Page 4 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
“Funny you should say that, because I actually do need some magic.”
Reading the trepidation in my voice, her tone grew serious. “I’m not sure how I can help, but I promise I’ll try.”
“If you could keep an ear to the ground for any high-paying jobs, I’d really appreciate it. The tuition is going to be a stretch.”
“Oh, no. Did the financial aid fall through?”
“Not entirely, but it’s well below what I’d hoped. I’ve got some savings, and I can stagger some of the payments, but I’m still falling more than a little short.”
“For you, anything.” Her voice perked up, determined, a mama bear springing into action. “I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
“Thanks, Megan. I owe you.”
“You don’t,” she told me firmly. “You’ve always taken care of my Han. I’ll keep you posted.”
The wait was horrendous. I spent the next couple of days in a persistent state of anxiety that manifested in twice double-charging customers at the coffee shop. I burnt breakfast sandwiches and screwed up even the simplest orders. My mind was entirely elsewhere. I thought about having to give up my spot atACEand spending another year at the Drip with no plans and no direction. Hannah kept reminding me that if I put out positivity, the universe would provide, but I had serious doubts about the universe’s track record.
Then on Sunday, just before midnight, things started to look up. I had just finished cleaning my kitchen after spending my entire day off from the shop preparing hors d’oeuvres for an upcoming catering gig and baking two dozen chocolate croissants for Megan’s breakfast meeting when my phone buzzed with a text from the woman herself.
Megan: Found a potential job. We can discuss tomorrow.
Me:Any hints? I’m dying here. PS The croissants are finished.
Megan:I know I ordered them for the office . . . But I might just keep them all for me.
Me:That’s cold, but I do know how much you love them. The suspense is killing me!
Megan:You’re worse than Hannah.
Me:Don’t let Hannah hear you say that. She won’t let me live it down. One hint.
Megan:Pays well but . . .
Me:You can’t leave me on a but!
Megan:It’s in Maplewood Creek.
Me:Where?
Megan:Maplewood Creek. Suburb of Aspen. Potentially tricky client.
Before responding, I googled Maplewood Creek, Colorado, and let out a low whistle at the median salary and home prices. Though, calling these buildings “homes” was probably offensive to the owners.
Mansion chalets? Chalet mansions?
Either way, the town was fancy, which made sense if it was in such close proximity to Aspen. The photos online were like something out of a Christmas movie: snow-covered rooftops nestled within the valley, buildings down the main street framed by twinkling lights, brochure-ready families ice-skating in the square and strolling past the shops with steaming cups of hot cocoa.
It was a small town, but in the middle of a huge resurgence, thanks to a number of wealthy families buying up mountainside property to build luxurious, state-of-the-art chalets. That meant plenty of upscale restaurants accommodating a wealthy clientele, demand for private chefs, and the nearby ski resorts would have hotel kitchens and catering, with plenty of opportunity for making tips. It also appeared that the population wasn’t year-round, which meant short-term work during the ski season.
Perfect.
I started to imagine what life in a resort town might be like. There had to be plenty of hours for the taking in the high season. And good tips, hopefully. Maybe even the added benefit of access to the amenities from time to time. The idea started to grow on me.
Me:I’ll get the details from you tomorrow, but unless they’re some sort of crazy Hannibal Lecter type, count me in.
Chapter 3
The following day, I swung by Megan’s house on the way to the coffee shop. She lived in the childhood home she’d inherited from her parents. It was situated in an older suburb that hadn’t yet been gentrified and where the lower property values allowed for larger square footage than comparable neighborhoods. This had given her the flexibility to turn a den and spare bedroom into office space for the two young assistants she’d brought on to help with the workload now that the business was really taking off. But most of the time, they all congregated in the large, cozy kitchen.
