Chapter Ten
I had never set anything on fire before, whether it be by accident or on purpose.
Apparently there really was a first time for everything, I thought, leaping away from the foot high flames with a cry of shock. My fingers shot to my forehead, checking to see I still had my carefully shaped brows. My face was hot to the touch, and I couldn’t decide if the heat was a result of having my nose too close to the flames for comfort, or embarrassment at earning myself the undivided attention of everyone in the room.
When Mom had suggested the three of us enrol in a cooking class held twice a week in Fort Sangrey, both Annabel and I had laughed. We’d genuinely thought she was joking. When she didn’t join in, our chuckles died away and we both immediately started making excuses as to why we couldn’t possibly do something so insane.
None of us had ever cooked a meal before in our lives. The closest I’d ever come was watching our chef Marco work his magic in the kitchen, and Annabel’s experience with cooking started and ended with her dating a chef. Now between us, we had miles more experience than Mom, whose only knowledge of food came from eating it.
We’d been living off microwave meals and two minute noodles for the entire three weeks we’d been here. Even Gryphon had turned his nose up at the state of our pantry when I’d dragged him inside for lunch one day while he’d been working on our porch. The very next morning he’d arrived with a picnic hamper courtesy of Mrs. Scott, who’d prepared a lasagne and salad for all of us.
I had no idea where Mom’s sudden interest in home cooked meals had come from, but I had to admit the idea of freshly cooked vegetables made me salivate in anticipation. Of course, just because I was intrigued by the idea of better nutrition didn’t mean I wanted to actively participate. There was a reason I didn’t meddle in the kitchen, and I was demonstrating my lack of skills spectacularly.
“Ma chérie,!” Jean Claude exclaimed, rushing over to my work station. He was ringing his hands either side of his head, big brown eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them.
Muttering in French under his breath, he turned my stove off, snatched the bag of flour from the adjacent bench top, and doused the flaming frying pan with it. A white cloud of dust rose between us, and I coughed around a mouthful of it.
“What are you thinking?” Jean Claude cried, indicating the bowl full of water I was holding. I’d been about to put out my own fire, thank you very much.
“Water on a grease based fire? Do you want to burn my kitchen to the ground?” he continued, taking the bowl from me and returning it to the sink. He spoke like I was a particularly slow child, and annoyance started to flare in my chest.
Okay, so I hadn’t known I was about to make the situation worse. He didn’t have to treat me like a complete idiot. I’d made it perfectly clear at the start of the class that I couldn’t so much as boil an egg. It wasn’t my fault he thought I was some hilarious joker and had set me up at a work station to make beef bourguignon. I couldn’t even pronounce the dish, so what made him think I could freaking cook it?
“Oh, ma chérie,” Jean Claude tsked, shaking his head. “I gave simple instructions. Lightly brown the beef. Never did I say scorch it until it was black, or set it alight.”
He broke off into French again while giving me a disparaging glare, and the more he said, the angrier I got. Unbeknownst to him I’d been taking French lessons since I was six and could speak it almost as fluently as he could. Currently, he was bemoaning the existence of pretty girls who had no brains.
“I can understand you perfectly well,” I interrupted heatedly, clamping my arms across my chest. He appeared doubtful until I continued. “I have plenty of brains, I’ll have you know. Just because I can’t cook beef like Martha Stewart does not mean I’m stupid. It just means I’m not destined to be a housewife which is fine by me.”
“Jean Claude,” Mom interrupted, saving me before the situation escalated any further. “I think my daughter and I will work as a pair from here on out.”
She started tugging me over to her station across the room while Jean Claude regarded both of us with a hint of dismay. Earlier in the lesson Mom had scratched Jean Claude’s granite counter with a knife when she’d forgotten to lay a chopping board down. Then she’d burnt herself while browning her beef.
Annabel had happily taken up the role of teacher’s pet as soon as we’d walked in the door and she’d discovered our instructor was tall, French, and under the age of forty. She’d gone from her usual brazen self to demure in a heartbeat and had monopolised Jean Claude since the beginning of the lesson, calling him over for every little thing. She’d even demanded he whisper each ingredient to her in native French. Because every woman just swooned over a man translating carrot to carrrottttttte.
“Suck up,” I whispered as Mom dragged me past Annabel.
“Jealousy is an ugly trait, Kitty Kat,” Annabel said with exaggerated innocence, inspecting the manicure she’d given herself the previous day. Then she grinned deviously at me when she was sure Jean Claude wasn’t listening.
I could hear the twitters of the twelve other people in the room, all annoyed their precious cooking time had been interrupted by the likes of me. Annabel and I were the youngest in the class by at least ten years. The other woman exuded a confidence in the kitchen I just knew I’d never have, and it prompted me to think back on the flyer Mom had brought home with her last week.
