Authors: Lynn Viehl
“If you would allow me to make it,” Morehouse said. “No offense, but it is my country’s national drink.”
“None taken, as long as you never try to make me coffee.”
The two men went upstairs to Findley’s apartment, which Morehouse admired as much as his new quarters in the house. While the house manager prepared the kettle, Findley went to into the small bathroom to clean up. By the time he returned Morehouse had the table set and the tea ready.
“How long have you been living in the States?” Findley asked as he sat down.
“About four years now.” Morehouse poured and added a spoonful of sugar to his cup. “I hadn’t set my sights quite so high as this, but when Mr. Taske opened the door, I ran through it.”
“He’s a good man. I’ve never worked for better.” Findley gave him a measuring look. “Don’t carry a torch for him. He’s straight as an arrow.”
Morehouse smiled a little to acknowledge the perceptive remark. “I’m not in the market for a wealthy lover.”
Findley grinned. “I hope not. Mrs. Wallace’s scones will be greatly missed.”
After Findley cleared the table efficiently, he accepted Morehouse’s help at the sink.
“Is there anything I should know about the household?” Morehouse asked.
“Mr. Taske is considered eccentric,” Findley said carefully. “He travels quite a bit, often without giving much notice to the staff. He’s meticulous, punctual, particular about details, and very generous.”
“How long have you been carrying a torch for him?” the house manager asked gently.
“Since he saved my life.” Findley turned off the taps. “I guess I always will, at least in my heart.”
“You’re young.” Morehouse covered his hand briefly. “You should leave room for another flame.”
Findley glanced at him. “Should I?”
“One never knows what the future will hold.” Morehouse frowned. “Did I say something funny?”
She managed to set everything down without dousing the patient. “I’m playing delivery girl. The orchids are from Samuel, the roses are from Jean- Marc, and the wildflowers are from the large grumpy man stalking me.”
“I wanted to carry some of the flowers,” Sean told Taire as he started piling gift bags on the end of her bed. “She said she didn’t need any help.” He glanced over his shoulder before taking a grease-stained cardboard box out of one of the bags. “Medium-thin-crust pepperoni and sausage, extra cheese,” he murmured. “Should still be hot.”
Taire yelped with joy and tore open the box, ripping out a slice and sinking her teeth into it. She closed her eyes and groaned with pleasure.
Rowan gave him a dirty look. “You brought her pizza? For breakfast?”
He leaned back against the wall. “I’d bring her a beer, too, if she was old enough to drink one.”
“Well, at least I was thinking about her nutritional requirements.” Rowan took a can of Coke out of her jacket pocket, which she opened and set beside the pizza box. “Tah-dah.”
Taire swallowed, took a drink from the soda, and then looked from Rowan to Sean. “What, no Snickers bar?”
“Shit. Be right back.” Sean disappeared.
“I love watching his butt when he runs.” Rowan came around the bed, and when Taire scooted over climbed in beside her. “So I talked to the doc on the way in, and he says I can maybe bust you out of here on Friday.” Before Taire could say anything, she held up a finger. “As long as you don’t pop any stitches, refuse to do your therapy, or give the nurses any grief.”
“I’ll do extra therapy,” Taire promised. Some of the happiness left her expression. “Where am I going to live now, though?”
The King mansion had been declared unsafe for further occupancy, and since the heir to Gerald King’s estate had decided to donate the land to a free medical clinic for underprivileged children, it was slated for demolition in the spring.
“Well, Sean and I were just talking about that.” She took hold of the younger girl’s hand. “You know that you inherited like a million trillion dollars from Gerald, and with that you could build yourself a couple hundred new mansions—”
“No,” Taire said flatly.
“I didn’t think so, either.” She squeezed her hand. “Door number two is Samuel, your legal guardian thanks to all those papers we forged, who would love to have you come up and stay with him in Martha’s Vineyard, where you would be waited on hand-and-foot style and get to hang out at the country club and date very rich boys and dress way better than me.”
“I like Samuel a lot, but Martha’s Vineyard?” Taire looked doubtful.
“Which brings us to door number three. I really wanted you to live with me, but I also thought you might like to have your own place. I’m moving in with Sean, so my apartment is going to be empty. What do you think about moving in across the hall from us at D’Anges?”
Her chin dropped. “Really? You mean it?”
“Absolutely. Of course, it’s pretty small and basic, but we can redecorate and stuff. You’d still have to share the bathroom with us,” she tacked on.
Taire leveled a look at her. “Trick, I haven’t had
any
bathroom for like months now.”
“Okay, but sometimes Sean hogs the hot water,” Rowan warned. “And he’s a neat freak. Seriously. He folds the towels so much they’re like origami. I have to keep drying my hands on a swooping crane.”
