Chapter 10 #3
“Actually, do you have a few more minutes?” he asks. “I could show you my cabin. It’s just on the opposite side of the mess hall.”
It sounds like he’s asking me to his apartment for a nightcap after a date. The logical side of my brain questions his intentions, but my gut says not to be worried. “Great,” I say as we head that way, thinking it’s also an opportunity to ask him more about Alice.
Brady’s cabin is nowhere near as hygge as the Scandi Trio’s. But it’s simple and tidy. Minimalist. I try not to look around too much. It feels too intimate, seeing where Brady sleeps.
“Bonus, it’s the only cabin with a veranda.” He gestures to an outdoor space, a small wooden deck filled with potted plants of early-season herbs and flowers. “Check out this view,” he says, opening the glass-paned doors.
I step out to see a stunning vista of the Mississippi River through the trees. “This is breathtaking,” I say. “I could get used to this.”
“Actually, this is nothing,” he says. “There’s a secret spot overlooking the river that will blow your mind. I could show you sometime before you leave?”
It feels like he’s asking me out on a date.
I freeze. That’s a line I haven’t crossed since losing Sean.
True, I’ve enjoyed our playful banter, and find Brady very attractive.
And I’m obviously flustered working so close to him.
But a date feels like playing with fire.
Because of Hannah. Because my time in St. John’s Ferry is fleeting.
Because I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know how I want to respond, so I just nod.
“Tell me, where did you go to culinary school?” I quickly ask. “Le Cordon Bleu?”
He flashes me a smile. “Oui.”
“Of course. Where else?”
“MIT,” he spits back. “If you were my father. He wanted me to be an architect.”
“He didn’t approve of culinary school?”
“‘Cooking and baking is women’s work.’ And that’s a direct quote.”
“Ouch. Obviously, he doesn’t know that it’s a male-dominated profession. Aren’t the majority of chefs in the US men?”
“Exactly.” He shrugs. “He’s come around now.”
“What changed his mind?”
“The passage of time. That always helps. Doesn’t it? And I was nominated for an award a few years back. Accolades can sway the most cynical of hearts.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What award?”
He shakes his head as if it doesn’t matter. “I didn’t win. But I was a finalist.”
I can see he’s trying to remain humble. And then it hits me.
“Oh my god, you were a James Beard finalist?” I practically shout.
“It’s not a big deal,” he says.
“It’s the biggest of deals,” I retort.
He shrugs. “To the world, maybe. But I really don’t do any of this for recognition. It’s who I am. It’s like breathing to me. I would do it for free. That’s how much I love it.”
I watch his eyes dance as he talks. They sparkle, even in the afternoon light.
“Wow. A James Beard Award,” I repeat.
“Finalist,” he corrects me, lifting his index finger into the air.
I wave my hand. “Still. I’m really impressed. For the award—finalist for the award—but also for going to culinary school even when your father didn’t approve.”
I tell him how I allowed my mother to persuade me into a more secure academic career in food.
“Parents mean well,” he says. “The world means well. But the only person you really need to please is yourself.”
A silence falls between us, and I take the opportunity to ask him about Alice.
“Brady, you mentioned that Alice missed a meeting recently and that was out of character for her,” I start. “Have you noticed anything else unusual?”
He narrows his eyes. “Like what?”
I shrug. “It’s just that she asked me here very abruptly, and I’m worried maybe she’s . . . dealing with something. But hasn’t had the courage to tell me about it.”
He nods, seeming to understand what I’m hinting at. “Come to think of it, a few weeks ago, I heard that Alice was selling some antiques at the farmers market. Kind of looked like a mini garage sale. Alice usually only sells her jam. That’s all I can think of.”
Was she selling her belongings because she needs the money? I wonder. To pay her medical bills?
Brady searches my eyes. “You’re worried about her,” he says.
I nod. “Alice just came back into my life, and I don’t want to lose her already,” I confide.
Suddenly, I’m aware of the passage of time and check my watch.
“It’s getting late,” I add. “I should get going.”
“Let me walk you,” he says.
As we stroll the cobblestone path back to the parking lot, I tell Brady about my conversation with the Scandinavian Trio about happiness.
“Those Nordic countries really have something figured out, huh?” He keeps pace with me on the path. “From what I’ve heard, when it comes to work-life balance, life seems to win over there. In America, it’s all about the work. Taking a break seems lazy.”
“Lazy? That’s a dirty word to Americans. Maybe even downright scandalous,” I say.
He smiles. “I’ve definitely not been lazy. In fact, I work too much. That’s according to my mother, who had no issue with me going to culinary school in Paris, but who now thinks I should be further along in the ‘life’ part of that balance.”
“Ah, she thinks you should be married by now?”
“With 2.5 kids,” he adds. “I’m thirty-nine, and she says the odds of grandchildren are dwindling every year.”
“Are you dating anyone?” The question emerges involuntarily, and I feel embarrassed at being so forthright. I wasn’t planning to ask, but I realize I’m holding my breath for his answer.
He holds my gaze.
“No,” he finally says. “But I’m working on it.”