I TURNED THE KEY AND UNLOCKED MY APARTMENT door. It was dark and silent. I dropped my bag and headed to the kitchen, pleased that my roommate was still out for the evening.
I reached for my spice box and the eggs. The perfect egg. In school, Chef Palmer made us cook eggs a hundred different ways, believing that if you mastered the egg, nothing was beyond you. I always returned to it as a touch point.
I cracked two, whipped them with a touch of milk, and threw in dill, chives, and a few spices. Flipping and folding them in the pan, I then added a touch of Gruyère. Done.
I brought the dish over to the couch and sat eating in the dark. It had worked; it was good . . . but it wasn’t enough.
A key turned in the lock.
“Elizabeth? That’s freaky. Why no lights?” Suzanne, my roommate, flipped on the light and ambled into the room, dropping her bag near the couch.
“That new chef started tonight.”
“That’s fast.” She plopped next to me and grabbed a throw pillow, crushing it in her arms. I took it as a sign of solidarity. Kill the pillow.
“What’s worse, he did well. The waitstaff went gaga over Chef Dimples all night.”
“Chef Dimples?”
“I overheard a couple servers call him that. And he can cook. No wonder they love him on TV.” I groaned. “I don’t have dimples and I can’t cook.” I held up my plate. “I also bought two new face creams on the way to work this morning.”
Suzanne reached an arm around my shoulder and laughed. She knew but was willing to play along. “Do they smell good?”
“Heavenly.”
“Eggs and lovely smelling creams? You are scared.” She chuckled.
“What if I lose Feast?”
“It hasn’t come to that.” Suzanne captured my gaze. “What did Tabitha say?”
There was no way I was going to tell her what Tabitha said. “She’s scared too. Feast can’t afford two sous chefs, and we both know it. And because I’m close to Paul, Tabitha’s sure she’ll lose her job. And she may be right. Or we could both be gone tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you be gone tomorrow?”
“What?”
“Go see your dad. See Jane. Cook some meals in someone else’s kitchen. Change things up a bit.”
“Now is probably not the best time for a vacation.”
Suzanne snuggled deeper into the cushions. “You can’t do the same things and expect different results. You’ve been struggling for months, and if Feast is struggling, isn’t it your job to find new solutions?”
“I’ve been trying.”
“Then do something new—even ruthless dictators take time off.”
“Hey—” I stopped. Going home hadn’t occurred to me, but now I wondered if it was just the thing. Suzanne was right; Jane’s cancer played constantly in my mind—consumed it really. And maybe going back to the very kitchen in which I learned to cook would inspire me. It could work. “Okay.”
“Excellent.” Suzanne added a perky note to her voice. “Now that that’s settled, let’s watch a movie. I left Grant and his friends at Blondie’s Sports. I couldn’t watch another basketball game. March Madness has got to end.”
“Movie sounds great, but I need to blow my nose.” I headed to our bathroom as Suzanne uncurled from the couch.
“Popcorn?” she called.
“Of course.”
“I downloaded the PBS 2009 Emma last night. That guy who plays Sherlock on Elementary, Jonny Lee Miller—he’s Mr. Knightley.”
“I’m not really an Austen fan,” I said. “Let’s—”
“You always say that, but you know more about her than anyone I know.”
I paused in the bathroom, tissue in hand. I worked hard to keep Austen quotes and references out of my communication—even though they still popped into my head as often as words like salt, pepper, and sauté. Clearly, I’d failed.
I yelled back, pretending not to have heard. “How about that new thriller? We saw the ad for it last night?”
“Okay. You do that and I’ll make the popcorn.”
“Forget that. You find the movie and I’ll make the popcorn.”
“Food snob.”
“Tech geek.”
As I turned the grinder on the stove popper, I thought about my last conversation with Dad just four nights ago.
“Jane didn’t think I should tell you, but I think it’s important.”
“What? I’m not strong enough to take it?” Thirty-three years old, and I had gone right back to tweendom with a single comment.
“Elizabeth.” Dad had sounded weary.
“Sorry, Dad. What’s up?”
“She started chemotherapy.”
“Why wouldn’t she tell me? I knew she had to start sometime.”
He paused for a moment while I regretted my harsh words. “She didn’t want you to worry. She’s afraid you’re not handling this well.”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry she’s going through this, but you said it wasn’t like Mom. You said Jane’s prognosis is good.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s not scared.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts, Elizabeth. I wanted you to know. She goes in on Tuesdays, okay? It would be nice if you at least called your sister.”
“I will.”
But I hadn’t. Every moment I wondered how she was doing, but I hadn’t called.
I carried the bowls into the living room and handed one to Suzanne.
“What’s that face?”
“Nothing.” I nodded to the bowl. “You’ll like that. Truffle salt and pasture butter.” I curled up at the other end of the couch and reached for the remote. “But I don’t think I should go home. I need to stay here and dig in.” I grabbed a handful of popcorn and pressed Play.