Chapter 5 #2
“Inconceivable,” she mutters. I don’t get the joke, but something about the glint in her eye tells me that’s what that was. Perhaps it’s an English language thing I’m unaware of?
I can’t wait to see what the kitchen is like.
But as exciting as that prospect always is to me, my mind is still on Abigail.
When I saw her distress and overheard the things that woman was saying, I couldn’t help but come to Abigail’s rescue.
I swooped in to save her day like Superman, but with better hair.
I didn’t know it would get me involved in what followed. How could I have expected that I’d be declared her husband? That we’re now faking a honeymoon?
Ah, but the spice of it all. It’s crazy, it’s insane, and I know it’s dangerous for Abigail. Probably for me too, though for different reasons.
But that just makes it even spicier.
And Abigail? She’s an adventure herself. One I’d like to take.
Trying to distract myself, I head through the grand hall toward the kitchens.
Casa Del Mario’s website talked a lot about their three full-service restaurants, multiple grill stations, and twenty-four-hour room service.
But of course, other than a picture of the poolside barbecue, there were no pictures of the actual kitchens.
I fear I’ll find a bank of microwaves and a freezer full of manufactured shit.
I introduce myself to the ma?tre ’d at the main restaurant, who seems largely unhelpful until I mention Meredith’s name.
With that, I am quickly led to the back.
I’m pleased to see that it’s an open kitchen, with windows that overlook the dining room like a fishbowl.
Sure, that means the kitchen staff are half entertainers on display and half cooks, but it also means more space and equipment that is top-notch and well-maintained.
This might not be so bad after all.
“Chef Toscani, may I present Chef Esmar Maduro. Chef, this is the chef from America I mentioned?”
“Bon bini! Welcome!” a huge, big-bellied and grinning man booms as he comes from behind a workstation to greet me.
His dark complexion beams with warmth, as do his bright eyes and white teeth. I’m instantly put at ease. Some chefs would not accept an outsider into their fold, especially for a special event such as this wedding. But Chef Maduro does not seem to be one of those sorts as he shakes my hand.
“Come into my kitchen, Chef. We have much to do, yes?”
“I hope I’m not intruding,” I say politely, the question laced through.
His laugh is deep, shaking his belly. “No, I look forward to tasting your work. I have not been to Italy since I was a young man, and stories of your fettuccine precede you.”
Fuck, what did Claire say about my pasta? It’s good, Earth-shatteringly so, but I guess I wasn’t expecting this sort of reputation on an island far from my home in Positano by a fellow chef whose admiration I should have to earn.
“I would enjoy creating for you, if you do me the honor of the same, Chef Maduro,” I tell him.
“Naturalmente!” he replies. “I want to know your soul, and the only way to do that is through the belly.” He pats his round middle, smiling wide. “I have known many souls, Chef Toscani.”
He laughs, and I laugh along, finding myself relaxing and at ease. “If you are agreeable, please call me Lorenzo when we’re not on the line.”
He dips his chin in acknowledgement and lays a hand to his chest. “Esmar.”
Greetings made and friendships simmering, he takes me on a tour of his kitchen. The whole time, he’s tossing out bits of information, like how he grows his own herbs for the restaurants, has a vegetable garden on the property, and sources local meats whenever possible.
We finish up our tour with an introduction to the staff, a mixed group of locals and transplants who came to the island for one reason or another and never left. “If you need anything, let Gilberto know. He will be your sous chef, one of my best.”
Gilberto smiles at the praise from his chef. Gilberto is tall and thin, with what seem to be spaghetti noodles for arms and legs. I have heard jokes that one should not trust a skinny chef, but if Esmar says he is one of the best, I will trust that it is true.
“Thank you for assisting me, Gilberto. Can we sit down and go over ingredient lists for the basics? Though I’ll know more after my meeting with the wedding planner tomorrow.”
Esmar shivers. “The wedding planner, she is the frosty woman in black?” He pulls a face of snooty displeasure, straightening his spine and flipping non-existent hair in a perfect imitation of Meredith.
