My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,93
to live out of a duffle bag so small it can attach to my motorcycle. “So I know I cannot keep you locked down. But I would like to offer a position for however long you’d like it. A week, a month, six? I would be honored if you would work alongside me.”
“Wow, I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say,” I stutter. “Uh, first, thank you, of course. Thank you, truly. But . . .”
And that’s where I get stuck.
This is how so many of my opportunities have come up over the years—a friend of a friend recommending me or a chef coming through a restaurant that I’m working at, or even my hearing of a chef I’d like to learn from and approaching them directly. It’s always been a buzzing thrill of ‘what if?’
If I stay here, I will get to work with Esmar, Gilberto, Henri, and more.
If I stay here, I will live in paradise, steps from the sea.
If I stay here, I will have a whole world of new foods and flavors to learn and incorporate into my portfolio and palate.
If I stay here, I will never see Abigail again.
She will go home, this I know for certain. Back to her family, her business, and her future. She is not a flower arrangement to be pulled from the dirt for transport anywhere I wish. No, she is an oak tree with roots spread deep and wide, meant to live out her life in one place.
Would Aruba be the same without her here? I don’t know.
But will returning ruin things between Abigail and me? I don’t know that, either. Perhaps this is nothing more than one of her schemes that has gotten out of hand, and when we hit the mainland, it will vanish into thin air.
Esmar senses my uncertainty. He pats my shoulder, much like a father would a son. “No rush, Lorenzo. The offer has no expiration date. I simply want you to know . . . you are always welcome here. I do not share often or well, but with you, I would share my kitchen anytime. Or if you’d rather run your own pass, there are two other restaurants on the resort grounds that would be lucky bastards to have you.”
Emotion makes my throat tight. “Thank you, Chef. Working with you has been a true honor.” I shake his hand, both our hands squeezing respectfully.
But never one to play too fast and loose, Esmar adds, “By the way, I put you on the schedule for dinner service on Monday night.”
I laugh. “My flight leaves on Sunday.”
“Aah, we shall see, Chef Toscani.”
“Chef!”
I do not have time for this. Though everything is running smoothly—I touch the wooden spoon again—I don’t have time to pause for Meredith’s meddling.
But such is life.
“Yes, Meredith,” I say, not stopping my movements as I add the final touches to the tray of hors d’oeuvres.
She oversees my work for a moment, and internally, I dare her to say one word. She doesn’t know a thing about fine cuisine, probably eats a microwaved Lean Cuisine each night or nibbles on celery stalks to maintain her harsh, angular shape.
“I received the menu . . . this time.”
Ah, come to rub my nose in the fact that in the end, I did acquiesce to her request. She seems to feel some victory in my choice to send on the list of courses this evening, but it’s reasonable for an event like this one. I will not be going out to make course announcements as tonight is all about the bride and groom, so it’s common courtesy to let the guests know what they’re eating.
“Yes.” I don’t have time to play her games or invite further conversation.
Still, she lingers. “What is that?” she asks sharply as I begin adding small yellow blooms to each plate.
“Marigold.”
She balks, her voice reaching high into the screech zone. “Flowers? On the tuna?” She makes it sound like the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard.
I pause and turn to face her fully, standing to my full height. “Ms. Wildeman, Claire hired me to provide her guests with a wedding feast and I am doing so with the full skill and scope of my years of experience.” I let my judgement of her lack of pallete shine through. “If you, as the wedding planner, would’ve liked ingredient by ingredient approvals, then you should’ve requested it long ago. Right