Georgia shook her head. “This might be the end of mine, actually,” she said bluntly.
A long, silent moment stretched across the table. Star and Cole exchanged a quizzical glance.
“Georgia,” Star said slowly. “What’s going on?”
Georgia looked from one to the other and hesitated. She had two choices. She could try to convince them all was well and bluff her way through this visit, or she could swallow her pride and come clean. She frowned, considering. She glanced at Cole, who was watching her skeptically, one eyebrow raised. It seemed a little late to pretend all was well. Clearly, something was amiss. She was going to have to tell them the truth.
“A few days ago, I found out my boyfriend of two years, a brilliant chef who also happened to be my boss, was cheating on me with our new pastry chef,” she admitted. “In the heat of the moment, I did something very stupid in retaliation and afterwards I quit my job.”
Star winced and Cole muttered, “Ouch.”
“It gets worse,” Georgia told them. “The next morning, I woke up and I’d lost my sense of taste.”
Star leaned forward in her chair, perplexed. “You couldn’t taste anything?” she asked.
“Everything tastes bitter,” Georgia amended. “No matter what it is. It all tastes the same to me, like burnt coffee grounds.” She made a futile gesture. “My mentor, Michel Laurent, is opening a new restaurant in Paris, and up until a few days ago I was his top choice for chef. Running the kitchen at La Lumière Dorée would be my ultimate dream come true, but after what happened with Etienne, he’s reconsidering.”
“Oh, Georgia.” Star looked sympathetic.
Georgia sat back and scrubbed her hands through her curls, vexed. “I moved to Paris when I was twenty-one, and I’ve spent years working my way up the ladder. It’s been brutal, absolutely brutal. To be a woman and an American, two strikes against me. I’ve had to work harder, longer, and more than anyone else around me. And I’m so close. After all these years, I’m so, so close to getting what I’ve worked so hard for, but I can’t run a restaurant if I can’t taste the food I cook. Tonight was an experiment, to see if I can still cook well even if I can’t taste, which clearly I have failed to prove.” She sniffed, inhaling the crisp evening air, apple blossoms, and the brine of the bay, then exhaled disappointment. Tonight’s failure was humiliating. Airing her dirty laundry like this felt even more vulnerable. “Michel advised me to get away for a while, to let everything settle down,” she explained. “So when I got your invitation to come here, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get out of Paris. I was hoping I could regain my sense of taste somewhere peaceful and beautiful, somewhere without the pressure of working in a kitchen.” She glanced at Star. “That’s not the only reason I accepted yourinvitation, though. I wanted to come meet you,” she assured her mother. “I wanted to see you again.” She paused, waiting for Star’s reaction.
The table was silent for a moment, then Star took a big breath. “Well,” she said, “that explains a lot. But it doesn’t change anything, not from my end. I wasn’t sure you’d want to have anything to do with me,” she admitted. “When I wrote, I wasn’t even sure you’d answer. You being here is a gift to me, even if you had other reasons to come.” She studied Georgia and frowned. “You can stay as long as you need to, and I’ll help in any way I can. Do you have any idea how to get your sense of taste back?”
“I have no idea,” Georgia admitted. “I’ve seen specialists. They’ve run tests. No one has any idea what is wrong or how to fix it.” She paused, then swallowed her pride. “If you have any bright ideas, I’m open to trying anything.”
Silently, Cole reached over and poured a generous glass of pinot noir, then slid it over to her. Surprised, she took it gratefully and sipped. Bitter, but she liked how it warmed the center of her chest. Georgia set down her wineglass and looked from Star to Cole and back. They both watched her. Star had a thoughtful expression on her face, like she was mulling something over. Cole sat back with his arms crossed, his expression remote. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Pollen came and licked Georgia’s hand under the table. She petted the dog’s soft, floppy golden ears and took another gulp of wine.
“I’m going to think on this,” Star said slowly. “I have some ideas, but I want to make sure you’re ready.”
Georgia raised her eyebrows. Ready for what? That sounded intriguing.
Star reached across the table and took Georgia’s hand in her strong, sinewy fingers. “Georgia May, I’m sorry it’s been so hardfor you. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all turn out okay, but I can’t. I hope your time here on the island will be just what you need. Remember, the island has its own sort of magic. It’s a place that can make you whole.”
“I hope you’re right,” Georgia said. She felt humbled by Star’s generosity. The dinner had not gone according to plan. She had meant to impress them, not spill her entire sad, sordid story. It was embarrassing to admit failure, and yet she felt strangely hopeful somehow. Maybe here on the island, with Star’s help, she could still figure out how to save her dream.
14
Georgia awoke toa text from Michel. The night before, she’d sent him a photo of the dinner she had made for Star and Cole, laid out under the apple trees in bloom. It was a gorgeous shot.
I took your advice. I’m trying to find my spark again, she captioned it, sending the text before falling asleep. No need to mention the salty dessert debacle. She wanted Michel to know that she was doing the work she needed to. She wanted to stay fresh in his mind. The next morning, his reply was waiting.
Excellent. Keep up the good work. The competition for head chef will be held in one month. I’m considering you and two other chefs. I’ll send details as I have them. Au revoir, Georgie.
Still in bed in her pajamas, Georgia stared at his text with a mixture of relief and panic. Four weeks. That gave her a little breathing room, but the time would go quickly. She had work to do. She set down the phone and considered her next move. She needed to get started. Now she knew there were two other chefs in the running, two chefs who were presumably super talented AND still had their sense of taste. She didn’t have any time to waste. From here on out, there was a ticking clock hovering over her island visit. Four weeks. She could feel it starting the countdown now; from this moment on every minute mattered.She glanced out the window at blue sky and pale sunshine. Her phone said it was almost ten a.m. She hopped out of bed and headed for her suitcase. She would get ready for the day and then call Phoebe. She needed her friend’s perspective.
Fifteen minutes later, clad in skinny jeans, a white fitted T-shirt, and a navy-blue blazer with leather ballet flats, Georgia stood on the edge of Star’s property, looking out over the bay. Phoebe answered on the first ring. “Georgia, babe, hiii!”
Georgia leaned over the picket fence bordering Star’s yard.
“Hi, Phoebs.” Georgia exhaled with relief at the familiar sound of her friend’s voice. “Where are you?”
“I’m down in Saint-Tropez with this group of Serbian models who are all aspiring swimsuit designers,” Phoebe told her in a loud stage whisper. “We’re doing an evening shoot. They’ve rented us this enormous villa and there’s a swimming pool and buckets of vodka. It’s completely mad and loads of fun.”
“Sounds wild.” Georgia grinned.
“We’re going to film the models in their own swimwear designs doing flaming vodka shots in the pool, balancing on giant inflatable ice cubes,” Phoebe confided.
“How could anything could go wrong with that scenario?” Georgia deadpanned, gazing out at the water. The day was cool but clear, and a light breeze was ruffling the surface of the bay. Georgia spotted Star down by the beehives wearing some sort of baggy white outfit that looked a bit like a hazmat suit. Pollen was prancing around her heels, barking. At that moment, France and Phoebe’s glamourous world of high fashion felt a million miles away.
