by Hazel Parker
Enough overthinking. I unroll my knife holder and pluck out the first blade.
It’s time to cook.
Curtis is nice enough to check in on me from time to time as the hours pass. He offers me a glass of wine, which I regretfully decline. I don’t want to take time away from what I’m doing to even sip at a beverage.
The meal begins to come together like interlocking puzzle pieces. Everything is going to be ready on time, as long as I can keep moving, moving, moving.
A few minutes after six, there’s the faraway sound of the front door opening and allowing someone entrance. I can faintly hear Curtis talking with the arrival, who is presumably the man himself, Stone.
Stone appears momentarily in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a briefcase. If this is his rumpled, end-of-the-day look, he plays it off very well. Not a hair seems to be out of place.
“Ms. White,” he says, nodding to me. “Everything seems to be going well.”
It’s not very good diplomacy, but I keep at it at the cutting board rather than stop and talk with him. “Like clockwork,” I say. “It’ll be ready at seven sharp.”
“Excellent.” He stands there for a bit longer. I wonder if he’s going to say anything else or just eyeball me. It occurs to me that either one would be all right with me.
“Well,” he says at last, “I’ll leave you to it and see you shortly.”
With that, he leaves, and I’m alone again. I’m both pleased with myself that I didn’t miss a beat just now and a little disappointed that Stone hadn’t stayed longer.
Seven o’clock rolls around, and everything is finished, exactly as planned. I give the plate a last once-over, searching for any flaws or imperfections. I find none.
Stone is seated at the head of his inconveniently large dining room table again. He makes to stand when I enter the room, but I wave him back down with my free hand.
“You said casual,” I remind him, “so we’re keeping it casual.”
“Fair enough. It looks wonderful, even more so than the last time you were here.”
“Thank you.”
He accepts the plate and places it before himself.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask him.
“A chair,” he says immediately. “Why don’t you join me? I suspect that you made enough for two, yes?”
Actually, he’s right. When I’m on a job like this one—even though I’ve never been on one exactly like this one, oh no—I always cook at least two of everything. Call it my backup plan; in case something goes wrong with one dish, I have a second waiting in the wings.
Still, I feel a little bit grubby in my dressed-down outfit in such posh surroundings. “Thank you, but I’ve got a lot of cleanup to do. You enjoy, though.”
“Come on,” he prompts. “I want you to reap the benefits of what you’ve sown here. This looks like a truly magnificent meal.” He gestures not to the chair on the opposite end of the table, the one which had been occupied by Jamie Wells on that fateful night last Saturday, but to the one on the side, closer to where he’s sitting.
Now that I’ve delivered my responsibility, namely the appetizer, to him, I’m starting to get that old familiar feeling of not knowing what I should be doing with my hands. True, I could go and start putting the kitchen back in order, get ready for the main course, but I’m curious about how my dish goes over with him. Hell, I’m curious about Stone himself. Maybe a little dinner conversation wouldn’t be so bad.
“If I’m not intruding,” I say.
“Wouldn’t ask if you were,” he replies. “I’ll wait until you get back.”
“No, go ahead and start while it’s hot. It won’t take me long to plate up a second time.”
“I’ll wait until you get back,” he repeats.
As I said, it only takes me a few minutes to put together another dish and rejoin Stone in the dining room. I have barely seated myself when Curtis appears off to the side.
“Ms. White, would you care for a glass of wine?”
With my nerves jangled from adrenaline, it’s a request I can’t resist again. “Yes, thank you, that would be just fine.”
He ducks out and reappears moments later with a Willamette Valley pinot noir. It’s exceptionally good.
The food, though, I have to say, is the star of the table. There’s a difference between taste-testing the ingredients of a good meal and actually tucking into the meal itself. I felt I had hit a home run. The real question is, does Stone feel the same way?
“This is,” he says at last, “without a doubt the best thing I’ve ever tasted. You have outdone yourself, Ms. White.”
I see he’s being sincere and suddenly feel the tiniest pang of regret at the uncharitable things I’ve thought about him.
“Oh, why don’t you call me Stephanie,” I say, my tongue loosened up by the wine and the tension that’s rapidly draining away from the situation now that I know he likes it.
“Only if you call me Trent,” he replies, setting down his fork.
“I…don’t know how comfortable I’d be doing that. I mean, technically, you’re still my client.”
“Of course you can,” he insists. “It’s easy. Listen.” He leans towards me a few degrees. “Stephanie.”
The sound of my name on his lips sounds foreign and enticing.
“Now you go,” he says.
I take a deep breath. “All right…Trent.”
“There. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
“I suppose not.”
He sips his wine and looks at me, his attention having shifted. “So, Stephanie. Tell me about yourself.”
I’m caught a little off-balance by this. I didn’t expect to be talking about myself and don’t know where to begin.
“Relax,” he says. “This isn’t an interview. I’d just like to know a little more about you. We can start small…do you have any brothers or sisters?”
