Page 49 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
Charles beamed at me while I ducked my eyes to keep from blushing. I felt like they could all see the silent messages passing between us, clear as writing in the air over the table.
“You could practice and perfect a recipe,” I continued, “but its execution was always entirely dependent on trust. The confidence of the cook. That confidence would always shine through in the food. Please enjoy.”
“Thank you, Eleanor,” was Mrs. Hawthorne’s only response.
As I watched the tiny hint of a smile tug her lips at her first bite, I thought to myself that my plan had gone well.
“My pleasure.”
I rushed back into the kitchen with my cart to breathe a huge sigh of relief and start washing dishes. Not before setting a crepe aside for Ali, of course. Even if Mrs. Hawthorne hated me, I’d keep the house manager on my side.
“Well . . .” Ali said when she returned, standing over her breakfast at the island. “She ate every bite.”
“Really?” I nearly fell over with excitement.
Ali smiled and gave me a thumbs up. Which was downright giddy for her.
Yes. I could do this, I told myself. Confidence. Project confidence and I could win over Mrs. Hawthorne. Manifest that shit.
I was going through provisions at the house pretty fast, so while the family would be out of the house for the day, I took the opportunity for another trip into town. My primary mission was another trip to the marketplace, but I really wasn’t in any rush, so I decided a little sightseeing couldn’t hurt.
The first spot that caught my eye as I meandered the crowded sidewalk was a blue storefront with white trim and a festive model of Santa’s Village in the window. A working train set chugged around the tiny town of gingerbread houses, elves, and a Christmas tree centerpiece. Stories & Sips bookstore and coffee shop was bustling with ski moms chatting over lattes, while their rambunctious children darted around bookshelves themed and decorated to their genre. Two employees stood on ladders near the front windows hanging lighted garlands over posters for the latest bestsellers and new releases.
“This town really goes all out on decorating,” I said to the young woman behind the register with a ski goggle tan around her eyes, who took my order for a cappuccino and chocolate muffin.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, pulling a muffin from the display case to put on a porcelain plate. “The annual holiday decor contest is basically our World Series. We take bragging rights pretty seriously.”
After I took my snack to a cozy corner and tucked myself into a worn leather chair, I snapped a few pictures for the Instagram account. This shop was a charming small-town treasure. The place to be for people watching when snow was falling gently outside. My coffee mug was perched on one side with a mis-matched saucer beneath it while I scrolled the timeline, saving and un-saving recipes to try.
“Elle, hey!”
I glanced up from my phone to spot Bea, her nose ring tipping me off, striding over before she dumped herself into the chair beside mine.
“Hey,” I said, excited to see a familiar face. “How’s it going?”
“Yeah, good.” She shrugged out of her jacket, a blue plaid flannel shirt tied in a knot underneath, and draped her legs over the arm of the chair. “Haven’t seen you around in a few days.”
“I basically live in the Hawthornes’ kitchen.”
“How’s that going?” Her hair was slightly different than the last time I saw her, smaller braids arranged in one larger French braid and worn to the side over her shoulder. “Regret your whole life yet?”
I choked back a laugh, shaking my head. “No, not yet. Really, it could be a lot worse.”
She arched a curious eyebrow. “That right?”
“What?” I asked nervously.
“Nothing. Charles Hawthorne tends to have that effect on people.”
I was immediately defensive, smiling too much like it made me look innocent. “What? No. Nothing like that.”
It was exactly like that.
“Okay,” she said, putting her hands up. “Whatever you say.”
“Really.”
Amelia’s warning about gossip rang in my ears.
