Meg winced as she placed a bit of ribbon over her swollen brow. It was not fashionable, but purple and black bruises were not in style either. The small vanity wobbled with age as she reached for an old Christmas tin filled with hairpins. She loved that tin. To her it was not simply a convenient container, but rather it held her last happy memory... before her father disappeared, and before her mother became a hollow shell and married Charles Lars.
The tin had been full of caramels. Meg’s favorite. Of course, that was before her father had left to seek investors, and in turn found a new woman, a new family. It didn’t matter that he had destroyed his daughter’s life and his wife’s happiness; only he mattered. Shaking her head, the young girl pulled her mind back to the present. Luckily, most employees at the Red Bear Hotel ignored her injuries, or pretended to, and she was grateful for that. Not that she didn’t desire sympathy—she craved it. She craved to scream the truth from the rooftops. She hungered to have someone, anyone, reach out to her with a gentle word or sincere smile. Yet such attention, no matter how benign, would embarrass her stepfather, and in turn would result in more bruises and more unwanted touches and advances from his odious hands. A knock on the door made Meg jump. She knew who it was. That dreaded knock caused her hands to shake and her chest to burn with waves of acid. Why did he always appear before she needed to head to the kitchen? She held her breath. Maybe he would think she’d already left. A second knock told her that if she waited anymore, there would be hell to pay.
“Coming,” Meg hurried to the door and gingerly opened it. “Charles,” she greeted coldly and opened the door fully.
A smooth smile spread over his flat facial planes. “Good evening, Meg.” His suit made the crisp sound of expensive fabric that had been perfectly pressed. He looked around the small room: simple with its white walls, worn blue star quilt, the little vanity nestled beside the yellow wardrobe.
“I have offered many times for you to move into your mother’s adjoining room. She could certainly use the companionship, and it is much larger than this hovel you chose.” He grinned and walked over to her bed, stroking the quilt with a long, smooth finger.
Meg shuddered. The room next to her mother’s would mean hearing her mother sob while overly-powdered women were invited to her stepfather’s chambers. It would mean more interaction with Charles, and Meg would rather march into the inferno then be closer to him.
“I like the privacy,” she answered truthfully. He shrugged and casually walked closer to her. Instinct demanded that she step back, but Meg held her ground and lifted her chin defiantly. Charles chuckled and closed the gap between them. His long fingers stroked her hair, removing the ribbon she’d so carefully placed across her brows.
His dark eyes glistened, an artist admiring their own work, a hunter ready for the next prize. “Such innocence you possess Meg,” his words were soft and alluring like the gentle hum of a wasp. “It entices even the strongest man to see such a closed flower in need of blooming.”
Meg clenched her hands as his fingers trailed down her neck and played along her quivering Adam’s apple. She glared and knocked away his hand, “And I shall remain innocent.”
Instantly his right hand flew out and grasped her neck with a tight squeeze. Meg could feel the excitement in his fingertips. This was why he taunted her—it was a game of cat and mouse. This was also why she defied him, despite the beatings and sleepless nights of working in penance. She wouldn’t allow herself to be one of the many women he loved to seduce and then torture for his pleasure.
“Innocent,” he purred, letting his hand drop to her covered collarbone. “No woman remains so for long. God gave all women two choices. Either they give it to a man who can—” his face grew closer, the Cuban cigar smell of his breath washing over Meg, “provide for their needs, or they desperately give it away in some dirty alley because they no longer have an opportunity for better male companionship, leaving them to make a living by tearing their flower apart.”
Meg spat in his face and braced herself for the slap that followed, sending her flying into the wall.
“Impudent girl,” he chuckled, rubbing his palm. “How long until I break you of that?” he asked himself. “How long until the sin of Eve manifests itself in your hidden lusts? When will your well of evil lust be tired of denying its insatiable hunger?”
Meg swallowed the blood in her mouth, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her bleed. “I am not my mother, Charles. I don’t ‘break’ easily. As for my hidden lusts, personally I think you could dry up just about any woman’s well with your ridiculous advances.”
Charles’s face went red. He saw himself as both holy and seductive, a dangerous combination in a revolting man. Finally, he shrugged off her insult as comical and walked toward the door. “We have some important guests tonight. Pray they are impressed by your creations.” He gave her a gentlemanly bow and exited the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall.
Meg shuddered. For years she had kept Charles’s advances at bay, but even then she felt soiled and dirty. Him merely looking, touching, and sneering with constant insults eroded her dignity. She knew, logically she knew, that she had worth, but emotions were not made up of logic.
“’Pray they are impressed’?” Meg tried to force out a wry laugh, but it ended with a cough. To the guests of the Red Bear Hotel, she was non-existent, but to all the workers, she was the chef—the real reason why so many people flooded the hotel to dine.
True, Frank Teale took the visual role of the chef. He came out to talk to especially-pleased customers, and he signed the raving reviews in papers. No one ever guessed the plain little kitchen maid was the maestro of Red Bear’s gourmet dishes.
Meg turned back to the vanity. Maybe she was trapped in this life, having nowhere to go and no proof she was an accomplished cook, but in the kitchen Charles couldn’t touch her.
There she could be wild, untamed, and unashamed.
“My cooking will beckon angels,” she told the thin face in the mirror. Then with a nod more confident than she felt, Meg once again adjusted her hair and headed towards the kitchen.