Helen glanced at the second sheet of paper. "Your references are impressive. I know the Merchants, and David Connelly is a great friend of the stage."
Laura nodded. "I came into contact with them in Bali. I worked out the base menu for his family so they could all eat the same food while accommodating his daughter's allergies. It mattered to David that family meals not leave her feeling ostracized but not leave the rest of the family feeling as if they were dining on nothing but rice and soy. When they dine out everyone can have all the dairy and wheat they want. At home there's no dairy or gluten available."
"Is that why David lost all that weight several years ago?" This time it was a genuine smile, and abruptly Helen Baynor was not a famous stage actress, she was the kind of woman you'd have a casual conversation with at the coffee shop or grocery or queuing for half-price tickets. The kind of conversation that put a glow on the rest of the day-the kind of conversation that you never forgot. Well, it seemed perhaps Helen had forgotten.
Laura nodded, cautiously hopeful. "A dietician worked out the necessary elements and I turned them into a stack of recipes their cook uses and plays with-so far they're not bored. But that kind of cooking takes time and attention. Your daughter's primary issue is with preservatives and dyes, isn't it?"
If Helen was surprised that Laura knew that intimate detail it didn't show. She recalled it from the late '90s interview with Parade Magazine where it had been casually mentioned.
"Additives and preservatives have been a real hardship. They trigger psoriasis and sometimes migraines. She can go months without an event then something slips through. It's been very bad lately. The last chef wasn't as careful as she said she was. We really need a community organic garden."
"That would be amazing-but you'd need land."
"Few people in these parts are willing to part with any." Helen added a smile. "Even if they're all buying organic."
Laura grinned. "Any community that was able to stop Steve Jobs from tearing down his house and putting up a new one on his own land has a deep sense of…community aesthetics."
"That's putting it diplomatically," Helen said dryly. "He is much missed."
"Is it true that there's no decent map of Woodside available online because a Google zillionaire in the neighborhood mucks with the satellite imagery?"
Helen laughed. "If anyone could, it would be him, I guess. We're pretty private people."
"It must be hard," Laura said, choosing her words carefully, "to be in the public eye and try to have a family life that's private."
"It is. That's why I would never turn loose of this house. Psychologically, it couldn't be farther away from Broadway. When my children were old enough to realize I was famous I decided to move us out of Manhattan. I live the crazy schedule when I'm there, but this is home. I might not be here, but seven days a week it's home for the kids. That's why I need a private chef, four nights a week, one that will closely supervise every aspect of the kitchen and leave it stocked so we can cook for ourselves when I'm home. I need to know I can reach into the pantry, freezer, ice box, whatever, and it's safe. My time is precious, and I want to spend it cooking and being with my kids, not studying ingredient lists for the iso-propyl-methyl-butimate-red-fifteen-invertase-whatever. It just destroys me when Julie has an attack."
"I'd feel terrible to be the cook that put the meal in front of her." She considered what Helen had said. She didn't need to see more than the entryway and this study to know that Helen Baynor's home was a genuine 1920s mansion. When it had been built Woodside was a secluded little town far from sleepy little San Jose. The town was rumored to have once been a love nest hideaway for Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe. San Jose and the suburbs of Silicon Valley had grown much closer, but Woodside was still secluded.
Laura had seen the glamorous star of a top-rated police show shopping at the local produce market with her famous blonde locks tucked up under a worn porkpie hat. The star had been debating her equally famous movie star husband on the virtues of North American cornmeal versus Italian polenta. If they hadn't been celebrities Laura would have likely offered her two cents on the issue: cornmeal is the same the world over for the most part. Polenta referred to cooked cornmeal as specialized in Italian cookery. But they were enjoying their debate and no one else was paying them any attention, so she'd left them to it.
