2
Nina
“This is not going tobe a pleasant meeting, Nina. Be ready. Melanie is good at what she does, but she’ll want to put the blame on one of us,” Chef Dominique murmured to me, his lips barely moving.
While we waited for Melanie, I considered what he said and turned my attention to the wall of windows in the kitchen. I studied the landscaped gardens, the golden sand and azure blue sea, lapping with gentle waves—searching for inspiration to fix the problem I didn’t create.
Sweetness hung over us from the baked goods in the oven. I could hear the voices of Melanie’s decorators at work in the ground-floor rooms. Voices followed by peals of laughter. I blocked out the background noise and shifted my attention to the meeting. The case of the missing chocolates.
“Chef Dominique, you know Judge Courtney has demanding standards for every event she hosts at this house. She has specifically asked for the legal scales and the gavels to be in chocolate, and the firm’s logo on chocolate discs. All of this requires a ton of chocolate. How can the chocolate order be short?” she asked, eyes glaring, her voice thick with exasperation.
“Melanie, I don’t know what happened, I ordered the amount of chocolate Chef Nina and I worked out but it was not in the shipment,” Chef Dominique responded, his eyes darting around the room.
“Are you saying the company sent the wrong shipment?” Melanie asked.
“The shipment is wrong,” Chef Dominique said, his French accent getting thicker. It often happened when he became agitated or anxious.
“Do we have time to fix this?” Melanie demanded with rising inflection.
“No time. We need the chocolate today. We need to start working today,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Chef Nina, I know you are new here and this is your first Judge Courtney event. We have a big problem here. This is really your domain as the pastry chef,” she stated flatly.
“I see the problem, but I think it can be overcome. We have lots of other sugar mediums we can use,” I offered with a small smile.
“Sugar mediums?” she asked, her tone dry and edgy.
“Chef Nina, this is a Judge Courtney event, do you have any idea what these events are like? Did you do any research before taking up this assignment?” she asked, her hands on her hips, legs slightly apart, a small rise in her chest.
“I have and I assure you I have spent the last few days doing all the design concepts and the minute-by-minute planning to execute all the design elements.”
“And you can appreciate that chocolate medium and sugar mediums are not the same. We can’t pass one off for the other. It isn’t possible,” she said, and got up to pace the floor around the large white island. Her hands on her hips again, she stopped her pacing and turned around to face Chef Dominique and me.
“We need the modeling chocolate. I, Melanie Parker of Luxury. Events. Cake (LEC Inc), am only associated with the highest quality products and service. This is a luxury event and the client’s expectations are to be met in every regard.”
She tried to smile to soften the demands and the hardness of her words. Only her cheeks moved under her flawless make-up. Melanie epitomized her luxury brand. Her tanzanite earrings matched the blue of her belt and shoes against her white sundress. I’d crushed on my favorite colors from the start of our meeting.
“Melanie, we appreciate we are here to deliver our best. This faux pas is not of our making,” Chef Dominique pronounced, his accent heavier than before. This is not going well. I have a plan, but I will have to sell it to Melanie.
I cleared my throat to gain their attention. I’d seen my father do it many times in debates in our living room before . . .
I brushed off the memory to speak.
“Melanie, it is highly unlikely we can get the modelling chocolate we need in time to start working on all the things waiting to be made. The earliest we could receive a corrected shipment would be in four days, which will put us way behind schedule. I plan to use isomalt, gum paste and blown sugar. Additionally, I can create absolute magic with royal icing.” I gave an expectant smile.
“How do I break the news to Judge Courtney? Will you do it, Chef Dominique? You are the one in charge of the ordering,” Melanie said.
“I can try,” I offered, my tone respectful.
“Chef Nina, trust me, you don’t want the job. I like your plan. I think the sugar substitutes will work. I will be the bad guy and explain to Judge Courtney why she can’t have her chocolate scales and gavels. Plus we’ve only had a week’s notice for this special event,” Melanie said, sounding warmer and more confident than she had all day. It was good to see that she had a softer side and was willing to shoulder this herculean task. It was good to see she was proving her worth.
Chef Dominique smiled for the first time since the meeting began, and exhaled a puff of air. I gave him a secret thumbs up, wiggled my body, and bounced my chef’s shoes in slow motion against my stool’s wooden legs.
“Don’t act so relieved,” Melanie said with her first smile.
“You know, Madame, this is my fifth year here,” Chef Dominique said.
“I know, I know,” Melanie said in a humorous tone. “The woman is demanding. After this event, Chef Nina will question whether her sanity and skills can keep her in this job.”
