Page 2 of The Hidden Daughter (The Lost Daughters #7)
LONDON, PRESENT DAY
Charlotte loved this time of day. The kitchen was silent, every surface wiped down and gleaming, and as she so often did before beginning her work, she placed her hands on the stainless steel counter and gave herself a moment to take it all in.
It was always first thing in the morning that she was able to catch her breath, close her eyes for a beat and prepare for the day ahead.
But today was different. Today was her last day as executive chef at one of the trendiest hotels in Chelsea, and she wanted to savour every last minute; most especially the quiet before the space filled with other chefs and noise and the aroma of food.
She opened her eyes and took out her knives, placing them in front of her.
There was no need for her to be there so early, but she wanted to leave one final, special new dish behind—a legacy of sorts—and her intention was to have it waiting for the other chefs and servers to enjoy when they arrived.
Charlotte had always preferred to show her feelings through food, and she only hoped they could tell how much she loved them all from her final gesture.
Just as she was reaching for her apron, Charlotte’s phone buzzed in her back pocket. She smiled, knowing instinctively who it would be. There was only ever one person who would call her so early, before most people had even had their morning coffee.
‘You should still be in bed,’ Charlotte said, positioning the phone between her ear and shoulder.
‘Ha! Says the girl who’s already been for a run, showered and arrived at work,’ said the slightly husky voice on the other end. ‘Tell me I’m not wrong.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘You’re not wrong,’ she said.
‘Let me guess. You have your knives spread out on the counter in front of you, and you’re staring at them thinking about what ingredients you need. And you probably only got five hours’ sleep.’
Charlotte crossed the kitchen to get out the eggs, potatoes and beef that she needed, pulling open the door to the cool room. ‘Are there hidden cameras in here that I don’t know about?’
They both laughed this time, but Charlotte’s laughter died in her throat when her grandma began to cough. It sounded worse than last time. Or maybe it was just her conscience telling her how long it had been since she saw her.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ her grandmother replied, clearing her throat. ‘This is just what sixty years of smoking sounds like. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘You could quit,’ Charlotte said, knowing it was useless but saying it anyway. ‘The lungs can recover remarkably quickly.’
‘Quit? You’d deny an old lady her one last pleasure in life?’
Charlotte sighed and retrieved some of the other ingredients she needed, her ear still pressed to the phone.
She didn’t point out that her grandmother also drank vodka every night before bed and ate sugary desserts as if it were her last day on earth.
Smoking was hardly her only pleasure, or her only vice.
‘Grandma, is everything okay?’ Charlotte asked. ‘You’re not calling to tell me—’
‘Oh, I’m fine, it’s nothing to worry about, but I do have a favour to ask.’
‘A favour?’ Her grandmother never usually asked her for anything. All she ever wanted was to hear her granddaughter’s voice on the other end of the phone, and Charlotte had always been more than happy to oblige.
‘I have a woman coming to drop something to your restaurant today. I was contacted by a lawyer who has something for me, and she wanted to hand-deliver it. Apparently, they’ve been trying to track me down for some time, and I asked them to just give whatever it is to you. I’m sure it’s nothing important.’
Charlotte set down the butter and herbs she’d been carrying. She took her phone from under her ear and held it instead. ‘What kind of something? Has something been left to you from an estate?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, but I thought it would be easier for her to just drop it to you, whatever it is. The woman’s name is Mia, and I told her to come nice and early, before you get busy with lunch service. It all sounded a bit mysterious, but I’m sure it’s nothing very interesting.’
‘She didn’t give you any details about what it is?’
‘She said something about it being left for me when I was a child, and they had your great-grandmother’s name, too.
I’m almost certain it’s nothing, but I was curious enough to want to see what it is, without incurring any postage costs to Norway, of course.
’ Her grandma coughed again. ‘But if it’s an inconvenience—’
‘Not at all—anything for you,’ Charlotte said, pausing for a minute before saying, ‘I miss you.’
‘Then come to visit! Who knows how long I have left?’
Charlotte nodded, even though her grandma couldn’t see her. If only it were that easy.
‘Your father would love to see you, too. I know you don’t think so, but he misses you, Lotte. We all do.’
She cleared her throat, blinking away the tears that always seemed to come when they spoke about her father. ‘Soon,’ she said. ‘I promise I’ll come home soon, I’ve just been so busy, and—’
‘I know, darling. I know,’ her grandmother said. ‘I’m going to let you get back to your morning, but promise you’ll call me when you’re finished for the day. I want to know what this parcel is all about.’
‘I will. I love you.’
‘I love you, too.’
Charlotte kept the phone to her ear for a moment, before finally slipping it back into her pocket.
She hated how complicated things had become with her family, but she did what she always did to forget about her father—Charlotte picked up her knife and began to slice.
Cooking had always been her escape; her way of clearing her mind and finding her peace with the world.
And this morning was no different. She chopped herbs and whisked eggs with an efficiency that tended to intimidate the younger chefs she worked with, her senses coming to life as she pressed garlic and reached for a roasting dish.
The kitchen was silent—there were no playlists or other chefs, no clang of plates or hum of patrons outside—and it was just the way Charlotte liked it.
She craved the intimacy of being alone in the kitchen as much as she thrived on the busyness of service later in the day.
She prepared her sauce, placing her ingredients in the pot and stirring it as it slowly began to bubble on the stove.
But the single tear that slipped down her cheek as she reached for the chopped herbs told her that perhaps she wasn’t quite as good at making her feelings disappear as she’d thought.
One day she’d go home to Norway. One day she’d make peace with her father. But that day wasn’t today, and she wasn’t even sure it was next month or next year, either.
Today, she just wanted to focus on creating brunch for the people who’d become like family to her, the other chefs who’d stood shoulder to shoulder with her this past year and followed her instructions with the dedication and care she’d demanded.
Today, she wanted to enjoy her last day of standing in this kitchen.
She could think about her father and going home another time.