A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) (3 page)

B
y the time
I arrive back in the empty kitchen, I’m panting and all of my pre-nap calm is gone – usurped by forgetting to set my alarm and the chaos of waking up late. Thank God Claire came in to check on me or I’d still be in dreamland. Double thanks for bringing my suitcase in with her so I could take the world’s fastest shower and throw on something clean.

Judging by the temperature of the kitchen, the short-sleeve T-shirt and shorts I’ve chosen are completely inappropriate. I mistakenly thought the kitchen would be hot with ovens on, but it’s colder in here than outside. I rub my hands on my bare arms as the door swings open and a woman bustles in with Mrs. St Julien.

“Ah, Bea. There you are. I was telling Lou you’d be helping her,” Mrs. St Julien says.

“Sorry I’m late. I fell sound…” I let the words die in my mouth as Lou looks me over. I feel like I’m being judged the same as a milk cow at the county fair. Short, on the plump side, and completely out of place.

“It’s not a problem at all,” Mrs. St Julien says. She seems oblivious to Lou’s scowl. “I have to go and make a few phone calls, but I’ll pop back in later. And, of course, Scarlett and Claire will be helping to serve tonight.”

“Isn’t Freya on?” Lou asks. Her voice is higher than I expect. She sounds almost girlish.

Mrs. St Julien shakes her head. “Unfortunately, she fell and broke her ankle. She’s going to be out for the season, I think.”

Lou harrumphs as Mrs. St Julien walks out and turns towards the long silver counter. I stand rooted to the floor for a good ten seconds wishing it would swallow me up, but when it becomes clear it won’t, I clear my throat and say, “Um, who’s Freya?”

Lou doesn’t turn around as she answers. “Local girl who helps out here. She’s getting a certificate in massage therapy.”

It’s clear Lou has an opinion about one of these things. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the massage therapy, but maybe not. I smile a little and say, “That’s kind of cool. Are you from around here, too?”

“I live a couple of villages over.” Lou opens a drawer and pulls out a heavy bag, thunking it down on the counter. “Do you want to get started on the chips?”

“Uh, sure. No problem.” Thanks to years of living with Scarlett, I at least know chips are more or less the same thing as French fries, but I have no idea how to actually make them. Although, how hard can it be, right? I step up to the counter and open the bag of potatoes.

The first thing I notice is the smell. The next thing is the dirt that spills out as I unfold the brown paper bag. Okay, these are real potatoes, not Publix-sanitized ones. I manage to keep my nose from wrinkling in distaste and reach in to grab a few. Once my hands are full of dirt-encrusted potatoes, I take them over to the nearest sink and turn on the water. Too bad the hose is pointed out instead of down. The water spurts out, hits the metal side, and soaks the front of my shirt completely.

“Oh my God.” I jump back, but leave the water on, which means it now sprays all over the kitchen floor. I dart back in front of it to turn it off, but sometime in the last half second it’s turned icy cold and my next exclamation is a loud, “Shit!”

I turn to find Lou completely oblivious, pouring flour into a large industrial-size mixer bowl. She doesn’t look up and for a second I wonder if she has a hearing problem. Until she says, “There’s a mop in the closet and you’ll probably find a spare shirt in there. You might want to grab an apron, too.”

I nod and mumble a thank you, heading for the closet on the far side of the kitchen. There’s a long-sleeve flannel shirt hanging on a hook and I quickly strip off my wet T-shirt. The flannel is a welcome change, even if I do have to roll the sleeves up three times. My face flames as I drag the mop across the floor and I’m glad Lou keeps her focus on her mixer. In fact, she doesn’t look up until I’m done cleaning up and am back at the counter beside her, washed potatoes in hand.

“We usually make thick-cut chips, so slice them about half an inch wide,” she says.

I smile in gratitude, but she goes back to her work. I fleetingly think now I might be able to start a conversation, but she turns on the mixer, its whirring fills the room and that’s that. I turn my attention to the potatoes and we work silently, side by side.

It’s exactly the opposite of any other time I’ve spent in the kitchen. Whenever I cook with my mom, it’s a production.
Eating is a necessity, but cooking is an art.
One which involves my mom using every spoon and pot in the house. Scarlett and I eat together, but never cook, and Theo was, well, Theo. Everything he made was nutritionally balanced and precisely measured, which, for me, meant sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter watching. The few times we tried cooking together, we fought because I wasn’t doing it right. Which really meant I wasn’t doing it Theo’s way, so it became easier not to do it, period.

