The Monday Night Cooking School - By Erica Bauermeister Page 0,40

walked up the four front steps, listening to the slight creak in the wood, feeling for the welcoming give in the tread she hoped would be there. At the door, she knocked, feeling a little silly—it was a restaurant, after all—but there was something so private about the place that her hand simply refused to turn the knob without announcing her presence.

Lillian answered the door and ushered her inside. “Welcome,” she said. “What do you think of my restaurant?”

Chloe looked around at the tables, curled into corners, their linens white and starched and heavy, the candlesticks solid and silver. The wood floor under her feet was burnished brown and smooth from wear; the walls above the wainscoting were adorned with hand-painted plates and etchings of small towns that looked European, although Chloe couldn’t be sure.

“It’s beautiful,” Chloe said, “but can I ask why you might want me to work for you? Here?”

“Well, let’s just say that in my experience people who seem distracted can be some of the most interesting people you’ll ever meet.”

“Nobody’s ever put it that way before.”

“It all depends on what happens when you do pay attention.” “How do you think you’ll get me to do that? I mean, my boyfriend already yells at me every time I drop something.”

“How does that work?”

“Not well.” Chloe smiled in spite of herself.

“Then I suppose we’ll have to try something else. Do you want to?”

“Yes.” Chloe’s voice surprised her in its intensity.

“All right, then. I want you to learn this room—whatever that means to you. I’ll be back in five minutes.” Lillian went through the kitchen door and disappeared.

Chloe stared after her, still wondering where the rest of the staff were, when the people might arrive, why there was no noise in the kitchen.

“By the way,” Lillian’s voice came from the kitchen, “we’re closed on Monday nights, so take your time. And don’t be afraid to touch.”

Chloe looked at the table in front of her, and then reached down to stroke the crisp finish of the linen cloth cascading off the table. She picked up the fragile flute of a pre-dinner Prosecco glass, its stem a slim twig between her fingers, and set it down again carefully. She walked to the next table, listening to the sound her feet made sliding across the wood floor, then walked to the window to look out to the garden, lit up by the last of the evening’s light, so that the roses seemed to glow and the leaves of cherry trees took on a sharp-edged definition. She lifted one of the chairs by the window table quietly and pulled it back, then sat down, looking across the room.

Lillian walked in and Chloe started to her feet.

“No,” said Lillian. “That’s the right thing to do. You want to know where you work.”

“I love it here,” Chloe said, then stopped.

“Then you’ll be careful,” Lillian said.

“I don’t know if I can. What if I break things? I couldn’t stand it.”

“Okay, let’s try this. Close your eyes and walk to the kitchen door.”

Chloe could think of many reasons why this was one of the more questionable requests anyone had ever made of her. But Lillian seemed completely unconcerned about the hundreds, probably thousands, of dollars that stood between Chloe and the door to the kitchen. So after a minute, with Lillian still patiently waiting, Chloe decided it was Lillian’s crystal and china after all, and she closed her eyes and began sliding her feet along the wooden floor, very, very slowly.

“You can go more quickly,” Lillian said, to her right. “You know where you’re going.”

And Chloe realized she did. There was the two-top near Lillian, the one closest to the front door, but next to the window that looked out to the front porch and beyond to the garden that led to the gate. There was the four-top on her left in the middle of the room, that should have felt exposed but didn’t because the lighting was softer, and there was, yes she remembered it, a chair that had been pulled out just a bit, so she moved a little closer to the two-top, feeling her fingers run across the top of a chair and out into the space where the front door would open. From there, it was a matter of going mostly forward, but weaving a bit to the right and left—you could tell, Chloe realized, when you were closer to a table because of the smell of candles and starch, and the little