Greta
“It’s from Seattle. Sir, we’re happy to serve you in the dining room.”
Mr. Sutton didn’t seem to hear. “Which country is it that you hail from?”
Harold, the groom, was also having trouble staying out of the kitchen. He poked his head in the swinging door for the fourth time that morning. “Has anyone seen Sissy? I need to speak to her before brunch. My tee time is in thirty.”
This seemed to distress Harold. “If you don’t mind, when was the last time you did?”
“Excuse me?” It was an odd question for him to ask on his wedding weekend.
Harold jammed his hands in his pockets, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “The guys and I had a bit of a late night at the Chatham Squire in town. You know.”
She did not know, not exactly, but from his ruddy complexion and bloodshot eyes it seemed their dear groom had no recollection of rolling back in.
Alarm bells went off in Greta’s head. “When was the last time you saw Sissy?” she asked.
It was hardly her business, but here they were in her kitchen while she was trying to work, Harold hungover and Mr. Sutton still pontificating about the origins of the Seattle brew.
“After dessert last night?” Harold said, tipping his head as if shaking water out of his ear after a vigorous swim. “Or maybe nightcaps? Can’t say for sure.”
So Harold hadn’t seen Sissy in their room last night or this morning.
Holly poked her head in. “Shuttle bus is here for our golfers!” she said brightly.
Greta had never been so happy to see her, but she couldn’t shake the rising sense of doom.
Focus, she told herself as she carried a basket of fresh red tomatoes to her cutting board.
Each tomato she chopped, she pictured Sissy’s white dress.
An hour later, she was just pulling the perfectly baked eggs and sauce out of the oven when the missing bride appeared.
Without so much as a look her way, Sissy let herself in the kitchen and went to the side door to look out.
She was dressed in a pale blue linen wrap dress, her dark hair swept up in a high swinging ponytail with a white bow. The effect was utterly childish.
Greta set the now-baked egg casserole on the island with a thunk. “Good morning,” she said loudly, causing Sissy to jump. Bride or not, this was her kitchen.
“Oh, hi.” Sissy’s eyes kept darting to the window.
“Can I help you with something?”
“No, not really.” Greta’s heart fell as Sissy made her way over to the island. “Oooh. Frittata?” She lifted her phone and began snapping pictures as Greta pulled two more skillets from the ovens.
“Shakshuka,” Greta corrected. Clearly Sissy had never eaten a frittata. “For your bridal brunch.”
“Cool.”
“Harold was looking for you, earlier,” Greta told her.
When Sissy merely shrugged, Greta added, “He seemed worried about catching you before he went to play golf.”
“Harold worries too much.” She rested her bony elbows on Greta’s island and began scrolling through her phone as if it were any Saturday morning in her own kitchen. “So, you’ve worked here awhile?”
“If four years is a while.” When she looked up, Sissy snapped her photo. “I’m sorry, do you mind?”
“Content creation never sleeps.” Sissy glanced down at her phone and made a face. “Oh. Potato.”
“They’re in the oven,” Greta told her.
“No.” Sissy laughed. “The photo I took of you. It’s Insta slang.” She tapped and swiped, tapped and swiped. “Don’t worry, I deleted it.”
Greta didn’t know if she should be offended or grateful, but she suspected both. She grabbed a bottle of vinegar and sprinkled a dash atop the egg dish to brighten the flavors.
“So you know Ollie,” Sissy ventured. It wasn’t a question.
Greta knew an Oliver. “A little,” she said instead, sprinkling a little more vinegar.
“He seems to have made a nice little life for himself here. Quaint, but nice.” Again she glanced toward the door.
“Much quieter than my own, you know, with the endless travel and product reviews and events. It sounds kind of nice to wake up on the coast each day and just walk on the beach and plant flowers and… grow things.”
“He does a little more than that,” Greta said, pulling a tray of roasted potatoes from the oven. “Your brunch is about ready if you’d like to go join your bridesmaids in the dining room.”
Sissy was about as interested in taking the hint as she was about her brunch. She plucked a stem of basil from a mason jar on the counter and spun it distractedly between her fingers. “I’m actually not that hungry.”
Greta looked at the steaming dishes lining the counter. She looked at Sissy’s bored expression. Then she plucked the basil from Sissy’s hand, grabbed a knife, and chopped the herb to bits as Sissy looked on in alarm. “Garnish!” Greta said, dumping the crumpled greens atop the eggs.
“Anyway,” Sissy went on, “it’s been strange seeing him again, you know? Brings up a lot of old memories. As I may have mentioned, Ollie and I go way back.”
“So I hear.” The words were out before her common sense caught up. Greta turned quickly to the stove.
“You heard?” Sissy hurried around the island to face her. “Has Ollie mentioned me?” Her eyes were bright and round, her makeup perfectly applied; but it was the hunger in her expression that burned brightest. “What exactly did he say?”
Reflexively, Greta’s jaw clenched. “Only that he knew you. The day you came in for the tasting.”
Sissy wasn’t buying it. “Are you two close?” When Greta didn’t answer, Sissy filled the silence.
“I mean, you must be, working together in this cute little house, of course.” She leaned in, like they were old friends.
“Maybe you can fill me in on something I’ve been wondering about. Do you know if Ollie is still single?”
Greta swiped a serving spoon from a drawer and fixed her attention on the potato dish. Why was Sissy asking her these things? “You know, I really couldn’t say…”
Linus barreled into the kitchen. “Bridal brunch in five. Ready?” He halted upon seeing Sissy, his tone oozing with honey. “Oh, good morning, Miss Sutton! Don’t you look lovely today.”
