Chapter 9
Back at the chalet, I stocked the kitchen with the new provisions, then spent a few minutes planning my dinner menu.
Though I had been able to score some veal shanks from the local butcher, I thought twice about serving my osso buco after mentioning it to Charles last night.
It felt somehow like a confession. As if putting that meal out would alert the whole family to my sordid little secret.
A completely irrational thought, I knew. Still, it gave me the ick.
Instead, I’d do a different version of it, with braised short ribs over polenta and an olive and herb gremolata. I’d pair that with a simple warm salad of local winter vegetables to start, then finish off the meal with my Earl Grey tiramisu. Which meant I had to get my short ribs braising now.
I set to work, giving the short ribs a quick, hard sear, then adding them to a Dutch oven with a dry red wine and vegetables, while I ducked back out to my cottage to take a shower and change for dinner service.
It was the first chance I’d had to investigate my new digs for the next three months.
Assuming Charles didn’t have me dismissed by his mother before then.
Imagine his mortification at his blizzard bar-hookup sticking around like a bad rash for the whole ski season. How uncouth of me.
I might’ve saved him the trouble, only I needed this job more than I valued my pride. So, I decided the plan was to lay low. Make myself invisible, as he’d once said. Blend into the background and let him forget we’d ever met.
A wreath of holly with a red bow adorned the front door as I let myself inside the cottage and pushed my bags clear of the front door.
I was impressed with the attention to detail for something that wasn’t part of the main house.
It was a one-story, ranch-style building, with a small front porch that was artfully decorated.
The entryway held a small half-moon table, with a tiny bowl on top for keys or change.
A free-standing coat tree was just beside the door.
Tossing my coat on it, I stepped out of my boots and wandered farther inside.
It was an open-concept space with every modern amenity I could have possibly needed.
A pine garland decorated the mantel over the fireplace, where a stack of firewood was provided.
There were cozy knit blankets artfully draped over the sofa and fuzzy pillows I couldn’t wait to fall into.
The kitchen was stark white and not too big.
It was the perfect size for this space, and just for me.
Custom windows framed the view of the snowcapped Rockies on one side and the main house on the other.
The colors in the bedroom were a cozy and inviting shade of blue, and I felt instantly at peace in the space, despite the pressure and tension waiting for me in pretty much every other area of The Viceroy.
After I was cleaned up and dressed, I took a minute to call Megan.
“You made it!” she exclaimed when she answered. “I was worried the fire department would be digging you out of the snow on the side of the highway.”
“For a minute there, I was too.”
“So, how is it? Gorgeous, I bet. I suppose you’ve met the family by now. How are they?”
Oh, yeah. We’d met.
“So far, so good,” I told her brightly.
Because Megan had done me a huge favor getting this job. I wasn’t about to complain and throw it back in her face. It was my own dumb fault for not getting the full picture, or even a surname, before I spent the night with the handsome stranger from the bar. I wouldn’t be making that mistake again.
“Oh, I’m so glad. I know I warned you that Mrs. Hawthorne can be a little intimidating, but you’re more than up to the task.”
“No sweat,” I said. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you again. I’ll make you and Hannah proud.”
“You always do, Elle.”
That little reassurance from home put an immediate smile on my face.
It was the extra boost I needed to remember that this wasn’t the end of the world.
Most of the time there would be no need for me to interact heavily with the family.
I could stick to the kitchen and let the waitstaff run the plates.
And when I did need something, there was Ali and Mrs. Hawthorne.
A whole hierarchy before I’d have any good reason to run into Charles again.
I was about to head out when there was a light knock at the door.
I quickly buttoned my black chef’s coat and pulled my hair back into a ponytail before answering.
Amelia stood on the doorstep in a thick, cream cable-knit sweater and matching leggings with a headband that held her short, bouncy blond curls away from her face.
“Hi,” I said, a little surprised and perhaps grateful it wasn’t her brother coming to hunt me down. “I was just changing for dinner. Is there something you need?”
“Oh, no, nothing urgent,” she hurried to say, smiling kindly. “I’m sorry to bother you, I just wanted to see whether next time you were in town, I could request a few things for the kitchen.”
“Of course.” I stepped back from the door to invite her in. “I’d be happy to pick up whatever you need.”
It honestly made my job easier when the client told me exactly what they wanted. The less guessing I did, the happier we’d all be.
“Please, have a seat.” I led us to the kitchen table. “Can I get you a tea or coffee?”
It was sort of habit to offer, but I quickly realized I hadn’t even considered stocking my own kitchen yet. I wasn’t sure if there was anything in the cabinets.
“Oh, no, that’s sweet. I’m okay. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know you’re busy,” Amelia said, pulling a piece of family stationery from her pocket, where I could see she’d jotted down a list in neat handwriting.
“It’s just a few things you can only get in town, and I always crave them when we visit.
One of them is a strange request, but The Snowdrift Inn makes these special cookies.
I don’t know what they do to them, but they’re amazing and they won’t ship them, no matter how much you pay.
Trust me, I’ve tried. I even offered to send a private jet once,” she said, laughing at her own audacity.
“They drive a real hard bargain over there.”
I amused myself picturing Pops and Delilah in the kitchen, dosing some Pillsbury cookies with THC or just straight, uncut cocaine.
“No problem at all. I think I can manage that.”
“So, how are you settling in?” she asked. “Is the hot water working okay? Sometimes they forget to turn the water heater on in these cottages.”
I was more than a little taken aback at Amelia.
