Once he found a few examples of what a good chef’s resume looked like, he opened a new document in Microsoft Word and stared at it for a few minutes. He tried creating something attractive from scratch, but his Word skills were nil—that was Tess’s area of expertise, not his. Hell, even Abby’s book reports turned out nicer than anything he could put together on the computer. Maybe he could ask her…
No, he could do this. At least he could try.
So with a little tinkering around, he found Word’s resume templates, and while they weren’t anything special, they weren’t godawful, either. He picked one called contemporary and followed the wizard’s instructions that helped him fill it out, plugging in the asked for information, name and address, education, work experience, references. He thought of calling his references to check up on them, make sure they still worked where they said they did, but it was a Sunday and the chances of finding many of them at work or school were slim. He didn’t have cell numbers—eight years ago, had anyone had cell phones the way they did now? He couldn’t remember, but he didn’t think so. The numbers he had were work or office numbers, and didn’t think he’d be able to connect with anyone on the weekend.
Then he remembered he had a few letters of recommendation somewhere, and started digging through his old files to find them. Some of the files were in the computer closet, some in his bedroom closet upstairs, some in the closet in Tess’s room, where they kept important financial files such as their mortgage information and taxes. Finally he found a large envelope marked NY Recs tucked neatly into the bottom drawer of his dresser. When he pulled it out, he found four letters inside, each from a different executive chef under which he’d interned or apprenticed, either at school or on the job.
“Thank you, Jesus,” he sighed, tucking the letters back into the envelope. If Mel wasn’t going to let him cook for Greg, these reference letters were the next best thing to putting in a good word for him.
When Cam arrived for dinner that evening, Preston had printed his CV and held it out proudly. “Ta-da!”
A slow grin spread across Cam’s face. “What’s this?”
“My credentials,” Preston explained. “Such as they are. I hate the gap between my last job in New York and the River City, but I didn’t start working here immediately when I came home because I only came back to look after my dad. I didn’t really think I’d be staying all that long. But my mom took a turn for the worst, then Tess and I reconnected and she had this crazy idea of having a kid, and…well, you know the rest.”
Cam’s grin faded as he glanced over the one page document. He turned it over, looking for more, then turned it back when he realized Preston hadn’t printed anything on the back side. “This is it?”
Preston shrugged. “All the websites said to limit yourself to one page.”
“All the websites are crap,” Cam told him. “If you have the skills, you need to crow about them a bit. I’d expand your schooling to list out what all you learned there, then mention specific on-the-job training you picked up at each of these restaurants, too. Is this a standard template you used?”
Ducking his head, Preston admitted, “I know shit all about Word.”
Cam gave him an encouraging hug and kissed his cheek, then his lips. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m here then. Word’s second nature to me. The only program I know better is Photoshop, and you’ve seen what I can do with that.”
With a laugh, Preston told him, “Tonight you’ll earn your supper. It’s pot roast, by the way. Sunday’s the only day Abby lets me go all cheffy on her—that’s what she calls it. Pot roast, herbed potatoes, haricots verts with almonds—”
“That’s French,” Cam murmured into his ear. “I don’t know what it is, but it sounds so sexy.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but it’s green beans,” Preston whispered back.
Cam laughed. “Yeah, it sounds sexier in French. Now where’s your computer? I’ve got a CV to beautify.”
* * * *
Once Cam was finished tweaking Preston’s CV, the document came to two and a half pages and looked damn impressive. It listed the specific culinary skills he learned, both in the classroom and in the workplace, and even managed to make the day-to-day drudgery of his position at the River City sound exciting. Using the job descriptions Mel had sent over, Cam had liberally sprinkled the keywords and phrases throughout Preston’s past experience instead of dumping them into one section like he had. To Preston’s surprise, this made the words stand out instead of disappearing into the rest of the text.
He had to admit, on paper he made a damn fine chef.
