Page 62 of Boss of the Year

“What the heck is that?” he asked. “Some kind of pepper?”

“No, it’s acaju. Cashew fruit.”

He looked dubious. “What do you do with it?”

“Juice it. Supposedly, it has four times the vitamin C of orange juice.” I held it up. “Yeah, we’re making some sorbetto with these bad boys.” I nodded to the vendor and gestured that I wanted to fill a bag with thecajufruits.

While Robbie paid, I was distracted by a stall selling fresh fish.

“Don’t get any of the abalone,” Robbie called. “Shellfish allergy, remember?”

I nodded. “That’s right. He got anaphylaxis when he was six, eating clams in Maine.”

Robbie looked surprised. “That’s somethingIshould know.”

“We’ve been sharing these stories in the kitchen for ten years. I bet I remember things about Lucas that he doesn’t even know about himself anymore.”

We meandered through the rest of the market, where I selected some local plantains and palm hearts for a variation of mofongo,and picked up some passionfruit and a grape-like fruit calledjabuticabathat I wanted to experiment with poached.

“What’s this?” I asked a woman as I looked into a barrel full of a yellowish dried grain.

“Farofa.” She continued rapidly in Portuguese, followed by some theater-level miming that made it clear it was meant to be cooked and was very delicious.

I picked up the scoop and allowed the grain to fall down from it like rain into the barrel. “Farofa, huh? Well, all right. We’ll give it a try.”

At least this way, I could be a little adventurous.

But then again, food never talked back, did it?

I spentthe rest of the day happily getting to know my new kitchen, planning the rest of the meals for our time in São Paulo, and prepping any ingredients that would need days to set or culture. Tonight’s dinner would be relatively simple: steak with a few vegetable sides, elevated with sauces combining French and Brazilian techniques.

Lucas loved a good steak, too, I recalled. Winnifred was always trying to get the family to eat something other than red meat since Mr. Lyons had cholesterol issues. But on the few occasions Ondine and I prepared meals for Lucas alone, he’d always requested the perfect steak.

At precisely seven, I plated the dinner, setting it on the sleek dining table just as the private elevator doors chimed open at 7:10 p.m.

Lucas entered, still in his suit, though he’d loosened his tie. Today’s was a dark blue that matched his eyes. He looked tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from high-stakes decision-making for far too long and not enough sleep. For amoment, he seemed surprised to see me standing there, as if he’d forgotten I’d come along.

“Marie.” His voice was formal, but slightly gruff. “Ah, hello. Good—good evening.”

I offered a smile and touched a hand nervously to the silk scarf covering my hair. “Welcome back. Your dinner’s ready.” I gestured to the table.

He studied me a moment more before dragging his eyes to the table, where he then sat down.

I walked back toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

I turned at the door. “I—well?—”

“Stay.”

I frowned, looking at the empty spaces.

“You have your meal, right?”

He wasn’t wrong. Part of the deal of being live-in chefs was that Ondine and I ate whatever we prepared for the family, or at least a simplified version. There was indeed a plate just like Lucas’s waiting for me on the kitchen counter. I’d been looking forward to it for the last two hours while I worked.

“Then, please. Go get it.” Lucas turned to his food. “I’ll wait.”