Cole’s mouth curled up at the corner, a half smile, half grimace. “A superhero. An earth-saving, recycling, environmentally friendly superhero,” he admitted. “My favorite show as a kid wasCaptain Planet, and I even made myself a Captain Planet costume. I found a green wig at a Halloween costume shop and wore a pair of red underpants over my sweatpants. I was convinced I was going to save the world from litter and pollution. I was a really cool kid.” His tone was gently ironic.
Georgia laughed. “That’s adorable,” she said. “So did you do it? Save the world?”
Cole winced. Something flickered in his eyes. She’d hit a nerve. “No,” he said shortly. “I’m just raising oysters.” He set his glass down and gave her a brief nod. “I’d better get back to work.” Apparently, the conversation was over.
Georgia watched him go with a touch of consternation. For a brief few seconds, she could have sworn they’d shared a moment, that he was enjoying her company. But then he’d shut down again. What in the world was going on with that man? Was he in hiding? In the witness protection program? Cooking up meth down in that little cabin?
With a shrug, Georgia hacked off a large piece of good-quality butter and sprinkled it with flour, starting to make the beurre manié. She had no idea what to make of Cole, the meltingly handsome yet strangely mercurial oysterman, but at least she could still make butter and wine, chicken and vegetables into a dinner he’d hopefully be tasting in his dreams. She’d started the day with doubts about her ability to make this dinner, but now she was feeling confident once more. She’d hit herstride, she could feel it. She could do this; she could still make magic in the kitchen even without her sense of taste.
“See, Michel,” she said aloud, kneading the butter and flour together by hand. “I’m going to make sure this meal is the sparkiest thing they’ve tasted in their lives.” She took a bitter, fortifying swig of pinot noir straight from the bottle and concentrated on the task.
“If you use enough butter, anything is delicious,” Georgia heard Julia Child cheerfully chortle in her ear.
13
“Georgia, that wasamazing.” Star sat back in her chair under the apple trees and wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Wasn’t it, Cole?”
Cole muttered something unintelligible and sopped up the last of the coq au vin with a piece of buttered baguette, staring broodingly off toward the bay. The meal had gone beautifully despite the fact that Cole seemed to have switched back to being cold and stony. Apparently, their shared moment in the kitchen earlier had been an aberration. Maybe he’d temporarily forgotten to be grouchy for those few minutes earlier, a lapse in judgment he seemed to be making up for now.
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” Georgia beamed, whisking away the serving platters from the table. Despite Cole’s grumpiness, everything was going according to plan, and she could not be more pleased. She’d served dinner outside under the apple trees, assembling a mismatched selection of old silver, china, and glassware she’d scrounged from the cabinets. The table was lovely, surrounded by a bower of white, fragrant apple blossoms and facing out to the tranquil bay. Georgia had propped her iPhone in the fork of a nearby apple tree, and Nina Simone was crooning “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl” in her honey rich voice. Georgia could not have asked for better ambience. And the food... from the way those two had tucked in, it seemed tohave been a huge hit. She was feeling very satisfied indeed, buoyed by the knowledge that even if she could not taste, apparently, she could still cook. Maybe Michel was wrong and she hadn’t lost her spark after all. The thought brought sweet relief.
“I’ve never had green beans like that before,” Star said, marveling over the haricots verts. “And that chicken stew. What was it called. Cock a what?”
“Coq au vin,” Georgia replied with a smile. She gathered their dinner plates and cutlery and balanced them precariously on top of the serving platters. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said over her shoulder, steadying the wobbling dishes. “Dessert is coming.”
Inside the house, she quickly unloaded the dishes onto the counter and pulled the little glass canning jars of Mousse au Citron out of the refrigerator. It was an easy recipe, but so bright and luxurious tasting with fresh squeezed lemons and whipped cream. It was one of her favorite dessert recipes and always a crowd-pleaser. Humming along with Nina Simone, she carried the mousse outside, the grass cool and damp against her ankles, the breeze fresh off the bay.
“Here you go.” Georgia set jars of mousse in front of Cole and Star, laying a tiny silver spoon over the lip of each one. “Mousse au Citron, one of my favorites.” She sat down at the end of the table and took a sip of water. Thankfully, it tasted of nothing. She watched contentedly as Star spooned up a dollop of mousse and took the first bite. An instant later, Star’s eyes widened and she made a horrible gagging sound.
Georgia gasped in dismay. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Star shook her head, then grabbed her water glass and gargled, spitting the mouthful of soggy mousse onto the grass. Cole gingerly tasted a spoonful of the mousse and promptly spit it out too. “Tastes like pure salt,” he said in a strangled voice. He tooka swig of water and swished it around in his mouth, looking pained.
“What?” Georgia watched them in horror. “No!” She ran through the simple recipe in her head. It should all be perfect.
“I’m afraid so. Here.” Star looked sympathetic and held out her glass jar and spoon. Georgia hesitated but didn’t take the mousse. It would do her no good to try to taste it.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, mortified. “I don’t know what happened.” It had been a glorious dinner, seemingly perfect. And now this. She felt crushed. Unexpectedly, tears prickled behind her eyelids. She glanced up to find Star watching her with a look of compassion. Georgia blinked the tears back fiercely. She was tough. She’d made kitchen errors before. Salty mousse was not a reason to cry. But she felt humiliated regardless. This was about far more than salty mousse. This was the loss of her dream. She had so wanted to prove to herself she could still cook well regardless of her ability to taste. Apparently, that was simply not true. Georgia looked at the little jars of inedible mousse with a sinking heart. Michel was right. She had lost her spark.
“It’s okay, Georgia. The rest of that dinner was perfect. It was just a little hiccup at the end,” Star told her comfortingly.
“I ran out of sugar in the kitchen sugar bowl and found a big paper bag of what I thought was sugar in the pantry,” Georgia explained, cheeks burning with humiliation. “It must have been salt.”
Star nodded. “I buy everything in bulk, and sometimes I’m not good about labeling the bags.”
“You didn’t think to taste it before you cooked with it?” Cole asked skeptically, pushing the jar of mousse away from his place at the table in distaste.
Frustrated, Georgia shook her head. “It wouldn’t have done any good. I can’t taste anything,” she said without thinking.
“What?” Cole and Star stared at her in mutual surprise.
Georgia glanced away and didn’t answer, wishing she could slip those words back into her mouth. She gazed across the wide sweep of grass, out over the rippling silver water of Westcott Bay. She felt utterly deflated. How in the world could she even think about competing to win Michel’s approval, much less running her own restaurant, if she couldn’t even tell that her mousse was mostly made of salt? She blinked hard.
“What do you mean you can’t taste anything?” Cole asked again, his gaze assessing.
“Nothing.” Georgia waved away the question. “I made a mistake. A really stupid mistake.”
“Come on, Georgia May,” Star coaxed. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s not the end of the world.”
