The first step toward change is awareness. The second step is acceptance.
~Nathaniel Branden
***
Savannah was arranging the third, and last, layer of lasagna noodles when a spitting image of Clair, Mrs. Sifton, though a wee taller, walked in with a ton load of books in both her hands. Savannah wiped her hands on the towel and walked up to the girl.
"Here. Let me help you," Savannah said, taking half the load. "Jesus!"
"I know. Heavy, very heavy. Thanks, though."
"No problem."
"Who are you, by the way?"
"Hi. Savannah Reece. Nice to meet you. And, you are?" she rattled off.
The girl chuckled. "Stella. Stella Jane. Why are you here?"
"Long story. Can we keep these tomes inside first? You accompany me back into the kitchen, I'll tell you there?"
"Sure. So, you're a cook."
Savannah chuckled, which sounded more like a strangled laugh because of the bulky books she was carrying. "Something like that."
Stella's room wasn't far off, which was a blessing. Savannah winced at the thought itself of carrying those encyclopedias to the second floor had her room been there.
Both the women brushed off their hands. Stella dropped down on the bed while Savannah put her hands on her knees as she caught her breath.
"Why do you have so many books?"
"Because I'm a law student. Too much to read," Stella told her.
"Okay, come on. I have exactly the thing for you."
Stella whined. "Come where?"
"Don't be a baby, come on," she said, before she realized she wasn't speaking to Abbey or Dave. She was speaking to someone she'd met barely moments ago.
"Sorry. That didn't come out right."
"Chillax, Savannah Reece. I don't mind."
"'Kay then. Come."
"You go ahead, be there in a minute."
"Sure."
Savannah walked back to the kitchen, layered her lasagna and put it in the oven. Then, she started working on her signature lemonade.
"Pepper?" Stella asked.
"You're here. Sorry, I didn't notice. Yeah. Try it." She poured some in a glass and handed it to Stella.
Stella sampled it. "Mmm... This is so good. So refreshing."
"Oh, it's just normal lemonade. I just added the pepper so that your senses are awakened. I absolutely love the spiciness of peppercorns and the way it energizes you. And, then there's lemon to refresh—"
"Belle?"
"Beau?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Long story. Come, sit, drink and listen."
"Stel!" Rhett exclaimed, twirling her in his arms. "How are you?"
"Doing good. You?"
"Oh, I met belle now, so I'm the best I ever could've been."
"Belle?"
"That would be me," Savannah informed.
"I see. Anyway, long-story time."
"Yeah. Yeah. I'll tell you," she said as she cut the baguette into perfectly same size slices. "So I am a chef. Sorry to disappoint you, Stella, but I'm not a cook—"
"You're a pro chef, I can very well see that." Savannah saw Stella gaping at the baguette she was slicing and laughed. "How are you doing that? It's exactly the same," she gasped, two slices in each of her hands, her eyes trying desperately to find an error. "You aren't even looking at the baguette or the knife while slicing. How?"
Rhett also gasped having just noticed that. "Yeah... How are you doing that? Jesus Christ! Aren't you scared of slicing your finger?"
Zachary entered the kitchen just in time to see Rhett's response making her laugh.
Laugh number eight. Dammit!
"Zac!" Stella screamed, as she lunged at Zac. He caught her and spun her around, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he put her down.
"Hey, kiddo."
Savannah smiled at the endearment. She knew that word all too well. Unknowingly a tear escaped her eyes. It had been much too long since she'd last heard it.
"Chef—why're you crying?" Zac asked, suddenly standing beside Rhett.
"Belle?"
"Uh, no, no. Nothing major," she wiped her tears. "Dave, my brother, used to call me that—kiddo. And, it's been really long since I last saw him. When I'm home, he isn't and when he can, I'm touring. Sorry."
"Aw... cute." Stella paused, and got right back to the point. "Anyway. Long-story was interrupted, but you can continue now."
Savannah chuckled. "Sure," she said, going back to slicing. "I have been hired by your eldest brother, here, until the gala. I'm responsible for what the elites who're invited eat that day. And, then, I go back to Boston—unless I'm called somewhere else quickly enough."
When she mentioned leaving, something twisted in his gut. Why?
"That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking you why you're here, in the Sifton villa?"
"Stella," Zac warned, but was waved off by Savannah.
"Valid question," she agreed, and narrated the whole incident.
"Oh..." Stella glanced at the chopping board and gulped. "You're done? When? How? So fast?"
"Yeah." Savannah applied the garlic butter she'd made on the slice, then sprinkled some chili flakes and kept it on the baking tray. "Why?"
"You're too good, man. God! I can't stay here anymore. I'll look like some sick fish, opening and closing my mouth every few minutes."
"As you wish. Well, now, my turn. Why did you bring so many books? Huge ones at that. I just couldn't do that during my college days."
Stella smirked. "A pair of glasses, too many stacks of books and impeccable argument skills is what they promise in the course, right? And, since that's what I signed up for, it's what I get."
"Jesus, woman, look at your attitude. I would've been bawling my eyes out despite knowing it's what I asked for."
Stella chuckled. "Well, now that you say it, you haven't tell us where you graduated from. Tell us, come on."
"I graduated from Boston University in hospitality management. Then I got my Grand Diplôme from Le Cordon Bleu, France."
"Woah! You are a Le Cordon Bleu chef, no wonder you have such knife skills. But, wait. Zac is also from BU."
"Is it? Well, coincidence then," she shrugged.
"How have we not met? I was pretty famous in college, you would have heard of me, if not I you."
