Chef’s Kiss at the Chalet

Chapter 1

I swiped my phone screen to refresh my email for what felt like the hundredth time in two minutes.

My fingers trembled, more from nerves than the chilly mountain air that zipped through the front door of The Denver Drip.

We were slammed at the coffee shop I managed, and my heart sank a little at each new customer who appeared at the counter to tear me from my obsessive email stalking.

“Hi, welcome,” I greeted the young power couple who popped in every morning on their way to work. “The usual?”

“And a protein ball, please,” the woman in the designer cardigan set answered, sweeping her auburn hair behind her ear as her brand-new engagement ring sparkled under the fluorescent overhead lights.

“Make mine a triple shot,” her short, handsome beau added.

They were eerily similar, this preppy pair of J.Crew-clad professionals. One of those couples who start to look like siblings, slowly morphing into the same person.

Once they had been served, an elderly woman with cat hairs on her coat ordered an English breakfast tea and a scone, taking them to the table beside the window to watch the sidewalk traffic.

Next up was Frank, a regular, no-frills-added, black-coffee drinker.

He was a true unicorn at the high-end shop, known more for its creative espresso drinks, as well as sandwiches and gourmet pastries care of yours truly.

The modern decor met somewhere at the intersection of Scandinavian minimalist and overgrown greenhouse: wood accents and white subway tiles, with copious potted plants and hanging vines over the thrifted leather armchairs and cozy reading nooks.

Quickly, mechanically, I poured Frank’s drink and went back to staring at the clock, willing the thin, black second hand to move a little faster.

At ten on the dot, I would find out if my application to the prestigious Academy of Culinary Excellence in London had been accepted.

Not only my dream program, but my dream city.

Ever since I’d applied in June to continue my culinary education, I had waited for the day their decision would arrive.

Now that it was here, I dreaded the answer.

Raising my hopes only meant I had farther to fall if I failed.

“Any news?” Hannah asked, pouring oat milk and matcha over ice.

The perennially upbeat blonde, with tiny studs in her ear cartilage and a butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck, was a senior at my alma mater, The Kent School, and worked here a few days a week. She was also well versed in my application saga.

“Nothing yet.” I shook my head and tapped my phone where it sat on the counter while I dashed between ringing up customers and plating profiteroles and pains au chocolat. “Good or bad, I’ll know in thirty minutes.”

She patted my back. “It’ll work out. I’m sure of it. You’re so talented, Elle.”

“You have to say that. I make the schedule and can give you all the worst shifts,” I teased, laughing when she looked affronted. “Kidding. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Seriously though, as someone going through the college application process, I know the stress is endless. I can’t imagine doing it at your age.”

“Oof.” I cringed at her teasing. Insert knife and twist. “Kick me while I’m down. Twenty-seven is hardly ancient, you know.”

She laughed as two more customers entered. Sighing, I reminded myself that taking care of them helped the clock creep closer to decision time. I was trying not to pace, not to get caught up in the what if s while I constructed a bagel sandwich with homemade mint yogurt spread.

“That looks amazing.” Another customer picking up her croissant gawked at the sandwich as I handed it over. “Can I get one of those too?”

“Coming right up,” I said automatically, barely pausing to breathe as I went back to the register to put in the ticket.

The compliments were better than caffeine to keep me on my feet, darting back and forth behind the counter while I tried to fend off the doubt spiral brewing in my head. That voice that told me I wasn’t good enough and never would be.

Each time Hannah walked by, she gave me a reassuring smile, a pat on the arm, or whispered, “You’ve got this.”

I appreciated the support, but I was immune to her infectious positivity today.

Not that I considered myself a pessimist—just realistic.

The program was one of the most competitive in the world.

Only a tiny fraction of applicants made it in each year.

Despite my glowing academic transcript and the pastry diploma I’d already received from Auguste Escoffier School of Culinary Arts, the odds were stacked against me.

Still, I hoped the admissions office would read my heartfelt personal essay and understand my passion.

They wouldn’t find another student who worked harder or wanted it more.

In that regard, I backed myself against anyone.

Again, I refreshed my email app. And again, I felt a creeping sense of dread inside.

“If I don’t get in . . .” I muttered to myself.

Hannah jabbed me playfully in the arm with an espresso spoon.

“Um, ow.” I rubbed my arm and laughed. “You don’t need to resort to violence.”

“Oh, please.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You don’t need to be all morose and dejected. Manifest it.”

“Manifest it?” I said, skeptically. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.”

“If you only think in negative terms, you’re going to keep living in a negative space and what good will that do?

” She pulled pastries from the display case and boxed them up for a to-go order.

“I think if you believe that you’re deserving, acknowledge that you’ve been dealt a shitty hand and deserve something good, then maybe it’ll happen. ”

“Power of positive thinking,” I mocked playfully.

She was oblivious to my sarcasm. “Exactly.”

“You’re wise beyond your years.”

She laughed. “Yeah, well, remember that when you do next month’s schedule.”

