“Yes! Do you understand the stamina, the grit, the insanity required to survive one of those kitchens? Those chefs eat diamonds for breakfast and scream at the moon for dessert.”
I rub my forehead. “Mom… focus.”
“I am focused. I’m trying to ascertain the caliber of woman my son is apparently in emotional distress over.” A pause, then more sharply: “Who did she work under?”
“A guy named Marcus Hale.”
She gasps so loudly I nearly choke. “Marcus Hale?”
“Oh no,” I mutter. “Here we go.”
“That silver fox egomaniac? The one who refuses to plate anything that isn’t monochromatic? The man who once threw a risotto at a cameraman because the grain ‘lacked spiritual tension’?! That Marcus?”
“Yes,” I groan into the phone. “That Marcus.”
“Oh, sweetheart…” My mother exhales as if she just heard about a natural disaster. “Of course there was a scandal.”
“That is not helping.”
“Oh, please, Marcus is a walking lawsuit. A brilliant chef, yes, visionary palate, impeccable technique, but emotionally? He has the compassion of a tax audit."
I clutch the counter because that might be the most accurate description of Marcus I’ve ever heard.
She continues, “And you’re telling me this Delaney worked under him long enough to become tabloid fodder?”
“Yes.”
“That poor girl,” she says immediately, full of unfiltered sympathy.
I blink. “Really?”
“Oh, absolutely. Anyone who gets too close to Marcus Hale ends up bruised. The man is a Michelin-starred hurricane. His first ex-wife once toldVoguethat being married to him feltlike ‘living inside a pressure cooker set to explode.’ I sent her flowers.”
“Mom, I'm?—”
“Spiraling,” she finishes.
“Okay, Ma, let’s not roast me before breakfast.”
She laughs softly, and I can practically see her tipping her head back, dark hair swinging, expensive earrings catching the light. “I roast you because I love you. Otherwise, you’d float away like one of those awful biodegradable balloons.”
“Remind me again how you made a living telling people how to host charity brunches, and somehow this is your brand of comfort?”
“Because people trust the woman who says what everyone else is thinking,” she says. “Now. Are you eating anything or just stress drinking coffee again?”
I glance guiltily at the mug. “Define ‘eating.’”
“Silas.”
“I had a cookie.”
“A cookie is not breakfast. Your poor heart. And your skin. Have you been moisturizing?”
“Oh my goodness.”
“I’m serious. Stress shows up first in your face, and you’re far too pretty to waste.”
I scrub my hand over said pretty face. “Can we circle back to the part where my emotional support chef is being torn apart online?”