My glass of liquid courage is almost empty, but luckily Curtis is there at my elbow, pouring me another round.
“One,” I say. “A brother. Tommy.”
“He live in Chicago?”
I shake my head. “New York. He’s a writer.”
He nods. “So, another creative branch on the White family tree. What does he write? Freelance work?”
“He’s written a few novels. Critical successes, but not bestsellers. He’s doing what makes him happy, though.”
“Like you.”
“How do you know it makes me happy?”
Stone chuckles a little at this. “You don’t open three restaurants if you hate the business, I should think. And you don’t get three Michelin stars at one of them if you don’t like the work.”
This perks up my ears a bit. “You did your homework on me, then, I guess.”
He nods. “Back when I was first badgering you to come over. I wanted the best.” He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “I guess I got it.”
The thing about blushing is that you can feel it coming on, but you’re helpless to do anything about it. I hoped that the lights were low enough in the dining room so that he couldn’t see the color in my cheeks.
“I love the work,” I say, managing not to stammer. “It’s the hours that wear on you sometimes.”
He nods again, and while he’s not smiling this time, it’s not a mean or a hard expression, either.
“Long hours,” he says.
“Late nights,” I confirm.
“Weekends.”
“Holidays.”
We look at one another for a moment in silence, then for some reason, we laugh. The last of the tension drains from the air.
I’m suddenly feeling bold. I raise my glass.
“To being a workaholic,” I say.
He raises his own glass. “To being a workaholic taking the night off,” he amends, and we clink our glasses softly together.
I think about pointing out that I technically wasn’t taking the night off, but that would sound ungracious, so I keep
it to myself. Instead, I comment, “This wine is really fantastic.”
Really fantastic? Did I just say that? Oh, what an intelligent analysis! Stone probably knows all the right terms for appreciating a wine’s bouquet and such.
Instead, he tells me, “I don’t really know much about wine. I didn’t drink it much when I was coming up in the business world. Didn’t have the money for it at the beginning, didn’t have the time for it later on. I depend on Curtis to help me pair wines with foods when I eat at home.”
“I’m guessing that’s not too often.”
“Right you are,” he confirms. He thinks for a moment, then adds, “After dinner, how about I show you the wine cellar? For a guy who doesn’t know much about the stuff, I’m told I have a pretty good collection.”
After dinner? There’s going to be things that happen after dinner? I’d envisioned myself just packing up the leftovers and going home. True, I would be going home in victory, but I had expected the evening to be coming to a conclusion just the same.
“That would be nice,” I say.
There’s another brief silence between us, but it isn’t an awkward one. Rather, I’m feeling more and more comfortable in Stone’s presence.
The rest of the meal passes in easier and easier conversation. Stone is apparently more than just a cardboard cutout in a great suit. He drops references to books and foreign films, but not in a pretentious way. He’s being honestly engaging.
“So I have to know,” he prompts, looking at me seriously.
I gulp mentally. “Yes?”
“Are you a Stephanie or a Steph?” he asks.
I almost laugh at that. “I’m a Stephanie when I’m on the clock, and a Steph when I’m off,” I say. “And I’m also a Steph to the people that know me the best.”
“So what do I call you, given current circumstances?” he wants to know.
I drain my glass. “Your house, your rules, I suppose.”
He smiles. “Yes, it is, and yes they are, I suppose.” He finishes his own drink, then says, “Now, how about we take a look at the wine cellar?”
It appears that I am not going to be going home quite so soon after all.
Chapter 10 - Trent
It had felt like history repeating itself when I had dropped in on White while she was working in the kitchen earlier. Only it was history rewritten, and better this time.
She definitely seemed less stuffy without her chef’s jacket. Her curves did wonderful things for the T-shirt she had donned for the occasion, and it also left significantly more of her arms exposed. They were the same ivory, silky-looking flesh as her neck, face, and hands, but you could tell she was not soft beneath it. This was clearly a woman who was used to being busy, especially with her hands.
Her hair had been pulled back again, higher up on the back of her head this time, which left more of her long, graceful neck exposed. For a moment, I had a vision of lightly placing the palm of my hand against that spot. It had only been a moment, though, for she had noticed me right away this time, and I had been obliged to speak and break the spell.
Dinner had gone exceedingly well. The food had been delicious, absolutely perfect, but it was the conversation that had been the most enjoyable part of the evening for me. White wasn’t what you would call chatty but was refreshingly forthcoming with interesting answers to all of my questions. I compared it with my awkward, silence-punctuated conversation with Jamie, and found it as different as night and day.
About halfway through the meal, I had begun to consider ways in which I could draw the evening out a bit further.
“Shall I begin tidying up the kitchen, sir?” Curtis asks as White and I stand to visit the wine cellar.
“I don’t think so,” I tell him. “I have a feeling that Steph here has her own system for packing things away, and I wouldn’t want to step around that.”
