by Nina Lane
Yeah.
I’m still struggling with the knotted idea of Dean’s first marriage, still trying not to think about it while unable to make it go away, and now Tyler is singling me out to do something I really don’t want to do.
“But why?” I sound a little whiney. I’ve made three soufflés in the past six weeks and they’ve all been disastrous.
Tyler is firm—and oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I told you why. You need to know what it feels like to make a proper soufflé.”
“Tyler, I’m sure I can live quite happily without experiencing that thrilling emotion.”
“Maybe so. But I still want you to try.”
I mutter and grumble to make a point. I really want to wrap fish up in cute little paper bags, but because I am still a dutiful student who always does what the teacher asks, I get out a carton of eggs.
After another couple of seconds, I turn off my internal complainer and focus on the task. I complete the mise en place, measuring out the ingredients, grating the parmesan cheese, separating the eggs.
On a whim, I also chop scallions, cheddar cheese, and a few strips of cooked bacon. I mix butter and flour for the sauce, then whisk in hot milk and seasonings.
Once I get going, I lose track of time. Around me, the sounds of cooking rise in a pleasing symphony—chopping, sizzling, stirring. I beat the egg whites, slowly folding them into the sauce and rotating with the grated cheese. I pour the mixture into the ramekin.
My oven beeps to indicate the preheating is complete. I carefully slide the dish inside, then close the door and turn on the interior light so I can watch it cook. I alternate between cleaning my station and peering through the glass.
After my station is clean, I twist a dishtowel anxiously and crouch in front of the oven. The darned thing actually looks good. It’s rising.
Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
As I wait for the endless last five minutes of baking time, I realize Tyler hasn’t stopped by my station at all to check on my progress. I stand to look for him. He’s making his rounds to all the other stations, pointing out this and that.
He catches my eye. I feel like holding up my hands in a “Dude, what’s the deal?” gesture—after all, he made me attempt the soufflé again—but then he winks.
The timer dings. I almost hold my breath as I grab two oven mitts and open the door.
Oh my God.
It looks incredible. Puffy and golden-brown, my soufflé rises dramatically over the rim of the dish a good three inches, like a movie star preening for the camera. It’s at least doubled in volume. The heavenly aromas of cheese, bacon, and scallions drift to me in a wave of heat.
“Tyler.” My voice comes out a squeak. My heart pounds as I carefully transfer the dish to the counter. “Tyler!”
Now it’s a shriek because, Good Lord, the man has got to see this before it starts to collapse.
My fellow students all turn, and Tyler hurries to my station. The rest of the class follows.
Even though my pulse is racing, I don’t say anything. That goddamn perfect soufflé speaks for itself.
“Wow.” Charlotte sounds appropriately awed, and the others all murmur in impressed agreement.
I look at Tyler. He’s grinning like I just won a Michelin star.
“Not bad, eh, Chef?” I ask, unable to stop smiling.
“Not bad at all, Liv.” He’s looking at me rather than the soufflé.
“Did you put bacon in it?” George asks, sniffing the air around my station. “It smells wonderful.”
“Yes, I added bacon, scallions, and cheddar.”
“Why’d you do that?” Tyler asks.
“Just thought it would taste good.”
He nods with approval, then passes out forks to all of us. “You do the honors first, Liv.”
A twinge of nervousness goes through me, but really, how can something so beautiful taste bad? I dig my fork in, relieved that the inside is creamy but not runny. I take a bite and my mouth fills with the fluffy, delicate flavors of cheese and egg accompanied by the smoky tang of bacon.
I stare at Tyler.
“Well?” he asks.
“It’s good.” I wipe a crumb from my lower lip. “I think… I think it’s really good.”
He pushes his fork into the crust. One bite, and he doesn’t say anything. Then he takes a second bite. A heart-stopping instant later, his eyes warm and a smile spreads across his face.
“Excellent, Liv. Fluffy, cooked perfectly. Love the bacon.” He puts his fork down and steps aside to let the others try it.
My fellow students ooh and ahh with appreciation as they taste the soufflé, with most of them going back for seconds. There’s nothing left of it by the time they’ve finished. They all congratulate and praise me before returning to their stations.
“You did it, Liv.” Tyler puts his hand on my arm and squeezes. He looks incredibly proud. “You made the perfect soufflé. How do you feel?”
I don’t even think I can describe how I feel, which is a little embarrassing because, well, I made a soufflé. I didn’t save the world. Still…
“I feel pretty amazing,” I admit.
“Told you. And you did it all by yourself.”
“Is that why you didn’t come to my station at all tonight?”
“Yes, it is. You can cook, Liv. And well. You just needed the confidence to know you can do it.”
He gives me a little salute and returns to his instructor’s station. I finish cleaning up and drive home.
“I did it.” I drop my satchel on the table. “I made the perfect soufflé.”
“Did you bring it home?” Dean peers at me from behind the newspaper.
“No, we ate it all. That’s how good it was. It was fluffy, creamy, airy, tangy…”
“Hmm. Sounds like you.”
