A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) (4 page)

I glance up and Jasper’s eyes latch on mine. And by the look on his face, it’s clear I’m not the only one remembering the conversation we had walking down Peachtree Street eating melting Italian ice. The one where we talked about the most public place we’d ever had sex. Mine was in a rest stop parking lot on I-75. His was in a study carrel at his university library. “The library isn’t just for studying anymore,” he’d said.

Now he says, “I take my studying very seriously.” He holds my gaze as he speaks and a flush steals across my skin. Until he glances at the torte on the table and says to Scarlett, “Cake twice in one day? I know the phrase is let them eat cake, but that seems excessive, even for you.”

I can’t tell by Jasper’s tone whether he’s being rude or trying to be funny, but Scarlett’s definitely not giving him the benefit of the doubt. “You jerk. I’ve been home less than a day and already you’re throwing your pissy attitude at me?”

“I was merely noting your cake consumption. If I was going to be pissy I would have remarked on the potential negative impact of chocolate on your skin, Spotty Scarlett.” Unlike Scarlett’s voice, Jasper’s is cool and measured, but he grins as he finishes speaking.

“For fuck’s sake --” Scarlett starts.

Mrs. St Julien steps between them. “Enough. I told you I wouldn’t spend the summer refereeing between you two and I meant it. If it means you battle it out on the tennis court, then do that. If it means you avoid each other completely, then do that. But figure it out.”

Scarlett’s jaw sets. I recognize that expression and I brace my knees in anticipation. I glance at Jasper, but he’s crossed his arms over his chest and looks almost bored. Mrs. St Julien has her hands on her hips like she’s waiting for one of them to say the wrong thing and I bite the inside of my lip because if I had money, I’d bet Scarlett is the one who blows.

But before anyone has a chance to say anything, Lou says, “You nearly done with those carrots, Bea?”

I am not. I chopped one before getting distracted by chocolate torte and family drama. I wipe my hands on my apron even though they’re not dirty and say, “Sorry, no. I’ll do it right now.”

Mrs. St Julien smiles at Lou, but when she speaks her tone is firm. “Here we are taking over your kitchen with nonsense and you’ve got a dinner service to prepare. Scarlett, Jasper, let’s get out of Lou’s way. Scarlett, you can help me see if the dining room is ready and, Jasper, will you make sure the bar is stocked? We might need another keg.”

Both Scarlett and Jasper nod and follow Mrs. St Julien silently out of the kitchen. I let out a long breath and pick up my knife. As I let it thwack through the carrot, Lou says, “After you finish chopping those, you can start taking the nibbles out. We put peanuts and breadsticks at the bar and a tapenade, pesto, and tomato relish set on each table to go with the bread.”

I nod. “Okay. Should I do one before the other? Does it matter?”

“No. They both need doing and it’s close enough now to opening nothing will go off.” Lou shrugs. “The dining room is mostly ready, aside from the place settings, but you can help make sure there are enough glasses at the bar.”

For a fleeting second, I think Lou is sending me to the bar because Jasper’s there and I open my mouth to deny the tiny leap my heart makes, but shut it before I say anything dumb. I glance at Lou, taking trays out of the oven, pushing her dirty-blonde hair out of her eyes as she stands. She doesn’t know me; my paranoia about Jasper is just that – paranoia. Although, judging by the way the tension exploded between him and Scarlett, that paranoia suddenly feels mighty justified.

I
restock
glasses in the bar – alone; carry condiments to tables in the dining room – alone; and line bread baskets with napkins – alone. There’s no sign of Scarlett or Jasper and, aside from Lou’s perfunctory directions, I work in silence. It gives me plenty of time to observe Lou, who works with steady efficiency, moving from one task to the next as if she’s checking things off on a mental list.

As she puts a tray of roast potatoes back in the oven, I work up the nerve to ask, “Are you the only person who does the cooking?”

She turns and I see the first hint of a smile. “Tonight I am. With your help, of course.”

My heart plummets. I remember Hannah said something about the massage therapist girl being out for the count, but I thought surely there’d be someone else. I try to smile, but can’t quite do it. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize…”

“It’s only sixteen. It will be fine.”

I can’t imagine serving dinner to sixteen people – and that’s if they’re all eating the same thing. “But they order from a menu and stuff, right? I mean, they have choices?”

Lou’s smile widens. I actually see her teeth. It doesn’t feel like a victory. “The menu is very straightforward. There’s a chicken dish, fish, steak and ale pie, and a vegetarian option. But it’s summer and lots of people order the platters.”

“Um…?”

I don’t get any more out before Lou continues. “We have three. A meat platter with chorizo, salami, mini meatballs, and chicken skewers. A Ploughman’s with cheese, bread, ham, and chutneys. And a meze platter with olives, cheese, bread, hummus, and cold spinach pie. The only cooking we have to do for those are for the mini meatballs and the chicken skewers.”

