Page 9

Dreams of the Future

Rafferty could not stop laughing. It was a deep belly laugh shared with this fellow countryman many generations removed. They had been laughing for so long that Rafferty had forgotten what they had been laughing about. It just felt good. His hands had continued, however, adding the final touches to his meal, passing his new friend’s bowl to him, steam wafting fro m the top.

“This tastes excellent,” éliott moaned as he took another bite. “I think it’s been ages since I’ve had something like… Words fail me. No, wait! The brandy flavor sings! It is warm and savory-swe et, and …”

Rafferty agreed, but he couldn’t provide better words for it. He laughed then went still as he tasted his food. A memory, something he had thought he had lost long ago stirred up in his mind, drawn out by the taste. His mother making this for him, showing him how it was done over a real fire in their hearth.He couldn’t recall her name, but her smile was as beautiful as ant ique lace.

“What is that?” A woman’s voice, which was not his mother’s, interrupted his thoughts.

Another white-coated woman stood there, this time with a short bob under her white cap. From the looks of her, she had just murdered something made of chocolate, as she was spackled in blips and bits of the substance.

“Oh, hello, Eleanor,” éliott said. She shot him an annoyed look, then directed her gaze back to inside Raffe rty’s pot.

“What is this?” she asked, lifting up the ladle to pour some of the substance back in, examining it s texture.

“Gruau,” éliott said, unperturbed and, in fact, seeming rather delighted by her i rritation.

“Gruel,” Rafferty amended, giving the English wo rd for it.

“Gruel?” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose at it. “Like what Oliver T wist ate?”

Rafferty looked inquisitively. “I’m sorry. I do not know who that is.”

Eleanor narrowed her eyes as if trying to decide if Rafferty was making fun of her or being an idiot.

“Oliver Twist, you know. Dickens. Great novel, several okay movies, and one musical,” éliott offered, nudging him with his elbow like it was a pri vate joke.

“Sorry, I… I don’t really read much. Except cookbooks,” he said, and it was true. His ability to read English or read at all came along with the ability to speak it and then all he had ever been able to find when summoned had been cookbooks.

“He’s a chef,” éliott piped in, the words escaping him before another mouthful cut them off.

“Oh, I see. A purist then.” Eleanor practically sneered, crossing her arms.

Rafferty had no idea what this woman’s problem could be, though he wasn’t really that bothered by it. Just wary. It wasn’t uncommon for humans to have blatant hostility toward him, especially if he had invaded their kitchens.

She didn’t let up, though, as she planted her fists onto her hips. “So, you think, just because you’re a ‘real purist’ chef, you can just waltz into any kitchen you want and just start cooking whatever you want.”

“I’m sorry,” Rafferty said evenly, the safest answer he had ever been able to give any of his masters. The only one they really wanted to hear, and only sometimes it worked.

This time it did, and she backed off, her guarded eyes trying to figure him out. Then she slipped a spoon out of her pocket, presumably a clean one, and dipped it into the pot. Blowing on it once, she stuck her sample of his gruau into her mouth. Rolling it around. He could tell she was truly tasting it, and he waited with bated breath for her thoughts. Then her eyes closed as her mouth stilled, no longer actively tasting it. A shiver ran through her body, and she swallowed, bringing her fingers up to her lips as if she could touch the taste.

Then her eyes opened, and the guard cam e back up.

“ That ’s gruel?”

“It gets a bad reputation,” Rafferty said, grabbing up his bourbon to down a swallow, reigniting the brandy flavor lingering in his mouth.

“Is this your thing?” she asked, nodding toward it, her arms crossed still, but less actively aggressive. “You specialize in gross-sounding foods and make them taste d elicious?”

“I don’t specialize in anything. I just make what I’m told,” he said, taking another bite, affecting like he wasn’t both pleased by her reaction to his food and delighted with it himself. Maybe it hadn’t just been the demon magic he had put in it all these centuries to make it turn out.

“Hell, I hear that,” Eleanor said, recrossing her arms the other direction.

