Chapter 17
“Ta-da!”
Peering over the table, Julia looked into the serving dish with anticipation.
After they had all returned from town, everyone slightly quieter than they had been when they’d driven there, they’d all gone their separate ways.
Noah and Katy excused themselves to freshen up for dinner, and Ethan mumbled something about having emails to check.
Instead of finding Maggie and going over the dinner menu, Julia found herself bypassing the kitchen area completely to go to her room, close the door, and flop down on the bed.
Her ankle throbbed, and so did her head, and the few seconds she told herself she was closing her eyes for had turned into almost an hour.
She had rushed into the kitchen to check on Maggie after waking up, only to be shooed out with assurances that all was in hand.
There was a plethora of veggies chopped on the cutting board, and the savory scents of garlic and tomato emanated from the simmering pan on the stove, but nothing else really gave any indication of what it was that she’d be serving up.
Which was why Julia was pleasantly surprised at dinner when the serving dish was brought out, with vegetables perfectly cooked and seasoned, layered and arranged like a work of art, thin slices of Yukon Gold potatoes tucked among them, forming the easily recognizable pattern of—
“Ratatouille!” Maggie announced, much in the same way she had declared Ta-da! moments earlier. “I made this version with potatoes as well as eggplant, bell pepper, zucchini, summer squash, onion, and tomato. No meat,” she added proudly, cheeks still flushed from the overheated kitchen.
“Oh, sick,” Noah exclaimed, peering over the Dutch oven along with Julia and the others. “I love that rat.”
“Looks amazing,” Katy said admiringly, beaming up at Maggie. “Thank you so much for accommodating me, Maggie.”
“Oh—” Maggie’s easily flushed cheeks turned even redder than usual. “It’s no problem at all. I hope you like it.”
“Maggie, did you bring up some of my bread as well?” Julia asked, her brain working to see what else could be eaten with ratatouille. Which, while impressively appetizing-looking and hearty, was still, really, only vegetables.
“Oh, no,” Maggie said, passing out dinner plates. “The bread was getting stale. I’m going to use it for croutons. I made some brown rice, grilled Halloumi, and mashed potatoes instead.”
“Oh my god,” Katy groaned in appreciation, and Julia noted how even her groans were melodic-sounding things. “That sounds heavenly. Can I help you bring anything up?”
“Well…” Maggie looked over at Julia, who immediately felt guilty for sitting instead of helping to serve their guests as she should have been and started to get up.
Katy, however, waved her down as she pushed her chair back.
“Don’t be silly,” she admonished lightly, making her way around the table. “You’ve been on your feet all day, and I’m sure your ankle is killing you. I’m happy to help Maggie. We aren’t traditional guests anyway—don’t go to any trouble for us.”
Before Julia could get more than half a foot off her chair, Katy had linked arms with Maggie and the two women had made their way out of the dining area, leaving Julia with the two men.
She looked between them, feeling awkward, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Was it because she knew she should have been up and about as well? Helping Maggie and perhaps running her business?
“Should I pour us some wine?” she blurted out, half standing out of her seat again.
She didn’t usually drink wine personally, but she kept a decent supply on hand for guests.
They were close enough to wine country that she had made arrangements with a few of the different wineries in the area to keep her supplied, and in return, she directed her guests their way.
Maggie’s family had also donated a few bottles, insisting they would go to waste at their place.
“Wine sounds great.” Before she’d even processed the thought, let alone fully gotten out of her seat, Ethan was up instead. “Where can we find some?”
“Well…” Julia looked over at her decorative wine hutch, and Ethan’s eyes followed the direction of her gaze.
“Aha!”
He went over to peruse her limited selection. An image came to her then, unbidden, of his mom at a different table in the same cottage, empty wine bottles in front of her and an equally empty gaze staring off into the distance.
“This looks decent,” he said, dissolving the image like a cloud of smoke as he pulled out a black bottle with a red scrawl in intricate script across the front label.