Apparently when the advert boasted the message ‘Appropriate for all ages’, it meant all ages who could already cook and knew how not to set a house on fire. The lesson seemed to drag on to infinity, and once we were finally done with our finished products in front of us, I nearly broke out into a chorus of hallelujahs.
The only thing left was the taste test. Both the person who prepared the dish and Jean Claude were permitted to sample. I graciously passed up the opportunity, as did Mom. I glanced warily at the plate in front of us. It actually looked like gourmet pig food. Blackened, crunchy, gourmet pig food.
Jean Claude made the rounds, complementing everyone on their hard effort and stellar results. He studiously avoided our bench in the back, which was fine by me. Even Mom let out a tiny sigh of relief when he bypassed us to taste Annabel’s instead. Of course hers looked just about perfect, but that would be because Jean Claude had practically cooked it himself while Annabel praised his godlike talents in the kitchen.
“How many classes did you sign us up for?” I asked as we pushed out of the building and into the street.
It was just after seven, the last rays of the setting sun sitting low in the sky. In Manhattan, you wouldn’t be able to see most of the sunset for all of the skyscrapers and high rise apartment buildings. The city often grew dark before the day was over, shadows throwing themselves far and long, beaten back only when the street lamps lit up. Here, there was nothing over two storeys, and everything was generously spaced, allowing for large gaps that natural light spilled through in an effort to keep the quaint establishments illuminated.
“Twelve,” Mom said around a weary sigh. Despite the lack of cold, she pulled her fitted black jacket tighter around herself.
I actually whimpered at the thought of having to return to Jean Claude’s kitchen. Beside me, Annabel whooped in delight.
“What?” she said, blinking at our matching incredulous stares. “He’s French. And lovely. And dreamy. And French. Did I mention he was French?”
“I knew it,” Mom said, shaking her head at her younger sister. “Mom found you in a trash can. This proves it; we’re not blood related.”
Laughing, Annabel wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her side. “Yep, so that means you must have found your lovely daughter in the same trash can. Can’t mistake this family resemblance.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Mom insisted, leading the way up Melrose to where we’d parked our car on Goldberg Street.
Fort Sangrey was surprisingly busy; when we’d driven into town around five PM there hadn’t been a single park within three blocks of Jean Claude’s establishment. The walk hadn’t been a bother; we’d wandered down the streets looking at the store front windows.
“Well if I date him, we won’t have to cook now, will we?” Annabel commented, linking her arm with mine.
“No, but we would have to put up with him Frenchifying everything.” I put on my best smouldering glance and an over the top French accent. “Zis iss a carrrrottte, Annabel. But in French ve say caarrrrotttte.”
Me and Mom burst out laughing while Annabel pouted, commenting on our lack of maturity. This caused a heated debate between Annabel and I over the pros and cons of dating a French man. Specifically, the French man I’d just had to endure two hours with. My first con was that whenever I heard his patronising tone I had the strangest urge to gouge out my own eyeballs with a rusty fork.
I opened my mouth to beg Mom to back me up, only she was no longer standing beside me. Confused, I whipped about to discover her across the road, peering at something stuck to the window of a small law firm. Given how small the town was, I was betting it was the only law firm here.
“What’s up?” Annabel asked as we crossed the street to join her.
Mom was so deep in thought she didn’t appear to notice we’d sidled up to her. Intrigued, I peaked over her shoulder to investigate. Taped to the inside of the window facing out was an advertisement. The law firm was looking for a paralegal to work five days a week. They were offering a free dental plan and health insurance as well.
Like me, Annabel had read over Mom’s shoulder, and she clucked her tongue in uncertainty. “Viv, you’re a lawyer, and a damn good one too. You’re not a lawyer’s assistant. Why are you even looking at something like this?”
Mom turned to scoff at Annabel. “Look around you. Remember where we are. Right now I don’t have a job, period. I may have paid our rent up for the next twelve months, but I still have to figure out how we’re going to eat, or keep the power on, or put gas in the car. The bills aren’t going to pay themselves.”
“I told you I would handle everything so you don’t need to dive into a job that’s an insult to your level of skills,” Annabel retorted, clamping her arms across her chest.
Expression bleeding sincerity, Mom reached out to cup Annabel’s cheek. “Honey, I didn’t let you come with us so you could pay for our expenses. This isn’t your burden to shoulder. Besides, the pay shouldn’t be too bad.”
I raised my eyebrows at that. Mom had been a partner at a major firm in the heart of New York, good enough at her job that her minimum rate was five hundred dollars an hour. Something told me the this quaint little firm out here with it’s mismatched paint job and chipped overhang wouldn’t offer their top employees anything over fifty - and that was being generous.