“Eleanor is the patissier at this hotel,” éliott said, then gestured over at her station, where a gorgeous statue of a unicorn with a flowing rainbow mane and tail sat on a long, si lver slab.

“What is that?” Rafferty asked, getting up from his little corner to go look at it. It was only as he got closer that he realized the unicorn was in fact… “A cake?” he asked.

“Yeah. There’s some rich hedge fund manager’s daughter’s birthday party. The inside is entirely chocolate cake, though I was tempted to make it red velvet.” She chuckled at her joke, but when Rafferty didn’t join her, she let it go. “I have a bit of a da rk humor.”

“It’s beautiful,” Rafferty said instead, leaning in to examine it. “But how?”

“It’s all edible. I used either cake or chocolate to build it up. The skin is fondant. Just takes time. I make cakes like these all the time. And chocolate sculptures. I make videos of them and post them online. You should check them out.” Eleanor leaned against her counter, her arms still crossed, but her face seemed more re laxed now.

“She needs to run her own studio,” éliott said, sticking his finger in one of her frosting bowls to steal a bit. It earned him a slap from her, but he only grinned undeterred as he stuck it into his mouth.

“A studio? Not a shop?” Raffe rty asked.

“It would be a studio and a shop,” she conceded. “The idea being I would make my creations, make video content of them, then put the creations up for sale, that sort of thing. I’ve almost got it together. It would just go faster if I had an investor. I want to buy a space, but not many banks are so keen on my business plan.” She looked Rafferty over again. “Have you ever heard of Baking Und erground ?”

Rafferty could only bli nk at her.

“It’s sort of like those cooking show competition things like on the Food Network channels, but this one is more homegrown and lower tech,” éliott explained.

“It was a fun thing a group of us did. Started out as just a way to learn tricks from each other, but then we started recording them and putting them on the internet. It’s real rough, but now it’s sort of taken on a life of its own. We have live audiences now and everything. And it’s still a good networking opp ortunity.”

“I think it could be a big thing,” él iott said.

Rafferty wrinkled his nose, trying to understand what they were telling him. “How does it work?”

éliott spread his hands out before him, mischief in his smirk. “Twelve enter, only one survives!”

“No, éliott…” Eleanor shook her head in disgust then huffed a sigh as she brushed her hands off on her apron. “There are three rounds. You get about an hour each, everyone makes a dessert or a dish, though we’ve done other baking rounds, too, like casseroles and stuff. Everything is blind taste-tested and the winner goes onto the next round until there are thr ee of us.”

“Then it’s an all-out battle,” éliott crowed, taking the narra tive back.

Another huff from Eleanor. “In the third round, it’s about making the most stunning piece possible. What makes the ‘better dish’ becomes subjective. Some people have won by visual surprise and artistry, others by extreme tastes. Or being in novative.”

“It becomes very strategic, which is what keeps it interesting,” éli ott added.

Rafferty nodded, understanding. “And the ideal encapsul ates all.”

“You’ve got it,” Eleanor agreed. She took a small step closer, and there was a bit of a change in her energy. No longer hostile. Rafferty would almost guess… inviting? Like he had passed some kind of test. Or maybe cooking just turn ed her on.

“And where do you call home?” she asked, shifting so she perched on the edge of the preparation table they were eating at.

Another basic question that he had no answer for. Rafferty shifted on the kitchen stool he sat upon, wondering if he could say he lived with Helena. Did he live with Helena? Their future was so uncertain.

“You mean where he works?” éliott asked, before glancing at Rafferty. “I only know I met you at… that job.” Clearly, they weren’t supposed to talk about the Winter Rose Ball—which suited Rafferty just fine.

Rafferty nodded his understanding. “I don’t have a home. Not like that. I just do… one-off gigs, whenever someone needs me, ” he said.

Eleanor smirked. “What are you, a trust f und baby?”

“I… I have a girlfriend, ” he said.

“Oh, my dear Lord, you are kidding me,” Eleanor decried, clearly disliking that answer. “So, you’re a deadbeat?”

