Page 33 of The Wandering Season
I awoke on the living room sofa, feeling better rested than I expected. It seemed my body was learning to compensate for all the disruptions to my sleep and I had energy enough to take on the day, but I fervently hoped I’d be free of the visions and reclaim my life and my sleep soon. I’d slept without dreams, but now that I was awake, the scene from the previous night’s visit replayed over and over. I gave up the pretense of sleep and headed to the village in search of breakfast.
On the drive, I pushed the visions from my mind and considered how much I’d come to love my time here. I’d been traveling for well over two weeks, and yet it didn’t feel like I’d done more than scratch the surface of all the things I’d wanted to see. I’d have liked to go to Provence to visit Saurraut’s, the famous antique kitchenware emporium that had taken the foodie world by storm. I’d have liked the time to take some cooking classes in Tuscany. I’d have liked to walk along the Mediterranean in summer.
There were a great many things I would have liked to do, but time was running short, and with the current situation in my bank account, it didn’t seem all that feasible anytime soon unless Avery and Dad teamed up again. And I wasn’t sure it was an offer I could allow myself to accept a second time. Maybe the memories I made on the trip would be all the more precious for being from an experience that would remain unique. But I hated the thought of years elapsing before I was able to return.
I felt some of Carlotta’s resolve wash over me, and I knew it was time to stop hiding.
When I arrived in the village, I was glad to see that while most everything was yet to open, a lone bakery emitted a warm glow onto the streets. While the choices weren’t as expansive as those in France, they were expertly crafted with fine ingredients, using techniques passed down for generations. The marmalade-filled cornetti were a close approximation to croissants and would be a welcome addition to breakfast, and I added a few sfogliatelle, an impossibly flaky creation that seemed to be an amalgamation of butter and divine intervention, and a few small bombolini—a sort of light doughnut filled with chocolate that looked too good to pass up. I managed the transaction in my halting Italian, but the woman smiled indulgently at my feeble attempts and even put in a few almond biscotti as a gift we could enjoy with an afternoon coffee.
The girls were awake when I returned, thrilled that I’d come armed with coffee and carbs. “Remind me to go on vacation with you more often,”
Stephanie said as she polished off her second pastry. “You’re better than room service at The Savoy.”
I scoffed. “Amateurs. I’m fit to cook under Ducasse at Le Meurice, and you know it. Fetching pastries from a bakery? Child’s play.”
Stephanie set down her coffee with a hard click on the counter. “I do. So why the hell aren’t you, Stratton? The Kitchen Muse schtick? It’s clever, sure. But you’re hiding behind it. I know you enjoy helping source cool ingredients and you love consulting, but why are you so set on being an assistant fry cook in your own life when you should be the executive chef? If you had your own kitchen, you could still do all that jazz and charge a heck of a lot more for it because you’ve got the kitchen rep to back it up.”
I held up my hands. “Don’t hold back, Steph.”
“I have been. For six years now. More. And it was a huge mistake to play along with you. You’d have a culinary school diploma and be a lot further along in your career by now if I’d been a better friend and given you the boot in the arse you needed.”
Avery finally met my gaze. “She’s right. I’m just as guilty. Mom and Dad have been so incredibly supportive of me and my work . . . and they feel terrible you feel like you can’t ask for the same level of support.”
“But I don’t need it,”
I protested. “I’m not living in New York. I don’t have expenses like yours.”
“Do you know how happy Mom and Dad would be if we were both in New York? You killing it in the restaurant biz, me slaying in fashion? They’d be so tickled; they’d probably get us a penthouse to share. Just think, I’d make people pretty clothes and you feed them so much great food they don’t fit, and then they’d need more clothes. Seems like the bulletproof business model to me.”
Steph exhaled, a bit exasperated. “What I think your twerp of a sister is saying is that they’d have been happy to see you do the whole ‘go big or go home’ thing Avery’s got going on, and they’d have been proud to pony up to make it happen.”
“When was the last time you accepted a hand up? From anyone, including me?”
“Apples and oranges. My field pays better off the bat and doesn’t require living in New York. But don’t deflect, lady. This is about you. I’m doing my thing. Avery’s doing hers . . . You need to own up to what you really want and go for it before life passes you by. No one wants that for you. Maybe it’s your own kitchen, maybe not. But we can’t even start to help you until you figure some stuff out first.”
I finally tore into a pastry of my own. “I do. The Kitchen Muse is a sound concept, but maybe I am just too scared to give the restaurant biz a real shot.”
Avery crossed over to me and enveloped me in her arms. “I’m glad you’re warming up to that idea. I do think you have what it takes to make it.”
I returned her embrace. “You’re exceedingly annoying when you’re right, d’you know that?”
She beamed. “It’s one of the many gifts of being a little sister. I’ll show you the handbook sometime.”
Stephanie’s tone was more solemn. “You have us for three more days at your complete disposal to be your sounding boards, shoulder to cry on . . . whatever you need. But use the time, Vero. We may not have been what you needed in the past, but we’re here now.”