But the stone I left unturned sits heavy in my palm.
Someone I never suspected.
Could it truly be him?
Not one of my father’s associates who I serviced.
No.
Someone else I serviced but for my own gain.My choice.
The one who corrected my whisk grip and my Spanish in the same breath.The one who would rather starve than use American chocolate in a Colombian dish.
He would know the difference blind.He would flaunt the difference.He would build a message out of it.
A signature.
Veiled in a threat.
My stomach flips.I grip the counter until my fingers ache.
Voices swell.The door opens and closes.Lavender breezes past with a “hey,” and Gina with a wink.
I nod.I can’t speak yet.
A name sparks.Not his real one.I never knew it.
Gordon Brown.The two famous chefs he never stopped talking about.
Gordon Ramsay.
Alton Brown.
Chef worshipped at their altars.He copied their rhythms.Watched the Spanish dubs of their cooking competitions like they were a message from God.He borrowed Ramsay’s rage and Brown’s science.
Gordon.
Brown.
Damn.
Chef Charleston’s voice cuts through the room.“We’re going to work on precision today.Precision is love.Lazy is disrespect.The best chefs are lovers.Pick a side.”
I pick.
He strides back to my bench to reclaim his cutting board.On the way, he nods at the bag.“You want me to hold those?”he asks.“I’ve got a cooler.”
“No.I’m good.”I slip the bag into my backpack.“Thanks again for your help, Chef.”
He nods.“You have real talent for all of this.Use it.”
“I will.”
He starts class.I force my hands to tie my apron clean and even.I lay my knife down straight.I act like today is any other day.
But it isn’t.
I know the line that just connected.
