before.
“That would have been ages after I quit working for her,” says Ruth. Some new tension in her face makes Charlotte wonder if the circumstances under which she’d left the baroness were even worse than she described.
“Wise move,” Chef Basil says. “I mean, your quitting. The lady is a piece of work, am I right?”
“That . . . you . . . are,” says Ruth, whose lips are so tight she seems to be squeezing the words out, one by one. “She is one of the world’s biggest pieces of work.”
Chef Basil says, “She was here for two weeks. The longest two weeks of my life. She expected me to wait on her, to be her slave, to be in constant touch with her assistant, that guy with the satellite-dish ears.” He waits for some sign of recognition from Ruth.
Ruth says, “Poor guy. That was me. I mean, that was my job.”
“Poor you. What’s your last name, Ruth?”
“Seagram. Why?”
“I was curious. Your boss—”
“Former boss.”
“Your former boss, Queen Frieda, would call me at three A.M. with some teensy request or complaint. Ernesto threatened to divorce me if I didn’t set some limits. And for what? So she could haul her entourage down here, the makeup and hair people, the tech crew—”
“Tell me about it,” says Ruth. “No, don’t tell me. I’ve been there.”
“All crowding into this kitchen. I could hardly breathe, let alone work. Yet somehow I managed to cook her spectacular food. And Princess Frieda doesn’t even thank me. She barely tasted it. She divided it in half and ate half.”
“That’s her MO,” says Ruth. “Her brand. She wanted to call the show The Baroness Frieda Goes Halfsies until the network talked her out of it.”
“The Baroness Frieda Goes Halfsies?” says Chef Basil. “I wish I’d known. I would have been less insulted. Anyhow, I shouldn’t complain. That show got us tons of new students.”
“That’s great,” Charlotte says weakly.
“My oldest friend is her accountant. I suppose that’s how we got the gig, and I am endlessly—endlessly—grateful.”
“It aired already?” Ruth says.
“Three months ago,” says Chef Basil. “You would not believe the spike in traffic to our site. Who would have thought that an anorexic Norwegian could have such an enormous following?”
“Modern life,” Ruth says.
“Speaking of,” Charlotte says. “We should get back. Mom has a lot for us to do. The party is tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you there,” says Chef Basil.
Ruth says, “?Muchas gracias! Your house is so beautiful, the food was scrumptious, I love what you’re doing here. This is going to be the highlight of my stay in Oaxaca.”
“Thank you,” says Chef Basil. Something in his expression softens, and his pinkish skin turns a shade redder. “That means a lot.”
“No, thank you,” says Ruth.
What does Rocco see in her? Except maybe that she’s pretty, and so ferociously nice?
“Wait! One more thing,” says Chef Basil. “Can Lydia take a photo of the three of us together? I like to have a record of my students and new friends.”
“Sure,” Charlotte says, though she hates the idea of having her picture taken with Ruth and Chef Basil. Relax. A few more minutes and they’ll be gone.
“Sure . . . but . . . I have conditions,” Ruth says.
The way she says conditions makes everyone, including the Mexicans, pay attention.
“This cannot go online. I’m very protective about my privacy. I always say no if someone plans to post it—”
“No worries!” says Chef Basil. “This is for personal use only.” And he giggles, almost lewdly.
“All right then,” agrees Ruth.
Chef Basil stands on tiptoe to drape his arms around their shoulders while Lydia photographs them against a grouping of potted palms.
“Would you ladies like a copy?” he asks.
“No thanks,” says Ruth.
Charlotte shakes her head, though she instantly wishes she’d said yes. She could show it to Eli when she tries to describe this.
“See you tomorrow,” Ruth says.
“I love endings like this,” says Chef Basil. “Not having to say goodbye.”
15
Ruth
Obviously I planned to tell Rocco that I no longer worked at STEP. But first I had to process the shock. I told myself to be grateful I hadn’t known what was really going on, grateful that the frat boys excluded me from their inner circle. I didn’t have to disappear or go to the dark side or underground—or wherever they went.
One day my boss and coworkers were there; the next day they weren’t. One day STEP was up and running; the next day it wasn’t.
I didn’t care if I ever saw them again, except that I wanted to