Page 17 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
“What’s wrong? I thought everything turned out quite well, considering.”
“Who is that other man in there?” I asked very quietly, like they might have the kitchen bugged.
Her brow furrowed. “Charles Hawthorne. Why do you ask?”
Because I was utter toast.
Chapter 7
“I don’t know why I expected the Hawthorne children to be, you know, kids,” I lied, scrambling to disguise my embarrassment.
It wasn’t a great cover, but Ali seemed satisfied. Or at least disinterested in the monumental meltdown that was currently underway inside my head.
“As it stands, the family will take some time after lunch to rest and settle in. Dinner is tentatively set for eight this evening,” she told me, returning to finish the last of her lunch still waiting on the counter. “That should give you ample time to shop in town for any provisions you’ll require.”
“Great,” I said, only half hearing while I piled pans in the sink to begin washing up.
My head was like a subway station of panic, train cars darting back and forth with new thoughts of existential dread every few seconds. I thought about how I might accomplish entirely avoiding face time with the family for the next three months. Becoming a kitchen hermit that only traversed the darkened halls of the staff quarters in the dead of night. The Phantom of the Chalet.
A mask wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Maybe cut and dye my hair. Get a disfiguring face tattoo.
“First, after we’ve cleared lunch, you’ll meet with Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Great.
So, after I’d scrubbed the kitchen from top to bottom, Ali escorted me to an office that smelled of leather and cedar. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. In the center was an enormous mahogany desk polished to a mirror shine. I was left to wait in a wingback chair for a few minutes, wallowing in dread that at any moment Charles would walk in to corner me.
What would I say to him? Would he tell his family he’d nailed the help last night? How long before the rest of the staff knew about it? And where were they hiding the additional employees that seemed to appear like Oompa-Loompas from hidden doorways?
Mrs. Hawthorne strode in with the brusque efficiency of a downhill slalom skier.
“Hello,” I said, standing to attention like I thought I’d woken up in boot camp. “I’m Eleanor Evans. Elle, if you prefer.”
She took a seat behind the desk with a curt nod, her ocean-blue eyes staring fixedly at me.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” I said.
Mrs. Hawthorne arched one perfectly sculpted brow. “Your firm highly recommended you. Ms. Wheelan seemed to suggest that you were almost too qualified for such a position.”
Megan must’ve given them the hard sell to get me this gig. Maybe pumped me up a little too much.
“I have a diverse background of experience to offer,” I told her, attempting to skate around what felt like a trap she’d set for me. “I assure you, I’m grateful to be here.”
Her lips remained thinned to a sharp line. “We expect a strong work ethic from our staff, Miss Evans.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “I’ve never been afraid of hard work.”
“Good.” She nodded tightly. “Now, let’s discuss lunch today.”
I swallowed hard, bracing myself.
“While your flavors were pleasing, I expect a more polished and elevated presentation in the future. You have fine dining experience, correct?”
“I do,” I answered, trying not to sound wounded, even as her words stung me right in the chest. I would’ve loved to put out something fancier, but I had been working with limited ingredients. I wondered whether Mrs. Hawthorne was aware of that fact.
“Then let’s aim to show it. We always have room to improve. I trust you’ll continue to challenge yourself to do so while you’re here.”
“Of course.” My smile was forced, while her expression remained indifferent. “You’ll get my very best moving forward.”
