Chapter 29 #2
Something in me stirs with surprise that she knew it was béchamel, then shame at my surprise.
Father's voice echoes in my head: A gentleman knows his sauces as well as his wines. I’ve had years of lessons on which fork to use when, which vintage wine pairs with what dish, what sauce goes with what meat or fish.
I’ve had summers in Provence when I was five, learning which forks to use for escargot versus fish.
The “gentlemen’s finishing school” occupied a limestone chateau with lavender fields stretching beyond its iron gates, where Madame Beaumont would rap my knuckles with a silver letter opener if I slouched or spoke out of turn during our endless formal dinners.
I assumed Celeste wouldn't know these things. What else might I be wrong about? I study her across the table, wondering if I'll ever get the chance to find out.
I study her face. "Yeah." My eyes dart around the table.
Celeste, tipsy and oblivious to my signals, continues chatting with her equally buzzed friends.
Meanwhile, Ansel catches my eye and smirks.
Gianni nudges Rosa, both of them watching me with knowing looks.
I can feel my face betraying me, wearing my feelings like a billboard.
"I'm glad you like the meal," I manage, unable to disguise the tenderness in my voice.
She laughs, that bright sound that makes my chest tighten.
"Isn't it funny? This fancy béchamel sauce is basically just fancy SOS—you know, shit on a shingle.
Got me through college. Made with those little packets of Buddig meat for thirty-nine cents at Aldi, white bread, and whatever gravy I could scrape together from flour, margarine, and milk.
That and Top Ramen." She shakes her head, and I can't look away from the way her eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Between that diet and all the cheap beer, it's a miracle I functioned.
And now here I am, eating what's essentially the same thing, just with a French name and better ingredients, prepared by a fancy professional chef.”
I always found it ironic that béchamel sauce—with its fancy French name that sounds like it belongs in expensive restaurants—is essentially what broke college students eat regularly. It's fundamentally just a roux with milk added. That's how Celeste recognizes it despite her modest background.
Her words continue to tumble out, the wine obviously loosening her tongue.
"I was terrified of coming here," she admits, gesturing with her glass toward the sprawling house.
"Walking through those doors felt like Belle stepping into the Beast's castle—all that cold marble and emptiness.
" She smiles, nodding towards Rosa, who's beaming at her while she sips her Pinot.
"Then I met your Mrs. Potts, and suddenly...
" She trails off, eyes widening as she takes in the ocean view through floor-to-ceiling windows.
"And this place. It's like something from a fairy tale after all. "
Her fear of moving in here should've bothered me, but it doesn't. I get it more than she realizes.
She stepped from her world into mine—from Earth straight to Mars.
When she compared this scenario to Beauty and the Beast, I couldn't help but smile.
We both know how that fairy tale ends. Maybe I am her Beast, waiting for her to discover I'm not the monster she imagines.
And Rosa? Pure Mrs. Potts—the maternal teapot offering comfort when everything feels strange.
That cartoon played endlessly in our house when I was little.
Mom loved the story, so Dad would put it on several times a year, tearing up every time, probably because it reminded him so much of her.
Rosa's laughter fills the kitchen. "Me? Like the teapot from Beauty and the Beast?" She gives her plump midsection a gentle pat. "I suppose we do share a certain... roundness."
Celeste's eyes go wide. "Oh! No, that's not—" She stumbles over her words. “I just meant that Mrs. Potts is just... nurturing. When Belle is scared in that big castle. I wasn’t thinking of anything else, no, no.” She stares down at her plate, pushing a piece of salmon around with her fork. The flush creeping up her neck reaches her cheeks, and she blinks rapidly. She looks like she’s about to cry about Rosa taking her comparison the wrong way.
I can't help but notice she never bothers to clarify that I'm not the Beast in her little fairy tale, even as she trips over herself apologizing to Rosa.
I let it slide. The Beast was misunderstood too, wasn't he?
Gruff exterior hiding something else. Something that made sacrifices when it mattered.
She doesn't see that in me yet, but maybe someday she will.
Rosa's hand settles on Celeste's back. "I know what you meant, child.
I'm sorry, I tease too much. You'll learn my ways.
