Saving Grace (2 page)

He looked at his notes, then shook his head and grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m much better off without the damned notes.’ And then he spoke.

Grace didn’t hear the beginning. She was so stunned by his smile, by the transformation of his face, she couldn’t concentrate on anything other than how she could have possibly missed, in all those photographs, all those book jackets, how attractive he was.

When she tuned back in to his speech, her disorientation grew. She had heard that he was difficult, moody, high-maintenance. The editorial assistants at work had developed a Pavlovian response of fear to the phone ringing, scared it would be a furious Ted Chapman, in a rage because he’d just flown to Cincinnati for an event and – shocker! – there wasn’t a single book of his in the airport bookstore. Or he might have been complaining about the marketing department, or that he’d just been sent the large-print version, and what the hell were they thinking, putting this godawful cover on it?

This man standing up on the podium, telling witty, dry stories, punctuated with sardonic eye rolls that made everyone laugh, had every person in the room in the palm of his hand. This was not the man she had heard about, this couldn’t possibly be the same man of the terrible reputation.

Had she imagined it, or had he somehow transformed?

By the time he finished his speech and came to sit next to her, she was no longer nervous, but intrigued. Who was this humble, humorous, brilliant man, and if it was true that he could be difficult, impatient, short-tempered, which one was the real Ted Chapman? Which was the personality he tapped into in order to write?

She never had a chance to ask him, not that night, for Ted, smitten as soon as he laid eyes on Grace, did not stop peppering her with questions. He sat down at the table, allowed the perfunctory introductions to be made, and turned to shake hands with Grace, pausing for a second to take in her prettiness.

‘Well, this is a lovely surprise,’ he said. ‘You’re not the usual publishing type.’

‘There’s a type?’ Grace said, deciding to be flattered.

‘You’re English too? Goodness. This gets better and better. What brings you to these shores, Grace?’

The questions continued all night. Where did she grow up? What were the things she needed in life to be happy? What were the things she missed the most about England? What books had most influenced her life and how?

Grace had never been asked questions with such intensity, had never been fixed with such a forceful gaze, had never had so much fun, nor felt so . . . special. There was a chemistry between them that was obvious to everyone sitting at the table, and yet, at the end of the night, Ted merely bowed his head as he kissed her hand, and told her what a delight she had been.

The next day, at her desk, a bouquet of russet and flaming orange roses arrived with a note. ‘These made me think of my delightful companion last night. Drinks tonight? I will pick you up at work at 5. TC.’

There was no question of Grace saying no, or making other plans. She had, in fact, made other plans, but only a movie with a girlfriend, which she swiftly postponed, berating herself for not having made more of an effort with her outfit at work today, wishing she were in something more glamorous.

At lunchtime she ran to Bloomingdale’s and got a free makeover at the beauty counter, excitement and anticipation giving her a radiant glow.

Drinks at the Carlyle led to dinner, led to Ted insisting he bring her to a party the next night, led to Grace moving in with him three weeks later. His apartment was so much bigger, he said; she could save money living with him, he said; why would they ever want to be apart when being together made both of them so happy? he said.

Those days were a whirlwind of romance, passion, excitement. Grace swiftly became a fixture in his life, adoring the glamour and thrill of mixing with the great and the good, for Ted was in high demand, and Grace the perfect partner.

When Ted signed a second three-book contract with the same publisher, Grace was promoted to cookbook editor, their way of saying thank you to the woman who now went everywhere with Ted Chapman, who was surely instrumental in ensuring he stayed true to his roots.

It is presumed by many that Grace learned to cook at her mother’s knee, but her mother could barely boil an egg. Grace was entirely self-taught until the age of eighteen. She had to learn to cook in order for her family to eat, her mother far too unreliable in her mood swings to ever be relied upon to serve them dinner, not, at least, with any consistency.

Grace learned to cook at the scrubbed kitchen table of her university roommate’s mother, Lydia. Her rudimentary skills were honed and crafted as Lydia gave her cookbooks that she read like novels and which taught her everything she knew.

Back when she first moved to New York it all seemed so sophisticated. Grace brought Delia Smith’s cookbooks with her to New York, and wowed her colleagues by staying loyal to her English roots: buttery kedgeree and cottage pie topped with mashed potato, sliced leeks, and melted gruyere.

Years later, when Clemmie entered middle school, Grace decided to indulge her passion further by doing a cooking course. Not just any cooking course, she wanted to do the Cordon Bleu, but there wasn’t anything in her area, which left the Culinary Institute of America, the Institute of Culinary Education, or the French Culinary Institute.

She chose the French Culinary Institute, seduced by the promise of learning to cook the true French way, as espoused by the great chefs, Escoffier, et al.

The first day she turned up, she stood in line waiting to be handed her uniform and knife set, aware she was so much older than the other students, but thrilled to be back in the human race again.

Motherhood had isolated her. She loved Clemmie, loved being her mother, but she missed being out in the world; missed being defined by something other than wife, mother.

It was a year-long course. A year during which Grace wasn’t special, wasn’t valued because of who she was married to, wasn’t anyone other than another student in the class.

She loved it. She loved standing at the train station with the other commuters, her bag full of knives over one shoulder, her bag holding her chef’s uniform over the other.

She loved getting into Grand Central at rush hour and moving through the station with swarms of commuters, climbing onto the subway and taking the number 6 train to Soho.

