Page 155 of The Wedding Menu

I take a step forward, the dress flowing with my movement, then ponder how to phrase what I need to get out, but I don’t think there’s a good way, nor do I see a scenario in which this doesn’t end in a screaming match. “I…” Biting my lower lip, I look up into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Dad, but I don’t want it.”

He remains still for the longest time, then cracks a smile. I figure it’s a cruel grin, but when he finally looks into my eyes, he nods. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes, good, Amelie.” He crosses his arms. “You’ve always wanted me to tell you you’d be as good a head chef of La Brasserie as I am. That you’re as good a cook as I am.” He shakes his head firmly. “But you’re not.”

If there’s a hell, that’s where he’s directed. How can he say this two minutes before my wedding? “Okay, Dad, I—”

“You don’t have forty years of experience, for one.”

“You know I’ve never claimed that. Of course I lack your experience.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, catching on to my annoyed tone. “Compared to me, at your age? You’re not as good, Amelie, because you’re not enamored with French cuisine. You’d be a great head chef for La Brasserie. You’re talented and hardworking. But as good as me? No. You’d never be as good as me.”

Ian punched his father yesterday. I could punch mine today. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Are you listening to me?”

I nod, lips pressed tight.

“I taught you everything I knew, Amelie. You had raw talent, and I showed you the way. I made you the chef you are today.”

He’s right: I owe my career to him, and not because of his connections or his restaurant but because of his teaching and his recipes.

“I could see this is what you wanted to do. Cooking. And it filled me with incredible pride, so I fed that part of you. I tried to guide you, to inspire you. And though cooking is my passion, you are my daughter, Amelie. La Brasserie and my work were always for you.”

My throat clenches violently, but I nod again.

“You’ll be as good a chef as me when you findyourway.” He shrugs. “I hoped it’d be my way, but it isn’t. You’ll always have La Brasserie to fall back on should you need it.” He looks away. “Whatever you end up cooking, I’ll be your harshest critic, because that’s how you’ll rise to the top. But for what it’s worth, I think once you do what makes you passionate, you’ll be abettercook than me.” He holds his chin up. “You had a better teacher than I did.”

I smile, my lips quivering as I try to hold back tears. He’s just given me the bare minimum a parent should give their kid—reassurance and approval—yet it feels like one of those long, warm hugs that are meant to make you feel loved. Why is he being this affectionate for the first time when I’m refusing his life’s work?

“As for William Roberts and Amelie’s Bistro, I—”

“I really don’t want to hear that name again, especially today,” I say, cutting him off. “What’s done is done.”

“Fair enough.” He adjusts the pants of his suit. “Ian came to talk to me yesterday. He explained what’s going on. The reason for marrying you out of the blue.”

Uncomfortable with the implication, I look down at my gown. “It’s not about the money, Dad.”

“That’s what he said,” he says, and as my eyes meet his, he continues. “He said you’ve been in love with each other for a long time. That you’ve been friends, but he’s always known you’d be the one.” He walks closer still. “Did you know I met him before?”

Trying to stifle a chuckle, I think of that first night at the conference when Ian told me not so kindly that he understood why I was “like that.” “He’s mentioned it, yes.”

“I like him.” He nods. “I can see why you do.”

“I love him.”

“Quite an upgrade from your previous choice.” He kisses my cheek, patting my shoulder, then quickly moves back. “You lookmagnifique, Amelie. Your mother will be extremely upset she missed this, and for that I’m thankful.”

As I hold back a laugh, he walks away. I do wish my mom were here, but she hasn’t been a constant in my life for years. My dad has, for better and for worse, and I’m happy he won’t miss my wedding.

“Dad?” I call as he opens the door. When he turns to me, I bite my lower lip. I do feel a pinch of guilt. He’s an old-fashioned man, and he probably expected to be asked for his opinion. “I’m sorry we didn’t talk to you before today. Do we have your blessing?”

He clears his throat. “As I told Ian when he asked, you don’t need it. The choice is yours.” He clears his throat. “But if I can make a small request…” He grimaces. “Please, keep your surname, Amelie.”

It Ends with a Wedding

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