She nearly mentioned the encounter, but then worried she'd sound like she'd been stargazing. The incident had underscored for Laura what the old, heavily secluded enclave of Woodside offered its residents. A star like Helen Baynor couldn't go two steps anywhere in Manhattan without cameras and autograph books thrust at her. Laura was beginning to realize that northern Californians, in 180-degree contrast to the southern part of the state, prided themselves on their refusal to go gaga over even Lady Gaga. It was rumored Paris Hilton had visited San Francisco and left when no one noticed, vowing never to return.
She abruptly realized her mind was wandering. This was not a casual conversation, struck up while hanging several hundred feet above ground. She had yet to get the job, and, she reminded herself, she was only interested in the town because of the job. She hadn't gone looking for Helen Baynor's name. David Connelly had given it to her with several others. It hadn't seemed like fate...
"I cook to make people feel good, not sick," Laura finally said. "Given that I'd be cooking for your children and the housekeeper most nights, and I wouldn't be supervising anyone but myself, I would consider it my kitchen, so to speak. And nobody messes with my kitchen."
Helen Baynor nodded, and this time Laura could see a measure of impatience for the conversation to be over. "My household manager is fairly new-she's been with me for about nine months. She'll abide by the rules since she's seen what happens if Julie has an attack. Justin has no allergies like Julie's, but he has no sense of healthy eating. He loves carbs and butter and pancakes and syrup, and can eat popcorn by the gallon. But his father died of a freak stroke and during the autopsy they discovered his heart was failing. A healthy diet is going to help him with a potential genetic time bomb."
Household manager, not housekeeper, Laura repeated to herself. "I naturally default to heart-healthy cooking. I gather regulating their diet comes with the territory somewhat, then."
"My household manager will do that as well, but the person who runs the kitchen has to be on board about a healthy diet for him or he'll just do what teenagers do. There's one other thing, though."
Helen looked up again, this time with a piercing intensity that made Laura's breath catch. "As I said, I am private. This family is private. One hint that you've been a so-called 'source close to the family' for any news outlet anywhere anytime, and you're through, and I can make that 'through' in all of this state and New York. I won't tolerate gossip, photos-nothing about me, this house, my kids, not even what brand of sugar we prefer-showing up in the press. If you want to cite me as a client you'll have to tell me why every time you think you need to. I'm not National Enquirer material. Ever."
Without hesitation, Laura said, "I respect that. I respect that completely. Any of my references you call will back that up."
"Good." Helen was suddenly flustered, standing and pushing the few papers on the desk around. "I'll need to make some calls. It's a few-Could you come back at five? I have to go back to New York tomorrow."
"Surely," Laura said. "Do you want me to meet the household manager?"
"Normally, she's the one who would have done this, but her mother had a bad fall yesterday and Grace drove up to Auburn to spend the night. She'll be back by five, though. I don't really know how to do this."
"You did fine, at least I think you did."
"Really? Is there anything I should have asked you that I didn't?"
Laura cocked her head. "You didn't ask what kind of commitment you wanted from me-the duration."
"Until my kids go to college." She failed to hide a moment of stricken realization. "That's just under two years."
"I can c
ommit to that," Laura said. Already knowing Helen Baynor's very public support of The Trevor Project and Equity Fights AIDS, she said, "You didn't ask if I'm a lesbian."
When Laura didn't go on, Helen lifted one eyebrow.
With a smile, Laura said, "I am."
"Good to know. As they say, some of my best friends..." Helen tinted her tone with a touch of upscale Yankee and Laura realized that in that last few minutes she'd seen Helen slip through a dozen different roles, from self-assured woman of means to worried mom to a fleeting nuance of bored socialite. She wondered if any of them was close to the real woman. She'd read everything there was to read about Helen, but hadn't a clue if Helen Baynor, Queen of Broadway, knew which was the real woman.
Laura rose, smoothing her Dolce & Gabbana suit jacket. Like nearly everyone in California she wore jeans. Her pristine white cotton wrap blouse was meant to be reminiscent of a chef's crisp whites, but the jacket did double duty showing off her slender lines and letting her mingle with people who bought their wardrobes at Fashion Week in New York. Numerous stylists had told her she'd lucked out with a shapely head which made her very short cut elegant and fashionable for a dark-skinned woman. No one would ever take her for one of the wealthy elite, but she did look like a successful professional of some kind, with narrow but solid fashion sense.