This is oddly soothing. Lou doesn’t even inspect my chips. The whole time I’m peeling and chopping potatoes, she mixes and rolls out dough, lining little oval bowls with the pastry. Only when I’ve piled my chopped potatoes into a mound does she say, “If you can blanch those quick, then they’ll be ready.”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. Blanch? I’m positive I’ve heard this term before, but it doesn’t mean I actually know what to do. Lou obviously thinks I should, judging by her attention to the pastry. I open my mouth again and this time force myself to say, “Blanch? Um, I’m sorry, I’m not sure…”

“Bring a pot of water to a boil. Put the chips in for a minute, then dump them into a bowl of cold water in the sink.” Lou points to a shelf lined with pots. “Make sure you let the water boil first, otherwise the potatoes will start to cook and turn mushy.”

Got it. Pot. Water. Boil. I half expect Lou to stand over me at the sink, making sure I don’t overfill the pot, but she doesn’t. Nor does she say anything when I put the potatoes in, setting the timer on my phone for a minute. Only once they’re immersed in cold water in the sink does she say, “Okay. Leave them there for now until we’re ready to cook them. Can you dice up some carrots and onions for the pie?”

I nod and grab some carrots from the giant crisper drawer in the fridge. Like the potatoes, they’re covered in dirt, but this time I pay attention to the water and it feels like a small victory when I’ve got a clean pile on the counter beside me. I take them over to the chopping board and cut them into little squares, throwing them into the frying pan Lou provides.

I’m halfway through the onions, tears streaming down my cheeks, when the kitchen door flies open and Scarlett comes in, Mrs. St Julien on her heels. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Scarlett’s voice wobbles and a quick glance up shows I’m not the only one with tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Darling, I forgot and I’m sorry.” Mrs. St Julien tries to put her arm around Scarlett’s shoulders, but Scarlett shrugs her off. “I know it’s terrible of me, but with the repairs being done and your father in London half the time, I’ve just had so much to keep track of. I really, really thought I told you and I’m sorry.”

My eyes dart from Scarlett to Mrs. St Julien to Lou. Lou keeps her head down. Scarlett grips the counter and leans across. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who’s actually more gorgeous when she cries. Her eyes become so blue they look fake. Her voice rises an octave as she says, “Charlie died.” She pauses for emphasis. “Three months ago.”

Charlie is – was – Scarlett’s golden retriever. Her Christmas present on her twelfth birthday. When Scarlett first came to Georgia, she’d FaceTime her parents every Sunday and spend a good ten minutes baby talking to Charlie. Over time it waned, but she still kept a picture of the dog in a tiny frame on her keychain and often pronounced Charlie her one true love, the one all others would ultimately fail to live up to.

“Darling, he was so old. You know that. I know it doesn’t excuse --” Mrs. St Julien starts.

“He was my Charlie,” Scarlett says and her voice breaks for real this time.

Mrs. St Julien and Lou both look at me, so I dry my hands on my apron and go put my arm around Scarlett’s waist. She buries her face in my shoulder and I make shushing noises like I’m comforting a four-year-old. I let her sobs subside a little before I speak. “My mom wouldn’t let me have a dog, but I had a cat named Ginger Ale once.”

Mrs. St Julien smiles and Scarlett hiccups out a small laugh. When she pulls back, her blue eyes are nearly iridescent. “You never told me that. What happened to her?”

“We were going to visit my aunt and uncle in Australia one summer and my mom told me she’d taken Ginger Ale to a pet sitting place and they were going to look after her while we were gone. But when we came back, she said she’d taken the cat to a family down the street for them to watch.”

“Did you go get her back?” Scarlett asks.

“No. The family had little kids and when we went to see if we could get her back, it became clear my mom pretty much gave them the cat. The kids were crying and asking us why we were taking Ginger Ale away from them, so we let them keep her. My mom tried telling me afterwards, ‘No one ever became poor from giving.’ But it’s a little different when you’re talking about fifty cents to a homeless guy versus a family pet.” I stop to swallow the lump in my throat. I hate that story. Even after twelve years, it makes me furious with my mother all over again. To be fair to her, she knew she’d screwed up and offered to buy me another cat, but I never wanted another cat. I wanted Ginger Ale or nothing.

