"Tell me," I say, genuinely curious now. "How does David Winters' daughter end up executive chef at one of the most acclaimed restaurants in New England before thirty?"
She smiles, but there's a shadow behind it. "The usual way. Hard work, talent, good timing." A pause. "And a willingness to sacrifice almost everything else."
"Sounds familiar," I murmur.
"I imagine it does." She looks directly at me then, her gaze steady and searching. "That's why I'm here, you know. Away. I needed to remember what it feels like to cook for joy, not just for accolades or expectations."
"Burnout?" I ask.
"Something like that." She hesitates, then adds: "I had what you might call a public failure. A very important dinner, very important guests. And I just... froze. Couldn't plate a single dish. Had to have my sous take over while I hyperventilated in the walk-in."
The vulnerability in her admission touches something deep within me. I know that fear, that pressure, the weight of others' expectations crushing the joy out of creation.
"It happens," I say, inadequately.
"Not to me," she replies, a flash of steel beneath the softness. "Never to me. I was always the steady one, the reliable one. The one who never cracked." She shakes her head. "Until I did."
"So you ran away to the mountains," I observe, without judgment. "Like someone else I know."
She smiles faintly.
"I never meant to stay away so long," I admit, the confession surprising even me. "From your father. From that life. It was supposed to be temporary—a year, maybe two. Just until the scandal died down, until I figured out what came next."
"Why didn't you go back?" she asks, voice gentle.
I stare into the dying embers. "Time. Distance. Pride." I shrug. "After a while, it seemed kinder to let people believe I'd disappeared for good. Better that than return as a shadow of what I was."
"I don't think you're anyone's shadow," she says firmly. "And I don't think my father would think so either."
"How is he?" I ask, the question escaping before I can think better of it.
"Good," she says. "Retired now, but he still cooks. For friends, for family. For the joy of it." She pauses. "He would love to hear from you, you know."
I shake my head. "Too much time has passed."
"It's never too late to reconnect with someone who matters," she counters.
The simple wisdom in her words strikes me silent. We sit without speaking for several minutes, the fire crackling softly, the storm a distant backdrop of white noise.
"Can I ask you something personal?" she says finally, breaking the silence.
I almost laugh at the question. What have we been doing if not sharing the personal?
"You can ask," I reply, leaving myself room to refuse.
She takes a breath, as if gathering courage. "Have you been alone all this time? Twenty years is a long time to be by yourself."
The question cuts closer than I expected. "Yes," I answer simply. "By choice."
"But why?" she presses gently. "You're not—" She stops, seemingly reconsidering her words.
"Not what?" I ask, curious despite myself.
"Not someone who should be alone," she finishes. "You have too much to offer."
I laugh then, a short, surprised sound. "You've known me for less than a day. You have no idea what I have to offer."
"I think I do," she says, with a certainty that should be naïve but somehow isn't. "I see how you work. How you create. How you pay attention. Those aren't small things."
