Chapter Two Nic
Chapter Two
Nic
The empty expression in Harriet Baker’s eyes is a kick to my fucking balls.
I’m an idiot. The minute Mom told me that we’d been offered this job, I knew this might happen, but I still pushed her to take it like a putz, even though our schedule was already packed tight. I hadn’t seen Harriet in person in eight years. I thought maybe…
It doesn’t even matter what I thought.
I spent the afternoon avoiding her as we set up in the kitchen, just in case. I didn’t want my day ruined from the jump, and I figured I could catch her later, somewhere quiet. Out of the public eye.
Not that it was hard. She barely noticed we were there, service workers dressed in black and white, blending in with the background.
And look. I get it—sort of. My growth spurt didn’t happen ’til the age of nineteen, when I sprouted up six inches and gained a solid seventy-five pounds. I know I look different than I did back then.
But still.
We slept together. Not just once but many, many times over the course of two weeks. Weeks that I only learned once they were over meant absolutely nothing to her.
Harriet, of course, looks exactly the same—long, glossy brown hair, wide-set blue eyes, and a cute little button nose. I was already well aware of all this because of late-night social media rabbit holes. Given her shock, it seems pretty clear she never returned the favor.
“Excuse me?” Harriet says. “We did not sleep together.”
“Yes.” I struggle to keep my expression neutral. No way will I let her see that I’m dying inside. “We did.”
Her forehead crinkles. “I’d remember you.”
“Well, I think you’re making it pretty clear that you wouldn’t, actually,” I say. I smile tightly, and Harriet’s expression shifts.
“Wait…” She presses her eyes shut. When they pop open a second later, her lips have parted, eyebrows soared to her hairline.
“Holy shit. We did sleep together!”
“I’m aware,” I say dryly.
“Wow.” She studies my face. “You look so…”
“Different?” I supply, lest she’s about to fill in the blank with something less flattering.
“Yeah,” she says after a long moment. “Different.”
I press my lips together and try not to scream. This is a waking nightmare.
She rubs her forehead. “Your name was, um…”
“My name,” I say tersely, “is Nic.”
“Of course! I knew that,” she says, lying through her straight, pearly white teeth. She takes in my uniform, the tray shoved under my arm. “Let me guess: You work for the catering company? As a cater waiter? I take it you still live on the island?”
Why did she have to say it like that, all condescending—a cater waiter, like that’s all I am, like it’s what defines me. At least I have a job. If the rumors are true, she’s currently unemployed.
Though, of course, being unemployed means something different in Harriet’s world than it does in mine. She gets to move into a giant six-bedroom beachfront house and watch the ocean from the back porch.
Me?
I’d be back sleeping on the ratty pull-out in my parents’ tiny, half-finished basement, surrounded by piles of old records and stacks of used cookbooks. Developing back problems because the mattress down there is about as old as I am.
“Yeah. And I guess you live…here, huh?” I point up at the house. “With your parents? Aren’t you a little old to be living at home?”
Her eyes narrow. I’ve hit a nerve.
Good.
“First of all,” she says, “George is not my parent. Do not connect me biologically to that…that…creature. And second—yeah, I live here. But it’s temporary.
It’s only been a month since I got back from New York, where I lived for almost eight years, thankyouverymuch.
I’m just figuring out my next move. And third, so I didn’t recognize you.
So what? You look different. You said so yourself. You don’t have to be such a…a dick!”
I grit my teeth.
“I,” I say in a low growl, “am not the one being a dick.”
Her mouth wobbles, but she crosses her arms against her chest defiantly. “Screw—and I mean this with every fiber of my being—you.”
Jesus, this woman. Anyone else would apologize, but not Harriet Baker. It’s exactly how I remember her. She never backed down without a fight. It’s one of the things I found so annoyingly attractive about her.
I scowl. “Yeah. Well. Screw you too. You know, as much fun as this is, I have stuff to do.”