Not that she got an us vs. them vibe from Helen Baynor. Her casual pantsuit of smoky gray was definitely designer work, and it fit the trim form perfectly, but at the moment there was none of the employer-servant distancing she had encountered all over the world, especially places where the color of her skin automatically branded her as inferior in the eyes of many. She was certain that if she violated Helen Baynor's boundaries, however, she would be put in her place as an employee. If she got this job, she would not be a member of the family. But she doubted she'd be taken for granted or treated like furniture either.
If she ruled her own kitchen, she would be content. She would sometimes miss having a sous chef to give the onions to, but after the last couple of years of corporate bosses with the palates of two-year-olds, she was very much looking forward to being boss of only herself for a while.
At the door, Helen offered her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Laura. I look forward to seeing you again later today."
"This was both an honor and a pleasure," she answered.
The contact of their fingertips was so fleeting that Laura couldn't think how it made her feel beyond a kind of pleasing numb. The memory of their clasped hands, racing down the roller coaster track, was suddenly very much in her mind. She tried to match the confident but impersonal pressure of Helen's grasp, and with that, she made a dignified exit, walking down the path from the front door-lined with precisely trimmed box hedges-to the large graveled parking area. Her stolid but vastly practical late-model Volvo station wagon, which could hold an enormous amount of cargo, gleamed in the hazy sunshine.
Her seat belt was buckled before she dared a glance at the door. Her prospective employer had not lingered. She let out a sigh of relief.
Clearly, Helen Baynor didn't remember her. She was going to keep it that way, too.
CHAPTER TWO
If Laura hadn't needed to linger in Woodside, she might have been tempted to take the westbound two-lane highway that wound slowly toward the Pacific Ocean. The fog was just offshore and there would be hazy sunlight on the beach. Instead she turned east, passing high hedges and non sign-posted country lanes that gave access to large, secluded estates like Helen Baynor's. After the follow-up interview at five, she'd have only a short drive to Atherton, then south to Menlo Park where her residence hotel sat on the edge of Silicon Valley. She might as well find a snack or a quiet place to enjoy a cup of coffee until it was time to return to Helen Baynor's.
There were many vistas, but not many places to pull off the road and enjoy them. In all directions, Woodside was surrounded by soft rolling hills that ended in sharper, forbidding rocky ridges. The hills were encrusted with rows of grapevines, while the ridges exposed their slate-gray teeth through dense stands of old pines ringed with fragrant eucalyptus. The landscape, painted with shadows cast by pillows of coastal fog torn loose from the offshore marine layer, seemed to lounge contentedly in the hesitant sunshine.
As she approached Woodside's small shopping area, she passed understated civic buildings, including the library, and a few adjacent blocks with the most visible housing in the area. She'd already driven the perimeter and knew there was nothing for rent-at least not publicly. If she got the job she'd have to hire an agent to find housing. On her arrival she'd decided that enclave was the best way to describe Woodside. It wasn't hostile to outsiders, but there was no place for visitors to put down any roots-not even a discreet bed-and-breakfast. Her temporary lodgings were expensive, and she'd rather have a place to call her own after years of living in small staff residences behind the walls of resorts.
That kind of thinking, she reminded herself, was counting chickens out of thin air. She had to get the job before any other plans were made.
Woodside's three-block main street had no Safeway or Jamba Juice, and even Starbucks hadn't been able to worm its way into its confines. Instead, the coffee spot was called Makes Life Worth Living. It featured a selection of handmade truffles, delicate petit fours or fresh twisted apple bread to go with meltingly good coffee-Laura had already tried them all in the few days since she'd driven into town. Kicking back to catch up on her email and check her Facebook friends with a slice of cinnamon-buttered apple bread and a frothy mocha... She'd found it very civilized.
