No cooking today?” Diego asks as I walk onto the patio. It’s Saturday morning, not a cloud in the sky, and almost eighty degrees outside. He’s working his way through a plateful of poached eggs, toast, beans, tomatoes, cheese, and what looks like an entire slab of bacon.
“Just because I’m not cooking doesn’t mean I’m not creating,” I answer, twirling my hand next to my head in the manner of a mad scientist. “Something’s always cooking up here.”
“You got that right,” he mumbles into his plate. He’s sitting by the patio table with Beluga at his feet. The dog is gnawing on a piece of bacon.
I ignore him, returning to my morning goal. Nothing is going to ruin my good mood. I’m still reveling in the pasta dish success and the encouragement from Chef Legrand. As a reward, I’m allowing myself a little pool time this morning. It may not be the same as drinking a bottle of champagne found in a shipwreck but, for now, it’ll have to do.
Chef Troissant is evaluating our progress over the weekend, and on Monday morning I’ll know my new spoon standing. The thought of walking into the kitchen on Monday morning makes my stomach turn with anxiety. Week three will be decisive. Whatever it takes to win.
I will need something to set me apart—hence the thinking. Lots of thinking. Even if I’m in the pool, I can still run though flavor combinations in my head.
For an additional burst of l’inspiration, tonight I’m meeting Lucia and Pippa for dinner at a traditional bouchon Lyonnais—complete with checkered tablecloths and sausages dangling from the ceiling.
“Let us know if we need to move. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of your creative process or anything,” Diego says sarcastically.
I look at him and make a face. “I’ll let you know.”
“Oh, I know you will.” He snorts and bites into a piece of toast.
I smirk, refusing to allow his snotty mood to ruin my morning.
Looking at him, all I can think is how happy I am I didn’t kiss Diego that night by the pool. What was I thinking?
He may be gorgeous, but from what I can surmise, unlike me, this guy has no ambition in life. None.
I unwrap the towel tied around my waist and toss it onto a lounger. Mom bought me a bold blood-orange-colored one-piece that highlights the bronze tones in my skin.
I’m not the bikini type—too many fleshy bits exposed. But this suit, with its low neckline and high-cut leg, is just as sexy.
I’m feeling so unusually confident that I reach for my ponytail and let my hair down. It falls around my shoulders in waves.
As I walk into the pool, I wonder, is this is the kind of bathing suit—and body—a guy like Diego would find attractive?
I glance at him, and to my surprise he’s staring at my midriff. He stops midbite on a slice of bacon before looking away, swallowing hard and clearing his throat.
I bite my bottom lip, suppressing a smile.
Watching him looking at me is a guilty pleasure at odds with the die-hard feminist part of my brain that insists my body is not an object to be sexualized for the amusement of the male gaze.
I put the thought aside for a moment. It’s my body, after all. I can do with it whatever I want.
And it’s those very thoughts, of what I would like to do with it, that make my cheeks turn hot with embarrassment.
I really need to get my head out of the gutter.
I’ve never been so glad to be wearing these big cover-half-your-face reflective sunglasses. He can’t see me sexualizing him.
I take my time wading into the water, then slide forward and swim the length of the pool. It’s cool and refreshing.
“Are you getting in?” I ask, folding my arms over the edge. I try to make it sound more like a question than an invitation.
“I’m good,” he says.
“That’s right—the chlorine thing. I forgot. Is that really a thing?”
“Yes, it’s a thing.”
“I think you’re scared,” I say. He slowly shakes his head, but a grin appears on his lips. “I think you don’t know how to swim.”
“You really got me there,” he says dismissively.
“Come on, what is it? I want to know.”
He sets down his fork and turns in his chair to fully face me, his gaze shuttered.
“I’ve been in a pool for more than five hours a day since I was four. I’ve inhaled enough chlorine to open a new hole in the ozone layer. So yes, I guess you can call it an allergy.”
“Five hours?” I ask.
“That’s what it takes. I logged eighteen thousand meters a week on average,” he adds.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“A lot of pointless back and forth. So, to answer your question, I know how to swim. I just choose not to.”
He returns to his breakfast, folding a slice of bacon and stuffing it into his mouth.
Beluga walks to the edge of the pool, reaches over with his head, and tries to lick my face.