As Cam sent a copy to his sister, Preston hovered nervously nearby. He couldn’t believe he was really looking for a new job, finally. After all the long hours and homophobic slurs he had to put up with while in Roger’s employ, after the snide comments every time he asked off when Abby had to stay home from school sick, after everything he’d had to deal with for so long…he almost couldn’t believe he would be getting out.
But the moment the email was sent, the doubt kicked in. What if his credentials weren’t good enough? What if Greg wasn’t impressed with his experience, or all the positions at Libbie Mill were already filled? What if he were stuck working at the River City for the rest of his life?
“Stop being so melodramatic,” Cam told him. “I know shit all about cooking and I recognize a few of the big foodie names on your resume, so someone like Greg—who’s spent the last month or so immersed in that world—will definitely pick up on all of them. You’re a shoo-in.”
Cam’s assertion helped boost Preston’s confidence, but the moment he left, the doubt crept back in. When Preston checked his email early Monday morning, he had a message from Mel that simply read, Got it!, nothing else, little encouragement that was. But when Cam called Monday night, he was excited about something. In fact, he couldn’t wait to tell Preston the good news.
“What good news?” Preston asked, cautious. “Let me guess. I already got the job.”
Cam laughed. “No, not that good. But Mel says Greg is super impressed with your creds and wants to see what you can do in the kitchen.”
Well, that was good. His interest piqued, Preston asked, “So now she wants me to bring something Saturday after all?”
“Better.” Cam let the word hang between them, waiting for Preston to ask.
Finally Preston couldn’t stand it any longer. “Better how? We’re still on for Saturday, right?”
“Oh yeah,” Cam assured him. “Only Mel isn’t going to be the one cooking. You are.”
“What?”
Cam hurried to explain. “She’ll have everything there. She won’t tell me what—Greg wants this to be like some sort of Masterchef test, or something, but she says you’ll have a variety to choose from. You and Abby show up around four or so, if that works for you, and you’ll have full use of her pantry and kitchen. Free reign. Menu’s entirely up to you.”
Preston felt a silly grin pull across his lips. “She’s inviting me over to dinner at her house that I have to make.”
“It’s basically an on the spot job interview,” Cam said. “Only don’t let on that I told you that. But if you nail it, chances are you’ll leave with a chef’s position. She said you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to—”
“Are you kidding? I’m in.” Writing a CV might not be his strong suit, but off the cuff recipes and cooking on the fly? That was where he excelled. Preston couldn’t wait.
* * * *
To prepare, Preston invited Cam to dinner every night during the week, with a catch. Cam had to bring three main ingredients for Preston to use in preparing the dish, and he couldn’t tell Preston what those three items would be ahead of time, either. They could be anything, but they had to be things that one normally wouldn’t think of using together. For instance, no chicken, rice, and tomatoes, or steak, potatoes, and mushrooms. Preston wanted to be challenged, forced to think outside the box, to be prepared for whatever Me
l would throw his way.
Everything Preston already had in his own kitchen and pantry could be used in the preparation of the meal, to go along with the spirit of Mel’s test. Even though he usually only cooked the same kid-friendly cuisine for Abby, Preston kept an impressive array of spices and herbs stocked on his shelves, and he looked forward to diving into them to see what flavors he could bring alive on the plate.
Monday Cam arrived with a bag of fresh blue crabs, green tomatoes, and goat cheese, which Preston made into a stunning salad topped with homemade vinaigrette dressing. Tuesday it was a capon, cornmeal, and jalapeño peppers, which became roasted chicken with spiced cornbread stuffing. Wednesday, Preston turned pork belly, bok choy, and rice noodles into a tasty Asian stir-fry. On Thursday, he braised short ribs in a red wine reduction and served them with homemade ravioli in an alfredo sauce concocted from scratch. And Friday he made Thai-inspired pizzas with curry duck, fresh basil, tomatoes, cucumbers, and sweet chili sauce. Even Abby wanted a slice along with her usual Friday-night tacos.
By Saturday night, he felt he could handle anything Mel might possibly throw at him. When Cam texted him in the afternoon to see if he was ready for the evening, Preston’s reply only had two words in it.