“Ah, I see how it is.”

Hannah yanked me in for a quick hug. We were both sweaty, my wavy black ponytail sticking to the side of her face.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever said it,” I told her as we pulled away, “but I’m glad the alumni office matched us up.”

I first met Hannah as her mentor, but I’d come to think of her as family.

Like me, she had received a full-ride scholarship to The Kent School, part of an award funded by former recipients to continue to provide opportunities to the next generations.

Without that scholarship, I never could’ve afforded the prestigious institution.

“I’m grateful too.” Hannah sniffed and blew out a deep breath. “You’re like the big sister that I never wanted.” Pushing me back, she wiped a stray tear away and rolled her shoulders with a pouty grin.

It was at my five-year reunion that the alumni office approached me about mentoring Hannah as she was entering her sophomore year, and I readily agreed.

We had both grown up with similar hardships: single parents and never enough money, spending too much of our childhoods as caregivers when the universe dumped more on us than our fair share.

I admired so much the way Hannah never let any of it make her cynical. She made it look easy.

“Seriously,” she said. “You’ve got a few minutes before the email that will change your life. Think good thoughts. Manifest that shit.”

“You should put that on a T-shirt.”

“I could probably pay for college that way.” She laughed and shoved me toward the back room. “Go take a break. I can handle things out here. Come back with good news.”

Slipping into the small, cluttered room, I closed the door and sank into the worn leather chair at the desk, glancing at the clock on the wall above me.

“Five minutes. Good thoughts only,” I told myself. “I can do this.”

In a way, I’d come to want this as much for Hannah as I did for myself. It just meant so much to her to see me succeed. I felt a responsibility to show her good things were possible. Big dreams weren’t out of reach for people like us.

I didn’t believe in luck or manifesting.

Only effort. It was perseverance that earned me that Kent scholarship.

And dedication that allowed me to excel academically while I was there.

Nothing ever came easy. I busted my ass studying, cramming until dawn, always doing that much more than my peers.

I wasn’t interested in simply keeping my head above water.

I wanted to be great . Still, I worried that maybe some things would always be out of reach.

It was hard to feel deserving when you were used to going without.

So, I started to rationalize the worst-case scenario.

If I didn’t get into ACE , it just meant that I had to do another two-year associate degree at Escoffier.

That wouldn’t be the end of the world. Still good enough to build a client base and perhaps land a private chef position in Aspen or Boulder.

It wouldn’t be London, but I could make it work.

Then I heard Hannah’s voice in my head telling me that was quitter talk.

And in my rationalizing, I’d also missed the alert notifying me of a new email. It was five after ten, and I’d distracted myself into not noticing the banner that had appeared on my phone.

The subject line simply read “Application Decision.”

“Here we go.”

Using my thumb on my old iPhone, I took a deep breath and clicked the email app.

Congratulations, Chef-in-Training!

I read and re-read the first line three times before an enormous grin broke out on my face and I called for Hannah.

When she burst through the door, I handed her the phone so she could read the message for herself. I was a wobbly and runny-nosed mess that mixed tears and laughter.

“I told you! You manifested that shit!” she shouted before beginning to read the opening paragraph aloud.

“Congratulations, Eleanor! On behalf of the entire Admissions Committee, we are pleased to notify you of your acceptance to the Academy of Culinary Excellence in London for the spring entry date. ACE is located in one of the world’s food and hospitality capitals, and our position as a premier culinary college offers unbeatable opportunities for participation in internships, research, events and cultural programs. Your ACE education is an investment in your future, and we cannot wait to help you get started. ”

Hannah handed me back the phone, jumping up and down and shrieking, “Holy shit! You did it, Elle!”

“I can’t believe it,” I breathed, reading through the first paragraph again before moving on to the nitty-gritty details. “It looks like I’ll get an acceptance packet in the mail tomorrow, with all of the information on housing, tuition, etc.”

Hannah gave me a concerned look, her blue eyes turning serious. “You’re not scheduled to work tomorrow, but maybe you should come in so you’re not pacing a hole in your apartment floor.”

I knew what she was getting at. I had indicated on my application that I would require financial aid to cover tuition.

The total cost of that tuition, and how much of it the school would be willing to cover, were details yet to be ironed out.

Getting into ACE had been step one. Paying for it was my next hurdle.

“You know, I have no idea how housing works at ACE ,” I said. “Especially since I am considered an international student.”

Hannah nodded. “Plus, you’ll need to sort out a work and student visa application. Flights and . . .” She paused, her face breaking out into a huge smile. “Forget all that for now. This is really happening. I am so happy for you.”

While she pulled me into a backbreaking hug, I made a mental list of what needed to be done.

I broke the hug, but kept my hands placed on her shoulders. “I’ve got my good news. Now we need to manifest your dream college acceptance.”

“Deal,” she said. “For now, come and give me a hand out there. We’re swamped.” She pulled me toward the door, and sure enough, there was a line backing up into the dining room.

Tomorrow was the first day of a new start.