Is there a sauce for this?” Diego asks, biting into a cold chicken leg straight out of the fridge.
“Can you please use a plate?” I take the leftover containers from his hand and set them on the kitchen island. “Here.” I place a dish next to them when it’s clear he ignored my plea. “There’s a wine and butter sauce on the second shelf to go with that chicken. It’s labeled.”
“Aha,” he exclaims, pulling out another tower of containers.
I try to ignore the chicken leg attached to his mouth and go back to slicing a Japanese eggplant through a mandoline. At least he can multitask.
My hand moves quickly over the metal contraption. Each slice must be exactly one-sixteenth of an inch for the perfect ratatouille presentation.
Diego piles three pieces of chicken onto his plate and gives a leg to his overexcited dog.
“Don’t you have dog food?” I ask. I want to tell him that chicken was marinated overnight and braised for two hours, but instead I breathe out slowly.
“Chicken legs are his favorite,” he says, heaping a mountain of rice, carrots, and potatoes onto his plate.
“Well, you can’t keep him here. It’s not hygienic to have animals where food is being prepared.”
I reach past him to grab a bowl, and end up knocking my shoulder against his. It’s like hitting a wall. How can this enormous kitchen suddenly feel so small?
“Sorry,” he says, handing me the bowl.
“Thanks.” I look down, feeling like an alien species has invaded my safety bubble. Since I got here, the kitchen has been the only place in this house where I can be me—at-ease me. Now Mr. Alien Intruder has found a way to suck all the peace out of every square inch of space.
I push the last of the eggplant down the mandoline blade. The slices are too thick, but it’s too late; I’ve cut up the whole thing. I struggle with the tiny screws of the mandoline while adjusting the slicing blade to the right thickness. I test it on a piece of squash before I begin slicing again. At this rate, the whole dish will be ruined.
“Oh, and by the way, he’s not an animal. He’s Beluga.” The dog perks up at the mention of his name. The so-called Beluga has inhaled the chicken meat and is now chewing on the bone.
“What’s wrong with his eyes?” I ask. “Is he sick? If he’s sick, you need to take him outside.” And please go with him.
“He’s not sick. He’s albino.”
“Should he be chewing on that bone? I heard something crack.”
“Are you a cat person or do you just hate dogs?”
“I’ve never had a pet, so I couldn’t tell you.”
“You are the first girl I’ve met who doesn’t like Beluga. Everyone likes him.”
I scoff. “Oh, I bet.”
The dog is kinda cute in that scrunched-face bulldog way, but I’m not about to admit it. And I’m certainly not about to become one of those girls who drools over a cute guy’s dog.
Diego hands Beluga another chicken leg, which he quickly devours. And before I can protest the continued dog feeding, the kitchen phone rings.
“I’ll get it,” he says, walking toward the receiver on the wall. The way he’s making himself at home is nerve-racking.
“Bonjour,” he says into the receiver. Then nods and says, “Yes, yes, she’s right here.
“It’s your mother,” he says, handing me the phone.
I take it from his hand, avoiding any unnecessary contact. My eye is literally twitching with irritation. Great. Just what I need going into Grattard’s kitchen—a nervous tic. I’ll be the girl spasmodically winking at everyone in the room.
I clear my throat, shifting my tone. I utter a cheerful “Hi, Mom” into the receiver. “How’s your visit with Mamie going?”
I press my shoulder against a cabinet and stare at the wall. Every time we speak, I feel guilty for choosing to spend the summer with Papi and Margo, instead of traveling with her to visit my grandmother on the coast. Not that it was much of a choice, but still. It’s like I’m betraying her somehow.
“Lovely, but I miss you terribly, darling. I wanted to wish you good luck tomorrow,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I say, looping the phone cord around one of my fingers. There’s so much more I want to tell her, but not with Diego listening.
“Oh, and I finally settled things with the principal at your school. He assured me an apprenticeship would count toward your senior year. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I bounce from foot to foot, unable to display the full extent of my excitement. Since we got the acceptance email to Chef Grattard’s program, Mom has been working with my school so that if I get the apprenticeship, I can stay in France and not have to waste one more year learning about human anatomy and nonlinear equations. The only math I’ll need in Grattard’s kitchen is figuring out how to convert ounces into grams.
“That’s great, Mom,” I say, clutching the phone harder. Listening to the sweetness in her voice makes me realize how much I miss her. “I can’t wait to see you next weekend.”
Mom goes on about her visit with Mamie, and her plans for the weekend, but my focus involuntarily drifts back to Diego and his horrible culinary etiquette. I turn my head to find him drizzling the wine and butter sauce all over a big bowl of food he’s preparing. I mean, he’s using a serving bowl! It looks like a volcano exploded on the dish. Gross.
