10. Saint
TEN
SAINT
I recognize Ivy’s footsteps even above the precise rhythm of knives against cutting boards and pans sizzling on the line. My daughter has arrived at C’est Trois.
A sprig of thyme is pinched between my fingers when I glance up just as the back door swings open. Ivy bursts in, a small blur of purple and pink.
“Papa!”
Ivy’s voice cuts through the kitchen’s controlled din. She makes a beeline for me, narrowly avoiding a busboy laden with dirty dishes. I catch her before she cannonballs into my temporary sous chef, instinctively halting her by her small shoulders and kneeling to her level.
“Careful, petit chou . This isn’t a playground.”
Wrenley hovers by the door, her hands clasped in front of her. She looks like she expects me to eject them both.
“Ivy insisted,” Wrenley says, her voice quiet but clear over the clatter. “She wanted to show me where you work.”
I push to my feet, scooping Ivy along the way. “So this is your first official tour, then? Not counting any unscheduled reconnaissance missions through the shrubbery?”
Wrenley’s cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink that nearly matches her hair streak. Her eyes dart to Ivy, then back to me, wide and a little panicked. “Ivy was very persuasive. And I, um, certainly wouldn’t object to another… demonstration of your skills.”
Her eyes dart away, then back to mine, a flicker of remembrance, maybe, in their hazel depths.
That damn apple crumble. It’s my own fault, really.
I’d walked into Noa’s planning to grab a coffee and maybe talk to her about the new produce delivery, but then I saw Wrenley. Standing there, looking lost and lovely, and my carefully constructed morning routine went to shit.
I hadn’t planned to fucking hand-feed her, to watch her lips part for me, and to feel the jolt that followed when she’d moaned. It was supposed to be a simple peace offering, a way to smooth over my earlier gruffness.
The urge to lean in, to taste her instead of the crumble, had been a visceral punch to the gut. It was reckless. Stupid. I’m her employer. She’s Ivy’s nanny. There are lines. Boundaries that I, of all people, should respect.
But I’m pulled toward her anyway, undeniable and inconvenient.
It’s more than just the curve of her mouth or the way her eyes flash with intelligence.
It’s the fragility I sense beneath the quick wit, the darkness that sometimes clouds her expression.
A wound, deep and hidden, that resonates with my own.
I can recognize the landscape of carefully managed pain.
It makes me want to … what? Protect her? That’s ridiculous. I barely know the woman. Yet for some reason, I want to know the shape of her sorrow and its cause.
“Well,” I say, my voice grittier than intended as I set Ivy down. “Since you’re here, you might as well watch early dinner service. Ivy’s always loved doing it.”
I point at a countertop far off to one side. We use it occasionally for those who want to book the “chef’s table,” where they can watch us cook while they dine.
A personal nightmare for me, but we’re able to charge triple the cost for it.
“You know the drill, mon trésor. Don’t touch anything sharp. Or hot. Or expensive.”
Wrenley’s lips curve. “So, basically, don’t touch anything.”
“Exactly,” I say, guiding them toward the small, elevated counter that offers a panoramic view of the line. “Best seats in the house, if you like watching people sweat.”
Ivy scrambles onto one of the high stools, thrilled at being behind the scenes.
Wrenley follows, her gaze sweeping over the organized chaos of gleaming stainless steel, copper pots, and white-coated chefs moving with practiced speed.
“Behave, my sweet,” I say to Ivy, then move to Wrenley. “Ivy’s been my harshest critic since she could talk.”
Ivy puffs out her chest. “I have high standards.”
I tousle her hair, then turn back to the line, barking an order for the sea bass that makes Wrenley jump.
As I supervise, I do everything in my power to focus on the only other love of my life: creating masterpiece dishes.
But, since my morning routine went sideways, it comes as no surprise that my afternoon one is quickly following.
My attention keeps straying to two bright spots of color in my monochrome world.
At some point, I hear Ivy as she tugs on Wrenley’s hand.
“Come see! Papa lets me smell the herbs!”
She drags Wrenley toward a small collection of potted herbs near the prep station—fresh basil, rosemary, mint—their scents mingling with the richer aromas of the kitchen.
“This one smells like pizza!” Ivy proclaims, gently rubbing an oregano leaf between her fingers and holding it up for Wrenley to sniff.
Wrenley leans down, inhaling deeply.
“You’re right. And this one”—she touches a sprig of mint— “smells like sunshine and sweet tea.”
Ivy giggles. “Papa says it smells like mojitos.”
