Page 136 of Neap & Spring

“Yes.”

“For two more courses.”

“Yes.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she starts rolling up her sleeves.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping.” She’s already pulling her hair back, securing it with a pen from her dress pocket, the gesture so familiar it makes my chest tight. Then she’s moving toward the sink, washing her hands.

“Vivienne, you don’t need to do that. They need you out front.”

“I can plate. Or garnish. Whatever you need me to do.” She grabs a clean towel, drying her hands. “Just tell me where you want me.”

I should say no. I should send her back to the dining room where she’s safe and she doesn’t have to face whatever demons wait for her behind this line.

But I look at the tickets and at the empty station, the clock ticking down loudly behind me.

And I know I need her.

“Okay,” I say before I can overthink it. “Okay. You’re on plating for the duck. I’ll do the sear and the gastrique. Amara, you’ve got sides?”

“We’ve got them,” she confirms.

Vivienne positions herself at Roman’s empty station. Her hands are shaking slightly, but her jaw is set with determination.

“You sure about this?” I ask quietly, stepping close enough that only she can hear me.

She meets my eyes. “I’m sure. Just tell me what to do.”

“Okay. Start plating. White plates, stack of twelve. You’ll add the sauce at center and I’ll plate the duck.”

“Okay.” She reaches for the first plate.

I move to my station, pulling out the duck breasts. They’ve been resting, perfectly cooked to temp earlier in the day. Now they just need a quick sear to crisp the skin and warm them through.

“First six firing,” I call out.

The duck hits the pan with a sizzle that fills the kitchen. The smell of rendering fat and crisping skin makes my mouth water even after all these years.

“Sauce ready in two minutes,” I yell, reaching for the gastrique.

Vivienne is plating beside me. Her movements are precise, muscle memory taking over. She ladles the cherry gastrique onto each plate with slightly trembling hands.

“Good,” I tell her. “That’s perfect.”

She doesn’t respond. She just reaches for the next plate.

I slice the duck. The knife moves through the meat easily, each piece perfectly pink in the center. I start arranging them on the plates Vivienne prepared.

“Marcus, garnish on these six.”

“Yes, Chef.”

The first plates go out. Then the next six. Then the next.

We’re moving.