina. I’d hoped she’d be mellower tonight since it’s a special occasion.” Chloe puts a hand on my arm, and I can feel the sympathy radiating off her like heat off asphalt. Great. She thinks I’m a screwup too.
I turn to Chloe, refusing to succumb to the tears that threaten. “Listen, we’re going to make a pact, right here and now. Neither of us is giving in to her. You’re going to have the wedding you want, and there is no way in hell I’m moving in with her.”
I hold up a pinkie to seal the pact, but Chloe doesn’t reciprocate, her eyes downcast. “Good luck. You know how hard it is to change her mind once she’s set on something.
And she’s in rare form today too. We told her we’re covering the cost of the wedding and she’s acting like we told her she isn’t invited. ”
Suddenly I’m glad there was “simply no room” at Robin’s house for me to stay this holiday season.
With Chloe and Chris in from LA, along with my older brother, Brian, his wife, Annabelle, and their kids in from Portland, it is a pretty full house.
The little ones have taken over my childhood bedroom, and Mom thought I’d be “more comfortable” in a hotel.
Which I had to reserve and pay for myself.
And, wow, I’d be conveniently on-site to start preparations for the party long before anyone else thought to show up.
I wrap an arm around her shoulder once more. “Oh, hon, that’s simple. If she were writing the checks, she could call the shots without compunction. You took that from her and she’s hacked off.”
Chloe’s eyes spark with her own threatening tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, but it’s important to Chris that we ‘stand on our own two feet’ as he says.”
“You have four feet between the two of you.” I point down in the direction of her fabulous shoes, wagging a finger back and forth. “Don’t let him discount yours.”
As an associate producer for a midsize studio in LA (read: she plans everything for everyone and acts as the executive function center of the brain for everyone on set), Chloe isn’t making a tremendous amount of money, especially when compared to Chris, but she is immensely talented and lucky enough to be making a living doing what she loves.
But I worry the small paycheck means Chris and the rest of our family see her work as less valuable.
I certainly won’t be one to talk about paycheck size once Michelin happens, but the work still matters.
Fun fact: Michelin Guide inspectors are paid roughly on par with public school teachers and are required, by the nature of the job, to live in some of the highest cost-of-living areas in the world.
My latest positions have paid well, however, and I’ve lived well below my means.
I’ve socked away as much of my wages as possible for years, along with some money from Dad’s estate, so I’ll be able to buy a small place outright wherever Michelin sets as my home base.
The hope is that I’ll be able to live comfortably on my salary without the burden of rent or a mortgage.
Chloe brushes a kiss on my cheek. “Thanks for that, Rina.” I smile at the use of the nickname that has fallen out of favor with everyone but her.
“I’m going to need you, I think. Mom is set on having the reception here.
It will be like every other family event for the past century, and it’s not what Chris and I want.
I’d hoped having the engagement party here would help appease her. ”
I hold up two fingers in a scout’s pledge.
“As maid of honor, I vow your venue and catering will be exactly what you and Chris want. Not a bit of seafood on-site.” I make a mental note to discuss security measures, like passwords, with the caterers and other vendors.
I wouldn’t put it past Robin to go over Chloe’s head and try to make changes to suit her own tastes despite the whole thing being on their dime.
She kisses my cheek and dashes off toward Robin to tend to some detail or another before the guests arrive, which should be any moment.
Seeing no restaurant staff with free hands, I fold up the stepladder and haul it out of the dining room, looking for someone out in the inn’s lobby to whisk it away.
Of course Brian and Annabelle aren’t here yet to help.
She’s probably doing a livestream from Robin’s kitchen, making organic purées from scratch for baby Bailey or some such thing.
Annabelle is happy to be the life of the party, so long as she doesn’t have to break a sweat to make the party happen.
That’s where I come in. The consummate spinster who’s expected to make herself useful while the pretty young things like Annabelle and Chloe get their time to shine.
I stop off in the ladies’ room to make sure my moonlighting as an electrician hasn’t left me too rumpled.
I’m wearing a cobalt-colored sheath dress.
Silk, designer, and well-made, but secondhand like most of my better clothes.
Understated but festive. The black patent heels were perhaps a mistake since Robin is in attendance, but I developed the habit of wearing them in Paris.
I already stood out so much there, a few more inches didn’t make much difference.
I return to the dining room and admire the effect of my handiwork.
I not only strung the lights but also oversaw the delivery of the centerpieces, directed the staff on the best layout for the tables, consulted the chef on the menu and head count, and generally made sure the space was shown to its best advantage.
The restaurant is a bit outdated, but we’ve hosted so many special occasions here over the years, it feels like an extension of Robin’s living room.
The restaurant doesn’t have any stars yet, but it does merit a mention in the guide, which is great for a small place so far outside LA.
On the exterior the inn conforms to the Solvang aesthetic: a quaint white building with dark timber framing designed to pay homage to the town’s Danish roots.
The inside is—as my father’s people would call it—hygge.
Comfortable, cozy, familiar. As an added bonus, the entire town is still decked out for Julefest, the town’s month-long Christmas festival, and looks like something fresh from a Hallmark movie.
As hard as it is to come home, the Danish flair of Solvang always makes me think of Dad, and I take complicated comfort in it.
I don’t know if I can claim much aside from looks from my Danish side, but an appreciation for making people feel at home—hygge—is one Danish principle I do aspire to.
I like to think it’s part of the reason I’ve been called to the hospitality business and why I care that patrons in my restaurants feel welcome.
And why serious reviewing by places like Michelin matters.
They set and uphold standards that ensure everyone is treated like an honored guest.
I see Robin fussing with one of the centerpieces I’ve already aligned perfectly with the table.
“Please stop messing with those.” I gesture to the centerpiece that is now off-kilter.
“That’s rude.” Mom hisses her words as her eyes flicker to the door to make sure no one is here.
I step closer and use my height to its full advantage to tower over her. “Right backatcha, lady. I’ve worked all day on this while you all were off getting your hair done, so leave it alone.”