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“I clearly do not have that carrier.” The corners of her full mouth lifted in a smile she didn’t seem entirely committed to, reminding me of a cloud blocking out the sun. One knew the sun was there, just behind the fluffy cloud. Knowing it was there, but not visible, made me want to bring it out all the more. “There’s no hell like being late for something important, right?” She clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t curse during an interview.”
“Have a seat.” To hide my amusement, I gestured toward my lone, skinny guest chair. My office was more the size of acloset than a decent working space. When there were two people in here, deodorant was appreciated. A fact that several of my teenage dishwashers seemed unaware of. Elliot Young, however, smelled like honeysuckle and vanilla.
“It’s really pretty here. The trees have the most amazing yellow and red leaves, and I saw a mama deer with two babies when I turned into your driveway.”
“Ah yes, the deer. They’re on my bad list. They keep eating my herbs.”
“But look so pretty and graceful doing so, right?” She smiled, this time as if she meant it, as if the cloud had suddenly moved out of the way of the sun. Her brilliance bathed me in warmth.
I couldn’t help but smile back at her. Quickly, however, I got myself together. This was no coffee date arranged after a swipe to the left and a few awkward exchanges of texts. If a woman like this had ever shown up for one of my ever-hopeful meetings, I would not have regretted the swiping left as I had so often in the last few years.
“What made you decide to become a chef?” I asked. “Because I know from personal experience that this is a job of passion and not particularly practical or lucrative.”
She clutched the arms of the chair as if she were about to be catapulted through the ceiling. “It’s been the only way I’ve ever been able to adequately express my love.”
That was not what I’d expected her to say. I’d interviewed a lot of people in my tenure at the Bunkhouse, and no one had ever said anything even close. “Love of food?”
“That too, but I meant, the people I love. I’ve never forgotten a smile or murmur of appreciation that’s come after a bite of whatever I made.”
“Yeah, right. I get that. I’d never really thought about it like that before. Cooking as an act of love.”
“Acts of service and all that,” Elliot said. “I’ve spent most of life searching for the elusive perfect first bite.”
Touched, I had to take in a deep breath before asking the next question. “Your résumé’s impressive. The chefs you worked for are no joke.”
“I was very lucky to get the position with Chef Ibis right out of school. Good timing more than anything.” Her words were humble. Normally, I would find this display of humility either suspect or disingenuous, but with her it was different. I believed her. She hadn’t come from privilege, even though she looked as though she had.
“What was Ibis like?” I asked more out of curiosity than as part of an interview. “I read an article about him recently, and the writing was so obtuse I was left without any idea of his true character.”
One dark eyebrow raised. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Do you want to know the truth or what I should probably say in an interview?”
“Truth. Always.”
She tugged her large hoop earring and gazed up at the ceiling as if to figure out exactly what she wanted to say before answering. “He’s incredibly creative and talented, but hotheaded. Won’t give a compliment unless tortured. Maybe not even then. Likes young women. A lot. Has a special penchant for hostesses.”
“I’ve heard that before.” A dirty, nagging feeling stuck in the pit of my stomach. Had she been involved with him? Is that why she’d left? “What made you decide to take the job with Tom Post? Was it hard to leave such a coveted spot?”
“No, not really. I was ready. The environment was starting to give me an eye twitch. Working for Tom had its challenges.”
“Such as?”
She tilted her head, shiny hair falling over her cheek. “One never knew which Tom would show up on any given day.”
“Moody?”
“Bipolar. I believe, anyway. He’s never admitted to anything of the kind, but the signs are there.”
“Are you truly interested in a position in Montana? Bluefern’s no Seattle.”
She hesitated a moment before answering. “There are a few things in my personal life prompting a change.”
“I see,” I said, hoping she would elaborate but knowing better than to ask.
“My aunt, who was like a mother to me, died last month,” Elliot said, eyes glittering like a polished walnut floor. “And I had a distasteful experience with a man who wouldn’t leave me alone. I have a restraining order against him so I’m probably safe now, but…I don’t feel that way. Safe, I mean. I’ve deleted all my social media accounts so he can’t find me. I probably shouldn’t tell you all of this in the interview, but I sold anything that wouldn’t fit into my Honda before I came out here. I’ll look for work in Bozeman or Missoula if this doesn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your aunt and that horrible experience. But leaving your whole life? That can’t be easy. Especially if you feel driven out.”
“It was time for a change.” She dug into a purse big enough to carry a medium-sized dog and pulled out an envelope. “These are references from both Chef Ibis and Chef Tom.”
