While we continued to prepare the beef wellington, Rosalie’s presence calmed me, like a soothing balm on my frayed nerves. Perhaps, despite all the chaos in my life, there was still hope for something beautiful to emerge from the wreckage.
Rosalie turned her attention back to the beef wellington, carefully brushing egg wash over the puff pastry. “You know,” she began hesitantly. “I haven’t talked about this very much before, but I was raised by my grandmother.” She paused, the pastry brush hovering above the dish.
“Your parents weren’t around?” I asked, intrigued by her sudden openness.
“Yeah. My... well, sperm donor, that’s what I call him. I wouldn’t give him the title of dad or father. No way does he deserve it. He didn’t want anything to do with me. He was married and had an affair with my mom, who wasn’t the best person, either. She couldn’t handle being a single parent, so she took off.” Rosalie’s voice wavered, but she continued. “My grandmother stepped in and became my everything, my mom and dad. She was the one who made sure I did my homework, made it to basketball practice, and brushed my teeth before bed. I’m sure it wasn’t something she expected in her older age, having to care for her granddaughter, but she did it without hesitation.”
“Wow.” I could somewhat sympathize with Rosalie’s grandmother, since my adopted parents had taken me in and loved me as their own when my pack was killed. Of course, my parents had been in the prime of their lives, not retired.
“Anyway,” Rosalie continued, giving me a small, sad smile. “When my grandmother passed away eighteen months ago, I moved away for a fresh start. Dominic let me stay here in town. That’s partly why my loyalty to the pack runs so deep. My grandmother and I bonded over food, and that’s where my love for cooking began.”
“Speaking of which,” I interrupted, eyeing the beef wellington. “Let me look at that.”
Rosalie shifted her gaze back to the dish, expertly sealing the edges of the pastry.
“It’s ready to bake. Great job.” I smiled in approval as she slid the pan into the oven.
My phone buzzed, reminding me that it was time to check the loaf of cinnamon raisin bread we’d popped in the other oven. “Mm, this looks perfect.” I carefully placed the loaf on thecooling tray on the granite countertop as Rosalie clapped her hands. “What do you think? Should we drizzle vanilla icing over the top once it cools?”
She nodded her head. “That’ll be delicious. Honestly, if the general population of Presley Acres had a taste, we could build a separate business off the orders we’d receive on it alone.”
I laughed. Maybe she was right, but that wasn’t my goal. I simply wanted to add fall-inspired cuisine to my catering menu because I enjoyed using seasonal ingredients. It simply tasted better. Winter strawberries tasted bland. I hardly had time to keep up with my pared-down client list as it was, not to mention adding a side hustle.
Rosalie watched as I stuck a toothpick in the center of the bread and showed her how it came out clean.
“So, what made you love cooking? Or were you just born with oven mitts on?”
I thought back to my childhood in Presley Acres, growing up with my adoptive parents. A memory surfaced of me playing in the garden, creating my own recipes out of flower petals, dirt, and water. I smiled at the pleasant thought, one of the few I’d had in days. “I started baking as a means of escape. None of the kids in the neighborhood wanted to play with me because of my white hair and pale features, so I spent a lot of time by myself.”
“Wow.” Rosalie’s eyes filled with empathy. “Kids can be so cruel.”
I snorted. “You can say that again. Luckily, my mom introduced me to baking, and I loved it. But I also enjoyed making my own recipes out of random ingredients. She taught me to cook, and I discovered I had a natural talent.” I smiled, realizing there was a connection to Rosalie I hadn’t expected. “Cooking became my sanctuary, a way to escape from the world. And I guess the kitchen is still where I come to cope with life.” I scoffed at the realization.
Rosalie nodded, understanding glimmering in her eyes. “I get that. There’s something about creating a delicious meal from scratch that’s just... therapeutic.”
“Exactly,” I said.
The two of us continued to work side by side, our shared love for cooking forging an unexpected bond between us.
While Rosalie focused her attention on the baking beef wellington, checking it every few minutes to ensure the crust didn’t burn, I wondered about her own experiences with family.
“Rosalie,” I began cautiously. “How do you feel knowing your father abandoned you?” I silently thought about how I hoped to maybe understand how my brother Liam had felt over the years.
She paused in her task, her hands stilling on the pastry. Then she sighed and looked me straight in the eye. “Honestly? As a kid, I didn’t really feel much about it because I didn’t know him, so I never felt the loss of my father.” She wiped her hands on a towel. “But as I got older and learned who he was, there was a lot of resentment.”
I nodded, listening intently as her eyes flickered with a hint of sadness.
“I have siblings out there who don’t even know I exist. I don’t even think the man who I share half my DNA with would even recognize me if he passed me on the street.” Her breath caught in her throat, and she took a moment to control her emotions. “There have been times where I wanted to out him to everyone, but that wouldn’t bring me any closure. I would hurt his family, and he’d just resent me.”
Rosalie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So, I made peace with the fact that I was fatherless. It doesn’t change who I am as a person. It just means I don’t have a dad, and I’m okay with that because who would even want a father who didn’t want them anyway? And bonus! It’s one less birthday and holiday present I have to buy.”
Her words hung in the air between us, heavy with truth and vulnerability. The raw emotion in her voice was pitiful. She had been through so much, yet she remained strong and dedicated to her passions.
“Rosalie,” I said, reaching out to give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for sharing that with me. It means a lot.”
A sudden noise from the oven made us both jump. The timer went off, signaling that the beef wellington was ready to come out.
“Whew,” Rosalie said, forcing a smile as she pulled on oven mitts and carefully removed the dish from the oven. “Almost forgot about that.”
