Gate, guardhouse, cameras tucked into the stone like eyes. There’s a second fence inside the first and a drive that curves for no good reason. Maybe for suspense? I press my palms flat on my thighs and tell myself to breathe. Kitchens, I understand. Fortresses, less so.
“Chef?” the driver says, like he’s not sure if I’m that yet.
“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone who slept. I didn’t. “Back entrance.”
He nods. He already knew. This is the kind of place where people already know.
We roll past tidy hedges trimmed within an inch of their life. There’s a separate lane that looks like deliveries, screened by trees so you don’t have to see them happen. The side door is big enough to drive a small car through. Two men in dark suits stand there like statues with earpieces. One taps a tablet, checks a list, looks at my face and then at the knives in my bag.
“Bianca Marcelli,” I say before he asks.
He nods, and a woman appears behind him.
She has a tablet in hand. Neat ponytail. Navy sweater, black pants, flats that say she walks all day. She looks me up and down fast—chef coat folded over my arm, tote on my shoulder, cooler in my hand—and steps back to let me through.
“Good morning,” she says. “I’m Vivian. House manager.”
“Bianca,” I say. “Marcelli.”
“Welcome.” She steps back so I can pass. “Kitchen’s this way.”
I shoulder my bag. The door opens on a corridor that’s too bright and too quiet. Floors that look like they never get dirty.
I catch a glimpse of a huge family room off to the left that looks like a magazine—low couches, big windows, a view of the water—and then we’re in the service hall. The air changes as soon as we hit the kitchen threshold. Cooler and warmer at the same time.
It smells like stainless and electricity and espresso from the giant machine taking up one massive section of counter.
It's a showy kitchen, but also a cook’s kitchen. Beautiful and practical.
Two long islands with heavy tops and drawers that close with a whisper. Six-burner on one side, a second on the other. Two wall ovens, glass so clean it might not exist. A salamander broiler tucked under a steel shelf. A walk-in behind opaque glass. It’s new but not fussy.
“You’ll have this room,” Vivian says, sweeping a look around that covers refrigerator to mop sink. “And the butler’s pantry. Two helpers who know their way around a kitchen. One dishwasher, and two runners.”
“Any house rules?” I ask. I like to know how much rope I’ve got before I start pulling it tight.
“No smoking,” she says dry. “No phones while working unless there’s an emergency. If you need something, ask me. We don’t shout. We don’t cut corners. We don’t let contractors wander. You’ll find staff here follow directions if they are clear.”
Clear I can do. “All right.”
“Deliveries arrived twenty minutes ago,” she says. “Cold went into the walk-in. Dry is staged there.” She nods to a clean rack, boxes stacked, labels facing out. If she wasn’t a house manager, she could run a garde-manger station.
She steps to the walk-in and opens it. Cold air rolls out. The shelves are neat. The top shelf holds a perforated pan over ice. I can see antennae twitch.
“Your langoustines,” Vivian says, matter-of-fact. “Driver signed for them at 6:00. Still lively.”
“Good,” I say. My chest loosens a notch. “Dry storage?”
She closes the door and steps to a double-door off to the side. “Pantry is here.” She points to a wall of cabinets. “Upper left. Flour, sugar. Oils here. Vinegars there. Two refrigerators besides the walk-in—beverages in the tall one, dairy and eggs in the other. Smallwares in those drawers, knives in this block, but you probably brought your own.”
“I did.” I set my tote and cooler on the island. “Is the staff in?”
“Not yet. Mr. Conti—Giovanni—said you requested some space for prep, so they’ll be arriving at noon. I’ll introduce you when they’re in.” She taps her tablet. “There are still additional deliveries to come. Produce is 9:15. Cheese at 1:00. I’ll sign if you’re gone by then. I don’t have anything for wine.”
“I picked the wine myself,” I say, patting the cooler. “I’m picky about my pairings.”
“If you provide the receipts, you will be reimbursed,” Vivian continues, all business.
“I still have some more purchases, so I’ll gather them all at once,” I say, while taking everything in. “Is there anything that’s off-limits?”