She wasn’t at all what I expected. Not that I’d had much to go on, other than first impressions at lunch and Mia’s brief comments at the marketplace.
I suppose I’d assumed she would take after her mother, two imposing figures that could make a polar bear shiver.
“Everything’s perfect, thank you.”
“So, is this your first time as a private chef?”
Was it that apparent? I felt self-conscious, wondering what faux pas had given me away. And how many more I’d make before I caught on to the cultural cues.
“It is. So I’ll happily take all the feedback I can get,” I offered.
Her answering smile gave me some small encouragement.
“Despite the impression I’m sure my mother’s given you, you’re doing great so far.”
She was probably just being nice, but I appreciated the effort either way.
“I hope you’ll come to consider yourself part of our family,” she said.
“I know, maybe that sounds naive or disingenuous when you’re paid to be here.
I really mean it, though. When you live with people, share a home with them every day, it’s more than just a job, right?
We have to commit to a level of trust that goes both ways. ”
Amelia had her own intensity, I began to understand. Different from her mother’s, and just as potent. The overwhelming friendliness was a lot, but it covered a deeper sincerity.
“Family is everything,” she said. “We take care of one another. So, I hope you know you can always come to me if you need something or there’s a problem. And I’ll ask you to give us the same respect.”
“Of course,” I told her soberly.
“Great,” she said, standing. “I won’t keep you then. Thank you . . .” She held out her hand to shake.
“Eleanor.”
“Great to meet you, Eleanor. Welcome to the team.”
Once Amelia left, it was time to check in on my short ribs.
They were looking good, so I got to steeping the tea.
Earl Grey was a delicate flavor, so I needed a lot of it to break through the sweetness of ladyfingers and mascarpone cream.
Next, I ground more of the loose tea in a spice mill and whipped it into a bowl with eggs, salt, and sugar over a double boiler.
I then set that aside to work on my mascarpone cream, combining chilled heavy cream with mascarpone, salt, sugar, and vanilla bean.
When that was nice and fluffy, I folded in the Earl Grey egg mixture and put the whole thing in the fridge.
By then it was time to pour my tea into a wide dish, to add some Grand Marnier, then toss the whole thing into the blast chiller to cool it down.
I was about to get started on the warm winter salad when I turned from the stove to find someone sneaking up behind me.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, startled, clutching a rag to my chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Mr. Hawthorne went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. “Don’t mind me. Anytime we travel, I always feel like I’m getting sick. I’m trying to knock it out before it takes hold.”
“I could make you some fresh-squeezed,” I offered. It felt like bad form to have the client hunting around in the kitchen for what they wanted.
Mr. Hawthorne waved me off. “I’m not even here. You didn’t see me.”
“Alright. But while you’re not here, are there any special requests for upcoming meals? I’m happy to make anything you like.”
He looked taken aback by my question. “I’m not sure anyone has ever asked me that before. Caroline usually handles all the menus. I had a heart attack a few years ago, so she’s keen for me to eat healthier, but I refuse to go on some kind of miserable, restrictive diet.”
Shit. I thought about the fried chicken, red meat, and copious amounts of butter I was serving this man. That was all I needed. Bang the son and kill the father. What sort of messed up version of fuck, marry, kill was I perpetuating on this family?
“I can try to make you healthier versions of your favorites, if you want. It’s no trouble.”
Mr. Hawthorne gave me a noncommittal nod as he poured himself a glass of juice. He gulped it down, then poured another.
“I do love a good banana bread,” he said after a moment. “See what you can do with that.”
He took the second glass of juice with him and left. I decided that Mr. Hawthorne was a bit aloof, but friendly. Clearly Mrs. Hawthorne was the hard-ass of the family. So, it was her I’d endeavor to impress.
That meant not screwing up this polenta.
The trick was constant stirring. Aggressive, obsessive stirring.
After my salad and gremolata were prepped, my ladyfingers were soaked, and my tiramisu was setting up in the fridge, I poured all my attention into babying that polenta into the perfect creamy base for the short ribs.
At quarter to eight, Ali entered the kitchen. I decided changing for dinner had been a good move on my part when she showed up in a crisp, black button-down shirt, black trousers, and leather loafers.
“The family is starting to gather for drinks,” she informed me. “How are you doing on time?”
“Right on schedule.”
I pulled out my short ribs to rest and dressed the warm salad. The dessert needed all the time it could get to set up, so I’d portion it once they started clearing the main course. And because I always made extra, I quickly fixed Ali a plate with a little of everything on it.
“Let me know if you think it needs salt,” I offered.
She didn’t need to know that this was my way of winning her favor. Plus, I was now mortally terrified of inducing a heart attack in Mr. Hawthorne by oversalting my dishes.
Ali grabbed a fork and dug in.
“Oh, this meat is so tender,” she said, watching it crumble under her fork.
“Thank you.”
She hummed and fanned her mouth, the food still very hot.
“The seasoning is perfect,” she said, swallowing. “Don’t touch a thing.”
With that, I began plating. The salad first, which the waitstaff came to collect. And while the family ate that, I composed a creamy pool of polenta with short rib in the center and a generous heaping of gremolata.
“Would you like to introduce the main course again?” Ali asked when they came back to collect the next course.
“No, I don’t think so. I need to portion out the tiramisu. Better if I hang back,” I said.
Thankfully, she didn’t object. So, after dessert was served and dinner concluded, I sighed with relief that I’d made it a whole meal without another run-in with the Prodigal Son.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.