White’s eyebrows go up a bit at this, in thanks? Thanks, and perhaps something else?
Curtis’s eyebrows are up as well, though he says nothing about it, only gives me an, “Of course,” and then is gone from the room.
I look around at White. “Shall we?” I invite.
“Please,” she answers.
I lead the way through the house to the destination’s doorway. White looks around curiously as we go but asks no questions. Her T-shirt and jeans make her stand out a mile from the house’s furnishings, but in the best possible way.
“This is it,” I say, “the wine cellar of a man who’s hardly ever home enough to drink wine. Be careful; the stairs are a little steep.”
She follows me down. Even though I don’t make much use of it, it is always pleasant seeing the orderliness of the room. With its clean lines, frameless glass, and stainless steel, everything looks sleek and modern.
“It’s beautiful,” White says. “Impressive collection you have here.”
“I don’t know what half of the bottles on the shelves are,” I confess. “I bought them based on recommendations and they’ve been down here ever since.”
“It almost seems a shame,” she says. “To have prizes like these and never enjoy them.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply. “Special occasions sometimes roll around. After all, I got to enjoy one tonight.”
White blushes a little at this; the second time tonight I’ve seen her do so. It puts the most irresistible flush across her creamy cheeks. Again, I want to press my hands to them, to feel the heat of her flesh.
“This is a Lafite Rothschild!” she exclaims, touching the bottle in question with one finger and staring at me with wide eyes.
“You know your wines,” I say.
“I know my meal components,” she clarifies. “I served this once by special request. It costs thousands of dollars!”
“Yes, it does.”
“And it’s just sitting down here!”
“You’re right,” I say, plucking the bottle from the rack. She stares at me as though I had just picked the last of some rare flower from its vine.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’ve never had a Rothschild before. Care to join me for a glass?”
She gawps. “You can’t be serious!”
“Well,” I answer, “it’s like you say—it’d be a shame to never enjoy this.” I sweep my free arm towards the stairs. “Shall we?”
She appears out of protests and precedes me up the stairs. As she passes by, I catch the barest whiff of her. She isn’t perfumed but smells wonderful all the same, like jasmine. I trail behind her, taking the lead when we gain the top of the stairs and head for the living room.
Curtis expertly opens the bottle and pours two glasses for us as we sit on the sofa.
“Is there anything else I can help with?” he asks.
“No,” I say, “I think that’s it for the night, thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies, exiting the room.
The wine ends up being worth every cent of its sky-high price tag. I may not know wines per se, but I know a smooth drink when I’m having one, and I’m having one right now.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” White says. “I should be cleaning up your kitchen so that you can go about your evening.”
“I am going about my evening,” I say.
“I’m not keeping you from anything?”
“No. Am I keeping you?”
“If this is being kept, I don’t mind,” she says, then claps a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” she goes on, blushing once again.
I set down my wineglass on the coffee table. She does the same, looking at me perhaps a bit apprehensively.
“Steph,” I say.
“Trent,” she manages, after making a visible effort to get the syllable out.
“I feel like I should apologize for being so short with you the last time we were together.”
“I had just finished torching your kitchen,” she says with a rueful smile. “I think you were entitled.”
I
’m suddenly aware that we are sitting only about a foot apart from each other. I can smell her again, that jasmine scent, and it’s making it slightly hard for me to concentrate.
“No,” I insist, “it was just a mistake, that’s all, and I skewered you for it.” I’m leaning a fraction of an inch closer to her now.
“Pretty expensive mistake,” she says.
“Perhaps. But it led to tonight.”
Her hands are clasped in her lap. She looks down at them. “Has it been worth it?”
Slowly, I watch as my hand reaches out, tilts her chin back up so that I am looking her in the eyes again.
“I think I’d set fire to the place myself if I thought it would lead to another night like this one. I haven’t…talked with anyone in a long time, not really. It’s been terrific having you here.”
Her hands are knotted in her lap tighter than ever, and she’s blushing furiously.
“I…should go.” She adds quickly, “To the kitchen. To clean up. There’s a lot to be done.” She stands, and I follow suit.
“Leave it for a while longer,” I tell her.
She shakes her head slightly and says a bit dreamily, “There are things that’ll spoil.”
I step forward, pressing my palms to her flaming cheeks. “The only thing that’ll spoil is my evening, if you leave it.”
I lean in and kiss her, my hands falling from her cheeks to her shoulders. She sways on her feet a bit, then finds her footing, and now she is kissing me back. Arguments and accusations fall away until there is nothing left but the feeling of her soft lips on mine, only her and me.
The clock in the corner begins to chime the ten o’clock hour, but neither of us hears it. Unless it’s between us, at this moment, it doesn’t exist.
Chapter 11 - Steph
I can faintly taste the wine on Trent’s tongue, sweet and smoky. He reaches behind my head and tugs away the elastic band holding back my hair, which then tumbles down to my shoulders.
