From inside the refrigerator came a loud hammering, fists pounding against metal, and Etienne’s voice raised, pleading in heavily accented English. “Georgie, open the door. I can explain.”
But Georgia did not open the door. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath. She felt as though she were choking on betrayal. Six years she had worked in this restaurant. For the last two she and Etienne had been dating, sharing an apartment, a bed, a life. They had spent almost every waking moment together. This was her entire world. And in an instant, Etienne had shattered it all.
In a daze, she moved toward the bright bustle of the kitchen. She stood in the doorway, staring at the energetic scene in bewilderment. One by one, the voices fell silent as the staff noticed her peculiar stillness. Cyril’s hands paused over the sizzling cast-iron skillet where he was searing a fillet of sole in butter and garlic. Celine stopped chopping fresh thyme. All eyes were trained on her. From the hallway, in the sudden silence, she could hear Etienne and Manon swearing loudly in French from the refrigerator, demanding to be let out.
“Georgie, please let me explain!” Etienne pleaded, his voice muffled. “It isn’t what you think.”
Georgia saw Celine dart a knowing glance at Cyril, who crossed his arms and smirked at Georgia. Ismael stood looking at the floor. They knew, she realized with a cold wash of certainty. They were not surprised about Manon and Etienne. She was the one who had been kept in the dark.
“You knew?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. She hated the smallness of it, the pitiful tone, robbed of her usual bright confidence. She cleared her throat and asked more loudly. “You all knew about this?”
Celine looked at her with sorrowful eyes and nodded once. It was enough.
Damien burst back into the kitchen, calling out in French, “Is the sole meunière done yet? We cannot keep Monsieur Dupont waiting!”
“Merde!” Cyril spit out. “I’ve ruined the sole. It is dry as a bone.” He grabbed the hot pan where a shriveled piece of white fish lay surrounded by crusty burnt bits. An unpleasant odor of burnt butter wafted heavily up from the ruined fish. “I’ll start another.”
“No,” Georgia cried with a sudden stab of white-hot fury. She rushed to the stove, snatched a clean plate and shoveled the badly overcooked fish onto it. “I’m serving it.”
It was a decision she would bitterly regret later, but in that moment, incandescent with hurt and humiliation, she wanted nothing more than to wound Etienne as he had just wounded her.
Cyril tried to wrestle the plate from her. “You cannot,” he growled, tugging at the edge of the china. “You can’t serve Monsieur Dupont this food. It is inedible. He’ll give us a bad review.”
Georgia did not stop to consider the ramifications of herhasty reaction. She drew herself up to her full height of five feet five inches and stared Cyril dead in the eye. “Turns out there are consequences when the head chef is so busy banging his pastry chef against the butter that he can’t be bothered to oversee his own kitchen,” she said sharply. “Now let go.”
She snatched the plate from his grasp and marched into the dining room before anyone could stop her, head high, jaw set. She recognized Antoine Dupont easily, wedged into a corner table, lifting a glass of red wine to his lips. The false mustache looked ridiculous. She came to a halt in front of his table, breathing hard, and slid the plate of ruined sole meunière in front of him. He looked at it, then up at her in consternation.
“What is this?” he demanded in French.
“Compliments of the chef,” she responded briskly, then turned on her heel and marched back into the kitchen, heart pounding wildly.
When she came through the door, the entire kitchen staff was standing motionless in shocked disbelief. Georgia looked at them, the hurt blooming hot and tight beneath her breastbone. These were her friends, her world, the nearest thing to family she had in Paris, and they had all betrayed her. She pressed her hand to her chest again, trying to ease the pressure. In the course of a few minutes, her entire world had imploded. How could she ever again work in this kitchen under Etienne’s direction? How could she possibly hold her head up knowing that they had all been aware that Etienne was cheating on her and yet they had said nothing? The magnitude of Etienne’s—and their—betrayal took her breath away. She could not imagine staying a moment longer.
And just like that, her future and her place here evaporated in an instant. She could feel the tears prickling behind her eyelids, but she blinked them back furiously, determined not to fall apartin front of everyone. She could crumble later, but right now she would leave with whatever small shreds of her dignity were still intact.
The thumping and yelling coming from the refrigerator was reaching a fever pitch. Georgia saw Celine glance in the direction of the hallway, her brow furrowed with concern. It was probably getting quite chilly in the refrigerator. Especially given that Manon was wearing such a short skirt.
“Someone go let them out,” Georgia said in resignation. She steadied her voice, raised her chin, and looked around the kitchen. “And tell Etienne I quit.” Then she grabbed her purse and knife kit and walked out the door, leaving behind the smoldering ruins of her life.
3
In shocked disbelief,Georgia wandered through the narrow cobblestone streets of Paris’s famed Latin Quarter, clutching her knives to her chest.
“What did I just do?” she gasped. How could her life have imploded so completely with the opening of a refrigerator door, in the space of one breath? She passed a small café that had one empty table for two near the street. Numbly, she sank into a chair. A moment later, a waiter appeared. He took one look at her face and set down a tall glass containing a small amount of Pastis de Marseille and a carafe of water, murmuring, “For you, madame, on the house.”
“Merci,” Georgia said gratefully. She poured a splash of water from the carafe into the glass and took a gulp of the aperitif. The strong licorice flavor righted her a little, and she drew a shaky breath. The night was warm and slightly muggy around her, smelling of exhaust, cooking food, and the dusty pavement scent that Georgia always associated with Paris. Behind her, clusters of patrons were eating and drinking, the lively atmosphere spilling light and music into the soft evening air. She could hear the clink of glasses and muted laughter from the tables around her. She was surrounded by people enjoying the evening, enjoying the City of Light, but Georgia felt removed from it all. She shivered.
Her phone buzzed and she checked the number. Etienne. She declined the call. He called back immediately. She let it goto voice mail and dropped her phone into the generous pocket of her double-breasted chef’s jacket. She couldn’t face him right now. She did not want to hear his excuses or justifications, or even an apology. Nothing could erase what she’d seen in that refrigerator. Nothing could erase what he—and she—had just done. She took off her chef’s beret and ruffled a hand through her damp curls with a groan. What should she do now?
Instinctively, her fingers drifted to the four-leaf clover charm on the delicate chain at her throat, and she rubbed the little leaves. Long ago, her mother had told her that the four leaflets on the clover stood for faith, hope, love, and luck.
“Those four elements are the recipe for a charmed life, Georgia May,” her mother had promised her. Georgia was a little short on all four right now. She could use any of them. She swallowed hard, trying to force her mind into problem-solving mode, but all she could see was the ardor on Etienne’s face, his dark hair thrown across his brow, the creamy globes of Manon’s pert breasts. She shook her head, trying to clear the images. It hurt too much to dwell on his betrayal.
“Julia, what should I do?” she whispered. Georgia had gotten out of more than one scrape by asking herself the simple question: What would Julia Child do? She pictured Julia neatly hacking a large piece of beef into chunks with her sturdy cleaver, all practical optimism and American can-do attitude.
“I think it’s important that every woman have her very own blowtorch,” Julia said conversationally.
Georgia sighed. No help from that quarter. She took another sip of the pastis. It was growing late, but she couldn’t go back to the apartment she shared with Etienne, not tonight. That was obvious. It was his apartment, passed down to him through his family, and it slowly dawned on her as she sat there that she could not live there again. For all intents and purposes, in thespace of one evening, she was jobless, boyfriend-less, and also homeless.