“She will learn this time,” Chef Dominique said with a chuckle.
“I have never been one to turn down a challenge. Bring on Judge Courtney and this luxury event,” I declared, getting to my feet, all fired up to get my well-laid plans into action. But not before getting my exercise in before I am sucked into my trillion to-do tasks.
“Ignorance of Judge Courtney is perfect bliss, Chef Nina,” Melanie said, her tone playful, and her laugh filled the kitchen with its warm notes. The sun had dipped lower down the sky, dragging its orange hues closer to the sea. I reckoned there wasn’t much daylight left in the day. Melanie”s voice cut into my thoughts.
“We have a luxury event to plan. Let’s give Chef Courtney our Midas touch.”
Judge Courtney, here I come—your best pastry chef ever.
****
The sun had dippedits faint orange hues into the ocean by the time I made it through the glorious gardens to my apartment on the other side of the two-acre property. Every time I walked through the immaculate garden I was treated to a fusion of colors, a fusion of flowers, a fusion of scents. A profusion of roses, orchids, sweet peas, gardenias, hydrangeas, hibiscus, and other species of plants I couldn’t name. I fell in love. With the blooms. With the colors. With the rich cornucopia of floral, fruity, musky, citrusy scents.
I hurried to change into one of my fifty swimsuits to head to the beach for my swim and to do my strength exercises. I had fallen deeper into love with my new place of employment when I discovered the mini Crossfit gym on the beach.
So, someone in the family was a Crossfit enthusiast. The family would arrive in a few days—I was curious to see if any of them would use it. In the meantime, it would be my retreat before the epic work began for my first event at Skyford Cay.
Thirty minutes later, I emerged from the cold blue waters, the sun having disappeared into the ocean. The light of dusk was sufficient for me to head towards the equipment on the beach. I selected the big black heavy tire with the rope for my first set. I set my timer and got to work. I grunted and sweated my way through continuous tire flips until I got to my marker, the coconut tree laden with green coconuts.
The moment I stopped, I gulped deep breaths of satisfaction into my oxygen-deprived body. Through my fog, I heard hands clapping. I swiveled around and my heart stopped, my breath stilled. A man stood there, dressed in a black exercise tank top, tan, toned and ready to train. I punched myself for not googling the entire family if this was the owner’s son. From the look of him, he must be the one responsible for the mini gym. I continued to stare at him. My pulse and my breath had kicked in again and were locked in a neck and neck race.
“Ah, I am quite pleased someone besides myself is using the equipment,” he drawled. He watched me as he walked toward me. I stood glued to the spot, my wide-eyed stare locked on his advancing form. His devastating smile. His broad shoulders, his sculpted chest, his arms chiseled like fine granite, packaged under smooth tanned skin. All rushed at me and kept my pulse and breath in their break-neck race. I touched my heart to quell the erratic beats, unable to withdraw my eyes from admiring the fine athletic specimen before me.
“I noticed you have perfect form in pulling the tire, and your strength is incredible,” he said, deep and breathy.
I groped for an answer. He’d come to stand within touching distance of me, but it was his eyes that captivated me. His blue, sharp, intelligent eyes drew me in with magnetic force. My brain went on lock down. Every intelligent word seemed to have fled my mind. But I rallied back to utter, “I’ve been doing this for four years.”
“You are more than an enthusiast then.”
“I haven’t competed, so enthusiast is the word I would choose to describe my interest.” Fully recovered, my questions were starting to form for Mr. Crossfit Guru. Before I could voice my question, he made a proposition.
“How about having our own mini competition now?” He smiled and it was so sweet it weakened my resistance. He continued in his chocolate velvety voice. “Three exercises. We set it against time. The winner chooses the next challenge,” he said without hesitation.
So it’s like that, Mr. Crossfit. You’re competitive.
Never one to back down from a challenge, I gave him a smile and said, Bring your A-game, Mr. Crossfit. Let’s get this competition going.
He laughed deep, full of musical notes, and it drowned out the sound of the waves lapping onto the golden wet sand. And I wanted him to laugh again. I’d always loved the sound of the waves lapping or crashing onto the shore since I moved to the Bahamas at age thirteen to live with my grandparents. But his laugh had just replaced it as my new favorite sound.
Twenty minutes later, the timer went off and he emerged the winner with two sets and me with my measly one win.
I wanted to move to another challenge to defend my honor. I couldn’t go down after four years of ardent training. But the waning light signaled it was time to get inside, time to get away from the sand flies.
“We’ve competed, but we haven’t exchanged names,” he said, his accent cultured and polished.