An expression darts across her face—disappointment? Why the hell would she be disappointed for this horrific conversation to end?
“Right. You’re at work. Bye, um…”
She must be kidding. “Nic,” I say.
“Of course. Nic,” she says. “I know.”
Without another word, I walk away.
I walk back into the kitchen and find my sister, Sara, yelling about cake.
“Mother,” she screeches. “Where the hell is that ugly crystal brooch? I still need to figure out how I’m going to fix it onto the cake! As you might remember, I’m not a pastry chef.”
She says this with all the disdain of a savory chef who thinks bakers are lower beings. She’s such a snob.
Also, she needs to chill before Mom loses her patience with her. Again. Sara’s been fired from this job numerous times but keeps wiggling her way back in, helped by nepotism and the fact that she’s the best chef on this tiny island.
You’d think at this point, she would have gotten it through her head that our little family-run operation is not the same as the Michelin-starred restaurants she used to work for up in the city.
The way she talks might have flown up there, where they’re all yes chef, but we work for our mom’s catering company, for fuck’s sake.
“Could you kindly lower your voice?” I drop my tray down on the island with a clatter. “I ran out of tea sandwiches halfway through my rotation. I think we should consider upping the number on each tray.”
Unable to take even the smallest amount of constructive criticism, Sara retorts, “Oh, should we, Nic? Maybe you should be the one holding down the kitchen, since you’re such an expert.”
I flinch. Low blow. She’s well aware that I too had plans to attend culinary school.
While she was always interested in fine dining, I was interested in learning to incorporate environmental sustainability into a restaurant.
I thought maybe someday I could open my own place.
One that sourced local organic products and focused on energy-efficient cooking techniques and a net-zero carbon footprint.
But then life happened. My plans got waylaid by family stuff. While my sister was up in New York City having the time of her life, I was here, helping our parents not lose their home.
Speaking of—Mom hurries toward us, waving her hands.
“Children! Please!” she says, like we’re two toddlers rather than her twenty-seven and twenty-five-year-old offspring.
“Nic, Matthew has only been with us for a month, and he’s all alone out on the floor.
That’s unacceptable. I need you to refill your tray and get back out there—now.
And, Sara.” She strides over to the far counter and grabs the elaborate strand of Swarovski crystals that Harriet’s mom informed us is supposed to go on the birthday cake.
She waves it in the air at my sister. “It’s right here.
I am not your sous-chef. Use your eyes. If we need to discuss you going to an optometrist, we can do that… after this party.”
She departs, leaving Sara and I locked in a standoff. Finally, I break eye contact and turn away. I learned a long time ago that going up against my sister is pointless. She is the most stubborn, strong-willed person on earth.
I fill my tray and hustle back down the hallway, past the stairs down to the basement, pivoting around a woman who almost barrels into me—clearly not watching where she’s going—and enter the living room.
Five minutes later, the sandwiches are gone, and I’ve realized Matthew is in fact not on the floor. He’s completely disappeared.
Where the hell is he? There’s no excuse for going missing in the middle of a job.
I’m heading back toward the kitchen to restock and complain when an old man with a bad comb-over appears in front of me.
Harriet’s stepfather, George George. With a name like that, he was probably bullied as a child. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prick.
“Excuse me,” he says, lips pinched white, outstretched hand clasped tight in a fist. “I need to speak with someone about the food.”
He unfurls his fingers. In his palm are the remains of an English tea sandwich.
“There is something in this that is”—he leans close to my ear and hisses—“disgusting.”
Then he grabs my hand and plops the whole sorry, half-eaten mess into it.
He has got to be kidding. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” I say, depositing the heap of half-chewed food onto my empty tray. I don’t get paid enough for this shit. “I’ll let our chef know.”
“No,” he snaps. “I am spending my hard-earned money on your tremendously shoddy services, so I will let your chef know.”
“Sir, I’m happy to—”
He pushes past me.
“Sir, please. Wait—”
I have to catch this idiot before he tangles with my sister.
