“See if she drops her napkin. Or fork.”
“They always drop a fork.”
“It’s a test. Pick it up.”
“Butdon’thover.”
“Anddon’ttalk to her.”
“But don’tnottalk to her!”
Greta held out her hand like a kindergarten crossing guard. “Stop!”
Linus and Holly shut up in unison.
“What can we do to help?” Holly whispered.
“Let me work. In peace.” Greta turned to Paul, who’d been listening. “You ready for this? Station’s prepped?”
“Yes, Chef.”
Heart pounding in her chest, she turned to Holly and Linus. “Give Dahlia space. Don’t be overly solicitous. And whatever you do,don’ttell me which dish she orders.”
“Are you crazy?” Linus cried.
“I’m serious. If I do my best with each dish, like I try to every night, I will stay calm. Yes?” She willed her voice not to wobble.
Both nodded.
“Okay then. Go do your thing, and we’ll do ours.”
“Yes, Chef.”
When the kitchen door swung shut, Greta feared she might puke. Paul clapped her roughly on the back. She swiped her long braid over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Harvest was full, and the orders came in fast. The kitchen hummed as they tried to keep up.
Greta seared steak tips and sautéed balls of cod. She pan-fried halibut and broiled lobster. She simmered chowder and tossedgreens. She drizzled and spooned and garnished and plated and sent them out, plate after plate, prayer after prayer.
Only once did Holly come in and hand her a tall glass of iced lemon water. Then Linus, with another one of his special homemade sprays, this time a cooling cucumber mist. When he held it near her face, Greta glared. Linus vanished. Finally came Oliver, who appeared at the side door.
“I heard,” he said, looking between Greta and Paul and the steaming pots and smoking pans. He set down a basket of heirloom tomatoes, and another filled with fresh herbs. “Good luck.”
All night Paul remained at her side, handing her implements before she asked, clearing her workspace, passing her pans. It was the hottest night of the summer, and even with the fans on and the door thrown ajar and the windows open, Greta felt the heat. She felt it under her armpits and across her forehead, right down to her feet swelling from all the dashing about.
At nine o’clock Linus appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “She just left.”
Greta stepped away from her stove. When her head began to rush, she bent over the island. She thought of her culinary school teacher who’d taught her so much and taken advantage. She thought of her mother, who’d put her first wooden spoon in her hand. Most of all, she thought of herself, of the steady heart pounding in her chest, reminding her she was very much alive and had done it, whatever may come.
“Want to know what she ordered?”
Holly had joined them. Oliver, too.
“Let me guess,” Greta said. She’d wondered all night, and now it dawned on her. “The cod köttbullar.”
Linus’s eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know?”
“Gut feeling.” What she was really dying to know, she was too afraid to ask. There was no point anyway. Critics gave nothing away.