I flop down beside him on the sofa. “Really, I’ve never made anything like that before. I had no idea making a soufflé could be so rewarding. I added my own twist to the recipe, bacon and scallions…”
The paper rustles as he turns a page. I nudge him with my elbow.
“Dean, are you listening?”
“Yeah. Bacon. I’m getting hungry. Let’s order bacon burgers from Abernathy’s.”
Inspired by the idea, he pushes off the sofa and goes to the phone. I scowl at his back. Okay, so soufflés aren’t exactly on Professor Dean West’s radar, but a little enthusiasm would have been nice.
Not that I ever express much interest in Ottoman architecture or medieval apocalyptic imagery.
I go to shower and change, and by the time I’m done the food order has arrived. After we eat, Dean goes into his office while I do a little cleaning and fill the coffeepot so he won’t have to bother in the morning.
After watching a police drama on TV, I head to the bedroom and stop by his office. The light is on, and he’s at his desk going through some papers.
“Is that your conference presentation?” I ask, nodding at the stack in front of him.
“Abstracts for one of the seminars.” He organizes them into a pile and puts them in his open briefcase. “My flight leaves at six on Saturday morning.”
I realize I’m almost looking forward to his absence for a few days. I need the time to be alone and try to untangle all my snarled thoughts and emotions.
“Dean, what happened with that grad student?” I hover by the door. “Maggie Hamilton?”
His jaw tightens. “She went out of town a few weeks ago. Haven’t talked to her, but she’s sent a couple of emails about her proposal.”
“Have you approved it yet?”
“No. I told her we’d discuss it when she returns. Given recent circumstances, I’m going to tell her she needs to change advisors.”
“I’m sorr
y… about all that.”
He shakes his head. “She was totally out of line. In more ways than one. I won’t work with her anymore.”
That, at least, is a relief.
I approach Dean and step between his chair and the desk. He pushes the chair back a little to make room so I can curl into his lap. He’s only wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, and his chest is warm and muscular.
He folds his arms around me and presses a kiss to my temple. At times like this I never want to leave the comforting, protective circle he’s always wrapped me in. I tuck my head beneath his chin, and we sit for several long minutes. He smells like soap and toothpaste. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the movement of his breath.
He pats my hip. “I should finish up here, beauty.”
“Okay.” I kiss his neck and ease away.
I’m still awake when he comes into the bedroom almost an hour later. He climbs into bed beside me, but makes no move for anything sexual.
I turn to look at him, sliding my hands beneath my head. “What did she study?”
“Who?”
“Helen.”
“I told you. Art history.”
“But what field?”
“Nineteenth-century European. Classicism, realism, impressionism. She did her dissertation on the Pre-Raphaelites.”
Something clicks in my brain from a long-ago art history class. “Weren’t the Pre-Raphaelites influenced by medieval art?”
“Late fourteenth century, before Raphael.” He glances at me. “Why?”
“It’s just kind of… uncanny, you and she. Your fields of study. Should have been a perfect match.”
“All we had were similarities in our research. Everything else was very imperfect. Hell, it was downright defective.”
“Was she good at her work?”
“She got hired at Stanford, so yeah. She was good.” A slightly irritated tone colors his voice. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m curious. Even though it ended badly, she was a big part of your life.”
“Not anymore.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Years.”
“Does she still teach at Stanford?”
“Yes.” He sighs and switches off the bedside light. “I really don’t want to talk about her.”
Apprehension spreads through me. A million questions crowd my head, have been piling up ever since he told me about his first wife.
His first wife. The word still stings like a thistle. That makes me his second wife.
What was she like? Did he make her laugh? What kind of movies did they watch? How was the sex? What did they do? Where did they travel? Did he know how she liked her coffee? Could she cook?
I want answers to everything, not because I care about Helen but because it has so much to do with Dean. Because it’s all such a part of him, his history, his life.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Dean, I—”
He turns away toward the opposite wall. “Liv, I thought we were done with this.”
A bubble of anger bursts inside my head.
“You’re never done with a rough past, Dean,” I say, pushing to sit up. “You think you can just tell me about it and it’ll go away? That you make this big revelation and suddenly everything is back to normal with us?”
His back muscles tense. He doesn’t respond.
“We need to go to counseling again, Dean,” I say.
“I’m not discussing my first marriage with a damned counselor.”
My first marriage.
Even he still thinks of it as his first. When we got married, when we said, “I do…,” he’d done it all before. And I had no idea.
A wave of exhaustion slams against me. I roll over and stare at the ceiling. I don’t even have the wherewithal to battle all the old emotions that I hate—fear, inadequacy, anxiety. Loneliness.
Everything that I’d felt before I met Dean. Everything I thought we’d replaced with love and trust. I can feel it all breaking through again now, and I don’t know what to do.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
October 19
I MAKE A TRIP OUT OF town this afternoon. We have a new exhibition opening at the museum, and we’ve ordered the signage and wall-text from a printer in downtown Forest Grove.