Bring it.
Abby was as excited as he was about their dinner date, but for a different reason. “Can I wear my wings?” she asked, jumping around her room as Preston tried to brush her hair into some semblance of order.
“No.” He managed to get the brush through one section, only to snag it in the next. “Honey, stand still.”
Instead, Abby swooped down and scooped up her photo book. “Can I bring this? Jocelyn hasn’t seen it yet.”
Preston shook his head. “She has her own. I don’t want you to lose yours or leave it at her house accidentally, so no.”
“Aww!” Abby plopped down on her bed, pouting, but at least she was still enough he could smooth down her hair a bit. Then she noticed another book on the floor and bent to retrieve it, almost pulling the brush out of his hands in the process. “Can I bring this instead?”
It was one of her fairy chapter books. “We’re going over to eat dinner,” Preston told her. “This isn’t a book club. Besides, I thought Joss said she had all those books anyway. You can read hers while you’re there if you want.”
Abby threw the book down and pouted harder, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “No fair!”
“Hey! Listen.” Preston caught her shoulders and turned her to face him.
She glared up at him, unwilling to meet his gaze, but he waited, patient, until she gave in. Finally, grudgingly, she frowned up at him. “What.”
“Do you know why we’re going over tonight?”
“So you can cook dinner,” Abby said. “Big whoop. You cook every night.”
He ruffled her hair, then smoothed it down again. “No, silly. We’re going over so I can see Mel’s house and make sure everything’s okay for when Jocelyn asks you to spend the night.”
Abby’s eyes slowly widened. She unfolded her arms, her shoulders relaxed, and her lips spread into a large grin. “Really? She’s going to ask me to sleep over?”
“Not tonight,” Preston warned.
But it was too late—Abby didn’t care. She bounced on her bed and shook her head, mussing her hair. “I’ve never had a sleepover before!” she cried, her excitement back. “We’ll stay up all night talking about all the books, and I’ll wear my wings—can I wear them then, Daddy?”
“As long as you don’t sleep in them.” He caught her shoulder and made her sit up straight. “Let me fix your hair again, it’s all messed up. Do you want me to put it in a braid?”
“No!” She clamped her hands on the top of her head and tried to pull away. “Fairies don’t have braids. I like my hair long.”
“Then stop moving around so much,” he told her, “and let me brush it out. It looks like a rat’s nest.”
Abby shrieked and wrinkled her nose, but at least she sat still. At last.
* * * *
Preston drove by Cam’s to pick him up before heading to Mel’s. He’d never been inside, but it was a nice garden apartment in a complex not too far from Short Pump, where the photography studio was located. As he pulled into the parking lot, he asked Abby to send Cam a text letting him know they were there. He slowed down, unsure of the exact apartment number, but then he saw Cam step out from a breezeway up ahead. He pulled to a stop in front of the sidewalk and lowered the passenger side window.
Leaning across the seats, he called out, “Hey, stranger. Want some candy?”
Cam grinned as he leaned into the window. “Hmm, I don’t know. What kind do you have?”
“What kind do you like?” Preston asked with a wink.
From the back seat, Abby perked up. She’d been playing Angry Birds on his phone, but now she sat forward and asked, “Candy?”
Rolling his eyes, Preston said, “No one has any candy, honey. We’re kidding around. Besides, you’d spoil your dinner.” To Cam, he added, “Hop on in, cowboy.”
Abby laughed as Cam climbed into the passenger seat. “You’re a cowboy?”
“Why not?” Cam asked. “You’re a fairy.”
She looked at him a moment longer, then shook her head. “You are not. You don’t have a cowboy hat or cowboy boots.”
“Maybe I have them at home,” Cam said, smug.
As Preston navigated out of the parking lot, he looked sideways at Cam. “Do you really? Because cowboys are hot.”
“I’m sure I could rustle some up, pardner,” Cam drawled. “Not real ones, of course, but props from another studio. After we do the whole reading French in bed thing. Au naturale.”
