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Isabella stared at the table with a strange sense of awe. All these people had paid thousands of dollars to be cooked for…by her? There were times when she couldn’t believe how far she’d come.
“There’s just one guest we’re waiting on,” she explained to the table. “But they’re late, so I don’t see why you should have to wait.” She winked, her easy manner bringing smiles to the diners’ faces. “I’ll have your amuse bouche served. Sit tight.”
“Do you need a
hand?” The pop star called, such a genuine and kind offer that Isabella felt a buzz of something like relief. She would feel human again one day. The grief would fade, and other people’s kindness would supersede it.
The Amuse Bouche were served, and still no sign of the eleventh guest. She moved onto entrees next, then a primi main, followed by a palate cleanser. While they were eating that course, she sent an email to her assistant, letting her know that the high-paying guest hadn’t arrived, but given the time difference with Australia, she didn’t expect to hear a reply. She really hoped whoever it was wouldn’t expect a refund. The charity had already been given the money – though she could personally reimburse it, of course.
The main course was served, then they took a break to look over Times Square as festivities built to a crescendo. It was only an hour until midnight.
She oversaw the presentation of the desert, placing berries as necessary, then stepped back as the waitstaff delivered it to the table. Just before midnight, cheese platters were brought to the table, coffee and Cointreau, champagne glasses filled, and now Isabella removed her chef’s jacket and took a seat – down the opposite end of the table to that which one guest had left conspicuously absent. The night had been a success, but she felt no relief. Instead, Isabella simply felt as though she’d survived something she’d needed to get through. The sooner this was over, the sooner she could be alone. Properly alone.
What she wanted was to lie in bed for days in a row, staring at the ceiling and letting her heart absorb what had happened.
Joining in on conversation on autopilot, Isabella answered questions as she deemed appropriate, told jokes that didn’t touch the sides of her humour, laughed at other guests’ jokes, until the fireworks went off and there were hugs and kisses and cheers and resolutions.
She took part in it all because it was expected of her and because the charity needed the donations, but she’d never been so glad as when the last of the guests left. It had been great for her reputation, she was certain. The pop star hadn’t stopped sharing photos on Instagram all night, each one tagged with Isabella’s handle, so she’d gained tens of thousands of new followers in the course of a couple of hours. One of the Hollywood stars had asked if she’d come and cater for her birthday in the summer. The night had been an unqualified success, but she wanted it over.
She carried some wine glasses into the kitchen and was returning to the table to collect the remnants of a cheese platter when the wooden doors to the restaurant swished inwards.
Expecting that one of the guests had returned, perhaps having forgotten something, the very last person she expected to see was Gabe Montebello. His eyes pinned her to the spot the second he entered the room. Dressed in a tuxedo, he looked as though he’d been at an incredibly formal event. Her emotions went crazy, rioting through her.
“Gabe.” His name was a whisper on her lips, a weakness before she could bring herself under control, pulling a shield around herself with difficulty.
“How was dinner?”
His voice was thick and raw, gravelled so her knees felt unstable. Her fingers tingled with a yearning to reach out and touch him.
She turned to the table. A couple of the waiters were clearing it now. She moved awkwardly away from it. “A success, I think.” She frowned, her mind racing, her stomach in knots. “Except one guest didn’t show up.”
“He came, just late.”
Her lips parted. Gabe was the mystery last-minute inclusion? Her eyes swept shut. “Why?” A hoarse whisper.
“Joining the dinner seemed like a good idea at first, but then, I worried I would distract you.”
His assessment was accurate.
“Why come at all, I mean?”
“I wanted to see you.”
She shook her head. She wasn’t prepared for this. Not enough time had passed. She hadn’t grown strong enough to see him and pretend she was okay. She scratched her fingernails into her palms.
“I needed to see you.” The correction pounded at her chest.
She moved further away from the table, through the restaurant and towards the windows. Times Square was a hive of activity.
“Why?” A plaintive whisper, a surrender to sadness. She didn’t care that he’d likely heard it.
She was too tired to pretend any more.
“The day you left Villa Fortune…”
“Christmas day,” she reminded him, bitterness etched into her soul. How quickly things had gone from perfection to misery!
“Right.” His voice was hoarse, and came from right beside her. She didn’t turn to look at him. She heard his breathing, rough and uneven. “Everyone was asking me about you. About you and me,” he clarified. “From first thing in the morning, I was being ambushed with questions about what I felt for you, what you meant to me, what my plans were for our future. It was…exasperating and infuriating.”