I volunteered to pick up the completed order. I tried to tell myself I was being helpful, that the trip had nothing to do with the fact that Tyler Wilkes’s restaurant is four blocks from the print shop.
After picking up the order, I store the materials in the trunk of my car. Then I walk that four blocks to Julienne. It’s a chilly, sunny afternoon, dried leaves brushing the sidewalks, people heading in and out of the cafés and shops.
I’m nervous, unable to shake the feeling that I’m doing something wrong. I stop outside Julienne and pull my cell phone from my satchel.
“Dean?”
“Hey. Where are you?”
“Forest Grove. I had to pick up some signs for a new exhibit.”
“Oh.” There’s some rustling of papers on the other end. “Careful you don’t hit rush hour.”
“I will… um, that’s why I’m calling. I’ll probably be late.”
“Yeah, me too. Ton of work to do, then a football game.”
“Okay. I’ll see you this evening, then.”
“Drive safe.”
I snap the phone shut and shove it back into my satchel. I stare at the calligraphic writing on the window of the restaurant. Then I turn and start walking away.
“Liv?”
Shit.
I turn. Tyler is standing at the open door, looking at me quizzically. He’s wearing his chef’s jacket. He gives me a tentative smile.
“Thought that was you. What are you doing here?”
“I was… I had to run an errand at a print shop down the street.”
He holds the door open. “Come on in. I hope you weren’t going to leave without stopping by.”
I make a show of pushing back my coat cuff to look at my watch. “Actually, it’s getting late and—”
“Come on.” He pushes the door open farther. “We close from three to five to prep for dinner, so I can show you around.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your work.”
“You won’t.” He tilts his head toward the inside. “I did say you could stop by anytime.”
Something knots in my stomach, but I walk past him into the restaurant. The interior is elegant, quiet, with perhaps forty linen-draped tables and booths, soft lighting, leather seats. Muted paintings line the walls beneath ivory-colored crown molding. A few servers walk around setting the tables.
“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully.
Tyler smiles. “Thanks. I like it. Come on back to the kitchen.”
The hum of voices and clank of pots and pans rises as we walk to the back of the restaurant. Several chefs bustle around, checking simmering pots, peeling potatoes, scaling various cuts of fish. They give me nods of greeting when Tyler introduces me, then return to their tasks.
“We change the menu according to what’s available or in season,” Tyler explains. “Tonight we’ve added king salmon and grass-fed beef tenderloin.”
He hands me a menu. The food is impressive and mouthwatering, including seared scallops, wild mushroom salad, slow-roasted veal, and fresh apple tart.
“Sounds delicious.” I put the menu on the counter. “I’ll have to come here with Dean sometime.”
Saying my husband’s name aloud eases a little of my tension. Tyler studies me for a moment, then nods to a table near the kitchen.
“Sit down. You can sample some of what we’re serving.”
“I really can’t…”
“Come on,
Liv. Aren’t you hungry?”
Well, yes, I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch, and it’s four in the afternoon, and I likely have a dinner of microwaved pizza in my near future.
I take off my coat and look at my watch again. “I can’t stay long.”
“It won’t take long.” He moves to pull out a chair at the table, then stops. “Wait a sec. I have another idea.”
He disappears into a backroom and returns with a chef’s jacket. He holds it out to me.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Come on. I’ll show you how we make a few things.”
“Tyler, you don’t have to—”
Instead of arguing with me, he goes behind me and puts the jacket around my shoulders. “We’ll make the salmon so I can show you how to fillet it.”
He returns to the kitchen. I watch him for a second, then push my arms into the jacket sleeves and button it up. The name Julienne is embroidered on the lapel. I fish in my pocket for a rubber band and fasten my hair into a ponytail, then go to wash my hands.
This is fine. I’m not going to sit there while he cooks for me. I’m going to watch what he does and learn something. Exactly like in class, just a different venue. Totally fine.
I go to where Tyler is standing. There’s a whole salmon lying on the counter in front of him, and he patiently explains all the different parts, then demonstrates how to scale and cut a perfect fillet. His movements are so fluid it’s like he’s cutting through butter.
“Your turn.” He flips the salmon over and hands me the knife.
“I’ll destroy it.”
“Liv, stop thinking that everything you try will end up a disaster,” Tyler says. “Don’t saw at it. Keep the blade tipped toward the backbone.”
I have no idea how much a salmon like this costs, but I don’t want to be the reason Tyler’s unable to serve it. Nervous again, I make the first cut near the tail.
“Don’t go through the backbone. Tilt the blade.” He puts his hand on mine to guide it. His handling of the knife is far more confident than mine, and we slice the second smooth fillet from the fish. It’s a good feeling.
Tyler shows me how to remove the bones, then preps the fillet for sautéing with braised lentils. Another chef is working on a mustard, crème-fraiche sauce, and Tyler sends me over to him. Although the other chef is working fast, he doesn’t seem bothered by having to stop and explain the technique to me.