“True,” I muttered, trying to even my breathing, to come down from the adrenaline pumping my blood in copious amounts through my body.
“I’m Adrian,” he said over his shoulder just before putting the logs back in place, then the bars, and the kettle balls.
“Nice to meet you, Adrian,” I said and flashed him my nicest and brightest glad-to-meet-you smile. My body had gone limp, my hand fastened to the chin-up bar for support, exhaustion riding my body. “I’m Nina Rolle, the new pastry chef. You must be the son.”
“The son. You’ve done your homework then.”
“Not really. I didn’t know the son was into Crossfit training.”
“Ah. Would you like to know more about the son? I know loads of trivia. We could exchange facts.”
I laughed like a nervous schoolgirl. His direct approach in this conversation left me unsettled, unsure of myself for the first time in years. When he saw I was flustered, he smiled and asked, “How have we never met till now, Nina the pastry chef?”
My voice sounded timid to my ears. I liked confidence in a man, but his confidence had me on the jagged ledge of an age-beaten precipice. An unsettling awareness unfurled its tentacles within me, spreading a thin veneer of heat just beneath my skin. I shook my head to shake off the feeling and to focus on what Adrian was saying.
“I am glad you are a blank slate onto which I can write a new Watkins-Williams family history. My mother is adorable. My father, Adrian the third, is a saint. My sister Christina is an angel student. My grandfather, Adrian the second, is a good rogue. And yours truly, Adrian the fourth, is a recovering Marco Polo adventurer,” he said with a flourish of his manicured hands, I observed.
Everything about Adrian evoked the word polish. I wanted him to keep talking with his polished accent. The beach was shrouded in darkness now, but I stood watching his silhouette movements while he spoke of his family.
“Do I detect a wry sense of humor, Adrian the fourth? I take it there is more history behind your name than in the annals of America.” I sounded stronger to my ears. I rallied my wits.
“Intuitive. I like that.”
I smiled inwardly at his observation.
He leaned closer to me, so close I was tempted to touch his carved biceps. Of course I didn”t. But then he smiled, like he’d just discovered a new planet. And I couldn’t resist stepping closer to him. Only a flimsy wall of resistance separated us when he raised an eyebrow and said, “Do another challenge with me tomorrow morning, and I will tell you the full history behind my name.”
While I would have agreed just to watch him at work, another challenge also meant another chance to beat him.
Yeah, right.
“I accept. Because I want to beat you.”
He laughed from his belly, bending back with the effort. “I like your honesty. You think you can beat me, Nina?” He was calm as he spoke, but his voice rumbled through my limbs. His belly laugh had taken him a step away from me. It widened the space between us. But not enough that I missed his forearms and tricep flex on the arm he’d raised to ruffle his short-cropped brown hair. While he did, I shuffled my legs in the sand to shake off the sand flies which were beginning to attack—and to shake off the warm swell of attraction curling its way through my belly.
“I will die trying, Adrian the fourth,” I said, not at all serene. Something more than my competitive spirit was being stirred in my blood. This man was drawing me to him with more power than a magnetic field. And my resistance to the magnetic force between us, opposite poles, slipped past the danger zone.
Even in the deepening dusk, I saw his face turn serious. Then he whispered in the dark, “I like how you say my name.”
“Tomorrow at 5:00 a.m. sharp. Swimming challenge,” I uttered in a rush of words to dispel the unease which fell upon me at his last words.
“It’s still dark at 5:30 a.m.,” he protested.
“Not around here, not at this time of year. Do I perceive ...?”
“Challenge accepted,” he cut in with a trace of humor. “And there’s no way I am going to let you beat me tomorrow,” he said, light and cheery with humor.
“Okay, I get it,” I said with a laugh of surrender.
“Let’s get off the beach. These sand flies are already on the attack,” he said.
“Oh yes. I’ve been feeling them. And I hate them with a passion.”
“Yeah, their itch is relentless. Deep, pulsing, live wire itching,” he said, and bounced from foot to foot like a child.
I laughed loud and free, for the first time in a long time. We made our way through the gardens to a fork in the path. I would take the path to the left to my apartment. The garden was magical at night, with string lights along the stone pathway, and colored lamps above, casting shadows and mysteries. The night air was pungent with the musky scent from the perfume tree.
We hesitated like we didn’t want to part. He stared at me, and took a step towards me, his blue eyes intense. I watched his lips part to speak and I waited for his words to come, but they never came. Instead he leaned even closer to me and blessed me with a smile which transformed his eyes into shiny, glossy, soft twins.
“Show up for your beating in the morning,” I said with a high laugh and hightailed it to my apartment on shaky legs.