Page 6 of Savoring Christmas
“Fatal error, brother,” Max said. “The classic French aromatic mix of diced carrots, onions, and celery is called mirepoix. Which I know because I lived in France for several years. Maybe you’ll learn all about it in cooking class.”
This brought gales of laughter from his brothers. He really was going to kill them.
2
MIA
On the Tuesday after Thanksgiving weekend, Mia stood in the elementary school kitchen at ten till six, waiting for her students to arrive. There were only six in total. One of which was Logan Hayes. The mere thought of having the aggressive attorney in her class made her queasy. He always looked at her like she was an imbecile. She had no idea what she’d done to offend him, but he clearly didn’t like her. Why in the world would he want to take her class? Did he truly want to learn how to cook? She supposed she would know the answer to that question by the end of the evening.
On the drive here from home, she’d scolded herself the entire way. Why had she decided this was a good idea? She would have to actually speak in front of other people. Not her strong suit. In addition, she’d never taught a cooking class in her life. As a trained chef, she’d cooked, not taught. Back in New York, for a time, she’d been a celebrated chef, with friends and a life. Her restaurant had had a two-month waiting list. That seemed like a lifetime ago now.
After the investment group she’d trusted with her financials and her business had been arrested for a Ponzi scheme and she’d lost everything, she’d had to shutter her restaurant and sell her apartment. She’d had nowhere to go. Other than Sugarville Grove. Her family had owned property with a cabin on it for a half a century at least, but no one had lived there for decades. So off she went to her last resort. The property and cabin had been a way back. Sort of. With a loan from her friend in New York, she’d opened a restaurant in the bottom half and moved into the rooms above. She served a fixed menu only two nights a week, which kept costs down, and made it a viable living.
Her trusted restaurant manager, Remi, had also lost everything in the same terrible investment, so, when she asked if he wanted to join her, he’d jumped at the chance. He’d been living with his married brother and his wife, who, according toRemi, was the meanest woman he’d ever met. He’d found a place in town where the rent was reasonable, compared to New York City anyway, and they’d worked together to get Mia’s open to the public.
She’d been so lonely in her one room above the restaurant that first winter she’d brought a dog home from the shelter to be her new roommate. That had been the best decision she’d ever made. She and Cannoli were bonded in a way she’d never been with a human. The pup followed Mia everywhere and had been her constant companion during the long, quiet evenings.
Her new existence was fine, but isolated. She craved friendship and maybe even romance—if she could find the right man, which was highly doubtful. Who would want a broke and broken woman in her mid-thirties? Regardless, she’d come up with the idea to give a cooking class, hoping to meet some new friends. Plus, it helped fund her work with the food bank. And it got her out of the house.
Now, however, as the clock ticked closer to six, she wondered what in the world she’d been thinking.
She’d pushed six rectangular tables together in the center of the space, each one equipped with a hot plate, cutting board, and basic utensils borrowed from the cafeteria’s supply. She’d asked the students all to bring their own knife.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Remi.
Good luck tonight! You’ll do great.
Remi had insisted this was a good idea—good for the food bank, good for the town, good for her. But, as she looked at the neatly set stations, her hands clenching and unclenching around her wooden spoon, she wished she was home snuggled with Cannoli instead of here. What if she choked up and couldn’t get any words out? She flushed with embarrassment at the thought. She should have known better. She was a stay in the kitchen type of person, not the one out in the spotlight.
Too late now. The door creaked open, and her first students trickled in. She knew them all a little, other than Reese Monroe, who owned Sugarplum Dance Studio in town.
The local veterinarian, Doctor Abby Hayes, came in first, a tote bag slung over her shoulder, followed by Kris Olaffson, wearing his usual happy grin and a pair of overalls. A slim, pretty young woman slipped in after him, wearing a cozy sweater and leggings, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. That would be Reese.
Abby gave Mia a hug, asking how Cannoli was faring after her bout with the focaccia bread. “I’m still so embarrassed about that,” Mia said. “But she’s doing very well. Completely back to normal.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Abby said. “She’s the sweetest girl.”
“You know I love her to death,” Mia said. Cannoli, safely home tonight, was probably curled in her blanket by the heater, blissfully unaware of all the talk about her.
A woman in a janitor uniform appeared briefly, pushing her mop bucket across the polished linoleum floor. She had the kind of bone-deep weariness that spoke of long shifts and longer worries. “Don’t mind me. I’ll stay out of the way,” she said with a tired smile. “My three kids are waiting for me in the cafeteria, but they won’t bother your class.”
“No problem,” Mia said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
As the janitor left through the service entrance that connected to the main cafeteria, Mia caught a glimpse of small figures hovering just outside the pass-through window. It must be hard for them to have to wait for their mom when they were probably hungry and in need of a warm meal before bedtime.
Logan’s arrival distracted her from thinking about the children. He stood in the doorway like he’d taken a wrong turn and was calculating the social cost of backing out.
“Welcome, Logan,” Mia said. “I was surprised to see your name on the list.”
“Yeah. Long story.”
Before she could ask him what that meant, Thelma Tully, a woman in her late sixties with sharp eyes and silver hair, arrived.
Mia greeted her and asked her to pick one of the last two stations. Lastly, a man of a similar age to Thelma, with a shock of white hair and an upright bearing that suggested military service came rushing in.
“My apologies for being late.” Harold wore a crisp button down shirt and khaki trousers. Kind of formal for Sugarville Grove, but he appeared to be old school, like Remi.
“You must be Harold?” Mia asked.