" Rosa's smile lights up her face, and Celeste's shoulders relax as she lifts her gaze.
The rim of her wineglass trembles against her lip as she takes another sip.
Her knuckles are white around the stem. I can almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes—a year of tiptoeing around me, of calculated words and careful distance.
Something in my chest tightens. I want to bridge this gap between us, to tell her she won't be walking on eggshells in her own home.
I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine.
The touch seems to ripple through her. Those green eyes widen, darken, before she blinks and looks away.
But I caught it—that flash of heat, quickly masked.
Could she feel that same current that just shot up my arm?
God, I hope so. No—I hope not. This…crush…
I have on her would be far less complicated if it remained one-sided.
My life would certainly be simpler that way.
Celeste smiles at Rosa. "Thanks for understanding.
I've never had much of a filter between my brain and my mouth.
My best friend got me this coaster once—'Some things are better left unsaid, which I generally realize right after I've said them.
'" She lets out a small, nervous laugh. "I keep it on my desk as a daily reminder.
Though clearly, it hasn't worked yet. I suspect you and Max will have front-row seats to that particular character flaw over the next twelve months. "
Ansel's eyebrows shoot up. "Character flaw?
Are you serious right now?" He shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh.
"God forbid a woman actually tells my brother the truth.
You have no idea how many people nod along when Max declares the sky is actually green.
Everyone's too busy genuflecting to correct him.
" He leans forward, voice softening. "That honesty you're apologizing for?
It's like opening a window in a stuffy room. "
When Celeste smiles and blushes, something in my chest tightens. How can I be angry at Ansel's rant about ass-kissers when her reaction is so damn endearing? My brother's right—people do kiss my ass. So what? They kiss his too.
It hits me that Celeste and Ansel share that same unfiltered honesty. They'd probably get along perfectly, and the thought makes my jaw clench. I'm not giving her up. Not to him, not to anyone.
I've been telling myself this marriage is just temporary, a business arrangement with an expiration date.
But watching her now, I wonder if I've been lying to myself all along.
The mere thought of Ansel with Celeste makes me want to put my fist through a wall—which is ridiculous.
My actual brother isn't even interested in her.
It's the imaginary version of him I want to throttle.
Christ, I'm losing it.
Celeste gives a nervous laugh. "So I'm an open book, huh?
Not entirely. Everyone keeps parts of themselves hidden.
" She fidgets with her napkin. "We all have those thoughts we'd never say out loud.
Those moments we'd rather forget." Her voice drops.
"Those failures we replay at three in the morning.
" She runs a hand through her hair and winces.
"God, that champagne was a mistake. Dom Pérignon and dinner parties don't mix.
" She shoots Tally a sideways glance and whispers, "Some friend you are. You could've cut me off."
Tally throws her head back and laughs. "Cut you off?
Please. I was right there beside you, downing champagne worth more than my first car.
" Her smile turns nostalgic. "That piece of junk—a 1999 Chevy Metro in the ugliest lime green you've ever seen.
Paid three hundred bucks for it. Could've traded the damn thing straight up for one bottle of that Dom you were pouring. So actually, thanks for the upgrade."
Celeste lets out a laugh. "Oh please. You think that's bad? My first car was a '95 Escort that somehow wheezed its way to 2015. The thing had more rust than paint by the time I got it, and duct-taped seats to boot. When it finally died, the junkyard offered me two hundred bucks. If I would’ve told them I'd take one bottle of Dom Pérignon and call it even, they’d say I’d still owe them a hundred dollars. "
Then both girls look at me expectantly, their eyes asking about my first car.
I take a sip of my wine and study the rim of my glass.
The memory of my sixteenth birthday floods back—my grandfather tossing me keys to that new Porsche Cayenne, the garage door rising to reveal gleaming silver metal worth way more than most people's yearly salary. Need to change the subject.
I clear my throat. “Have you tried the crab cakes yet?”
Celeste glances at the table and raises an eyebrow. "I don't see any crab cakes here, so that would be a no," she says, her laugh light and nervous. "But I'm definitely looking forward to a future crustacean adventure."