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CASPIAN
Fall
The candidatefor my pastry chef position had not yet arrived. Ten minutes late for an interview was unacceptable. I’d had high hopes for this one. Perhaps lateness agitated me more than it should but it was a sign of disrespect that yanked me back into the age of my invisibility. Returned me to the little boy teachers dismissed as hopeless. The dumb brother. Special tutoring during recess. Instead of playing with the normal kids, I pushed through mud gasping for air only to swallow mouthful after mouthful of dirt. Only to return home in the afternoons to a father with only one parenting tool. You better believe his ability to shame was as sharp as any of the knives in my kitchen.
How dare this Elliot Young take advantage of my time? I had to prep for our dinner rush and feed my staff a meal before we opened at five. I didn’t have all afternoon to wait for a pastry chef applicant to show. I didn’t care how good she looked on paper.
Maybe she looked too good? Was too good? Why would someone with her pedigree want to work for me, a no-name chef with no plans to be anything else? The opposite of a hotshot, Iran a restaurant for my family’s dude ranch. A playground for tourists. After learning to rope cattle or ride a horse, our guests came to me, hungry from fresh air and exercise, only to happily gobble up whatever I made them from our local ingredients. No one went to bed hungry here at Crescent Moon Ranch.
I glanced at my phone. Ten after the hour. She was supposed to have arrived by two. Not ten after two. I looked over the résumé she’d submitted one more time, trying to convince myself I hadn’t really wanted to interview her anyway when the opposite was true. My mouth had dropped open when I’d received her email officially applying for the position in my small, albeit elevated restaurant. Compared with the other applicants, she was by far the most impressive.
After attending one of the best culinary schools in the world, Elliot Young had trained under two hotshot Seattle chefs. Also impressive? She’d had only two jobs spanning seven years, which in this business meant two things—loyalty and expertise. If the men’s reputations were correct, they’d broken the spirit of many poor souls who’d taken positions in their kitchens. Her tenure proved flexibility, humility, and an ability to work for challenging people.
Applying for a pastry chef position in a restaurant in the middle of nowhere, Montana, made no sense. Unless she was in trouble. Running from someone or something? Or she’d seen some movie set in Montana and decided she needed a stint in the country.
My former pastry chef had left me without any notice, having gotten pregnant by an old boyfriend during a recent visit home. For the last few weeks, our only dessert offering had been a slice of Pop’s apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Granted, his pies were first class, but only one item to choose from at a restaurant of this caliber was not acceptable.
My most promising candidate was either really late or had decided Bluefern, Montana, was too cold and too remote and had turned around and driven back to Seattle. I’d heard the complaint about my location, both as a boss and in my romantic life. If one could call occasional coffee dates with women I met online a romantic life?
Although her interest in the position had been suspect, I couldn’t let her slip away without at least bringing her in for a chat. But she wasn’t coming. I’d have to pick from the other six people I’d interviewed. Not a one had inspired or excited me. We weren’t known for our desserts, though, so maybe it didn’t matter that much. On the other hand, I didn’t like that we had any weak spots. The front of house was run impeccably, and the food that came out of my kitchen could go up against any fine establishment in any city in the world. However, the dessert menu and delivery had always been lackluster. I had no interest in desserts. Never had. I’d passed all the courses at school, but my passions lay elsewhere. I was grateful for my education, of course, but would never be good enough to take on the dessert menu.
I closed the file and set it aside. The dinner hour waited for no man. Tonight, every table was booked from the time we opened at five until last seating at nine. Half of the reservations were guests staying at my family’s dude ranch. The others were local or made the drive from Bozeman.
Mama rapped on the doorframe. “Honey, your interview’s here. She got lost on the way from Bozeman and is very apologetic for being late.” She wore a pair of jeans, a T-shirt with our ranch logo on the back, and high-top sneakers. Some women in their fifties wouldn’t be able to pull off such a youthful look, but my mother sure could.
“Lost? But there’s only one way to get here from Bozeman.” If she couldn’t figure out how to take the one highway south fromBozeman to Bluefern, maybe I didn’t want her in my kitchen. “Has she not heard of GPS?”
Mama tilted her head, giving me one of her looks that conveyed both indulgence and disapproval. I’d gotten the look a lot during my life. She loved me without conditions, yet I felt certain I perplexed her at times. I was different from my brothers. Always had been.
“I know you’re irritated, but give her a chance,” Mama said. “She drove all the way here from Seattle just to meet you.”
“I don’t care where she drove from, disrespecting my time is bad manners.”
“Caspian.” Mama put her hands on her slim hips. When it came to her sons, she had at least a dozen gestures to express dissatisfaction. “Honestly.”
A flush crept up the back of my neck and settled in my ears. Mama didn’t have to say much for me to know when I should shut up and do as she told me. In my experience, at nearly thirty years of age, Mama was never wrong. “Fine, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.” I picked up her file again and waved it in Mama’s direction. “If she’s as good as she looks on paper, I should probably overlook her being a few minutes late.”
“Whatever you think is best, dear.” Having gotten her way, Mama smiled innocently at me. “Shall I show her in?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” My tone was somewhere between a growl and a mumble.
I stared out the window while I waited. Pop had built a bird feeder just outside my window so I could enjoy the view while I worked. A pair of finches squabbled before settling on either side to nibble on the seeds I’d recently stocked for them. They liked this seed better than the one I’d fed them last month.
The sound of footsteps drew my attention away from the window. Mama stepped inside the office, followed by a tall woman dressed in a wrap dress that hugged her generouscurves. Long, silky auburn hair fell about her shoulders. Big brown eyes peered at me, curious but wary.
“Caspian, this is Elliot Young,” Mama said. “I’ll leave you two alone to chat.” She gave Miss Young one of her famous smiles—capable of melting hearts, soothing a crying child, and giving any one of her five sons the encouragement we needed to feel momentarily like a king.
I stood and held out my hand. She hesitated for only a split second before offering her own for a shake. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” Her low-pitched, almost husky voice evoked an image of warm honey. “I got all turned around and my phone wasn’t getting any service, proving once and for all that I would be a hot mess without GPS.” She brushed her hair away from her forehead. A scar in the shape of a crescent moon just above the knuckle on her left index finger caught my attention.
We were Crescent Moon Ranch. Was it a sign?
Don’t be an idiot, I told myself. This is simply a candidate. A late candidate.
I ran my thumb over the burn scar on my right hand I’d gotten during my second day at culinary school. No decent chef was without a few cuts and burn scars.
“We only have one carrier out here that works well enough to get any bars at all,” I said.