Gah. I wish I had a notebook to write all this down because there’s no way I’m going to remember all of this. I haven’t felt this out of my element since my first days of student teaching, but at least then I was twenty-one and it felt acceptable. Now, three years later, I can wrangle a class of twelve-year-olds, but I’m overwhelmed by a simple dinner menu.

Break it down, Bea. Do what you’re good at.

I startle. The voice is my head belongs to Theo, of all people. I can even see his face as he says it – his blond eyebrows furrowed, those brown eyes trained on me willing me to try. His belief in me was simultaneously the best and worst thing about him, but it got me through that god-awful half marathon he talked me into. Because if I could break down the thirteen point two miles into manageable segments, including time and distance targets, it was only three segments of four miles, plus a little bit. I figured out my pace and my splits based on the time I wanted to achieve and used that to guide my training plan. Theo laughed, but I explained it helped me feel less anxious if I knew exactly what I needed to do.

This isn’t a half marathon by any stretch, but it doesn’t mean the same principles don’t apply. I take a deep breath and turn to Lou. “Can I see a menu so I know exactly what’s on it? Also, do we make the platters up ahead of time to save time or do we do it as they’re ordered? For the other meals, can you tell me what I have to do to help you with each one so I’m not getting in your way when it’s busy? Once someone orders, is there an expectation about how much time it takes until they’re served?”

Lou steps back and puts her hands up, barking out a laugh. “Whoa, stop. How about we tackle one thing at a time?”

“Sorry. I get…when I get anxious, I figure the more information I have, the better.” I manage a smile, but I’m not sure it comes out as one on the receiving end.

Lou nods like this makes sense and walks me through the menu, the process, and how we’re going to fulfill the orders when they come in. She’s patient and kind, and even though I follow her around like a puppy, I feel almost calm by the time Scarlett walks into the kitchen, tying a black apron around her waist.

Her dark brown hair is swept into a messy bun and she wears a gauzy gray shirt and at least six strands of silver beads around her neck. There’s no trace of her earlier upset over Charlie, the dog, or Jasper, the brother. In fact, she grins as she says, “Ready or not, our first customers are at the bar.”

Claire comes in shaking her head. “Nope. Moving to their table as we speak.” She looks nothing like the girl who showed me to our cabin earlier. Gone are the hoodie and shorts, replaced by a black skirt only slightly longer than her apron and a tight white V-neck T-shirt. Like Scarlett, she wears her hair up in a bun as severe as Scarlett’s is messy. The most surprising thing is the amount of make-up she wears. I can see the foundation line at her jaw and the skin tone of her face is at least two shades darker than the rest of her. It looks weird and, even though her eye make-up looks good, the overall effect looks like something you’d see as a
Cosmo Don’t
.

I half expect Scarlett to say something or shoot me a judgy look, but she’s busy opening the fridge, asking, “What’s left for us tonight?” To me, she says, “Lou usually puts our food on for about six-thirty. It’s early, but it’s either that or eating at ten.”

As Lou answers, I realize aside from the chocolate cake, I haven’t eaten all day and suddenly six-thirty seems far away, even though it’s less than an hour. I hear Lou say chicken marsala and then she says, “Since we’ve got three couples at seven tonight, I’ll put your tea on for about six-fifteen. Do you know if anyone else will be eating at the house tonight?”

I catch myself before I ask, “What house?” as Scarlett shakes her head. “Jaz has his very important phone call with Emory, and Mum made something at theirs.”

“Don’t your parents live here?” I blurt out.

“Yes.” Scarlett furrows her brow, then evens it out with a grin. “Oh, right. The apartment has a small kitchen. Mum and Dad used to eat Lou’s cooking all the time, but Mum said she either needed to stop or resign herself to becoming half-ton Hannah, so she makes them eat salads and shit. But my dad likes to come in and pinch a bite of real food every now and then.”

“Resistance is futile,” Claire says. “I always put on at least half a stone every summer.”

Half a stone? I scramble my tired brain to remember how much a stone is. Ten pounds? Twelve? I know it’s in the double digits. Ugh. I run three times a week to maintain my current weight and it’s a struggle as it is. My mother always says I’ve got her Ellicott genes to thank and used to bemoan my hereditary thighs to the point I wouldn’t even wear shorts. When Theo got me into running, it was another point in his favor. Not only was he such a nice boy, but such a good influence, too.
And, well, Bea, it’s so important to take care of your body. After all, it’s the only place you have to live in.

Alas, wishing doesn’t make it so. If I didn’t give in to the combined pressure of boyfriend plus mother, I’m quite sure I’d do yoga a few times a week and sit on my ass the rest of the time, resigned to my size fourteens. I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I suspect I might be happier on some existential level where size genuinely doesn’t matter. Instead, I alternate yoga with running to squeeze into size ten jeans like I’m the PE teacher, not my ex.