Preston grinned. “You know, you keep saying you don’t know any French, and then you bust out with these words and phrases at the oddest times that make me think you know more than you think you do.”
“I thought it was nicer than saying buck naked in front of you know who,” Cam pointed out.
Behind them, Abby looked up from the app on Preston’s phone. “What?”
Chapter 14
It was nice seeing Mel and Jocelyn again, though Preston was nervous to finally meet Greg. He was a tall, bearish man with thick, sandy hair and a heavy beard that Preston hadn’t expected. Whenever he’d thought of Greg, he’d always pictured a clean-cut man in a business suit, trim and fit, with a winning smile and firm handshake.
Well, Greg had quite a handshake, alright, though his gruff manner seemed more suited to a backyard barbecue or a local brewery than a fine dining establishment like Libbie Mill. The first thing he said to Preston confirmed this. “I’ll admit I don’t know half the fancy food on the menu,” he quipped. “We had a tasting the other day and I still don’t know what all I ate. Sure was good, though.”
“You brought the menu home, dear.” Mel handed him a piece of heavy cardstock, richly decorated on both sides with scrollwork and ornate lettering. Preston could tell from the layout that the back page was a wine list, and he itched to take a look at the other side. Flashing him a smile, Mel said, “In fact, since Greg knows what these entrees are supposed to taste like, and this is the sort of food you’d be cooking if you got the position anyway, we thought we’d have you recreate something off the menu for tonight’s dinner. If you want.”
Greg passed the menu over to Preston, who scanned it eagerly and then settled in to read each dish in more detail. Cam leaned over his shoulder to read it, too. Girlish laughter came to them from another room somewhere in the house; Jocelyn and Abby had already drifted away, leaving the adults to their own devices.
Despite Greg’s warning, the menu was fairly straightforward. There wasn’t anything on it Preston didn’t recognize, nothing he couldn’t make. The appetizers were limited to cheese and crackers, fried oysters, bruschetta and melba toast, deviled eggs, and a southern platter of chicken wings, jalapeño poppers, pork rinds, and fried green tomatoes. There was a small selection of fresh soups that
changed daily, and a handful of salads, including a garden, a chef, a crab, and a watermelon that sounded pretty good. The dressings all sounded as if they were made in-house.
It was the entrees that he concentrated on. There were the standards—burger, steak, chicken, and seafood. But each had their own specific twist he would have to emulate to perfection. The steak was marinated in a soy sauce/horseradish blend and served with garlic potatoes, smashed not mashed, with the marinade drizzled on top as a sauce. The burger was made from angus beef and stuffed with pimento cheese, served with bacon jam, onion straws, and haystack potatoes. The chicken was slow roasted in a strawberry-kiwi barbecue sauce he would have to make from scratch and came with a side of lemon mint rice salad and succotash. The seafood option was salmon, glazed with sweet tea and cooked on a red wine-soaked cedar plank, served with broiled shrimp smothered in Old Bay seasoning and buttery grits.
He had his work cut out for him. And he hadn’t even looked at the desserts.
“Which do you want me to make?” he asked. “Am I taking orders, or making one dish for everyone, or what exactly?”
Mel and Greg exchanged a look Preston couldn’t read. “Well,” Cam’s sister said, “personally I like salmon, and I happen to already have the wood planks soaking in wine. There are four—the girls can have fish sticks and tater tots. If that’s something Abby will eat?”
Preston laughed. “You’ll be her new best friend if you don’t make her eat fish with the skin still on it. The only way she likes her fish is breaded and molded into funky shapes.”
With a grin, Mel said, “I was counting on that. Joss is the same way. These are shaped like actual fish, or some such nonsense. So the salmon will work for you?”
“I love salmon,” Cam said.
Mel waved her hand, shooing him off. “I already know that.”
“It was my favorite dish on the menu,” Greg admitted.
“Then that’s the one I’ll make,” Preston said. “Which way to the kitchen?”
* * * *
Recipe for Romance Page 13
