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“Not quite. I mean, I’m sure some people are working for tyrants, but I’m not. It’s relatively easy. I set the menus most of the time, and I try to go above and beyond…desserts, bakes, that kind of thing. You know I’ll always be a pastry chef at heart.”
She chuckles. “Do you see yourself doing that long-term? I bet the pay is great.”
My stomach tightens at the thought of what the future holds.
“I hadn’t really thought about it…the family I’m working for will probably head back to the city when school starts back up.”
Harper’s private school is here in Manhattan, and I’m sure they’ll come back permanently sometime in early August. That’s only a few weeks away. I feel suddenly depressed with the realization that my life will soon be in flux all over again.
There’s a chance, of course, that Luke will offer to let me stay on at the house as the caretaker as it was my original position, but I won’t take him up on it. Being out of the kitchen even briefly because of this stupid finger injury has made it abundantly clear that I want to be cooking in some capacity full-time. Licking my wounds as a caretaker in the Hamptons sounded nice at the start of summer, but things have changed.
“Well if you find yourself looking for a position, I can put in a good word with my boss. The pastry department at Eleven Madison Park is completely insane, but you know that. You’d probably fit right in. You’ve always loved the frenzy.”
I mull it over, trying to picture myself in their kitchen, working under Laura Cronin. She could teach me a lot, but stepping back into a restaurant—one with three Michelin stars to uphold—doesn’t feel quite right. It’s a hard life and, quite frankly, unsustainable if I want to achieve a work-life balance that suits me.
“I’ll think on it,” I tell her, not wanting to eschew her offer completely, just in case. “There are a million directions I could go in, you know. Actually, I was thinking the other day that the Hamptons is seriously lacking in the bread department. There is tons of summer produce, fresh seafood, you name it. I could list five farm-to-table restaurants off the top of my head, but where are the real bakeries? And not the ones filled with overpriced cupcakes and crap. I’m talking about fresh baguettes, sourdough loaves, bagels, cinnamon rolls, done the right way.”
She’s smiling as she listens to me going on and on. “Sounds like someone should fix that…”
By Wednesday, I’m missing Harper and Luke in a manner that doesn’t seem all that healthy.
It’s Harper’s birthday today. She’s down in Texas, getting showered with affection. I’m sure she has more presents than she knows what to do with, but I would have loved to make her a birthday cake, sing to her, watch her blow out her candles. I pass a jewelry store and come to a sudden halt when I look through the windows. The jewelry brand has done a collaboration with Barbie. It’s meant to be! I go inside and fawn over a little bracelet filled with teeny tiny Barbie charms: a pink high heel, Barbie’s iconic profile silhouette, a sparkly tube of lipstick.
A savvy sales associate comes over to let me know they’re running a sale today. 30% off anything marked with a red label. And would you look at that? The charm bracelet is included in the sale. It still rings up close to $70 after tax which is probably more than I should have spent, but Harper will love it. She’s right on the cusp of becoming a young lady rather than a little girl, and something like this, a sophisticated bracelet that’s still pink and sweet, is the perfect gift. The store wraps it up for me in a delicate box with a bow. I’ll keep it safe until Sunday, when Luke and Harper get back.
I realize after I walk out of the store with her gift that I’m not that far from Fig & Olive. The restaurant’s only a few blocks south. I have nowhere I need to be until 6:00 PM when I’m supposed to meet my family for dinner, so on a whim, I turn and start walking.
I’m more than a little interested in seeing the restaurant. Like scrolling through an ex-boyfriend’s Instagram feed, the temptation is just too great. Does a small part of me hope the place is shuttered and desolate purely from the lack of my presence? Sure. Mostly though, I just want a quick peek.
I’m turning the corner toward Fig & Olive when my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. I expect it to be my mom with an errand she needs me to run, something for Nonna most likely, but an unknown number appears on my screen. For some reason, instead of letting it go to voicemail like I usually would, I answer.