Scarlett’s known me and my weight issues long enough she knows exactly where my head goes. “Half a stone is seven pounds. You don’t have to put on half a stone. In fact, you don’t have to put on a single pound. I usually gain more weight my first week back in Atlanta than I do all summer, making up for all of the chips and guacamole I’ve missed.”

“Not me. I lose it as soon as I leave because the food at uni is so bad.” Claire laughs. “It all evens out, don’t worry.”

“Jaz will run with you if want,” Scarlett says with a shrug, like why I’d want to run, let alone with Jasper, is beyond her. Scarlett is one of those willowy naturally thin people who could eat cake three times a day and be no worse for it.

“Or you girls could skip pudding?” Lou says. “My mum swore by skipping seconds and only having pudding twice a week.”

Twice a week? Try twice a month and only if I run regularly. Dessert twice a week sounds like an absolute treat. Theo only ever allowed himself a single square of dark chocolate daily and my mom’s idea of dessert is sugar-free jello, so dessert has always felt decadent and forbidden.

I feel my stomach rumble. Six-fifteen can’t get here fast enough. I say, “All this talk of food and dessert is making me hungry. Distract me and show me what else I need to do for tonight.”

Claire, Scarlett, and Lou all somehow agree I’ll follow Claire until dinner. “To get a feel for the cadence of the restaurant,” Claire says. I follow her to the bar where a middle-age couple sits, glasses of wine on the gleaming wood before them. No one else is in sight and I wonder if it’s an honor bar type of thing until I see Scarlett’s dad come around the corner.

Paul St Julien is one of those guys who you see and you have to smile. No kidding. He’s tall and lean, an older version of Jasper without the glasses, and has a grin that could melt the polar ice caps. He’s also about eight years younger than Mrs. St Julien, which I’m sure is why I can call him Paul, no problem, but stutter over Hannah. When they came to Parents Weekend, half the girls on our floor had an instant crush on Paul. It didn’t even faze Scarlett; she said it would be weird if they didn’t.

Now, he calls across the room, his voice warm and booming, “Bea. I heard you were about. Welcome to merry old England.”

The couple at the bar smile and I do too. “Thanks. It’s great to be here. How are you?”

“Great, just great.” He comes over and claps a hand around my shoulder. “They’ve put you to work already, have they?”

Claire jumps in. “Emma’s not in tonight, so Bea said she’d help out. Besides, it’s good to get stuck in, right?”

“Absolutely,” Paul says. He turns to me, his expression serious. “If the jet lag catches up with you, though, don’t be afraid to bugger off. Scarlett and Claire could serve tonight’s reservations with their eyes closed.”

Claire laughs. “Well, that’s probably a bad idea.”

Paul laughs, too, but his attention has shifted to the people at the bar. As he asks, “You folks doing all right tonight?” Claire nudges me back towards the dining room.

“He’s in host mode, so let me show you a few things before we eat,” she says.

And show me, she does. Knowing I’m working in the kitchen, not the dining room, is the only thing keeping me from freaking out over Claire’s whirlwind tour. She shows me the small red light by the clock that means hot food is waiting on the counter and the stack of dishes in the warming drawers. She explains the timing of approaching the table and how to gauge whether the customer is more of a chatter or a chewer. For someone who’s never worked in a restaurant before, it feels complicated, although Claire assures me it’s not.

“It’s all about reading people,” she says as we head back to the kitchen. “We’re not working for gratuity, but you still want people to leave good feedback about their dining experience, so it’s important to read the situation.”

As she pushes the door to the kitchen open, the smell of food fills my nose and my mouth waters in anticipation. Scarlett is texting with one hand, stirring a pot with another as Lou takes a tray out of the oven. Claire breaths in. “That smells amazing.”

It does. And it tastes even better as we’re all standing around the counter eating five minutes later. The chicken is tender and moist, covered in the best mushroom sauce I’ve ever tasted. I let Lou put an entire chicken breast and a full scoop of sautéed green beans on my plate, even though it’s twice what I’d normally eat. I’m pretty sure the mushroom sauce has cream in it too, but it’s worth every calorie. Judging by the lack of conversation as we eat, everyone’s either as hungry or as preoccupied with the fat content of the sauce as I am. I’d bet against the latter.

Scarlett is the first one to put her plate down, a small portion of chicken and green beans pushed neatly to the side. She never cleans her plate, a strategy she swears keeps the dreaded D-word out of her vocabulary. At home, I try to follow her lead, but tonight I can’t. It’s too damn delicious. She wipes her hands on her apron, looks at me and says, “Right. Are you ready for your first Calder dinner?”

I swallow and give a small smile. “Maybe?”

Claire and Lou put their plates down too. Claire straightens and tugs the V of her T-shirt up, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles. “Okay, let’s do this.” To me, she says, “Good luck. If it feels overwhelming, remember, it gets easier.”

Right. I smile again, bolstered by the fact Claire said ‘if’, not ‘when’.