Cook the Books

“What am I going to do with him, huh?”
    “Aw, it could be worse,” I said. “Besides grilling outside, he could be trying to flambé things in the kitchen. Could you imagine him igniting cognac in the apartment?”
    “Don’t even suggest that!” she said. “If he hears about this steak tonight, then you know he’ll want to replicate it at home. I’ll have to keep the details of this delicious dinner a secret.” She winked conspiratorially at us.
    I worked my way through a plate of succulent lamb, and by the time dessert arrived, Kyle and I had agreed that I’d keep his folder of notes so that his father, the famous Hank Boucher, wouldn’t have the opportunity to see the mess of recipes and crumpled papers. Chef Boucher wouldn’t see anything about the book until I had at least turned Kyle’s notes into neat, tidy pages. Boy, did I have work ahead of me. I felt less guilty about accepting such a generous hourly rate now that I knew about the late nights that lay ahead of me.
    I sampled the tiramisu and smiled. “Maybe we should get this recipe.” I groaned. “It’s sinful!” Tiramisu was one of those desserts that could be either outstanding or totally mediocre. This one, with its layers of mascarpone, liquor-soaked ladyfingers, and cocoa, was rich and decadent.
    “So, Chloe, not to rush you too much, but do you think you could contact this Digger character tomorrow and see what Simmer recipes you can get your hands on?”
    “Sure. No problem.”
    “It’s just that with my father coming into town tomorrow, I’d really like to do what I can to avoid a fight. I know I can get this book together and really impress him, but I think it’d be best to make a strong first presentation.”
    “Absolutely. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I speak to Digger,” I assured my new boss.
    After we had thoroughly gorged ourselves on dinner, Kyle paid the bill and left a substantial cash tip. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to ingratiate myself with the chef and see if I can finagle a recipe or two and an interview from him. Thank you so much, Chloe, for taking this on. And, Adrianna, it was a delight to meet you. I hope to see you both again soon.” He shook our hands and headed off toward the rear of the restaurant.
    Ade helped herself to the last bite of my dessert. “So, Chloe,” she said, “good work. Not only did you find yourself a great job, you also just found a potential husband.”
    “What?” I said with irritation. “That man is not husband material. He’s my employer. We are going to have a strictly professional relationship.”
    “We’ll see,” she said in a singsong voice. “I think he is adorable and charming and sweet. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time to move on?”
    Move on. I’d love to move on, except that I was about to dig myself back into Josh’s culinary world by calling Digger and asking for Simmer recipes. My new job was going to make it harder than ever to shake Josh out of my system.
     

FOUR
     
    I spent Thursday at my internship, or “field placement” as my graduate school referred to it, at a community mental health center where I provided counseling services to an array of clients. Draining though those days were, they kept my mind from wandering to my romantic troubles. When I returned home, my car slid on wet leaves as I pulled into my parking spot by my condo. November weather stank. It was freezing, with bitter winds and gray skies dominating the forecast for the next ten days. Now, at four fifteen or so, it was already as black as midnight, and I was missing spring terribly. I walked up to my third-floor condo and immediately turned on all the lights and lit a few sugar-scented candles. I was fighting the urge to get into bed and hide, but I was determined to beat this endless Josh hangover. Last night’s conversation about Simmer had stirred up memories of my frequent visits to see Josh at work, the way he looked after a long night in the kitchen, how his once-white chef’s coat would be all dirty and smelly but somehow comforting. His hair would be mussed up and adorable, and his blue eyes were always filled with exhaustion.... I had to stop! I refused to let this gloomy day bring me down. My interesting new job would eat up a lot of the time that I’d otherwise have spent lolling around, pining over my chef. No, I corrected myself, not my chef. A chef. Just one more chef. No one special.
    I scooped up one of my cats,