Page 20 of Boss of the Year

“You look ridiculous,” I told myself. “You looknaked.”

I still wasn’t sure how I’d let Joni talk me into the blush-colored silk, which was only a shade or two from my natural skin tone. Held up by whisper-thin straps, the buttery fabric flowed over my body like water to my ankles. My only accessories were the St. Mary medallion on the thin gold chain I’d received at my confirmation and the bold red lipstick Louis had declared my new trademark.

When I’d modeled the dress for my sister over FaceTime, her applause was immediate. But now, with my short, dark hair slicked behind my ears, the style seemed to make the uneven parts of me even more prominent. My lips, with their asymmetrical fullness, looked absurdly provocative. My breasts, which had always felt uncomfortably large for my height, wereright out there. And my green eyes seemed even wider than normal, blinking like a scared deer under the fluorescent lighting. I felt like a fraud.

“Marie?”

I was shaken out of my doubts by the sound of my name in a very thick, very matronly French accent. As Ondine Bataille stepped into the kitchen doorway to approve outgoing trays of hors d’oeuvres, her eyes met mine and popped open with delight.

“Ma chéreMarie!” she cried as her short, squat form toppled forward, arms out for an embrace. “You are back!”

I traded kisses to each cheek in the way that had become familiar during the last year in France, then allowed myself tobe drawn into a tight hug by my mentor. She smelled the same as ever, like vanilla, butter, and a hint of white wine. Gray curls tickled my face as she squeezed me close.

“Oh, là là,” she whispered as she looked me over. “You are a vision. Now I see why you don’t have a moment to say hello.”

I flushed. “I…it’s a lot, I know.”

“Bien sûr, it is,” Ondine agreed in her no-nonsense way. “But also, very beautiful. Marie, I never knew you can be so…” That hand waved again, this time more like it was summoning someone from far away.

“Ostentatious?” I volunteered, already feeling my cheeks pink.

“I was going to saybelle.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you—I mean,merci.”

It was still strange, getting these sorts of compliments. In Paris, no one had ever known the old Marie, so they were never surprised to see me like this. Here, everyone seemed shocked, like they never imagined I could appear so…human.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,” I said. “I knew you were prepping for the party, and I’m not due to start back until tomorrow.”

“And you are obviously meeting someone.” Ondine looked over my dress, my hair, and my makeup like she was appraising cuts of meat at the market. “I would not have recognized you until you turned. You are so different.Siélégante.” She smiled, almost sadly. “So lovely. You enjoyed Paris?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. You know I did.” I had sent her letters saying as much, though she only ever sent two curt notes in return. Ondine wasn’t much for correspondence. She hated email and texting even more. “Thank you so much for talking to your friends at the Institute. I learned so much there.”

“Is Henri still a horrible snob?”

I snorted. Snob was probably putting it lightly. Henri Gestault, the chef who taught knife work classes, was the strictest instructor at the Institute.

“He was great,” I lied, knowing they were good friends.

Ondine nodded happily. “Good, good. Now, where are you going in this confection? You look better than thecroquemboucheI make for tonight.”

She rolled her eyes, and I understood why. The caramel-encrusted tower of custard-filled choux pastries wasn’t the most difficult dessert in her repertoire, but it was impressive, especially when built into extravagant shapes and designs. Mrs. Lyons almost always requested it for parties like this. It was, however, time-consuming to bake and fill what sometimes ended up being thousands of creampuffs.

“What was it this year?” I asked.

“Monticello.”

“Thomas Jefferson’s house?”

It was a slightly unimpressive choice for a fortieth anniversary, but Mrs. Lyons was hamstrung by her own theme. Every year, she chose a landmark to recreate that took the same amount of time to construct as the years she and Mr. Lyons had been married. Thirty-six had been my favorite. That year, we got to make St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Ondine waved a hand. “I don’t know what this is. A house with a big dome, enough for five hundred guests. But she say it take forty years to build, just like them.”

Guilt twisted in my gut. Relatively simple or not, making enough choux for five hundred people was a job that must have taken forever on her own. “I should have come earlier. I could have helped you construct, at least.”

I followed her into the kitchen, where several assistants hired for the evening cooked away under Ondine’s direction. Afew looked up, eyes flickering over my outfit, but they quickly returned to work. There was a lot to do.

“My last party,” Ondine lamented. “The next will be for Christmas. And you will be in charge,ma chére.”