“Mom, I’m sorry, but can I call you back later? We have a visitor. Margo’s stepson decided to pop in unannounced.”
I watch Diego, eyes on the plate, slowly shake his head.
“Is everything okay over there?” she asks, clearly picking up on the annoyance lacing my voice.
“It’s fine. I can’t wait to see you. I’ll call later. Okay?”
“Yes, darling. See you soon. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I say before hanging up.
When I turn around, Diego has pulled two more containers from the fridge so that the entire kitchen counter is covered in open receptacles.
“Eat much?” I mutter to myself. He might as well be eating out of a trough. I grab a zucchini and quickly slice it against the mandoline’s blade.
“I’m not a visitor,” he says after a long pause.
“We’ll see,” I say. There is no way Papi is going to let us sleep under the same roof. That man is crazy overprotective.
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Diego puts his bowl into the microwave and presses start.
I concentrate on the peppers in front of me, charring them over an open flame until the skin turns black and the kitchen fills with a smoky, sweet aroma.
Behind me, looking over my shoulder—and way too close for comfort—Diego says in a low voice, “You know those are burning, right?”
My entire back absorbs the heat coming off his chest. I fold in my shoulders and step closer to the flame. My face feels like it’s about to melt off.
I clear my throat and manage to say, “That’s the point.”
He moves aside and I step away from the flame, and from him. Then I set the peppers in a covered dish so they can steam.
When the microwave timer dings, I utter a thank goodness under my breath.
“Beautiful day to eat outside,” I say emphatically. Then turn off the burner and pray he takes the hint.
“Not a cloud in the sky,” he says, plopping himself on a stool by the kitchen island. The albino dog drops onto the floor beside him.
“Maybe you can find a cherry field or something.” I fake smile.
“Oh, you’ve changed your mind, huh?” He lifts his head and raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, right,” I huff.
He puts his fork down and takes off his leather jacket. Immediately I wish he’d put the thing back on. This guy is seriously cut. I make a mad dash for an onion and sink my knife into it, hoping the eye-irritating gases will mask the redness rushing to my cheeks. For some reason that Michelangelo statue pops into my head. The full body image.
Get a grip, Isabella.
“Does Margo know you’re here?” I grab another onion even though the recipe calls for only one. “She didn’t say you were coming.”
“It’s a surprise,” he says between bites. I’ve never seen anyone eat that fast.
“You said you’re her stepson?”
“She was married to my dad—her first, his second. Didn’t end well. He’s a bit of a control freak . . .” He stares at me and shakes his head.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He scrapes the last bite out of the bowl like he’s going to lick it clean. “Did you make this? It’s pretty good,” he says offhandedly, moving to the sink to wash his dish.
I know I should be grateful for the compliment, but I bet he would probably say a meal that came out of a box is also “pretty good.”
“Thanks,” I mutter reluctantly, gripping a head of garlic. I place some cloves under the blade of my knife and strike with the heel of my palm. A loud thump echoes in the kitchen, making the albino dog whimper.
“Maybe you should take him outside,” I say—for the second time.
“He’s fine,” he says. “He doesn’t like loud noises.”
Am I getting lost in translation or is this guy incapable of taking a hint?
I peel off the skin around the cloves and proceed to practice my mincing technique.
Diego stands and walks to the fridge. He opens the door and peers in, moving a few things around on the shelves.
“Can I help you find something?”
“Dessert?”
“Second shelf on the left. Blue container. It’s labeled lemon tarts.” I turn back to my recipe, rereading it for the hundredth time like I’m some amateur. “You know, those tarts taste even better when you eat them by the pool,” I say.
“Did you make these too?”
“Uh-huh.”
He bites into a tart, tucking the container under his arm.
“Not bad,” he says between bites. Not bad? The two words sound like the long, pointy prongs of a fork scratching the surface of a chalkboard. Then he grabs an entire milk jug from the fridge and a glass from the cupboard.
“Come on, Beluga, let’s go outside so Mademoiselle Chef can have her kitchen back.”
The moment they leave I exhale, long and loud.
This guy needs to go—for good.
An hour later I’m staring at my almost-finished meal—thin, round slices of tomato, squash, zucchini, and eggplant arranged in neat rows inside a baking dish. I sprinkle salt and pepper and drizzle olive oil before placing the casserole in the oven. The dish would be perfect if it weren’t for those too-thick pieces of eggplant.
Margo and Papi arrive in time for dinner. Margo screams “Mi amor!” the moment she sees Diego and lunges at him with her arms spread wide. I had no idea she could speak Spanish. She only uses English around me even though I’ve repeatedly told her I need to practice French.
