3. The Béchamel Redemption
The Béchamel Redemption
C ome on!” I snap, shoving the pot down onto the stove. This should be easy. I’ve made béchamel hundreds of times, but tonight the flour keeps clumping, the butter is burning—everything is off.
“Aaron,” Amelie calls from the other side of the stainless steel counter, her voice bouncing off the walls of the empty kitchen at Daisy.
Before she can say more, I drop the pot in the sink and grab another one. “It’s fine. I just need to?—”
“No, hey, please.” She gestures toward the graveyard of pots I’ve already abandoned. “At this point, we’re just wasting ingredients. I know what’s happening.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
For a moment, I wonder how she could possibly know my mind has been consumed by the only tits I’ve seen in two years. How she could have figured out that I almost jerked off to a cam girl whose voice won’t leave my head.
What do you need?
“You need to relax, Aaron.” Amelie walks around the counter to join me. “You’re tense about your first client, but you’re ready for this. I know you are, because I personally made sure of it. Almost every day. For a year.”
She playfully glares, but instead of putting me at ease, it just makes me more nervous.
“And I have to prove that your time wasn’t wasted, that your trust wasn’t misplaced.
I have to show Ian his insane choice of hiring me instead of the much more experienced candidates wasn’t a giant mistake.
Oh, and let’s not forget that Ian never would’ve hired me if it weren’t for his friendship with Logan. ”
Amelie clicks her tongue. “His fear of Logan.”
“And my brother does not need more reasons to hate me.”
“I see.” Her eyes narrow. “And your parents have expectations too. Plus there’s Sadie.”
“Right! Yes!”
Her smile turns mocking.
“You don’t get it, Ames. You weren’t there.”
“When you knocked up your brother’s girlfriend?”
I glare. “Yes. I have a lot to prove—to everyone. That I’m not a heartless monster who prioritizes his dick over his closest family member, that I can parent my daughter alone, and that the career change from accounting to cooking wasn’t a financial sinkhole.
” I wave a hand around. “Among other things.”
“Jeez, Aaron. You run on coffee, guilt, and a crushing sense of responsibility, don’t you?”
I reach for the butter, but Amelie snatches it out of my hands before I can grab it.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but enough with the butter already.
” She sets it down with a huff. “Aaron, trust me, I understand the need to prove yourself more than anyone. But you’ve gotta relax, man.
You’re going to give yourself chest pains. ”
“It’s just really important that I don’t mess this up. I’m on a path to redemption.”
At this point, I’m clinging to the desperate hope that any of this will end my probation. That Logan will stop looking at me like something disgusting is stuck to my face. And like he wants to remove it with his fist.
“You won’t mess it up. You know why?”
“Because I had the best teacher ever?” I mock.
“Exactly.” She wags a finger at me. “But I don’t appreciate the tone.”
When I manage a half-hearted smile, she steps away, only to return with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“I think it’s one of those nights.”
Not every night we spent in Daisy’s kitchen over the past year was dedicated to cooking. Most were, but some were wine-and-talking only.
I grab two stools and pull them closer. Once we’re settled, Amelie pours us each a glass and takes a sip. “Aaron, look. The last year hasn’t been easy for you. If this is too much?—”
“Do you think it’s too much? Because if you’re not sure I can handle it, then?—”
“Woah.” She widens her eyes dramatically. “You are ready. But if you need more time, you can take it.”
And continue being nothing but an expense for her husband? No, I can’t. Ian paid for my course and all he’s gotten in return is less of his wife, who’s spent a good chunk of her free time helping me improve my technique and babying me through my tantrums.
It’s time I actually made him some money.
“No. I need to do this.”
Amelie pats my hand. “I agree. This is just nerves. They’ll fall away the second you start cooking. But you need to ease up on the pressure.”
“How are you handling the pressure?” I ask, steering the conversation away from me.
She shrugs. “Me? Pressure’s my middle name.”
I tilt my head, watching her as her shoulders drop.
“Fine. I’m scared, obviously. Leaving Daisy to work on this show...” She traces the rim of the glass with her finger. “I just hope it’s a good decision.”
“Well, I’m obviously biased, but I think you’re a great teacher. I’m not eager to share you, but as long as you promise I’ll remain your favorite student...”
“Top three, for sure.”
“Hilarious. The point is, those contestants are lucky to get mentored by you.”
She grins, but then, as if a dark thought flickers through her mind, her expression dims. “I was planning to have a ceremony.”