Before Annabel could continue her protest a man appeared from around the side of the building, a tattered briefcase in one hand, a half eaten chicken roll in the other. He paused mid bite at the sight of us, seeming unsure of himself as we all paused to watch him. Swallowing audibly, he wrapped the roll back in it’s plastic and for lack of anything else to do, tucked it into the inside pocket of his dark suit.
“Evening, folks,” he said, approaching us with a hesitant smile. His accent was a lot stronger than Gryphon’s, and I didn’t have to look to know Annabel was in major swoon mode over that lazy drawl.
“Is there something I can help ya’ll with?” He came to a stop closest to Mom, who was still frowning over the ad, trying to decipher a deeper meaning out of each and every word.
“Does everyone around here speak like you?” Annabel wanted to know, having gone over the edge at hearing the word “ya’ll” come out of his mouth. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet in barely contained excitement. It was enough to have me roll my eyes at her behind her back.
Clearly confused, the poor man scratched at a days worth of stubble over his strong jaw. “Uh, I suppose? I don’t really give it too much thought to be honest.”
He paused as he appraised the three of us more clearly. Mom in her stylish Italian Laura Biagiotti jacket and Jimmy Choo heels, Annabel in a miniskirt and sequined t-shirt. And yes, me in my favourite Capris and a high neck tank top. I’d temporarily given up the country girl look. It was just too damn hot for jeans and boots at the moment.
“I gather ya’ll aren’t from around here,” he concluded. Ten points to Captain Obvious, my mind shouted.
“We recently moved here from New York,” Annabel supplied. Between Jean Claude and this guy, she was ready to spontaneously combust from accent overload. T didn’t help that the man standing in front of us was undeniably attractive with his broad shoulders, thick blonde hair, and stormy grey eyes. I was certain the fact he was wearing a suit was another tick in Annabel’s books.
“Oh, city girls,” he said with genuine interest. “What brings you all the way out here to our fine town?”
“This ad,” Mom interrupted before Annabel could reply. She tapped the window with one slender finger. “Do you know anything about it?”
Mr. Suit and Tie didn’t even glance at it. “Well I’d hope so, seeing as I put it in the window earlier today.”
Now he had Mom’s undivided attention. She looked him up and down, clearly sizing him up. “So you work here?”
He pointed at the sign above our heads. “Jamison and Fredericks. I’m Jamison. Heath Jamison. And you look like you’re interested in the job we have going. What’s your name, darlin’?”
Mom blushed under Heath Jamison’s boyish charm. It was so noticeable both Annabel and I stared at her bug eyed. My mother, flustered over something as simple as this? The apocalypse was coming. That was the only explanation.
She shook the hand Heath offered her. “Vivien Vogel.”
“Vivien,” he repeated, smiling. “What a lovely name. And just quickly, may I ask, what experience do you have with the legal system?”
Annabel, who’d gone back to thinking Mom was far too good for this employment opportunity, scoffed loudly. “A master’s degree in commercial law from Princeton for starters.”
Heath let out an impressed whistle. “Ivy League. And definitely overqualified for an assistant’s job, it seems.”
“No,” Mom persisted. She unconsciously grabbed Heath by the arm, afraid he would leave without hearing her out. “I don’t mind the workload. I know what a paralegal does, I used to have two work for me. So I could do this, quite easily I imagine.”
Extracting himself gently from Mom’s grip, he glanced at the ad and back to her pleading face. “Oh, I have no doubt you could. If your background is as impressive as I’m imagining it to be, you could probably run me out of a job in a week.”
“I won’t overstep my bounds,” Mom insisted. “At least give me an interview. If you don’t like what you see after that, then I’ll leave without protest.”
Heath raked an appreciative stare over my mother from head to toe. “I don’t think that will be the problem.”
Releasing a defeated sigh, he dug around in his inside jacket pocket, the same one his chicken roll had disappeared to earlier, and retrieved a business card. Mom practically snatched it out of his grip, a smile blooming across her face.
“Tell you what, darlin’, call the office tomorrow and set up a time with Ned. He’s our receptionist. Just tell him I requested you.”
You would have thought the guy had just handed Mom a solid bar of gold with the way she seized him in a quick hug. While me and Annabel gawked like idiots and Heath’s face went red as a tomato, Mom giggled in elation, letting him go and straightening the lapels of his suit jacket.
“Sorry,” she blurted, her own face beginning to match his in colour. “So sorry.” She waved the card at him as he bid us goodnight and started backing away. “I’ll see you soon, then.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Annabel rounded on Mom with a stern expression. “Jeez, Viv, all he did was give you a card. It’s not like he offered to split his lottery winnings with you. Get a grip.”
But Mom refused to let anyone trample her good mood as she led the way back to our car, Annabel bickering in her ear the entire time. I didn’t say anything, mostly because this was the first genuine smile I’d seen on my mother in nearly two months. I decided I liked the sight, and I didn’t care what it took to make it happen. I just hoped it never went away.