“That’s horrible,” Scarlett says.

“You know my mom.” Her best intentions go awry almost as often as they don’t, but that doesn’t seem to stop her.
Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement.
If my mother had a tattoo, that would be it. I shoot a glance at Mrs. St Julien, then turn my gaze back to Scarlett. “I think in the sudden loss of a pet department, your mom might come out ahead.”

Scarlett lets out a long sigh, blowing a strand of hair away from her face. “Maybe. But I still think it’s shit.”

True fact: at twenty-four years old, I’ve never sworn in front of my mother.

Scarlett’s swearing in front of her parents shocked me the first time I ever heard it and it still surprises me now, even though no one else even blinks. Mrs. St Julien puts her hand on Scarlett’s shoulder. “Agreed and again, I’m sorry.”

Scarlett nods and then lets herself sink against her mother for ten seconds before heading for the fridge. She throws open the door and says, “Chocolate is the only thing that will make this better.”

Lou speaks for the first time since the St Juliens entered the kitchen. “There’s chocolate mousse and a fondant, but only enough for dinner service. If you want something out of there, I made a chocolate torte yesterday that will go to waste otherwise.”

Scarlett clatters around in the fridge and emerges with a pie tin covered in foil. In two seconds the foil is on the counter and she’s fanning out forks, offering one to everyone in the kitchen. As if she’s scripted it, we all take one and silently take a forkful of the torte at the same time. Even Lou. I watch as the others bring the forks to their mouths and finally close my lips around the chocolate, letting it melt onto my tongue.

Normal chocolate cake has two hundred calories and this must be twice that. But Oh. My. God. It’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Definitely better than the doctored up Duncan Hines brownies Scarlett makes every time she breaks up with someone. I moan and close my eyes, earning a laugh from Scarlett.

“Find something you like there, Bea?”

I take another forkful and answer her with another moan before I say, “This is amazing.”

Scarlett laughs again. “Better than sex. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

I can’t imagine joking about sex with my mother and I can’t quite do it with Mrs. St Julien there either. But she’s the one who says, “Well, darling, you’re obviously having sex with all the wrong people.”

I bark out a laugh and Scarlett nearly chokes, spitting crumbs out of her mouth as she says, “Oh my God, Mum. No. That’s…no. My mother is not allowed to say that.”

Mrs. St Julien turns to me. “Did Scarlett leave a boy pining after her in Atlanta?”

“Uh…” They all pine after her. That doesn’t strike me as the kind of thing to say to someone’s mom either, so I settle for saying, “I think she left a couple, at least.”

Scarlett takes another forkful of torte but pauses her fork midway to her mouth. “No one serious. Not like Theo.”

Mrs. St Julien raises her eyebrows at me. “Theo?”

“Theodore Dasanti III.” Most people call him Das because he hates the name Theo. But I argued that I, of all people, should be able to call him Theo, and he agreed, as long as he could call me Beatrice. Thankfully, he didn’t exercise the privilege very often.

“And you’ve left this Theo person pining for you?” Mrs. St Julien leans forward and her eyes sparkle like I’m about to really dish.

Lou takes one more forkful of chocolate torte and then turns back to her pastries. But she keeps her body angled so she can hear if she wants to. I shrug as I move back to my carrots. “I doubt he’s pining for me, to be honest.”

“Oh, I bet he is in his own special way,” Scarlett says, grinning. To her mom she says, “Theo’s a PE teacher and he’s very particular.”

“He’s a nice guy.” When Scarlett laughs, I do, too, but I continue. “He is. Honestly, you can’t say he’s not a good guy.”

The kitchen door swings open and Jasper says, “Who’s a good guy?”

Oh God. “No one.”

Scarlett talks over me. “Bea’s ex-fiancé.”

“Ex-fiancé?” Jaspers eyebrows go up with his voice, but then he scowls. “The ‘ex’ part doesn’t usually precede fiancé when said guy really
is
a good guy. At least not in my experience.”

“Your experience is obviously vast.” Scarlett’s lips tilt up in a half smile and she turns to me. “My brother thinks study dates are actually for studying. Isn’t that cute?”

If it’s possible to die of awkward, I’m going to keel over right here, in a borrowed flannel shirt with chocolate on my lips. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go and I hold my breath for a second in hope, then let out a tinny-sounding laugh. “It depends on the subject, I guess.”