I don’t hide my smile at his obvious dislike. “Yes, she’s quite . . .” I pause, not finding a word in English and not speaking Esmar’s native Papiamento. “Fighe de legno,” I finish. “A wooden bitch.”
“Ah,” Esmar exclaims, the sentiment translating even if the words do not.
“She came into my kitchen—my kitchen!—with no invitation, just waltzing in like she has the right. ‘Rank has its privileges,’ she tells me. She did not like it when I told her that the only rank in my kitchen is Chef and that’s me.
” He slaps his chest proudly. “We will watch out for her, alert you if she tries to come in again. I will gladly show her what privileges she is entitled to.”
Esmar’s support, with the agreement of Gilberto’s nod and the rest of the crew’s murmurs of unity, means a lot to me.
Being the new chef to come into a kitchen can be hard, and I’ve had experiences where I had to prove myself again and again with my food and my willingness to learn just to be marginally accepted.
But here, they welcome me with open arms and warmth.
It’s a gift I will return in exchange while I am here.
“Mashi danki. Thank you,” I tell the group in Papiamento, one of the few phrases I learned on the plane ride here.
“Di nada,” they answer.
I make my way down the hall, my key card in hand. It’s early, only six o’clock, but I want to shower before dinner tonight and I’m doing so in the lap of luxury via Abigail’s ensuite.
At the door, I stop. Perhaps I should knock? It is my suite now too, but that’s not entirely true.
The slight pause gives me a chance to hear voices on the other side of the door.
Janey’s voice is high-pitched, as if she’s repeating herself and getting more frantic with each repetition as she’s not heard. “Husband? You said he’s your husband? Do you remember what happened with your brother? Your sister?”
I wait for Abigail’s response but only hear a grunted moan as if she’s tired of the conversation.
“You should’ve said he was your boy toy,” Janey suggests.
“I bet Bitch Barbie would’ve shit herself at that.
Or said he’s your love slave or something.
” A small giggle sounds out and then Janey says, “I would love to have that man feed me grapes, fan me with a big palm tree, and give me an oil rubdown . . . everywhere. Did you see those abs?”
There’s a gasp of shock that has to be Abi and then she laughs too. “Of course I did! Did you see his belly button? I already have fantasies of swimming in it on my way to slide down Cock Mountain. First, with my mouth and then with my pussy.”
I blink at the picture her words paint, my cock instantly growing hard in my pants. I trace my hand over my abs and grip myself hard, willing the stiffness to subside. Instead, I involuntarily groan.
“What was that?” I hear Janey say through the wood.
Fuck. They heard me.
I hold the key card up to the door and am greeted by the green light. I open the door and walk into the suite, the outline of my hard dick obvious in my lightweight linen pants.
“Oh! Uh, hi,” Abigail stutters cutely, her cheeks going pink.
She’s wearing a gauzy, waffle weave, white hotel robe and it’s gaping at the neckline.
She follows my eyes, flushing further when she realizes how much cleavage she is showing.
She makes a squeak of horror, and sadly, draws it tighter to cover herself from my prying eyes.
“Buona sera,” I reply. “I hope I am not too early? I thought we should go over some details before getting ready for dinner, to help sell the honeymoon?”
Janey points at me. “I like the way you think, mister. I’m going to leave you two to it. Abi, I’ll head back down to the storage room and start organizing the boxes into categories.”
Abigail tears her eyes from me, focusing on Janey. “Make sure to keep the silk ribbon separate from the glitter tulle or it’ll snag.”
Janey rolls her eyes and murmurs, “Duh. She acts like I’ve never done this before.” And she’s gone, leaving us alone.
I wonder what Abigail has on beneath that robe. I wonder if she can tell I’m commando beneath my pants. I consider the thread counts of the combined fabrics that separate us.
Abigail is quiet for too long, and though I’d like to do wicked things to her, I spoke the truth. We do need to talk before tonight.
“Abigail, tell me what I need to know about you.” It’s an order, but open-ended, allowing her to share what she feels is relevant. To tonight, to forever, whichever she prefers.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m an Andrews.
My dad started Andrews Consolidated when he was younger and made bank.
My parents have been married for decades, and somehow, are still in love.
My brother, Ross, is married to Violet. They just had a baby, but you already know that.
