Tonight I go for something more fun, thinking about the wonderful dinner I had at the Mexican restaurant. I make pork with pineapple and a spicy sauce, choosing to go easy on the pepper in case Mr. Edgewood has a low tolerance, then serve it in corn tortillas with a side of mango pico de gallo and Spanish rice. To top it off, I make him a soft tequila sunrise, going easy on the sugar and serving it with a lime.
Mr. Castle cocks a brow when he arrives to take Mr. Edgewood his dinner.
“I don’t know if he drinks,” I quickly tell him, “but I just thought I’d make it an experience.”
He tilts his head, studying me as if trying to read my face. “What did you do before this, Ms. Austin?”
Well, a few weeks ago, I was wondering if I’d have a black eye the next day. But before that…
“I was a sous chef.”
Maybe someday I could entertain doing that kind of work again, but I’d probably have to start over as a dishwasher after how I left my last job. Rather, how Andy made me leave my last job.
This seems to take Mr. Castle by surprise. “At a restaurant?”
“It’s a long story.” I nod my head toward the food. “While the food is still hot?”
Understanding my meaning, he takes the tray away with the cloche on top, disappearing out of the kitchen.
I don’t want to talk about it, truthfully. I don’t want to visit that place again, the way my life used to be. More than two years have gone by since I left the restaurant to be with Andy, and I regret every moment since. Now I’ve been out of work for ages with no references in a cutthroat job environment.
Edgewood Manor is the best avenue for me right now, and I don’t need Mr. Castle doubting my commitment to this job if he thinks I might leave it for another sous chef position.
I’m preparing the chicken to brine for tomorrow when he reappears, carrying a dish. He sets it on the counter between us, and with the slightest smile, he departs.
Curious, I lean over the plate.
A masterpiece of a meal.
I’m glad to see you back today.
-R
A flush creeps over my face. He liked it so much as to call it a “masterpiece”? My heart surges, immensely pleased at the praise. I worked hard to come up with something that would be original and exciting to his palate, and I think I succeeded.
That evening, I’m buoyed by this victory on my drive away from the manor. One of the ingredients I’d requested that Mr. Castle buy was whole cinnamon and fresh cream, which I secretly churned into ice cream while I was cookingdinner. I squirreled it away in a bowl that I’ll return to the house tomorrow.
Even though it’s chilly outside, I relish every last bite when I reach my new parking spot. Then I pass out cold.
I awaken to someone rapping on my car window. I jolt upright in the seat so fast that I hit my head on the ceiling of the car and yelp.
“Ms. Austin?” a familiar voice says. I rub my head as I turn to look at who’s found me, and it’s Mr. Castle peering in.
Goddamn it. I tried so hard to find somewhere nobody would stumble across me, and I’ve failed spectacularly.
My shoulders slump in defeat as I roll down the window. “Hi, Mr. Castle.”
“What are you doing out here?” he asks, concerned.
I glance around me, where my ice cream bowl from last night sits on the dash, my spare clothes cover the passenger seat, and I’ve got a blanket over me and a pillow under my neck. I think it’s pretty obvious, but it’s polite of him to ask.
“I’m so sorry,” I begin, but I’m cut off by tears rushing to my eyes. Ah, fuck, I can’t cry. I can’t cry. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. My car got towed when I parked it at the Thrifty Mart”—the tears are now spilling out of me in a waterfall—“and there was nowhere else to park in town, and I thought nobody would find me out here. I’m really sorry. Please, don’t fire me. I need this job.”
A sudden sob jerks my whole body, and I fall forward against the steering wheel.
“Ms. Austin.” Mr. Castle’s voice comes out firm and harsh. “Stop crying at once.”
I suck in a breath and look up to find him glaring down at me. “I’m sorry,” I say yet again. “I just can’t lose?—”