Oh, trust me, I'd more than just heard about you, she thought.
"Well, I wasn't exactly social back then. It would be safe to call me a... recluse? So, yeah," she lied.
They'd had a history together. But she didn't want to go there, not now, not ever. And especially not with him, of all people. She was here for three months—she had to guard herself from him till then, and everything would be smooth as freaking butter.
"Um, by the way, I forgot to ask you if you would like some lemonade?" she asked him, hoping no one would notice her active diversion.
"Zac, you gotta try it. That's, by far, one of the best lemonades I've ever had," Stella chimed in.
"True that," came from Rhett as he ever so slowly sipped his drink.
"Well, now if I say no, I'll be missing out on some pretty tasty stuff, won't I? Give me a glass."
She poured out more into another glass and offered it to him. She couldn't help but observe as he took the glass to his lips—oh, God; those lips—and sipped. She was eagerly waiting for his comments to drop in—good or bad. And, although she told herself that her enthusiasm to hear what he had to say was strictly professional, deep down she knew it was something else.
"This is really delicious. My God—is that pepper?"
"Yep."
"You put pepper in there," he asked, swirling the drink.
"I think I just agreed to that..." She disappeared further into the kitchen and returned with three eggs, butter, flour and sugar carefully balanced on one hand and one flan pan, a rolling pin and a whisk in the other.
"That's it, guys, I'm leaving here. This woman balancing things on her hands like she's a bloody circus ringmaster is insane. I can't take it anymore," Stella said, exasperated.
"Come on, Stel. Don't tell me you expected any less from your future sis-in-law. My woman has to be fucking talented."
"Your woman, huh?" Savannah quirked her brow, as she single-handedly broke one egg into a bowl without looking.
"No! Wait! How are you doing that!" with a sigh, came from Stella, again.
"Come here I'll teach you."
"You will?" Her face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Why not? Of course, I will. Come on." She scooped up the second egg in her right hand. "Hold it like this. Your palm heel and base of thumb should be firm around the egg. Good. Then crack the egg on any surface—I prefer the rim of the bowl; makes it easier." She cracked her egg and gestured to Stella to follow the suit.
"Whew! So far so good."
"Uh-huh. The main part is yet to come, Stella Jane. Like I said, hold the egg firm between the palm heel and thumb's base. Then, move the fingers forward, like this. And, ta-da!" Stella tried doing the same—really well for a beginner—but accidently dropped a piece of the shell in the bowl.
"Oh God! I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry."
"What for?"
"The shell..."
"It happens. This kinda trick will be perfect only after lots of practice. This is normal."
"But what will you do now?"
"Watch me." She used another, larger, egg shell shard and quickly removed the smaller one from inside the bowl. "Simple as that."
"What!" Stella gasped, then burst out into laughter.
"I told ya, Stella Jane," Rhett said, with a beaming proud smile, "my woman is fucking clever."
"Well, well. Thank you, Rhett. Well, that reminds me, I wanted to know what's with the medieval middle names for both of you? Yours is Julian, hers is Jane. Such period names; they're amazing, though. Timeless and imperial."
"Well, given that yours is Victoria, I'd say we're in the same boat. And, I hate to break this to you, but our middle names are nothing compared to his," he pointed at Zac, "when it comes to being medieval or imperial. But, I take it that you don't know his middle name?"
"No, I don't."
"Well then, tell her, why don't you, brother?"
"My full name is Zachary Maximilian Sifton."
Holy hell! That was some name he had. It had class, grandeur, power, authority, archaism... everything to it. Zachary Maximilian Sifton; it was such an aural name.
"Well?" from Rhett snapped her out of her trance.
"Um. I guess, I'd like to take all that I said back, now that I know his middle name is Maximilian."
Rhett laughed. "Anyway, belle, whatcha makin'?"
"Lemon shortbread tart," she told him, adding in the sugar to the mixture of beaten eggs, lemon juice and lemon zest, whisking it in. She set it aside and started working on the tart.
She rolled out the dough and arranged it in the flan pan. Just then, the oven dinged, indicating that the lasagna was ready. She took the lasagna-filled casserole pan out and set the oven at 350F for preheating.
"Jesus, belle, that smells lovely."
"Yeah?"
"Hell yeah. When're we eating lunch? Goddammit, I am ravenous after having sniffed that lasagna. And then seeing you bake garlic bread and make lemon tarts is a fucking trigger too."
"Oh? I was expecting something else."
"Like?"
"Me cooking being a turn-on, maybe?"
"Well, that has most definitely been the case since I walked in to you cooking."
It was so annoying, irritating, frustrating and...altogether vexing. Yes, it was worrisome too. Savannah's closeness with his brother, who was definitely younger to her—their age gap was obvious—was bothersome, as was their extensive flirting.
Why? Why did he feel so strongly, so quickly for her? It was almost as if something deep inside him wanted to protect her, be there for her. He didn't know why, but it was as if he knew that life hadn't been all roses for her, but thorns, more than her fair share of them. He felt as if he knew her from somewhere, like this wasn't the first time they were meeting, like she needed to be guarded from something.
He couldn't guess whether it was because of the sadness he'd seen in her eyes when she spoke of her brother, or her want to look right through him every time he was around—like it gutted her to be around him, hurt her physically.
Why? Why? Why?
Fits of laughter echoed through the house. That had to be his dad, Gerald Sifton. He hadn't been home this whole time? But he was supposed to leave for here immediately after his meeting with Savannah. Then realization dawned over him when he heard the familiar woofs. Oh...
—x—
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Thank you!!!
Until next time...