“A ceremony?”
“For . . . the first anniversary.”
Her father’s death. Of course. “You can do it in Mayfield. Or when you come back, if that’s?—”
“Nobody was willing to come,” she interjects. She swirls the wine in her glass, staring into it. “Dad had a couple of brothers he wasn’t close to, but that’s it. All he left behind is a lot of frenemies.”
In a year of friendship, Amelie has only mentioned her mother once to say they barely speak. But the woman was married to her father at some point. That has to count for something, right? “What about your mom?”
“My mom, not that she’d ever bother to visit, would probably dance on his grave.” She exhales, shaking the thought away. “I decided I’ll just...remember him. By myself. Or, well, with Ian. He grew to like my dad, but let’s be real, he likes everyone.”
I turn on my stool to face her. “I will too. While I didn’t know him, I’ll remember him as the man responsible for a lot of this. Of you.”
She squeezes my hand, grief shadowing her face. I've seen this play out enough times to know that cooking gets her out of this mental space, so I smack the counter and stand.
“You know what? Hand me the butter.”
“Aaron—”
“This will be great, okay? We'll both do great. I’ll be the best private chef this woman could ever dream of, and you’ll come back in a month happy you took this chance. You need it, after the year you had. And it all starts now—with a perfect béchamel sauce.”
Clicking her tongue, she stands too. “As most redemption stories do.”
I grab a clean pot, then turn to Amelie and hold my hand out. Time for the best French sauce to ever grace this kitchen. “Hand me the fucking butter.”
I step into the preschool classroom, scanning the low tables until I spot Sadie at the coloring station, her tiny fingers gripping a crayon as she concentrates.
When she looks up and sees me, her face lights up, and she jumps off her chair.
But before she can run over, her teacher, Miss Delaney, gently places a hand on her shoulder.
“Sadie, sweetheart, go get your things in the other room?” she tells her. “I need to talk to your dad.”
Sadie hesitates, looking between us, then drags her feet to the cubby area. A prickle of unease creeps up as Miss Delaney gestures for me to follow her. Impromptu conversations with teachers are never a good sign.
We step into the small office next to the classroom, and she shuts the door behind us. She crosses her arms, her long honey-blonde hair swaying with the motion and her hazel eyes sharp with concern.
“Aaron, I wanted to touch base with you about Sadie,” she begins. “She’s been having a tough time of it lately.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, as if I didn’t know this was coming.
“We’ve noticed she’s been pulling away from group activities more than usual. She’s not talking much, and she doesn’t seem to socialize the way she used to.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah...things have been hard at home.”
“I’m aware of your wife’s... situation . I can only imagine how difficult this must be for the both of you. Sadie’s still very young, but kids are perceptive. She’s feeling the shift, even if she doesn’t have the words to express it.”
“I just...I don’t know what to do,” I confess. “I try to be there for her, keep things normal, but she just...she misses her mom.”
“I know,” she says kindly. “But I do think Sadie could benefit from a little extra support. We have a school counselor who works with under-eights. It might help for her to have another trusted adult to confide in.”
“Oh—kay.” I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of it all. She’s six, and she needs a shrink ? Jesus fucking Christ. “I’ll think about it, Miss Delaney."
“Please, call me Penny.” She gives me a small smile, the kind that lingers just a second too long. Her lips are painted pink, the only pop of color against her light blue overalls. “I can tell you’re trying, Aaron. She’s lucky to have a dad who cares so much.”
I nod, pressing my lips together. “Thanks. I appreciate you looking out for her.”
“Always.” She steps closer and gives me a curious look. “And if you ever need to talk, I’m here,” she says, her voice dipping. “For Sadie...or for you.”
I glance down at her fingers gripping my shoulder, then back at her hopeful expression. “Yeah. Sure—thank you.”
“Should I give you my number?”
“I, uh . . . I think I have your . . .” I point at the office phone. “That should be fine.”
Hand retreating, she nods. “All right.” She leads me back to the classroom and Sadie looks up as we enter, her big brown eyes full of curiosity.
I kneel down to her level. “Ready to go, kiddo?”
“Look, lady, I don’t give a fuck if she’s in the middle of Pilates or a silent retreat or fucking therapy. I need to talk to my wife right now ,” I bark into the phone.
“Mr. Coleman, as I said several times, Mrs. Coleman wishes not to be disturbed until the end of her program.”