Page 18 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
“I’m sure.”
Mrs. Hawthorne clearly wasn’t the type to hand out idle praise, though she at least seemed satisfied that I wasn’t a complete disaster. If only because she wasn’t privy to what I got up to with her son last night. Or that he was propositioning women in his pajamas at 2 a.m. But I digressed.
“Your role as our chalet girl will include managing the kitchen, preparing our meals, catering events, and ensuring the chalet remains well stocked and organized at all times. We will have guests on occasion, and you’ll be expected to accommodate their needs as well. This is not a nine-to-five position, you understand. Flexibility is key.”
“Understood,” I replied quickly, meeting Mrs. Hawthorne’s gaze. “I’m prepared for that.”
“Ali will go over rules and procedures with you, but there is one point I must stress. Our family values discretion, Miss Evans.”
Her voice turned sincere. The hardness in her eyes faltered somewhat. This was personal to her.
“Our privacy is precious,” she said. “I have zero tolerance for gossip.”
I found the statement oddly comforting. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but perhaps my secret was safe too. I wouldn’t be the chalet girl with the scarlet letter. It was flimsy reassurance, but enough to unclench my muscles for now.
“Yes, ma’am.”
With that, her tone became brisk once more. “We’ve had several chalet girls over the years, and few have remained through the season. I do hope you last longer than they did.”
I lifted my chin. One thing working in restaurant kitchens had taught me was to show backbone. Head chefs pounced on weakness. Show the slightest crack and they would hammer you until you broke. But make yourself impenetrable and you’d earn their respect.
“I always honor my commitments, Mrs. Hawthorne. This job is important to me.”
“And why is that?” Mrs. Hawthorne asked, narrowing her eyes.
“I was recently accepted to the Academy of Culinary Excellence in London to continue my training. It’s a very prestigious school, with only a small percentage of students accepted each year. This job will allow me the financial security I need to attend.”
Something flickered in Mrs. Hawthorne’s expression—approval, perhaps—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“Then I wish you luck,” she said simply. “We look forward to seeing what you prepare for dinner.”
Ali came to collect me once Mrs. Hawthorne had left. As interviews went, I suppose it wasn’t so bad. Megan had warned me the family could be difficult, but so far, I’d seen much worse. Excluding the one glaring issue of my late-night antics with Charles last night.
We reconvened in the kitchen to plan for dinner. Ali informed me that the family would expect a coursed, plated meal with dessert. They were not great fans of family style service, so it was best to avoid that entirely. Otherwise, there were no allergies or dietary requirements to be aware of.
“I’ve included a credit card you can use for anything you require and a map of good places in town to shop,” she told me, sliding a large manila envelope across the island to me. It was heavy and stuffed with several bulky items. “The marketplace includes several local producers, so I’d suggest you start there, but feel free to use your discretion.”
“Perfect, thank you.”
“There is a staff vehicle in bay three of the garage for official use. Keys are in the envelope as well. If you run into any problems, my number is already programmed into your staff phone. Remember, dinner is at eight.”
For the last two days, getting to this house had been my top priority. Now, knowing Charles was lurking somewhere inside it, I couldn’t wait to leave. A trip to town was a welcome excuse to get a little distance.
Chapter 8
When I opened the garage door to bay three, I nearly dropped the envelope. A shiny black Land Rover stood waiting to tear up the mountain roads. I launched myself at it like a girl reunited with her childhood pony, sunk into the supple leather seat and turned on the butt heater. Man, it even smelled better than normal cars. Rich and new, a huge upgrade from my battered old station wagon.
After taking a minute to figure out the onboard navigation system, I plugged in the address for the marketplace and let the pleasant noise of theGPSover the speakers guide me away from The Viceroy. The artificial voice sounded like the leading man from a British rom-com, and for a few miles I imagined how some hilarious Hollywood hijinks might ensue from the disaster of my blizzard-based one-night stand.
If only life were so easily resolved with a little comic relief and well-timed scene cuts.
In town, the square buzzed with activity from the small boutiques and bustling cafes. With my window down slightly, the crisp winter air carried the scent of roasted chestnuts from a corner store that had an outdoor stove set up on the sidewalk. A young family played in the snow nearby, their toddler wobbling about in a thick, puffy jacket as the dad coaxed them to build a tiny snowman.
Several signs along the busy street guided the way to the marketplace, eventually leading me to a parking lot in front of a picture-perfect red barn with white gingerbread trim. I wasn’t sure what I had expected to find inside, but I was utterly charmed by the layout of more than a dozen stalls, like an indoor farmers’ market, selling everything from fresh produce and local honey to baked goods and artisanal olive oil. All of the stalls were outfitted with seasonal decor and trays of free samples to entice the strolling shoppers.
A young man in a suede apron and flannel shirt handed me a canvas tote as I walked inside. I shivered slightly at the cold and wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck. This was truly a repurposed barn, totally at the mercy of the elements. A few tall heaters like those you’d find on any Denver restaurant patio were spaced along the wide aisle between the stalls, but any warmth they provided quickly rose into the tall rafters above, where exposed beams looked nearly as old as the majestic mountain range outside.
Yet the weather clearly didn’t deter any patrons. The market was thrumming with activity, kids clamoring around the candy stall and moms sipping tiny plastic glasses of red wine next door.
