She slumped against the sink in utter defeat. How had her life spun so completely out of control in just a few short hours? Etienne, her job, the apartment she called home. And now she’d lost her sense of taste? How could she be expected to be anointed as the head chef of a much-anticipated new restaurant in Paris if she could taste nothing but the flavor of scorched coffee grounds? It felt impossible.
“Um, babe?” Phoebe tiptoed into the kitchen in a long white satin robe, her pale hair hanging loose over her shoulders. “I think there’s something you need to see.” She held her phone out to Georgia, her face sober. Warily, Georgia took the phone.
SABOTAGE IN THE KITCHEN read the headline of the article on Phoebe’s screen. It was from a popular Parisian restaurant and nightlife gossip site called Une Pipelette, roughly translated, “A Chatterbox.” And it was about last night.
Which sexiest chef in Paris was caught in an awkward position by his sous-chef girlfriend during dinner?the article teased before quoting anonymous sources who spilled all the sordid details about Georgia, Etienne, and Manon. Georgia scanned the story in growing disbelief and horror.
Sources reveal that Antoine Dupont is furious over his horrible dinner at La Pomme d’Or and that a scathing review is coming soon, the article promised, then posed the awful question:Will this scandal in the kitchen soil the reputation of Etienne Fontaine, newly crowned sexiest chef in Paris, or will it only dampen the career aspirations of up-and-coming American chef Georgia MayJackson?Georgia made a strangled little sound and handed back the phone. Now all of Paris knew about Etienne’s betrayal, her hot-tempered retaliation, and all the details of the worst night of her life. This was too much.
Phoebe looked at her sympathetically but said nothing. What was there to say?
Georgia massaged her temples where a stress headache was blooming. She should have expected something like this. A story as juicy as last night’s was not going to stay secret for long. Especially when Cyril had seen everything. She’d bet every euro she had that he was the anonymous source. She leaned against the counter, feeling sick with regret. How could she have been so hastily vindictive last night? Spurned and humiliated, she had acted thoughtlessly, and that act of revenge could end up costing her everything. One ruined sole meunière could be her undoing in Paris. The Parisian restaurant world was small, and everyone she knew loved to read Une Pipelette. Its gossip was a frequent source of discussion in the kitchen of La Pomme d’Or. Every restaurant owner and chef in Paris would soon know about this if they didn’t already. And Michel. Her stomach sank. Had he seen the article yet?
“What are you going to do?” Phoebe asked quietly.
Georgia shook her head. “I don’t know.”
For a self-pitying second, she was tempted to crumple onto Phoebe’s inviting sofa and sob herself into a mushy puddle, to give in to the crushing series of setbacks and allow herself to wallow in despair. But if she did, she would be giving up everything she’d worked so hard for all these years. She was not a quitter. She’d faced hard things before. This was bad, very, very bad, but she had two choices. Admit defeat, or get back up and keep trying. She could not control Etienne’s choices or her own errant taste buds, nor could she cook a new, perfectly flaky solemeunière and serve it to Antoine Dupont as penance. She could not reverse time two years or six and warn herself about what was to come.
She bit her lip and considered her options.In hard times, her father, Buck, always told her,there is always something a body can do.She might not see eye to eye with her dad on almost anything in life, but he was right about that. She had to do whatever she could to fix this mess. Perhaps there was still something she could salvage from this disaster.
“I need to go see Michel,” Georgia said, straightening up. “Even though I made a mistake last night, maybe if he understands what happened, I can convince him that I’m still the best choice for La Lumière Dorée.”
“How can I help?” Phoebe asked promptly.
Georgia considered for a moment. “Can I raid your closet? I don’t have any clothes and I need to look presentable to plead my case to Michel.”
Phoebe studied her critically for a moment. “Anything you want. I’ll give you a makeover too. When we’re done, you’ll look like a million bucks,” she said, then wrinkled her nose. “But first you need a shower. You smell like burnt butter.”
They sprang into action. Thirty minutes later, a freshly showered Georgia stood in Phoebe’s luxurious bathroom, surveying herself in the outfit Phoebe had selected from her own closet. The emerald green silk blouse paired with slim black cigarette pants looked chic and sophisticated on her. Phoebe was taller and narrower in the hips than Georgia, but Georgia could make the outfit work if she sucked in her stomach and didn’t pop the buttons on the blouse that was a little snug across her breasts.
