She nodded. “The coconut rice was genius.”
He knew better than to be smug. “Chef Broussard’s suggestion, Chef.”
The almost-smile appeared—the one he’d seen during his interview, the crack in the armor that said she was human underneath the standards. “He has his moments.”
“Indeed.”
“And, clearly, so do you. I like this.” She placed the spoon in the wash bin and crossed her arms, then pinned her gaze on him. “The cook who called in sick is coming in after all. Apparently, ‘sick’ meant hungover on Tito’s. So, I don’t need you on the line tonight.”
His stomach dropped. Was this?—
“But the internship is yours.”
The air left his lungs in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“I don’t need a cook who can make perfect shrimp, although this is close,” she said. “I need a disciplined team player who shows up on three hours’ notice with a baby at home and delivers a dish this clean. That tells me more than any recipe.” She extended her small, powerful hand. “Welcome to Driftwood, Lawson. Two weeks. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, five to close. Count on Saturdays, just not this one.”
He shook her hand and felt the future shift under his feet—solid ground where there had been sand.
“Thank you, Chef. I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not.” She turned back to her kitchen, already moving on. “Now go home. Celebrate. And don’t even think of ever calling in sick, coming in late, or questioning any order I give you.”
“Heard, Chef.”
She slid him a rare smile and flicked her fingers in dismissal.
High on life and hopes and trying really hard not to worry about childcare for ten minutes, he drove to the address Pepper had texted him, breaking approximately three speed limits and calling her on the way.
She picked up on the second ring, and in the background he could hear music—not pop, not hip-hop, but something orchestral. Strings and piano, warm and slow.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Great, but I’m finished for the day earlier than expected. How’s Atlas?”
“He’s the king of Sunset Shores.”
Sunset Shores? “I’m on my way, if it’s the address you sent me.”
“It is! Just go to the main building. Mavis is at the desk and she knows you’re coming. Oh! Gotta go! Wrong foot, Virgil!”
Virgil? Mavis? In a class full of five-year-olds?
He followed the GPS, the sound of her raspy voice still echoing, until he arrived at…Sunset Shores, which was no dance studio for teenagers.
This was assisted living! Actually, the sign read Sunset Shores Retirement Community, as if to correct him from calling it anything less than pleasant.
The main building sat at the end of a palm-lined drive—a clean, well-kept facility with white stucco walls and flower boxes in every window. He parked and walked to the front door, spying a few residents rocking under blankets on the porch, all greeting him with wrinkly smiles and waves of vein-knotted hands.
He entered a lobby decorated with an abundance of turquoise and seashell art, meeting the smiling face of a white-haired woman at the front desk.
“Mavis?” he guessed.
“You must be Atlas’s father!” she gushed. “What an angel!”
He beamed like the proud papa he was. “That’s my boy.”
She pointed toward a wide hallway. “The activity center is right through there. Follow the music!”