Diego and Margo launch into a rapid Spanish exchange, way too fast for me to follow. Apparently, Lala did lie to me. My Spanish is worse than my French.
“James, this is Diego,” Margo says, turning to Papi and throwing her arm around her stepson.
Papi is quick to shake his hand. “I’ve heard so many good things about you,” he says, and I begin to wonder, where is the father who would erupt at the prospect of a hot guy sleeping under the same roof as his teenage daughter? Clearly, that dad stayed back in Chicago.
I pretend not to listen as I set the table for dinner, practicing the French table setting I’ve memorized—the silverware placed in the order it will be used, leaving one inch of space around the plate; the napkin folded in a triangle; the water and wine glasses in front; and a side plate for bread. Every setting is a model of uniformity.
“When did you get here?” Margo asks.
“Early afternoon,” Diego says. I nervously wait for the meat cleaver and policemen story, but instead he says, “We left Barcelona at sunrise. Beluga loves to watch the sun come up over the ocean.”
The dog barks as if he can add something to the conversation. The sound resonates through the dining room. I decide to draw the line at having a canine at the table for dinner.
Papi bends down to pet Beluga. He’s making all kind of weird noises, like one of those women who go crazy every time they see a baby.
“I’ve been thinking about getting one,” Papi says, and I almost drop the water goblet in my hand. Every time Mom and I talked about getting a puppy, he said they were too much work. “We’re never home,” he used to say. But that was old dad, I remind myself with a twinge of resentment. Farmer Jaime here has all the time in the world.
“Margo tells me you really enjoy running the farm,” Diego tells Papi. I take a little longer filling the water glasses, lingering to hear Papi’s response. Even though I’ve been around him every day for a few weeks now, I haven’t got a clue as to how he really feels about his new life. On the outside, he seems happy, I guess. But how can he be truly happy when he had to forgo the life he had with me and Mom? My own question stings. Part of me—a big part—doesn’t want to know the answer.
“I’m loving working outside again,” Papi says. “My parents owned a farm in the Midwest, back in the States. That’s where I grew up. I miss that life. I’ve been helping Margo’s family with some plans to expand, maybe create a product line. Marmalades, preserves, that kind of thing.”
“James est a brilliant businessman,” Margo gushes, planting a kiss on his cheek. Papi drapes his arm over her bare shoulders.
“I got you something,” Diego says to Margo, handing her the flowers he bought at the market and a brown carry-out bag. “We stopped in Montpellier for breakfast. I got you that cheese you like.”
“Oh! From La Fine Mouche?” Margo opens the bag and sniffs the contents. I’ve never seen her look so delighted over food. “You are so thoughtful. I’m surprised you remembered.” She turns to Papi and says, “I used to take Diego to the beach in Montpellier when Dario was too busy.”
“When was he not?” Diego retorts.
“I’m surprised your father gave you permission to come visit. What about your training?” Margo asks, tilting her head to the side. Her right hand absently rubs her belly in circles.
Diego shrugs, and for half a second glances in my direction. Our eyes meet but he looks away first. “My coach said I could take a break. Can Beluga and I stay in the cottage?” He taps against his leg and the dog is instantly by his side, staring up at Margo with pleading puppy eyes.
“Of course,” Margo tells him, bending down to rub Beluga behind the ears. He closes his eyes, lifts his head, and moans at the touch. “Some of your things are still there.”
“The table is ready,” I say loud enough so they can hear me. “Dinner will be out in a minute.”
They gather around the table, pulling out chairs. The albino dog lingers as if he’s expecting someone to pull out a seat for him.
“Can you please take your dog outside?” I ask Diego as politely as I can muster.
He looks at Margo. She sighs and nods in agreement. Diego grunts, but doesn’t say anything. He opens the patio doors and Beluga rambles outside, his head hanging low. It’s weird how sometimes you can tell dogs are disappointed.
Back in the kitchen, I pull out the ratatouille and mentally get ready to plate, considering the dish’s color contrast and height.
I’m about to position the first element when I hear Margo say, “It’s like living in a restaurant . . .” before lowering her voice.
I tightly press my lips and turn off the oven.
Who else am I supposed to practice on?
Whatever. Papi doesn’t seem to mind.
My fingers firmly hold on to a ring form as I arrange a bed of couscous on the plate and spoon the ratatouille on top. I garnish with fresh basil and inspect the dish, painfully aware that during the next three weeks someone else will be scrutinizing every element on my plate.
“Michelin stars come only to those fully committed to excellence,” Chef Grattard was once quoted as saying.
As I carry the plates to the dining room, my chin inches a little higher than usual. Tomorrow, Chef Grattard’s kitchen will be mine.