Chapter 30
The first five canapés started to go out at a steady pace, while we fired the first dinner courses.
I anxiously watched the clock over my shoulder while furiously stirring my risotto.
Any minute, I expected to hear the click of Mrs. Hawthorne’s stilettos on the tile.
Instead, it was Amelia who burst into the kitchen.
She strode up to me in a sequined black gown, her bouncy curls pulled into a loose updo with tendrils framing her face.
“Can I speak with you?” she said, her eyes urgent behind black eyeliner.
“Can we talk after dinner? I really have to keep an eye on this risotto.”
Her posture stiffened. Something was off. Amelia seemed troubled and not her usual bubbly self. I called one of the sous over to the stove to take my place and walked Amelia out to the corridor and around the corner. From her sequined clutch, she pulled out her phone.
“This is you, right?” She opened Instagram and showed me the screen, her tone sharp. “Après Brie?”
My stomach dropped. It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice too soft to be convincing.
Her expression hardened. “I’ve seen the posts. The witty captions. The not-so-subtle digs at the lifestyles of the ‘rich and pretentious.’ It’s all there.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I haven’t said anything—anything bad about your family. It’s just food, Amelia. Just . . . my perspective on the job.”
“Stop.” She held up her hand, shaking her head. “You can try to justify it all you want, but the fact is, you’ve been using us. Using Charles . You’ve been building your brand off our backs and taking pot shots at us all the while.”
Amelia sounded very much like her mother in that moment. Icy and intimidating.
“I haven’t—”
“Why?” she interrupted. “I thought we were friends. Were we really so awful? I understand blowing off steam, but do it in private. That was the only thing we asked. Instead, you drag this family all over social media. How is that fair?”
“Amelia, no. It’s not like that.”
“You’re finished here. When Charles gets back, I’m going to show him everything. You’re just another social climber, using him for his name and his connections.”
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs. “Amelia, please,” I said, my voice cracking. “That’s not who I am at all. The account isn’t about him, or your family. It’s about me—my journey as a chef. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry, Eleanor. I really am. I liked you. But this is a gross breach of trust. I have to tell my mother.”
I felt like the walls were closing in around me.
My mind raced with potential defenses, explanations, but none of them would suffice.
Amelia was right about one thing—this wasn’t just about the Instagram account.
It was about my place here, about the delicate balance I’d been trying to maintain between my personal goals and my professional obligations.
And now, it felt like it was all crumbling.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’ve worked hard, Amelia. I’ve done everything I can to make this party a success, to prove myself—”
She raised her chin. “I’m sorry. You should have thought about that before.”
She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving me standing there, shaking and struggling to breathe.
I leaned against the wall, my hands trembling as I tried to steady myself. Ali soon came around the corner, her face creased with worry.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “Mrs. Hawthorne’s asking about the butternut squash.”
Of course she was.
I was nearly in tears. Still, I couldn’t curl up in a ball now. One way or another, I had to complete this dinner service.
“All good,” I said. “Amelia was just asking me a question. I’m headed back in there now.”
When I got back to the kitchen, I stopped in my tracks, dumbfounded. Charles was standing there with his jacket off and the sleeves of his crisp white tuxedo shirt rolled up to his elbows as he stirred my risotto.
“What the hell’s going on here?” I said, overwhelmed with the entire evening.
“Breadcrumbs just came out of the oven,” Charles said.
At the island, the sous worked quickly, assembling the squash canapés.
“You got the sage already?” I went to the island, checking on the plating. “How?”
“Drove to the neighbors,” he said, with a searching smile that hoped he’d done right. “Their chef had plenty of sage.”
I went up to him and took the wooden spoon to continue stirring the risotto. “You saved my life,” I told him earnestly. “Again.”
“Anything for you.”
He said the words with such heartfelt sincerity, I nearly broke down in tears.
I touched his arm, wanting desperately to explain, and yet completely at a loss for words.
This would likely be our last night together.
Very soon, Amelia would tell her mother what I’d done.
If not for the snow, I’d probably be out tonight.
All that was left was to finish the party. It was the least I could do.
“Charles.” I froze at the sound of Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice. She stood in the doorway in a navy-blue gown. “What are you doing in here? You should be with the guests.”
“They’ll survive without me for a bit,” he said firmly, grabbing a cutting board to lend a hand.
Waiters came in to collect the squash canapés. She eyed them carefully as they were loaded onto the serving trays.
“Fine,” she said reluctantly. “Don’t be long.”
I held my breath until I heard her heels clicking back down the hallway. Not long after she left, Mr. Hawthorne appeared, looking bemused to find his son elbow-deep in squab.
“What’s all this?” he said.
“Helping Elle with the prep,” Charles replied without looking up.
To my surprise, Mr. Hawthorne stepped forward. “Well, I can’t let you two have all the fun. What can I do?”
I handed him a knife and a pile of herbs for garnish, and he got to work, his movements surprisingly deft. As we worked side by side, he glanced at me.
“You know, Elle, I wanted to go to culinary school once.”
I blinked. “Really?”
He nodded, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “But my father had other plans. The family business came first.”
He looked over at Charles, his expression softening. “You’re doing a good thing here, son. You always put people first. That’s what will make you an excellent CEO .”
Charles paused, clearly moved by his father’s words. “Thanks, Dad.”
Mr. Hawthorne turned back to me. “Maybe it’s not too late, you know. Culinary school. I’ve been thinking about it more and more lately. Maybe it’s time, after I retire.”
I grinned. “Escoffier would be lucky to have you.”
Once we had things under control again, I kicked the Hawthorne men out of the kitchen so we could start serving the dinner courses. And once dessert had been served, I took a walk to the ballroom to finally peer in on the meal.
The way through the house was lined with rustic lanterns lit with electric votives.
Autumn leaves created a festive red-carpet effect to the ballroom’s entrance, where guests were met with the fragrance of cinnamon and apple spice.
There was a photographer taking photos in front of a vintage sled, adorned with faux-fur blankets against a backdrop of real coniferous trees.
Inside the ballroom, waiters in white tuxedos passed silver trays beneath hundreds of hanging tea lights in crystal ornaments.
More autumn leaves and boughs of pine dripped from the ceiling, creating the illusion of walking beneath a forest canopy on a starry night.
A jazz band played while the diners sat at numerous tables set with gold-trimmed china. Decorative gourds and flowers in every hue of red and orange made up the centerpieces, with tiny flickering candles that made the entire room shimmer and shine with the reflection on the crystal glassware.
I stood back and watched Charles as he chatted animatedly with his father and several older gentlemen who could’ve been family friends or business associates.
He commanded the attention of the table with his easy confidence.
Much as he was reluctant to become his father too quickly, he really was born for it.
It just came naturally to him. I knew, fight it as he might, he’d be good at it.
CEO . Man of industry. This was his world.
In the same way that mine was the kitchen.
As I watched the guests savoring the food, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride.
Nothing made me happier than people enjoying my food.
Guests made appreciative faces as they tried each element on their plates, nodding and smiling at every bite.
Somehow, I’d pulled it off. And although Mrs. Hawthorne’s approval still eluded me, I didn’t care.
In that moment, I knew I was on the right path.
Maybe it wouldn’t be in Maplewood Creek.
Or in the state of Colorado, once Amelia told the family about my posts.
But across the pond, I could start over.
Reinvent myself. It was something to look forward to.
Far away from Charles and the chalet. Far enough to forget him, I hoped.