“I think your dog is thirsty.” I move my head back, just in time to avoid his wet tongue. “It’s all that bacon you’re feeding him. It can’t be good for him.”
“He likes it,” Diego says, pouring water into Beluga’s bowl. “Vente, Beluguita,” he coos in Spanish.
Beluga follows Diego’s hand into the bowl and drinks until there’s nothing left. Diego adds more water and gives him another piece of bacon.
“Why did you quit?” I ask. “The swimming, I mean.”
“Because I hated the person I was turning into,” he says, turning back toward the table. He loads a fork with eggs and beans and takes a bite.
“What kind of person?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“The kind who didn’t care about anything but winning. I had no life outside of school or swimming. Not that it mattered much. Friends and competition don’t really go together. It’s lonely at the top—right?”
“The top?” I eye him skeptically.
“I made Olympic trials last year.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying. Was he really that good? Who would give that up?
“And you quit?” I prod. “Just like that?”
He nods. “Just like that.” He drops his fork onto the empty plate and pushes it away before taking a small espresso cup between his fingers.
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard anyone do.”
“It was the best day of my life. I’m not even kidding.” He chuckles to himself, bringing the cup to his lips.
“Is this why you won’t call your dad?”
“Are you always this nosy?” he teases.
“To be fair, it wasn’t like you and Margo were whispering. I mean, all of Bessenay probably heard you.”
“Uh, yes,” he concedes. He sips on his espresso and sets the cup down in front of him. Then turns his upper body toward me and says, “Swimming was his thing, not mine. Now he wants me to go to Cambridge for economics, like he did. Me, a finance guy . . .” He shakes his head and shrugs. “I only applied because I thought I wouldn’t get in. I never intended to go. And I certainly never intended to continue swimming once I went to university. I’m so done.”
“All that work for nothing?” I tilt my head to the side, as if somehow a different angle will help me make sense of his decision. I have no idea what it takes to get into Cambridge, but at a minimum his grades must be excellent. And I can only guess that not many people make Olympic trials. And based on what he’s saying, he’s worked practically his whole life to achieve these things. I can’t imagine ever making his decision. I’ve worked too hard, come too far, to let it all go. And what’s more, I’m not a quitter.
“I don’t get it,” I say.
“Not many people do.”
Papi saunters onto the patio before I can ask Diego exactly how one gives up on life at eighteen. And what exactly he intends to do next.
“My two favorite people,” Papi says as he approaches. He’s wearing his preferred cherry farmer outfit—worn jeans, plaid shirt, and a brown felt Stetson hat he bought when we took a family trip to Idaho a few years ago. Mom picked it out.
“Hope you don’t have plans for the rest of the day,” Papi says.
“You’re looking at my plans,” I reply, treading water.
“A couple of cherry pickers came down with the flu, and we’re short a few hands. Could use your help,” he says in his best Mr. Midwest Nice Guy tone.
“I have to prepare for Monday,” I say.
“Aren’t you off all weekend? You can prepare tomorrow,” he argues, impatiently.
Diego gathers his things. “I’ll go change,” he tells Papi. “Happy to help.”
I give him the stink eye as he walks off. Now I’m left looking like a jerk for not wanting to pick cherries for the rest of the day.
“Next week is gonna be brutal,” I say.
“Isa, honey, you’ve been spending every waking hour on this . . .”
“Because that’s what it takes,” I immediately retort, thinking of Chef Legrand’s advice. “I need time to think of new recipes. Thinking is part of the process, you know?”
“I’m just asking for a few hours, Isa. Margo and I need a little help around here. The baby is coming soon, and the room isn’t ready yet. We have a lot on our plates right now.” He wipes sweat from his brow, even though it’s not really that hot out. It’s still weird seeing him like this—dirt under his fingernails, hair and beard grown out. This new “rugged style” makes him look old and worn out. Suddenly, I feel sorry for him.
“Fine,” I say, stepping out of the pool. “But I’m not wearing overalls.”
He hands me my towel and smiles.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “You can keep all the cherries you want. Maybe you’ll have enough for a pie. No flambés, though.”
“So funny,” I say, wrapping myself in the towel. “Is this deal supposed to benefit me or you?”
He throws his arm over my shoulders and walks me inside.
