Page 11 of The Wedding Menu

Surprise, surprise. Father dearest has read the article, too, and he isn’t pleased.

“We’ve already had this conversation. I don’t work at La Brasserie, and at the moment, I’m not looking for a job in any kitchen.”I glare at one of the waiters, fidgeting with a bottle of champagne while he eavesdrops. “Yesterday’s article changes nothing.”

“Are you aware of what it means for me? What they wrote?” he says, seething, lowering his voice as he looks left and right.

“Yes. Everyone in the world of fine dining knows your daughter is a failure. They know I didn’t take after the great Hammond Preston. I don’t have your talent, your experience. I’m just a nobody who’s used her dad’s connections.”

My tone is flat, and, surprisingly, saying those words out loud didn’t hurt half as much as it should. It’s almost liberating.

If I had known giving up would feel so good, I would have done it much sooner.

When his chin tilts toward his chest, I wonder if he’ll contradict me. If, for once, he’ll say I’m a fighter and he regrets being the parent he’s always been to me.

But I don’t wonder for too long.

“Your best chance at a future as a chef is to come back to work for me. With time, people will forget. Hopefully.” His jaw tenses and his words slur, as if pronouncing them is hard, the LED lighting accentuating the sweat on his broad forehead. “I still need a head chef to take my place.”

I lean against the counter and look deeply into his tired eyes, my fingers mindlessly fidgeting with the chain of my necklace. “Dad, I’m done with cooking,” I say with a firm voice. This must be the fiftieth time we’ve talked about this, so I should have imagined this is why he called me in. “I won’t be your head chef. Hire externally if there’s nobody in this kitchen who can meet your expectations.”

He grunts and, without another word, walks straight to Trent, one of the line cooks, then barks something about his knife technique.

For a few seconds I’m glad this isn’t my life anymore. Then I squeeze the strap of my bag and walk toward Barb, who’s bentover the stove and working on a pot of lobster bisque. Wiping her hands on her apron, she straightens and throws me a worried look, her red curls trapped under a black hairnet. “All good?”

“Yeah. He just wanted me to come in for the dinner service tomorrow.” With an eye roll, I point at the door. “I’ll see you outside.”

Skillfully avoiding the cooks and busboys who shift from one side of the kitchen to the other, I get to the back door, only to stop when I notice the article fromYummagazine taped to it. There’s boisterous laughter coming from behind me, but I don’t bother turning around, my gaze laser focused on the worst parts.

My eyes fill with words likeembarrassmentandshame. I close them, but I can still see more of them.Nepotism. Incompetence. And, of course,failure.

“Seriously? You people have nothing in your brain, do you?” Barb shouts.

She comes closer, her fingers pulling on one corner of the page to strip it off the door, but I’m quick to wrap my hand around her wrist. “Wait.”

“What is it?”

My eyes scroll through the lines of text. I’ve been staring at this article for the past week, but I was so stuck on the reputation smackdown, I didn’t notice the red bubble at the bottom, prompting the reader to reveal the piece about the International Cooking and Culture Expo. “The ICCE,” I huff out as my heartbeat quickens. “Did you withdraw us already?”

“I called, but they said they need me to send an email. Don’t worry, I’ll do it tonight.”

“No you won’t,” I tell her. “Wehaveto go.”

“Do we?”

Yes, we do. I meant what I said: I’m done with cooking. I’m done with restaurants and with my dad and with everythingFrench. But the red bubble caught my attention for a reason. I missed some things, including the email where they announced the conference’s location.

But location is key, and this year the ICCE happens to be a mere two hours away—and, coincidentally, whereIwant to be.

In Mayfield.

Barbara and I sit at the first available table at Beans, our local café. We’ve been coming here for so long, we’ve seen three different owners come and go.

The waitress takes our order, and instead of the usual macchiato, Barb gets some type of herbal infusion. Our lives have changed from the days when we’d sit here and chat about boys over our frappuccinos and mochas.

“Do you miss coffee?” I ask, crossing my legs under the iron table. “I don’t know if I’d be able to give up sushi and—” I stop speaking. “What?”

She shakes her head dramatically, her bright copper hair bouncing. “What?What do you mean,what?”

“I mean—”

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