Taire giggled. “You love him and you know it.”
If only the kid knew. “We’re working on it, but yeah. I do.”
“What about you and Jean-Marc?”
Rowan had explained her romantic triangle with Sean and Jean-Marc to Taire, who had accepted the ménage without a quibble. “I’ll also be spending some of my nights off over at Jean- Marc’s place,” she admitted. “He, ah, wants to paint me.”
“Oh, he wants to do a lot more than that,” her sister said, rolling her eyes.
“Stop talking about the damn Frenchman,” Sean said as he breezed in, and presented Taire with a Snickers bar. “Your dessert, Sweet Pea.”
Taire wrinkled her nose at Rowan. “He’s going to call me that forever, isn’t he?”
“It’s better than Cupcake,” Rowan grumbled.
They stayed with Taire until morning visiting hours were over. By that time she had fallen asleep, and Rowan used a tissue to wipe a betraying smudge of pizza sauce from her chin before tiptoeing out of the room with Sean.
“So who did she pick?” Sean asked on the way down to the parking garage.
“Us.” She laughed as he picked her up and twirled her around. “I told you she would.”
“Samuel is a tough act to follow.” He kissed her. “I can’t believe I’m this happy.” He frowned. “She’s sixteen. We’ve just inherited a teenager.”
“Who is a multimillionaire,” Rowan reminded him, “and who can tear down a building with the power of her thoughts.”
“I don’t feel so good.” He pressed her against him. “I think I need to lie down.”
“Wait ’til we get home,” she said, patting his cheek. “Then I’ll tuck you in and rub your tummy.”
Sean reached out and hit the stop button on the elevator. “Why don’t you rub it now?”
The reader should be advised that despite the brilliance of my consultants and the fount of information provided by my resources, I am not by any means a trained chef or an expert on French cuisine. Any mistakes found herein should be attributed solely to me.
Anglais:
English
Bonsoir:
Good evening
Brigade de cuisine:
the hierarchy or pecking order of a restaurant or large kitchen staff
Ça ne va pas, non:
What’s the matter with you?
Charcuterie:
preparation or cooking of prepared or preserved meats
Chasse:
hunt, pursuit
Chez soi:
home place
Courgettes à la niçoise:
sautéed zucchini and tomatoes, Nice style
Cuisses de canard au chou:
roast duck legs with cabbage
Douce:
sweet
Écrase:
shut up
Enfant trouvé:
a deserted or abandoned child of unknown origins
Filet de boeuf au vin:
filet of beef with wine
Garde-manger:
the pantry supervisor, or the chef responsible for preparing charcuterie, salads, cold dishes, and buffets
Jamais dans ma vie:
Never in my life
Je m’en fiche:
I don’t care
Je suis désolé:
I’m sorry
La marche en avant:
a principle of French restaurant kitchen work design that ensures that food moves through the kitchen efficiently and that clean items never cross the path of unclean items (literally: “the move forward”)
Le bébé:
the baby
Loup de mer rôti aux herbes:
whole sea bass roasted with herbs
Maison:
home
Mise en place:
a line cook’s setup at his workstation, where he maintains the various oils, seasonings, and other supplies he needs for cooking. Also known as
meez.
Moules farcies gratinées:
mussels with green garlic butter
Mûre:
blackberry
Naturellement:
naturally
Non:
no
Oeufs à la neige:
Floating Island (literally: “eggs in snow”)
Onglet aux échalottes et aux frites:
steak with shallot sauce and french fries
Oui:
yes
Parties:
a group of chefs
Pâtissier:
the pastry cook, or the chef in charge of pastry making, desserts, and sweet dishes; in smaller restaurants can double as the chef in charge of pasta making, bread making and all baked dishes
Petits pois aux morilles:
ragoût of peas and morels
Plongeur:
dishwasher
Pot-au-feu de fruits de mer:
seafood stew (literally: “pot on the fire with fruits of the sea”)
Poulet demi-deuil:
truffled chicken (literally: “chicken in half mourning”)
Ratatouille:
thick vegetable stew
Rôtisseur:
the roast cook, or the chef in charge of preparing fried, grilled, or roasted foods
Saucier:
the sauce maker, or the chef, who is in charge of preparing sauces and finishing meat dishes, and who also prepares warm appetizers; often the most respected chef in a restaurant kitchen
Saumon sauvage juste tiède:
warm wild salmon filets
Tarte à la crème vaudoise:
a type of Swiss cream tart
Trinxat:
cabbage and potatoes (literally: “chopped”)
Tournant:
kitchen helper, chef’s assistant
Très bien:
very good
Trouvaille:
discovery
Trufflieres:
truffle hunters (origin: Italian)
Vous êtes tout excusé:
it’s quite all right