“Based off what?” Julia scoffed, forgetting for a second that she shouldn’t be so familiar with him. “Your extensive wine knowledge?”
“Well, actually,” Ethan said, looking just shy of indignant, “I’ve learned a thing or two about wines in my day.
” Their eyes caught, and she wondered if he was thinking of his mom, too, before he cleared his throat and continued.
“For example, I know this is a Brunello, which means it’s from Tuscany. And that it’s…red.”
Julia couldn’t resist snorting in amusement.
“Honestly, Duchamp, you had me going for the first half. I really thought you had become a sommelier at some point in the last decade and I just hadn’t been privy to it.
Good for you.” Her smile lingered a bit on her lips, and she saw his face soften, or maybe she imagined it.
Admonishing herself for falling into old habits so easily, she shook her head slightly before finally standing up.
“I’ll get the glasses,” she said, limping her way to the wood-and-glass cabinet at the opposite end of the room, where she kept all the plates and glassware for dinner service.
Noah had been watching the two of them attentively, not saying a word the entire time. Julia had noticed him out of the corner of her eye when she’d been talking to Ethan, and was overcome with the irrational and unfair reflection that she wished he weren’t there.
It was probably mean and uncharacteristic—particularly as the proprietor of a bed-and-breakfast—to wish that another person weren’t in the room, especially if that other person hadn’t done anything wrong and, if anything, had been unfailingly kind and considerate.
But there was something about the anonymity of being with regular hotel guests that she enjoyed so much more.
Most of the time, she knew, she blended in with the scenery.
They believed their coffee got topped up and the breakfast bar replenished by the many invisible hands of the hospitality industry in general and the employees of Donwell Cottage specifically, never really realizing that there were only two and a half, maybe three, of them on a good day.
But here, with Katy and Noah, there was no escape. She was not only the owner and proprietor, but also the host. And she was expected to fulfill her hosting duties for the duration of their stay, no matter how exhausted or socially tapped out she was.
It’s only the first day, she reminded herself, remembering how the two had arrived that morning and she and Ethan had immediately whisked them off to town and started taking invasive pictures of them every time there was an opportunity.
But the words it’s only the first day reminded her that there were more days to come.
And she was going to have to expend just as much energy, if not more, to get through them.
She resisted the urge to groan—it would be decidedly less melodic, she was certain, than Katy’s had been.
Just a few more days, she thought, trying to rally by putting a more positive spin on the words to trick herself into thinking it was going to be okay.
Pulling down five wineglasses and absently checking for water spots, Julia turned to go back to the table just as Maggie and Katy returned to the dining area.
Maggie was holding two large heavy white bowls like they were her babies instead of knock-off porcelain serving bowls.
And Katy had a small tray in her hands carrying the grilled Halloumi, the cheese slightly melted, with grill marks going down the length of it.
Seeing the semi-melted cheese, Julia realized in that moment that she never really gave Maggie the chance to explore when it came to meals.
They usually sat down and decided on the menu together, though admittedly, it often ended up being what Julia came up with and also what corresponded with the groceries they had or could get.
Julia also tried to make the meals seasonal, as they were planned around fresh and available produce, starting with the local kind.
And then Maggie implemented the menus with hardly a complaint, just happy to do what they’d decided on and make it the best darn version of whatever it was.
They had agreed on a five-day rotation—five different dinners before starting over again after the last day—and stuck to the same few things for a season or at least a couple of months.
It worked well, since it often corresponded with the guests’ arrival and departure times—the average length of stay was three days, with some staying the full week, but rarely anyone beyond that.
Donwell Cottage often served as a jumping-off point—or a respite—for people on a different journey.
Exploring Finger Lakes Wine Country, making their way northwest to Canada or southeast to the city.
No one ever really seemed to come just for her bed-and-breakfast experience. And that was fine. Perfectly fine.
So fine that maybe that was why she wasn’t making any money and would probably be losing her business soon if this endeavor of Ethan’s didn’t pan out like she hoped.