My sister, Courtney, is married . . .” She pauses, and I wonder if she’s remembering the wedding where we met the way I am.
She licks her lips nervously before continuing, “She works for my dad.”
I sit down beside her on the couch, getting closer than is polite. “That’s not what I asked and you know it. That’s your family. Tell me about you.” My voice is deeper, darker now.
She hesitates but gives in. “I’m weird, not like my family—all serious and business-y—but I am that way sometimes, if that makes sense?
Like I’m a square peg that doesn’t fit in a round hole, but I’m still a peg.
Does that even track?” She shakes her head, leaving the metaphor behind.
“I’m creative, wild, and free. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m going to do or say next until it happens.
I’m just as surprised as everyone around me.
” She laughs like she didn’t expect to say that, proving her point.
“Good,” I praise her. “Tell me about your flowers.”
That seems to be an easier topic because she speaks comfortably, fast and with bubbly enthusiasm. “I’ve loved flowers since I was little. I would help the gardener and make bouquets. One year, we watched the Tournament of Roses—do you know what that is?” she asks.
“I’ve heard of it. A parade, right?”
She nods. “Yeah, so we’re watching that on television and I was in awe of what they could create with flowers.
While Dad and Ross watched the game, I went out in the yard with my Barbie car and a pair of kitchen scissors and went to work.
It was awful,” she says on a horrified laugh, “but I thought it was amazing. That was when I knew, though it took me a bit longer to actually figure out how to do things well.”
I see the light in her eyes, the way her voice changes. Gone is the nervousness. Gone is the worry. She loves her craft, and even though I’ve never seen her arrangements that I’m aware of, I admire her passion.
It’s the same passion I have for cooking, I suspect.
“And this Emily? You said she was a rival of sorts?”
I can see her mind disappear into the past, her vibrancy dimming.
“Yeah. I don’t know what started this thing between us.
It was just always there. Admittedly, as Ross’s younger sister and an Andrews, I was kind of automatically popular.
I never really cared about things like that, though.
But Emily did. At first, she tried to copy me—her hair, her clothes, stuff like that.
In hindsight, I think she was even trying to be friends.
But I had Violet and we were thick as thieves, and I truly didn’t even notice Emily.
Until she started talking shit about me.
That got my attention. And somehow, it was like ‘game on’ between us.
She would show up at parties I went to and stand on the table, playing Queen Bee.
She dated the football star from our year and then became head cheerleader.
She kept climbing the ladder, like she had something to prove, and I was just doing my own thing.
If I wanted to date, I did. If I wanted to cheer, I did.
If I wanted to do theater, I did. I would flit from one thing to another with the attention span of a gnat and she would follow along doing everything I did, still copying me.
But it wasn’t friendly then. Especially not when she slept with my boyfriend.
She just sucked all the joy out of what should’ve been some of my best years, and though it’s stupid—and believe me, I know how juvenile it sounds—I want to show her that despite all that, I still did okay. ”
“That you won,” I surmise.
Abigail flops back to the couch, her arm going over her eyes. “Oh, God, I’m awful. I’m so sorry for dragging you into this. We can call the whole thing off or whatever. Tell her I lied. You don’t need this drama, especially this week. Fuck, I don’t need it this week.”
She’s right. This week, this wedding is big for the both of us. But I sense that something even bigger is happening to Abigail. If she walks away from this thing with her tail between her legs, she might never recover. It will foundationally affect who she believes herself to be.
“No,” I say sharply. “This is a . . . how do you call it? ‘No harm, no foul’. We’ll play along as newlyweds and have a little fun while you get your closure with this Emily.”
She peeks from below her arm. “Really?”
“Yes. Now, it’s getting late. We should get ready because I need a shower after being in the kitchens.”
I rise, heading toward the bedroom and already dreaming of the ensuite bathroom that will surely be as luxurious as the rest of the room.
Abigail sits up. “Wait, what about you? I don’t know anything about you!”
I grin. “You’re welcome to shower with me if you’d like?” At her sour look, I soften the vulgar suggestion. “Come. Sit and talk to me while I get ready.”
That has her hopping up to follow me.