She wore flip-flops and cargo trousers, T-shirts and no makeup, and felt twenty again, a lightness in her step, a glow on her face, a light in her eyes. She felt alive again, part of the world in a way she hadn’t done since marrying Ted and settling into married life to an older man.

Her classmates ranged mostly from Clemmie’s age to late twenties, with a few fortysomethings like her, looking for a new career for the second act of their lives, although this wasn’t going to be a career for her, she just wanted to learn how to do the one thing she had always loved.

Grace was not used to doing things wrong, or to criticism. She thought she was an accomplished cook until she got to cooking school, when Chef Z would shout at her on a daily basis because her sauce was too thin, or too cold; her beef too well done, her pastry too thick.

‘Sorry, Chef,’ she would say, ashamed, humbled, as she slunk back to her station, vowing to do it better next time.

And yet, he was her favourite teacher. He may have shouted at her, but there was always a twinkle in his eye, and every time he said something, in his thick French accent, she couldn’t help thinking of a TV show from her childhood, and it made her laugh.

It also taught her. She kept a notebook with her, scribbling down all the tips offered, everything they said that wasn’t in the manual: the tricks of the trade that would truly transform the food she made, the skills and the science of cooking. She went from being a very good cook to one who could be described as serious.
A serious cook.

Now she cooks as a professional. Over the years she has had her own catering company, gaining an excellent reputation for cooking easy food that can be thrown together quickly, that nevertheless looks and tastes as if she had been cooking carefully and diligently for hours.

More recently, she had become the chef at Harmont House, a home founded ten years ago in Nyack, for families escaping abuse and addiction, helping them get back on their feet.

Ten years ago, Grace’s friend Sybil came to her and asked her if she would be interested in joining the board. Only, Grace said, if she could actually do something there. Clemmie was still in middle school, Grace counting the hours until she got home, desperate for something to relieve the boredom of having nothing to do.

She became the chef. Not just cooking for the residents of the home, but teaching them how to cook, just as, all those years ago, she herself was taught. Harmont House was now her passion, and her job, and the one place she truly considered her sanctuary.

Grace teaches them the way Lydia once taught her, and throws in the lessons she learned at culinary school: how to organize a kitchen; how to shop for food; what makes the basis of a great sauce.

Five days a week Grace, feet slipped into clogs, an apron wrapped around her, hair scraped back into a bun, cooks first in her own kitchen, then shows up at Harmont House with the ingredients for one last dish for her lesson.

She introduced the English classics Lydia had taught her to cook and that she had learned to love: toad in the hole, bubble and squeak. The cooking humbles her, but more than the cooking, more than the service she is providing, it is the relationships she has with the women, the friendships she has made, that bind her. She has the ability to make a difference in these women’s lives and they, equally importantly, are open to her help.

Her passion, her job and a way to heal the wounds of the past.

Ted will tell people he loves Harmont House, has to tell people he is supportive of the work Grace does, but in private he is jealous of the amount of time it takes up in Grace’s life. He has learned to keep this to himself, but it comes out in bitter sideways swipes.

Still. This does not change Grace’s commitment. She loves cooking for these women just as much as she loves cooking for friends. Her dinner parties, particularly since her success as a chef, are legendary, desserts more so. Anyone coming to the house to write a profile about Ted knows in advance that part of the profile will include long and loving descriptions of the delicious food that Grace provides.

Whatever her passions, whatever her work, still she has time for Ted. She must make time for Ted, ensure he is the number one priority in her life. Whatever is going on in Grace’s life, and it is by no means as easy as it sounds, from the outside, her life looks perfect.

‘You look as if you have never had a hard day in your life,’ someone once said at a dinner party. Grace smiled, for she had learned to hide her secrets and shame well. She had learned to never discuss what she came from, the hell of growing up as she did, having the mother she had.

The more perfect the illusion, the more her secrets will recede. Or so she thinks.

If she just keeps running and running, keeps being the perfect wife, mother, cook, the past will surely just disappear.

T
here is nothing Grace loves more than being alone in her kitchen, surrounded by food, inspirational recipes scattered on the counter in front of her as she tries out new dishes. When she is working on a book, she will use assistants, but it is during these moments, when it is just Grace, alone in her kitchen experimenting, that make her happiest of all.

The process is almost meditative. The vegetables are gathered, washed, placed carefully in a stainless-steel prep bowl to the left of her chopping board, an empty bowl at the top for the scraps to go on the compost heap, a tray with small empty bowls to the right, waiting for Grace to chop the onions, the celery, the carrots, her bay leaf, peppercorns, parsley stalks and thyme already tied up in cheesecloth for the aromatics to bring her braised short ribs with marmalade glaze to the next level.

The oven is preheated, all the knives, peelers, paring knives she will need by her board. Her apron is on, a cloth tucked into the tie around her waist, another in a bowl of soapy water ready to clean down her board.

Cooking was always something she loved, but pre-cooking school it inevitably meant chaos. The sink would gradually pile up with dirty bowls and spoons, as Grace raced around the kitchen grabbing things out of the fridge, chopping and sautéing as she went, stopping to pull the canned tomatoes from the pantry or the chicken from the fridge.

Cooking school taught her how to organize. It taught her how to prepare her
mise-en-place
. It taught her that if she prepares everything first, the very act of preparation becomes a joy, the cooking is made easier and more enjoyable.