“Well, you said you had to practice for school, right? I’m just trying to help you out, honey.”
“Right . . .” I wriggle from under him and he stops moving.
He stares at me and I can see the confusion and hurt in his eyes.
“I’m not making her pies, Papi. I can’t.” A knot forms in the back of my throat.
Papi’s warm hand lands on my shoulder.
“Isa,” he says in a raspy voice. “I miss her too.” He blinks a few times, and I pray it’s not tears I see glinting in his eyes. Papi never cries. He bears his emotions with an impassive expression that used to drive Mom nuts. “I wish you came with subtitles!” she’d yell at him in a heated argument. But I don’t need subtitles to see the toll of grief on his shoulders. It weighs him down, more than he’ll ever admit. This, he can’t walk away from.
“I can’t,” I repeat, fighting back my own tears. I step back, pulling away from his touch even though I want him to hold me. I want us to cry together for everything we’ve lost. I want him to cradle me in his arms and tell me this all-consuming sense of loss will eventually go away and we’ll be a family again.
I clear my throat and the words “I’ll meet you in the orchard” come out instead. I walk away, angry at my inability to find the right thing to say. When confronted with this asteroid-sized ball of guilt, grief, and anger burning a hole inside my chest, words fail me every time.
I wait until Diego and Papi leave to come down from my room.
The beauty about baking, I’ve learned over the years, is that it serves as a great substitute for therapy. Today calls for an emergency session.
I open the fridge and pull out a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough, made with the chocolate discs I bought at Pâtisserie Lulu. They were the perfect size, flavor, and consistency. Jakub is sure to love these. I want him to have the best possible, ultimate chocolate chip cookie.
The French, I’ve realized, take the chocolate chip cookie for granted. They use some chocolate chip aberrations they call pépites de chocolat—tiny, sad, wrinkled chocolate pieces that resemble old raisins—as substitutes for the American counterpart.
Many people think chocolate chip cookies are the bottom rung of the baking ladder, but that’s an amateur’s assessment. Anyone can make hard cookies with sparse chocolate chips. It takes a master to bake a chewy cookie with the right amount of crisp around the edges and enough chocolate to please even the most discerning chocolate connoisseur.
In this case, the master recipe belongs to MOF pastry chef Jacques Torres, who coincidentally now lives in America. He once taught a day course on just these cookies at the French Pastry School in Chicago. Of course I went.
There, I learned that chocolate discs are preferred to chips. They help spread the chocolate goodness throughout the cookie. And most important, the dough must rest in the fridge for at least thirty-six hours to allow the gluten to loosen and to meld the dry ingredients with the wet.
Every time I pull one of these trays from the oven, I feel like a winner.
I pack the freshly baked cookies in a tin and head to the orchard. I ride my bike there, guided by the sound of a Polish Roma song. The music plays in the background as the cherry pickers glide up and down ladders propped up on trees.
I lean my bike against a tractor, where Diego is loading buckets of cherries onto the bed.
“I thought you weren’t cooking today?” he says, eyeing the tin box in my hands.
“It’s not cooking, it’s baking,” I say, searching for Jakub. “There’s a difference.”
He raises an eyebrow, questioning my statement.
“It’s relaxing,” I add.
He shakes his head. “I’m curious as to what you actually do for fun.”
“What do you mean? Baking is fun.”
“Exactly,” he says sardonically. Then reaches for the lid. “Anything good?”
I move the tin away. “These are meant for someone.” I spot Jakub playing with his toy truck under the shade of a tree.
“Trying to lure a farmhand?” Diego teases.
“Jealous much?”
“I’m not gonna lie. I am a little jealous of whoever is getting those.” He glances at the tin, but in the process his eyes travel up my body in a way that leaves me gasping. Where the heck did all the air go? We’re standing outside for crying out loud!
“I, um . . . I . . . I guess you can have one,” I say, reaching inside the tin.
“Gracias,” he says, biting into the cookie. “These are amazing.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I got this special chocolate.”
He scoffs and shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“You really need to work on your thank-you skills.” He puts the last bite into his mouth and goes back to work.
When I finally say thank you, he’s too far up the tree to hear. I guess I’m so used to having my food critiqued that it’s hard not to instantly explain myself.
