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"What exactly?" My voice is calm, a big contrast to hers. It irritates her further.
"I wish to make amends. None of you let me,” she spits.
Someone needs to fucking remind her that she should be crying, sad, probably depressed?
Dunno, something less…spiteful will fit her facial appearance.
"The past is the past, Rachel. No one cares about the mistakes we all have made in the past," I say dismissively.
Truly, I have no power to revisit the past. The damage has been done. All that is left now is for me to find some way to fix everything, or we will all go tumbling down the drain.
She clicks her tongue. "I state that we need to work together if we have truly let go of the feuds of the past."
"Alright, Rachel. Go ahead and lead the army. I am curious to see how you handle that," I inject.
"Do not mock me, Carl Romano." Her hand bangs the wooden table, and the vibration makes even the chandelier on the ceiling jingle. I struggle to hide my smile.
"You started it."
"Jeez, you are so childish." She pushes her seat back and rises. "Ivan wanted to speak with you," she announces and glances to check my reaction.
I still wear my mask. Somehow the mention of Ivan makes everyone jittery. He must feel very fucking important for the first time since he began serving my family.
"Oh. I wasn't aware. Well, I will speak with him in my free time." She is horrified by my lack of interest.
Next thing you know, she will begin to worry that I am one step ahead of them. She hates the fact that I assume temporary control of everything.
She says something inaudible and adds, "I'll see you around." Then I hear her heels click away to the living room.
I smile. Even without Tasha's help to relax and keep my head clear, I can handle Rachel.
As for the rest…
I add an extra cube of sugar to my coffee, then I stir it with a teaspoon, watching the dark brown mix with the deeper shades of black—an espresso, my favorite.I take a sip.
Emily
I have a memory from 2 years ago. The day when I left the foster care home that had housed me all through my years as a child, ateenager and finally an adult. On this day, I had a duffel in hand and another knapsack hanging on my right shoulder.
All the instructors that had a hand in raising me as a child came to see me off, meeting me before the iron gates. I counted everyone present except Mrs. Fox.
She couldn't join in on the heart felt goodbye ceremony because she was dead by that time.
When I say things that way, it comes off like I truly didn't give a shit that she passed on. Mrs. Fox lived a long life. She played her role in driving away my wildness (my confidence). Then was gone, allowing me the freedom to finally choose who I wished to become.On that day, there were happy faces and sad faces. Most of the instructors I never managed to create a bond with paid 'good riddance' homage to me. The rest plastered kisses on my cheeks, soaking my dress with their tears and ranting about how much they couldn't wait to receive letters from me. When they were done with the entire drama, I hopped into the taxi and hurled my bag to the seat. Then I took one last look at the foster care home: a white house with three floors, a large compound field with gardens and fountains, and thought,I doubt I'll ever write letters or come back to this place. I think I have had enough. I think Mrs. Fox has achieved quite a lot with me. Silly simple me.
And how could I think the world would be so easy once I stepped into it. How could I even imagine that working as a chef atthe age of 18 in a 5-star restaurant meant I would have enough riches to take a child—who shares my pain—under my care.
I never met my parents. I never knew any Mama or Papa. The first word I spoke, surprisingly, was “salad”. That was how Mrs. Fox decided that I must be Garde Manger in the foster home's kitchen. There, I discovered I had an above average skill when it came to cooking. Then, when I turned 18, I was given an opportunity to fulfill my dreams of working in a famous restaurant.
Or should I call itMrs. Fox's dream?
When Mike and I get back to the Mano Cuisine, we realize that we are closed.
"I'll go through the back and get my stuff. I left a sack under the sink somewhere. Kester should be around too somewhere. You don't have to wait behind. It's a bit too late now. I'll head home with Kester." Mike stares around the street.
I disagree with him; the streets have always been safe. Hardly is there a case of crime on the news stations or in the papers.
And I know Maya likes to read the papers when Sebastian dumps them carelessly on the cabinets. She reads and then she bugs me all throughout my shift about the rich folks of the city. The bachelors, the men she wishes to have in her bed. She tries to match me with some of them, claiming that I'll fit better with such characters, better than with Mike.
