Chapter 27
Burbank Airport
The Jetway feels different now. The glow is less vibrant. The sheen on the wood paneling is dulling, almost before my eyes. The magic is fading.
Rosaline is waiting for me as usual, and she, too, looks as though she’s growing fainter.
She must be getting ready to go on and guide the next lost soul back to their rightful path.
My time is up, and I am ever so grateful to have my time with her, but I will miss Rosaline all the same. Her wisdom. Her warmth. Her coffee.
That loss will sting.
“Well done, dearie.” Even her voice is growing faint. I take her in my arms while I still can. She isn’t quite as warm as a person should be, but she returns my embrace with all the magic she has left. She whispers in my ear, “I couldn’t be prouder of you.”
“Thank you.” My words are choked by tears I refuse to wipe away. I’ve earned them. She hands me an ordinary-looking claim ticket for my luggage and escorts me to the door of the lounge where my future awaits. I turn to give her one last hug, and she’s already gone.
I linger in the doorway just one moment longer, and I hope the next person to benefit from her guidance knows how lucky she is.
I summon my courage and find myself back in the hustle and bustle of the airport.
The inter-holiday crowds are thickening, and I no longer have the luxury of solo travel on my private retrojet.
More’s the pity, but the environment will fare better if I join the rest of my fellow men and fly commercial like I’ve always done.
I feel a moment’s panic—just briefly—when I realize I have no idea where I’m supposed to be going.
But it passes when it finally occurs to me to look at the claim ticket.
My bags are checked through to Paris. That’s a start, at least. I tuck myself out of the way and riffle through my green backpack to examine its contents.
I’ll miss being able to trust that the bag has everything I need, but I’m more than capable of packing it for myself now.
The contents are much the same, and I retrieve my phone.
The lock screen shows a digital boarding pass.
I’m headed to San Franciso on a plane that boards in fifteen minutes, then my flight connects to Paris after a short layover.
Before I close my pack, I notice some additions.
A thermos of coffee and a jar of caramel, all covered in tape that reads TSA Inspected and Approved.
Rosaline left me a parting gift of her own, and I blow a kiss heavenward in thanks.
I get to my gate just as the doors open.
I’m booked in an aisle seat to San Francisco and a window seat for the long-haul flight.
Aisle for an easy off to make the connection, and window to rest against for the long haul.
Either Rosaline knows me that well, or I’d booked this ticket for myself.
I’d like to think it’s the latter. I’m ready to be in charge of my own life again.
I’m one of the first to board, so I have several minutes to piece together the last three months of my life before I’m obligated to put my phone in airplane mode.
Before I’m able to dig through my texts and emails to see what has happened since Joelle, Nikolai, and I left Maison Ortense, there is a ping on my phone.
NIKOLAI: Have a good flight, min elskede. My flight will get in just an hour before yours. Will meet you at the taxi stand?
Like an idiot, I smile at my phone screen as though Nikolai can see my face. I don’t have to scour my phone to know I haven’t botched what really matters.
ME: I’ll be there, darling.
NIKOLAI: I made reservations for dinner. I hope you don’t object.
In truth, I would rather spend the night in, but going out for New Year’s Eve is a grand tradition, so I can’t object too much.
ME: Sounds great. Where are we going?
NIKOLAI: Chez éugenie, of course. Joelle is delighted we can make it. She’s hoping you’ll reconsider the GM job.
I click away from the texts for a moment to read through my emails.
I search for those sent to éugenie Rosier on the day of our dismissal from Maison Ortense.
Her reaction to the dismissal was exactly what I’d hoped for.
Pure and unmitigated fury. She had taken an obscure little restaurant and turned it into a Parisian icon within two decades, and she wasn’t the sort that would tolerate a boardroom full of bean counters trying to tell her they knew better than she about how to pass on her legacy.
éugenie owned a minority control in Maison Ortense.
Not enough to overrule the board, but a substantial enough portion that when she pulled her funds from the endeavor, it caused a cascading series of financial disasters for Maison Ortense.
Because éugenie was an investor, my email was in no way a violation of my severance agreement.
And éugenie was well within her rights to divest from Maison Ortense to open a new restaurant, named in her honor, where she would have more control over how her legacy is carried out.
Joelle is at the helm, and she’s already getting noticed.
And éugenie was not bound to silence in the way Joelle and I were, so her very frank discussions with The Guardian, Le Monde, and even Michelin about her displeasure with the board’s decision to dismiss such a talented chef and manager could not result in any legal action against her.
A quick search tells me that Girard’s first three months as head chef have not gone particularly smoothly.
A text from the saucier Yann tells me Girard has gone through four sous-chefs already and that Yann himself will be leaving to work for Joelle.
Joelle sent me a link to an article outlining the impropriety of the board’s actions.
Georges-Luc Bodin is, in fact, Girard’s father and the driving force behind the board’s decision to push Girard for the top job.
Every member of the board, especially Georges-Luc, is being investigated for their misdeeds, and there has even been some question as to the legitimacy of Girard’s culinary school credentials from the great Alain Ducasse Academy.
The exposé predicted Maison Ortense would fold within another two months.
Our revenge, it would seem, has been brutal, swift, and complete.
And so very civilized. All we really had to do was let the natural consequences play out.
Well done, us.
The question remains, why would Nikolai say I have turned down the GM job? The seat belt sign comes on so, uncharacteristically, I spring for the on-flight internet so I can keep hunting.
I can’t imagine any version of my life where I would turn down that job . . . unless . . .
Upon closer inspection it appears there is a new email account on my phone. The first three were there when I’d left:
·Personal, for friends and family
·Professional and career stuff, but not tied to a specific job’s email server
·Commercial, the one I use for shopping, newsletters, and anything else that will result in undue spam
But there is a fourth in place of my usually corporate-branded email for wherever I’m working, which in the past was always labeled with the name of the restaurant, like Maison Ortense or Baile Phadraig. Now, however, it’s simply labeled:
·Work
I click on the account link, and it requires a face scan to access it. There are only a few messages, dating back only a few weeks. Most of it to do with the onboarding process for my new job.
As a Michelin Guide inspector.
My hands shake as I scroll through the messages, and my brain is trying very hard to process what I’m reading.
I was hired three weeks ago, and my six-month apprenticeship in Paris will start in the second week of the new year.
And I’ve successfully negotiated setting my home base in Copenhagen when I begin as a solo inspector in July.
In the meantime, I’m living close to my old apartment in Paris.
In just over six months I’ll be living with Nikolai and Pjuske in our flat in Nyhavn.
The peaceful little place with an airy kitchen, a purring cat, and honest-to-goodness throw pillows.
As a housewarming gift, I’ll buy us a proper set of pots and pans that don’t come from a thrift shop.
I all but drool at the thought of our very own Mauviel copper cookware.
And when the time comes, I am hauling my satin comforter to Copenhagen, even if it means the extra suitcase.
Even if Pjuske claims it as his own and I never get to use it again for fear of inciting his wrath.
Because, finally, I’ll have a place to call home.