The moment Jakub sees me, he drops his truck and runs to meet me. He takes my hands and leads me to his blanket under the shade of a tree.
I sit next to him, give him the tin, and point to the piece of paper that reads chocolate chip cookies in Polish.
He smiles and jumps up and down, clapping his little hands and singing the Polish word for cookies, ciasteczka. I laugh hard, taking in the pure joy on his face.
When he finally opens the lid, his eyes widen at the mountain of cookies inside. He slowly reaches for one and brings it to his mouth.
The smile on his face is worth all the chocolate chip cookies in the entire universe. His eyes immediately close—a tell-all sign of culinary ecstasy. He devours one cookie in three bites and pulls out two more—one in each hand. I kick myself for not bringing him some milk so he could have the full experience.
“Les meilleurs ciasteczka,” he tells me in a jumble of French and Polish.
“The best cookies? Wow, Jakub. I am honored.” I add a merci, thinking of Diego. I’m fully capable of saying thank you.
“Pour plus tard.” He can have the rest later, I tell him, and close the tin before he eats them all in one sitting. These cookies are highly addictive; I know from experience.
Jakub trades me the tin for a kiss and runs off to his parents.
“I’ll have you know, I am not opposed to fighting a little boy for that tin.” Diego sneaks up behind me.
“He can jump in a pool if he wants to get away from you,” I hit back.
“That’s a low blow,” he says, amused. “That was nice of you.”
I force my eyes to meet his. “Thank you.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” His face breaks into a smile.
“Don’t push your luck.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “Why are you always so difficult?”
I’m stunned. “I’m not difficult,” I’m about to say, but then he suddenly takes hold of my hand and I’m left speechless. His touch is so casual and unreserved that it startles me. Why is he holding my hand? And why does it feel like it’s the most natural thing in the world?
“Come up this tree with me,” he says, pushing me onto a ladder.
I climb first. He meets me at the top on his own ladder. For a while we pick fruit in silence, tossing cherries into the empty buckets attached to the top of the ladders. It’s menial work, but something about it brings me an unexpected sense of satisfaction. I get lost in the folk music swelling from the ground below, with the festive jingling and rattling of a tambourine. My body sways from branch to branch as I reach for new clusters of cherries.
Diego climbs down and repositions his ladder across from mine. Now we’re facing each other. My eyes keep wandering in his direction, even though I’m trying hard to keep my focus on the tree. There’s something captivating about the way the muscles on his arm tense as he reaches farther into the boughs. His brow is furrowed in deep concentration. When he catches me staring at him, he smiles. My breath catches. I hold his gaze and smile back.
“Do you have plans tonight?” he asks. He leans on the side of his ladder, closing the distance between us. I do the same. As a result, we end up hidden inside the canopy, completely covered by leafy branches.
“I’m meeting Lucia and Pippa in Lyon for dinner,” I say, debating whether I should ask him to join us. Mostly, I fear he will end up embroiled in one of those rapid Spanish conversations with Lucia that I find impossible to keep up with. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines wishing I knew every detail being said—wishing I knew every detail about him. But then I gaze into those deep brown eyes and see an unguarded openness that takes me by surprise. It’s as if I could reach out and touch him without moving an inch. All my resolve leaves me.
“Do you want to come?” I ask, going against my own qualms.
“Yeah, that sounds fun.”
“I’m leaving at seven. Papi said I can take the car, so just meet me up front.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great,” I say, tamping down any excitement in my voice. This is not a date, after all. We’re just agreeing to meet at a certain time and drive together to a discussed location, where we will meet other people. There is nothing datelike about the evening. A date would constitute us being alone, doing date things, like kissing and such. There will be no kissing tonight. None.
By late afternoon, we have picked a gazillion buckets of cherries, enough for a lifetime supply of cherry pies.
“Feels good to do something with my hands,” Diego says when we load the last bucket onto the trailer bed. He has patches of sweat and dirt all over his T-shirt and face. But under all the filth, there’s a lightness about him that wasn’t there before. Even his shoulders seem to hang looser.
Diego and Papi drive the tractor back to the warehouse. I take my bundle of cherries and ride my bike back to the house.
As I pedal through the fields feeling proud of the day’s work, I give myself permission to muse what if—what if it was a real date? What if there was a kiss?