Page 26 of Unexpected Pickle
“What restaurant do you lead?” Moreau asks.
Jeannie’s cheeks pink up. There it is again. She doesn’t want to say. Maybe that’s what this is about. They probably work at fancy restaurants. And she’s at a deli.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I say to Moreau.
I steer Jeannie to another part of the room. “You okay?”
She doesn’t answer, then gulps her champagne. Her plate plunks onto one of the empty tables. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”
“I’m here to help,” I say.
She turns to me. “Are you? How are you going to manage the cooking? Can you even chop a head of lettuce?”
“I can be the comic relief,” I tell her. “Make everyone feel great about how good they are.”
“This is a serious group,” Jeannie says. “These are star chefs from major restaurants. Probably they all know my dad.” She frowns, as if this isn’t a good thing.
“Then he’ll hear all about how great you are.”
“I work in a deli,” she says. “Coming here was a mistake.” She drains the rest of her champagne.
I hand her mine. “Take the edge off.”
She hesitates a moment, then downs mine, too.
“I didn’t take you for someone who would back down from a fight,” I say. I know I’ve hit pay dirt when she frowns. “I’ll help dodge the deli questions if you want me to intervene.”
She lets out a big breath. “I guess so.”
“I will have nothing but gushing things to say about you.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I extend my elbow.
She looks at it a moment, then slides her arm through mine.
Hell, yeah, I’m on top of the world.
Who cares about making a fool of myself in a kitchen when I’ve got this?
10
JEANNIE HEADS OFF ANY HEX HATERS
Ithink about Hex as I iron my chef whites the next morning before the first day in the test kitchen.
He didn’t let go of me for the rest of the mixer, easily taking us from person to person, making introductions and keeping the flow of the conversation going.
It’s not going to matter that he can’t cook a thing. The other chefs already love him.
I wonder what it’s like to be so easygoing, to assume everyone will like and admire you.
I slide on the still-warm pants, bracing myself for the freezing walk to the main building. I won’t make the mistake of leaving my coat behind again. It snowed all night, and it’s bitterly cold.
But when I open my door to start the trek, I have to admit it looks pretty magical. Everything is sparkling and white, like the Christmas I’ve never had growing up in LA.
Mom moved to Florida after the divorce, so that didn’t help. I was an adult by then, and I suppose I could have skipped out on both of them and had a white Christmas in Maine or New Hampshire. Places where snow is a given, not an impossibility.