Wrenley’s eyes meet mine over Ivy’s head, a small, surprised smile playing on her lips, like she enjoyed learning that I’m capable of humor.
I grunt, turning away to inspect a tray of confit duck legs one of my line cooks presents.
But I’m acutely aware of them, of Wrenley’s patient attention as Ivy points out each herb, her voice animated.
Wrenley’s focus on Ivy is absolute. She doesn’t glance at her phone or look bored.
She asks questions, her head tilted, her expression genuinely engaged.
It’s a scene I’ve witnessed before, not with any former nanny, but with Celine, her laughter taking over the environment as she taught Ivy the language of flavors.
That memory is a sharp, unexpected pang, until an unlikely warmth curls in my chest, fighting the memory’s icy grip.
An unexpected thawing.
Celine’s ghost is still here, but it’s quieter. Muted by the sight of Ivy’s unrestrained joy, by the genuine kindness in Wrenley’s eyes as she listens to my daughter explain the difference between thyme and marjoram with the dignity of a seasoned botanist.
Ivy is, for the first time in a long time, truly connecting with someone new.
“Can we show Miss Wrenley your special place, Papa?” Ivy asks, her eyes bright with excitement, pulling me from my thoughts. “The one behind the restaurant?”
My special place. Celine’s herb garden. The small patch of earth we’d cultivated together, first in Paris, then here, when I planted a living memorial to her love for fresh ingredients, for life.
I almost refuse. The thought of Wrenley there, in that space so intimately tied to Celine, feels like an intrusion.
But then I see Ivy’s face, alight with anticipation, and Wrenley’s curious, gentle gaze.
“Alright,” I say. “But be careful. Some of those plants are delicate.”
Like memories , I think.
Like hearts.
Ivy’s small hand slips into Wrenley’s, and she pulls her toward the back exit, her purple dress a vibrant splash against the muted tones of the alley.
Despite demands for my attention, I follow at a distance.
The garden isn’t much to look at, just a few raised beds tucked into a sun-drenched corner behind the restaurant, shielded by a weathered wooden fence.
But every plant, every stone, is imbued with Celine.
Her laughter, the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the way she’d talk to the herbs as if they were her confidants.
I lean against the rough brick wall, observing.
Ivy, with a newfound sense of importance, points at each plant. “Maman loved planting lavender. She said it smelled like sleepy dreams.”
Wrenley crouches down beside her. She doesn’t offer platitudes or try to steer the conversation. Wrenley just listens, her warm eyes fixed on Ivy, absorbing every word.
“And this one,” Ivy continues, her small finger brushing against a rosemary bush, “Maman said it was for remembering.”
Wrenley reaches out, her fingers gently touching a rosemary needle.
“She sounds like she made everything beautiful,” Wrenley says, her voice quiet and imbued with a sincerity that resonates deeper than I expect.
Something in the careful way Wrenley holds herself, in the quiet respect she affords this sacred space and Ivy’s memories, chips away at another layer of the ice around my heart.
Wrenley doesn’t try to fill the silence or offer empty condolences. She simply bears witness, and in doing so, she lightens a burden I hadn’t realized I was still forcing Ivy to carry alone.
I can’t hear everything they say, just fragments carried on the breeze. Ivy points at the lemon verbena, the delicate chervil, and the purple sage. She’s reciting the names, the uses, the little anecdotes I’d shared with her over the years, words I’d spoken to keep Celine’s memory alive for her.
Then Wrenley’s head lifts.
She scans the edge of the garden and finds me. Our eyes connect. The air stills.
The kitchen noise, the distant traffic, even Ivy’s voice recedes to a dull hum. It’s just us, separated by ten feet of fragrant earth.
Her expression is open and unguarded. There’s a question in her eyes, something soft and searching that bypasses all my defenses.
The pull toward her is a physical thing, a tightening in my chest, a sudden, sharp awareness of her scent, subtly tropical.
I should look away. I need to retreat.
This is too much, too fast. But I can’t. Her lips part slightly, as if she’s about to speak, but no words come .
I’m getting the same feeling I did at Noa’s restaurant, but amplified, stripped bare.
Ivy tugs on Wrenley’s sleeve, demanding her attention for a ladybug discovery, and the spell breaks. Wrenley’s focus drops back to my daughter, a faint blush rising on her cheeks.
I push off the wall, the movement abrupt.
Turning my back on them, on the sudden, disorienting warmth that had begun to seep into the frozen corners of my heart, I stride back into the kitchen. The clatter of pans and the sizzle of food are a welcome cacophony, a shield against the quiet vulnerability I’d just witnessed.
And felt.