As she pulled into a lucky parking space in front of the small, open produce market, the scent of autumn was thick in the air. There was a touch of ocean and a little pine sap in the breeze, but a tantalizing plummy richness hinted at the impending grape harvest and crush for the local wineries. She had already visited two of them, and she'd found that many equaled or surpassed her memory of the Napa wines produced sixty miles or so to the north. From here to Santa Barbara were dozens of wineries and a person could spend months getting to know the choices.
Coffee forgotten, she decided to see what the market had to offer today. After all, she'd need to make her own dinner later.
The dank heaviness of root vegetables attracted her attention as she crossed the market threshold. Her stomach growled for pumpkin curry soup and a crusty slice of rye bread. It was early in the season for ripe pumpkin, though. Just as well. Though her residency hotel provided a small kitchen, nearly all of her equipment was in storage. She was able to make excellent meals with a chef's blade, a cutting board, one pan and a heat source. Still, it was a welcome idea, a rich pumpkin soup with pungent bread, followed by a dessert of apples and pecans sizzled together in white wine and brown sugar, all consumed in front of a crackling fire as a harvest moon glowed through the windows.
She had to laugh at herself as she fondled the artichokes. She'd never had that kind of life and it wasn't likely to happen any time soon. Since quitting her post in Florida, she'd driven across country, had some great and some perfectly awful food, and there was no for sure job in her pocket. If she didn't get the job, she'd have to move north to Marin County or south to Paso Robles or Santa Barbara, where she had lists of potential contacts as well. She'd keep exploring the state, making phone calls and meeting people, and trust that something would work out. It could be quite a while before she was processing her own pumpkin for soup.
"Izmanini, right?" A reedy voice jolted her out of her artichoke reverie.
"Izmani," Laura corrected. She smiled at the woman who had appeared at her elbow. "But I also answer to Laura."
"C'mere, Izmani." The woman, no taller than Laura's chest, spun toward a table in the depths of the market. She moved quickly but it was easy to follow the bobbing gray head. Even in a room of tiny old women Laura could have picked her out from the improbable pigtails over each ear.
"You see what I have for you!" The woman gestured at four stacked crates. "
First dibs. Last local corn you'll see this year, okay? Okay."
There was still sap at the base of the stems-it had been cut that morning or late yesterday, Laura was willing to bet. The ears weren't as large as they usually were in large-scale groceries and they were markedly plump around the middle. Some might call it imperfection, but she called it a sign that the seeds were likely not genetically modified. "Can I peel one?"
"Shoo-er." Her tiny guide gestured.
"You know my name but I don't know yours."
"Everybody calls me Teeny. So you call me Teeny, okay? Okay." Her accent was a charming enigma-not quite Italian, not quite Spanish, not quite Caribbean.
Laura selected an ear from the top and peeled back the husk and silks with one firm pull. There was a lot of silk and the ear was symmetrical with pearlescent kernels. She smelled a good bit of sugar. Her nose signaled her stomach again, and she wanted scallops in lime ceviche topped with caramelized corn. Now that was a meal she could reproduce in the half-kitchen her hotel room provided. "Fresh, organic and local. It smells good."
"It's good. Even better is their first corn. Everybody wants that. You come back lots and I'll tip you off when it's in, okay? Okay." She wiped her hands on her apron, which, at one point in its life, had been the color of ripe eggplant. Now it was mottled with bleach marks where any number of stains had been eradicated.
"How long have you owned this place?" Her first visit she'd been the one peppered with questions, unable to get a word in edgewise. She'd told the old woman her name, that she'd been born in Florida, that her father was an anonymous American businessman, and her late mother a Jamaican woman who had worked in his hotel in Florida when she was a student. She'd picked out fresh field greens for her own dinner and discussed the various parts of Manhattan where she had lived. Teeny had relatives in all of them, it seemed, and had asked after each one, sure that Laura must have crossed paths with them somehow.
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