Sissy barely flicked her gaze his way. “Thanks.” To Greta she lowered her voice. “I was only asking because one of my bridesmaids is single, and…”
“Right.” Greta tossed the potatoes, adding salt, pepper, whatever was handy.
“Oh, look!” Sissy pointed to the window. “There’s Ollie now.”
Greta watched helplessly as Sissy flung the door open, waving wildly at Oliver, her diamond tennis bracelets catching the sun as she flew out to meet him.
Hard as she tried, she couldn’t pull her gaze from them.
The way Sissy stood on tiptoes to hug him.
The way Oliver bent down to let her. She didn’t realize she was still tossing the roasted potatoes until Linus cleared his throat. “Uh, are those meant to be mashed?”
Greta set the spoon down. “Take them. And go.”
“Thank God. The M.O.B. has landed in the dining room and I’ve already served two rounds of mimosas. Those women are going to be pie-eyed if we don’t get some solids in their stomachs stat.”
“I said it’s ready. So go.”
“I can’t start the bridal brunch without a bride.” Linus glanced toward the window, eyes narrowed. “What exactly is the story there, anyway?”
“The one who got away.” The words tumbled out of her mouth, tinged with exasperation and sadness. Saying them, especially to the likes of Linus, made it even worse.
“Oh dear.” Linus exhaled. “And just in time for her wedding.” He turned to Greta. “I’m sorry.”
Greta stiffened. She and Linus were never very nice to each other and she wasn’t about to have it now.
“Not a thing to be sorry about.” Looking to busy her hands, Greta filled the coffee maker with water and dumped in several scoops of grounds.
“Did you know these beans remind people of Tuscany? Taste like monks, in fact.”
Linus blinked. “What?”
Greta didn’t care how crazy she sounded. She was bone-tired and sick of people. Of cooking for them. Of trying to please them. Of holding them at arm’s length, only to fall for them and then lose them.
All she wanted was to rip off her chef’s jacket, free her braid, and run down the hill to the bay. She wanted to submerge herself in the cold waves and scream underwater. Instead she took a deep breath and said, “Order up.”
Holly and the servers swept in. Maybe Greta could go home and try to squeeze in a nap before the rehearsal dinner. Maybe she’d go for a walk on the beach. But no—Linus had to come back in as she was cleaning up.
“Um, Chef, about the fruit salad…”
“What?”
He held out the bowl. “There appears to be some kind of dressing on it?”
Greta inspected the bowl. The strawberries and watermelon were perfectly ripe and sliced into bite-sized pieces.
The feta was delicately crumbled, not mashed.
The balsamic drizzled lovingly. “What’s the issue with it?
” When Linus said nothing, she got a spoon and sampled a bite.
Flavor coated her tongue: salt, sour, brine. “Oh God.”
“They think it tastes like…”
Greta’s eyes flew to a bottle on her sauce shelf. “Soy sauce.”
“That.”
“I’ll start a new batch.”
“Is there time to cut all that fruit?”
Holly stepped into the kitchen and joined them. “I’m so sorry,” Greta began. “The fruit salad dressing is my mistake.”
“It’s not the fruit salad.”
“What is it?”
Holly winced. “The egg dish. Guests are saying it’s floating in vinegar?”
“But I only put a dash on at the end.” Greta glared at the vinegar bottle. About the same time she took the egg dish out of the oven, Sissy had been talking about Oliver—blathering, asking, prying. Her vinegar sprinkle must have turned into a shower. She closed her eyes.
“Tell you what,” Linus said, already heading for the door, “I’m going to mix another batch of mimosas while you two sort this.”
“They’ll be drunk!” Holly hissed.
“All the better. We can tell them how wonderful brunch was, when they come around.”
“Holly, I’m sorry,” Greta repeated. “I don’t know how this happened. I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Let’s talk later and fix now. What can you whip up in less than fifteen minutes?”
Fourteen minutes later, a platter of truffle scrambled eggs sailed out of the kitchen, along with mango-ginger wellness shots and crisp wedges of smoked salmon avocado toast.
The next time Holly returned, she looked only slightly less stressed. “Well, you turned the brunch around. Everyone was pleased with round two.”
“Again, Holly, I’m terribly sorry. I’ve not felt like myself lately.”
“Look, I know I’m asking a lot of the staff with all the changes around here this season. We’ve been nonstop since renovations and then Harvest took off. And now the wedding weekend is here. I’m wondering if it makes sense to hire another chef. Just as support!” she rushed to add.
It was the last thing Greta wanted. This was her kitchen and Paul was a great sous-chef. Even pain-in-the-butt Linus had shifted gears and was pitching in more. “I appreciate the offer, but I really think today was just a fluke. I promise I’ll be on my game tonight.”
“Are you sure? Because I have two jobs here: meet the clients’ needs but also take care of my staff. We can revisit this whole private-event idea later, but we still have tonight to get through.”
“I’m sure,” Greta said, hoping she sounded it. “As you said, this event is our first. I don’t think it will be our last, don’t worry.”
Holly looked like she wanted to believe her.
That was the part that got to her most. Greta was a professional.
Harvest was booming. And renting out the inn for private events was still a good idea—as long as she kept her heart where it belonged, in her chest. Then lonely brides and wavering gardeners couldn’t touch it.