Most of the time, she wore her unflattering but comfortable chef’s whites, but on the rare occasions when she was out and about in public, Georgia loved to adopt a Parisian style ofunderstated classic elegance. She had more curves than most Parisian women, who on the whole kept themselves extremely slim.You know you are the right weight, Etienne’s cousin Gisele had confided to her once,when you can balance a sugar cube in the hollow of your clavicle.Georgia had never been able to do that, but she still loved to dress like a French woman. After all, she may have been raised in Texas, but Paris was the city of her heart.
Phoebe looked her up and down in the new outfit. “That’s more like it. What about jewelry?”
Georgia’s hand went to the charm at her throat. “I’ll just wear this.”
Phoebe looked doubtful. “You sure?”
Georgia nodded. “It was the last thing my mom gave me. It’s always brought me luck.”
“I hope it gives you lots of luck today,” Phoebe said sympathetically, riffling through a bathroom drawer filled with brushes and mascara wands and tubes of makeup. “Come on, babe. Let’s fix your face.”
Twenty minutes later, as Georgia slipped on a borrowed black trench coat and grabbed her purse to leave, she glanced at her reflection in the front hall mirror. Phoebe had worked a miracle with foundation, bronzer, and mascara. She looked like a confident, sophisticated Parisian. Even her usually wild-child hair had settled down into fairly tame-looking waves. No one could tell that her entire life had just melted.
Just before she walked out the door, in a final touch, Georgia slicked on her favorite lipstick, a Lancôme shade of red so rich it looked like she’d been biting into pie cherries. Even when she was cooking in the kitchen she wore it. It gave her a much-needed boost of confidence now. Georgia looked herself in the eye and squared her shoulders. “Okay, Georgia May Jackson,” she said firmly. “Go see if you can save your dream in Paris.”
5
“Bonjour, Michel.” Georgiagreeted her mentor with a cheerfulness she hoped masked her nerves when he opened the door of his seventeenth-century villa in Trocadéro in the sixteenth arrondissement.
“Bonjour, Georgia,” Michel said mildly, looking surprised but ushering her in graciously. Her heart was thumping in her chest as she stepped into the foyer. She could not fix anything that had happened the night before, but she was determined to do her best to keep her mistake from derailing her dreams for the future. She was so close. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. Even now she could feel it rising, the nervous excitement fizzing through her chest like Moët bubbles when she thought of the decision Michel would be making any day now. She had worked for this opportunity for fifteen long years—first culinary school in the US and then over a decade in the kitchens of Paris. Now finally, finally, she was on the cusp of success. She couldn’t let the debacle with Etienne mess things up. She had to convince Michel that she was still the right choice to steer the kitchen of his much-anticipated new restaurant, La Lumière Dorée.
Michel led Georgia through a narrow hallway that opened up into a surprisingly modern and spacious industrial kitchen. When he bought the villa, Michel had transformed a section of the lower level into a beautiful, top-of-the-line test kitchen so he could experiment and create in the comfort of his own home.The pristine, light-filled space with its gleaming stainless-steel counters was often bustling with his assistants, but this morning it was quiet and empty. He appeared to be working alone. For that, she was grateful.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit this morning?” Michel asked in a slightly questioning tone, taking up a position at the kitchen island in front of a cutting board with a square of dark chocolate that he’d been cutting into tiny, even pieces. His English was delicately accented with French. Originally from Brittany, he’d spent a couple of years in New York working for a famous American chef before returning to Paris. Somehow he managed to exude the best of both worlds. His silver hair was cut short with not a strand out of place, and his only concession to being in the kitchen was to roll the sleeves of his sky blue dress shirt up to his elbows. He was wearing very expensive, spotless shoes and had a pair of small, round wire glasses perched on his nose.
Georgia glanced around, not answering his question about her unexpected appearance. “Experimenting today?” Beside her on the counter was a tray holding tiny, delicate macarons in a rainbow of colors, a tarte tatin made with pears was cooling on a rack by the large double sink, and at the far end of the counter sat a tall pile of snowy meringues.