Ever since Sara got back from NYC last year, she’s been a bit of a…
How can I say this nicely? A total live fucking wire.
A cannon so loose that it pops its lid at even the slightest provocation?
I’m mixing my metaphors probably, but you get the drift.
I cannot even imagine how she’d react to someone insulting her food.
Behind us, a woman’s voice. “George, I’ve been looking all over for you! Where have you—George? Where are you going?”
Up ahead of me, George disappears around a corner into the kitchen.
A second later, Sara’s voice booms. “What do you think you’re doing back here?”
I enter the room and see her standing beside the kitchen island, brandishing her red spatula at George like a weapon.
“Excuse me, young lady,” he says in that nasally voice, like nails scraping down a chalkboard. “I’m looking for the chef. I need to register a complaint—”
I try one last time to stop him. “Sir—”
They ignore me.
“I am the chef,” Sara says haughtily.
“Well then,” George says. “You should be made aware that there was something off about the sandwich I just ate.” He sniffs. “The texture was strange and—”
Sara’s nostrils flare. “The texture was strange?”
“Yes. It was off-putting,” he says with a nod. “Disgusting, really.”
People start trickling into the kitchen, but I keep my eyes on my sister. If I know Sara, what’s about to happen is going to be bad. Very bad.
“I’m curious. What culinary school did you graduate from?” she asks.
“Erm, well, I didn’t—” George starts to respond, like he thinks this is a real question and not the start of Sara systematically destroying him.
“What chefs have you shadowed? What magazines have featured your cooking? What’s that?
” She cups a hand to her ear. “None? Is that right? And yet you think it’s okay to come in here and insult my cooking?
Who do you think you are? A food critic?
You look like someone who wouldn’t know good food if it crawled its way up your ass! ”
“Excuse me!” George says, pulling his chin into his chest. “I am the person paying for your services!”
My mom pushes past me, stepping between them. “Sara, that is enough!” Then she turns to George. “Sir, I’m so sorry. What seems to be the issue?”
George recognizes an ally when he sees one. “I came in here to tell your chef that her food tastes strange and was met with outrageously rude behavior. I certainly hope this isn’t how you normally run your business, Mrs. Allbright.”
“I cannot apologize enough, Mr. George,” my mom says. “Sara—err, well. She can be a bit…precious with her cooking. How can we make this up to you. Can I get you something? A fresh glass of champagne? Something else to eat? I’m sure Chef Sara would be happy to prepare whatever you’d like.”
“What I’d really like is for this…this girl to apologize,” George says.
My mom winces, probably thinking the same thing I am.
Sara does not apologize.
“Of course. Sara…please?” She’s trying her best to hold a polite smile.
This is ridiculous. Our poor mom is pushing sixty; she shouldn’t be spending her time refereeing an argument about a tea sandwich between her bullheaded daughter and a rich POS in an overpriced suit.
“Absolutely not.” Sara crosses her arms. “I did nothing wrong.”
“Sara…”
“No.”
“If she won’t apologize, she needs to go,” George says, looking down his nose at my family members. God, he’s an asshole.
“Sara! Please. Say you’re sorry.” My mom is practically begging. Earlier this summer, she fired Sara off a job for a very similar reason, and we can’t afford another scene like that. Our reputation is on the line.
“No!” Sara spits the word out. “You never take my side.”
My mom’s face darkens. She’s kind when she needs to be, but Angela Allbright is not afraid of conflict. There’s no question where Sara inherited her temper.
“Then,” she says, “you need to go.”
Someone in the crowd behind me lets out a little giggle, and I bristle. This isn’t a fucking joke; it’s my life.
Sara unties her apron and throws it on the countertop. “You know what? Fine. I’ll go. Happy to. Keep kissing the ass of every rich dude who thinks he’s entitled to an opinion,” she snarls at our mom, “and I’ll see you in hell,” she tells George George. She storms out of the room.