“No…” Rafferty said, desperately trying to parse her meaning. “Deadbeat” must be a new idiom; he just hadn’t heard Helena s ay it yet.

“He is from France, you see,” éliott again interjected. “He hasn’t been here very l ong, yes?”

“You’re French?” Eleanor asked, getting more and more skeptical of th eir story.

“Oui,” Rafferty said. “I… I don’t have an accent because…”

“Because he does not want to be judged by it like some of us are.” éliott raised a poignant eyebrow at Eleanor, who ig nored him.

“Oh, so you’re a real French chef then?” Eleanor asked, in American-accent ed French.

“Why does everyone try to make me speak in my mother tongue?” Rafferty asked, getting annoyed with the practice.

This time Eleanor blinked multiple times at Rafferty’s perfect French. “You know you would have an easier time getting jobs if you didn’t try to suppress your natural accent. People love that sort of thing.”

Rafferty shrugged. “I’m sorry to disappoint.” He turned away to go back to the small bit of counter by the stove he had used. He snagged the brandy bottle he used for the gruau. His glass received a healt hy refill.

Damn, this brandy tastes good, he thought after an equally healthy swallow. Alcohol had no effect on him before, as ashy tasting as anything else he put in his mouth.

Eleanor’s gaze followed him, the wheels clearly turning in her head, but he didn’t care anymore. His head swam with the drinks he had already consumed. He wasn’t tipsy drunk; he didn’t think he had the emotions needed for such a thing. Even in his first life, he had been a sullen drunk, and that much hadn’t changed now in his second life a pparently.

“You know, people are really into antique recipes too. You could fill a real niche for someone. Also, I could refer you to a couple of places if you’re looking for steady paying work,” Eleanor suddenly offered, eyeing his gruau.

“In exchange for what?” he asked.

She frowned. “Nothing,” she said.

That made him pause. “Why would you do that for me?” Rafferty immediately q uestioned.

“Because I’m not as much of a bitch as you think I am,” Eleanor responded, finally giving him a grin. It changed her whole face, and for a brief moment, Rafferty’s swimming senses got caught up in it. She didn’t look away from his naked appraisal, then she reached into one of her apron pockets and pulled out a business card. It was a bit of cardstock that had seen better days, the corners roughed up and creased, but everything needed on it wa s legible.

“Feel free to call me. I remember how hard it was to get started, so if you are interested, I have enough favors I need to pay forward that I can at least make a few intro ductions.”

Rafferty took the card, knowing he would never call it. “Thank you,” he said politely.

She nodded and went back to her cake.

“What is it you would like to do?” éliott asked, refilling his own glass with fresh inebriant as soon as Eleanor left them. “I mean, if you could do anything, nothing in your way.”

Rafferty stared over his glass into the far middle distance, where the past and the future collided. “I always wanted my own place, like a shop or a café, where I could explore and push the boundaries of cooking. To follow my curiosity and do whatever catches my attention. There are so many recipes I have never gotten to try, so many…” It was definitely the drink talking, pulling those words out of his heart like shards of glass long lodged inside. He didn’t even entirely know what he meant by them. It was certainly nebulous as far as dreams go.

The sick part of his heart reminded him that once he had wanted to be the head chef for the king, and he had done anything, including selling his own soul, to try to achieve suc h a thing.

“You don’t want to have your own full-blown restaurant or something?” éliott asked, clearly a bit flummoxed by h is answer.

He shook his head. “No. I’ve already been there. Done that. Worked my way up the ranks, cutting every throat I could, making choices and compromises no one should ever make.” He downed the rest of the brandy. “I never want to do that again. But I still love the work.”

“Wow. You are like a tragic noble in a romance story. A fallen man seeking redemption,” éliott whispered sincerely, propping his cheek on his fist.

“There’s nothing noble about me, I assure you,” Rafferty said, not stopping éliott as he refilled his glass yet again. Why not? “I’ve just been given a second chance that I don’t deserve, and I have no freaking idea what to do with it.”