23
“Julia, help me,please! How am I going to pull this off?” Georgia whispered, looking around the unfamiliar kitchen. She was scared to try to cook in a new environment when she couldn’t taste anything but bitter. What if she failed and made Anemone look bad? What if her cooking reflected poorly on Myra? Georgia paused for a moment, trying to quell the panic fluttering like a trapped bird in her chest. And then softly in her ear she heard a whisper, her mentor’s voice giving timeless advice. “To be a good cook you have to be adventurous,” Julia reminded her. “You should try your hand at new recipes, learn from any mistakes you make, determine to be fearless, and most of all, have fun.” Georgia drew a deep breath, steadied. Julia’s words were just what she needed to hear.
“Okay,” she whispered firmly. She stuck out her chin. “I can do this. Adventurous, fearless, and fun.”
“That’s the spirit,” Julia said with a wink and an encouraging smile.
What followed were the most intense, chaotic, creative nine hours of Georgia’s life. After taking a quick inventory of the kitchen, she dived right into cooking the orders that were already waiting. The kitchen was compact but well equipped, and she was soon more or less up to speed on where everything was. With Myra’s help, Georgia quickly stripped down the menu and served only the dishes she felt confident in making, like the smoked salmon with potatoes and the mussels in whitewine. A few of the more fringe items—seaweed salad with scallop crudo, for instance, they quietly shelved for another day. Together she and Myra worked with an almost frantic efficiency, and with River’s help, they managed to keep the dining room service moving along more or less smoothly. Myra tasted each thing Georgia cooked and suggested tweaks if it wasn’t quite right. The preparation of each dish took longer than it should have, but the end result was better than expected.
Gradually as the day wore on, Georgia settled into the rhythm of the kitchen. As she relaxed, she started to notice something happening to the ingredients beneath her fingers. As she touched them, poking and prodding, kneading and caressing, the sensations she used to feel when she cooked started to return. She could feel the icy gurgle of the salt water against weather-beaten black rock as she tossed a handful of local mussels into a pot of butter and white wine. She chopped a foraged mushroom and inhaled the damp, loamy soil of the forest spicy with ferns and dripping with cool humidity. She grinned, buoyed by a wave of relief. At least for tonight, her Technicolor senses were in full swing. With a satisfied sigh of contentment, she spooned Star’s honey over local goat cheese on rounds of sunflower seed crackers, hearing all around her the nectar-drunk buzzing of the bees. It felt like pure joy to handle these ingredients. She was where she wanted to be, doing what she most loved. The realization brought her up short. This was what Star was talking about. This was delight. How long had it been since she’d felt it in a kitchen?
“Your food is getting rave reviews,” Myra told her as she returned from the dining room. She looked harried but pleased. “One customer told me she’d forgotten fish could taste that good. She said her meal reminded her of her childhood in the countryside outside of Seoul, catching fish with her grandfather. Sheactually teared up when she told me. She said it made her remember how much she had loved her visits with him. And a couple of our regular customers told me it’s the best meal they’ve ever had here!”
Hearing those words, Georgia remembered what Star had said to her about using her gift, how it was a blessing to be shared with others. At least for the moment, her gift seemed to be working. And it felt wonderful. This was how she was meant to live, she thought as she plated a pork belly dish. She was doing something that brought her delight and was a blessing to others. It felt exactly right.
Many busy hours later, long after dark, Myra ushered the last customers out the door and came back to the kitchen. Georgia glanced at the clock, surprised to find it was past eleven. The time had flown by.
“You’re amazing. So much better than the chef we have now,” Myra said frankly. She looked frazzled but happy. “Our previous chef retired to Florida in September, and we’ve been trying to find a good replacement ever since. This last one was from Portland and had good references, but she just isn’t working out well. Frankly, I think she may be high half the time. You’re not looking for a job, are you?” she asked hopefully.
Georgia laughed as she tidied up her work area. “No, I’m heading back to Paris soon. But I’ve enjoyed today. Thank you for letting me experiment. I haven’t had so much fun in a kitchen in... well... a long time.” In truth, she’d forgotten cooking could feel like this. It almost felt like she was back in Texas under the big loblolly pine tree out back of the ranch house, playing pretend in her toy kitchen, whipping up imagined delicacies from pine needles and dust and weeds she collected. That’s it. Today had felt like play.
“You saved us,” Myra said. She heaved a huge sigh of relief. “How can I ever repay you?”
“No need,” Georgia said lightly. “I enjoyed myself. Today helped me as well, more than you know.”
Her phone pinged with a text message. It was from a number she didn’t recognize. She opened it.
Myra texted me. Coming to pick you up in 5 min.—Cole
Oh, this was going to be interesting. She’d gotten so caught up in cooking she’d forgotten how strained they’d left things.
She grabbed her bag and bid farewell to Myra and River. River gave her a sweaty, fervent handshake, and Myra squeezed her in a tight, grateful hug.
“Do you think...” Myra pulled back and hesitated. “Would you be open to filling in any more for us?” she asked, hastening to add, “Just until we can figure out something else? I’ll pay you for your time.”
Georgia considered. She’d enjoyed herself, but was it the best thing to do? Was it going to help get her where she needed to go?
“Let me think about it, and I’ll call you in the morning,” she promised.
Carrying two bottles of cider and a giant jar of homemade pickles that Myra had insisted she take home, Georgia let herself out into the cold, wet night, shivering a little. The kitchen had been hot, and she had not brought a jacket to the restaurant, since the day had been warm. Now, alone in the dark under a clear sky bright with stars, she took a deep breath and exhaled. Today had been exhilarating. She was still shaking a little fromthe pure adrenaline. She felt like her feet were floating a few inches off the ground. She closed her eyes and breathed in, letting the silence and the night settle around her.
A few minutes later, Cole pulled into the parking lot in a spray of gravel. Dusty Springfield was wailing “Son of a Preacher Man” through the closed windows. Georgia climbed inside. Without a word, Cole reversed onto the road as she was buckling her seat belt. She glanced at his profile, at his hands gripping the steering wheel hard. He looked so stern and remote it was almost intimidating. Almost. But she wasn’t easily intimidated. She’d stared down irate customers and volatile chefs for years. She was a woman who rose to a challenge, not shrank from it.
“Care to talk about it?” she asked lightly.
“Nope.” Nothing more. His jaw clenched and he drove fast, taking the turns a little too hard. She sat back and looked out the window. After a minute, he surprised her by asking, “How’d it go today?”
“It was... amazing, actually,” Georgia admitted, breaking into a smile at the memory of the busy, happy hours. “It’s been a lot of years since cooking’s felt that fun. I’d forgotten it could feel like that.”
He grunted. “That’s good.”
She said nothing, and a stilted silence fell between them.
“Cole, what are you doing here on the island?” she asked finally. She’d been wondering what his story was since the moment she first saw him, standing in the kitchen in those ridiculous orange rubber overalls, a dripping pail of clams in his hand.
She let the questions hang in the silence. He said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he sighed. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
