Page 12 of Unexpected Pickle

JEANNIE’S GOT A LOVE TRIANGLE

C hef Sigal and I clean the char from the grill as the rest of the chefs present their lunches to the nutritionist.

“Hex sure is a mess,” Sigal says. “But a hot mess.”

“He is.” I run the wet rag along the bars of the grill, grimacing at how black it still is.

“I take it you know each other. You’re both from LA.”

“Yes, he’s best friends with my boss.”

“Which restaurant are you at?”

I sigh. This again. “Max Pickle works for Pickle Media. I do a lot of work for the chain, including commercials and food spreads.”

Her head pops up. “Wait. Now I know where I’ve seen Chef Hex. Wasn’t he in that commercial for that new nutrition site? They contacted us about presenting at this retreat.”

“He was. We worked together on it.”

“But he wasn’t a chef on the set.”

“No, he was the muscle.”

I finally get a clear wipe on the grill and drop the cloth in the water pail. “I think we’ve got this done.”

But Sigal still looks confused. “Why is he here as a chef? It’s clear he isn’t familiar with the equipment.”

She can say that again. “I’m not sure. I was as surprised as everyone else when I saw him here.”

She nods. “Well, he’s definitely deep in the nutrition business. Maybe he should stick to showing off his muscles and squashing apples.”

I wondered if that clip had made it in. I didn’t seek out the final commercials after the shoot.

“Maybe there’s more to him than muscle?” I say.

She picks up the water pail. “I had a feeling you were into him. I bet you’re the reason he’s here. He hasn’t looked twice at anybody else.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Half the hotel staff has thrown themselves at him. Nothing.”

“I see.” But do I? Wasn’t he just pushing me on Chef Moreau?

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would kiss and tell, but man, if you ever want to dish to the rest of us what it’s like to get your hands on that hard body, we’d be all ears.” She swings the pail as she heads toward the sinks.

Wow. Okay. I guess I knew there was something happening with Hex. He did come to the kitchen all the time. And he showed up at the crepes class.

But we’re such opposites. And what if he’s only chasing me because it’s a novelty to need to? I’m sure nobody else has held out for months. Not even minutes .

I tuck a loose strand of hair into my cap and straighten the towel in my belt. It doesn’t matter. Max is paying for me to take a nutrition class. I’ll see what Hex is up to after hours.

I find the other chefs in the makeshift classroom at the back of the restaurant. Like at breakfast this morning, several tables are pushed together so we can present our food.

My lunch got torched, but everyone is aware of what happened. Chef Moreau waves at me and points to an empty seat. He has split his potatoes and fish onto two plates. He slides one to me. “Didn’t want you to go hungry,” he says.

Maybe Hex was right.

This is so strange. Moreau is handsome and distinguished in the field. If we worked together, I’d have instant prestige. We could be a power chef couple, the kind my dad never got, sharing the long hours that cost him my mother.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

Everything feels upside down. Hex interested? Moreau, too?

In me?

The nutritionist holds up a plate made by a chef from London. “I can tell by the glisten that you relied too much on butter for flavor and moisture. Remember that searing is your friend here, and to avoid adding fats to what originally was a healthy food.”

I taste a bite of Moreau’s potato dish and nearly swoon. “This is ridiculously good.”

“One of my favorites. And no added fats in the cooking.”

“Wow.”

The nutritionist looks over at us. “That’s a bonus,” she says. “And I’m sure it’s delicious. But those potatoes will cost you. You are way over the five carbs for this assignment.”

Moreau’s face darkens. “Then why were potatoes on the cart?”

“To trick you.” She turns to lift another plate. “Now this is the one to beat. Low fats. Perfect greens. Naturally juicy cooking style. Great work, Chef. Everyone, go ahead and take your lunch.”

Moreau mutters under his breath. He sure can’t take criticism.

“It’s all right. At least yours didn’t go up in smoke,” I tell him.

“That wasn’t your fault. It was that dumb dolt who shouldn’t even be here.”

My fork freezes. “That’s not very kind.”

“It wasn’t too kind of him to torch your lunch, either.”

“He’s not very experienced.”

“Then he shouldn’t be in the same retreat as the rest of us!”

The chef in front of us turns around. “It didn’t sell out. They were taking anyone. It’s the weather. Too unpredictable in February.”

“Waste of my time.” Moreau tosses his cloth napkin onto the table. “Maybe this whole retreat is.”

I keep my eye on my plate, but then Moreau’s hand appears in front of me. “Come, Chef Young, let’s make a proper meal in the kitchen.”

I look up at him. His face has relaxed again, and it’s pretty swoon-worthy. His cap is a mile high.

The woman next to me leans in. “I’d go with him if I were you. He’s made a lot of careers.”

I take his hand, warm and weathered from kitchen work, like mine. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something decadent. A desert maybe. Five carbs per bite .”

I follow him to the kitchen. It’s quiet here with the restaurant closed again. The lightly attended brunch is long over.

We head to the larder, an enormous pantry filled with dry goods.

“Well organized,” Moreau says, perusing the shelves.

“It is.”

Then he takes my arm and turns me to him. “I’ve seen your work, Jeannie. The commercials. The magazines. You have your finger on the commercial scene’s pulse. I think we could be an excellent team. My renown in France. Your Hollywood connections. I’ve always wanted to do a cooking show.”

Does he think I can get that for him?

“Chef Moreau…”

“Call me Jon Luc. Please.”

I see what’s happening here. It’s not me he’s interested in. It’s what I can do for him. That’s the social currency he knows. A person is only useful for what they get for you.

“Chef Moreau, I think you’re mistaken about what I can do.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. You must have connections all across the industry.”

Do I? I have done a lot of work. I’ve been unwilling to follow up on my own, letting Max set up my gigs. “Maybe.”

He turns me in a circle in the tight space, and when I face him again, I’m flush against his body. “Shall we see if we have a connection? Take this opportunity to see what we can be?”

He leans toward me.

He’s going to kiss me!

I’m suddenly repelled. I know I should give it a try. It’s what I thought I wanted. A chef. Someone away from my father’s influence. A power duo.

But something is off here.

I step back.

“Jeannie?” He seems perplexed that I haven’t fallen for his charms.

“Let me think about it. Okay?”

He raises his arms. “Of course. Yes. So smart. We should not rush. There is plenty of time. Two more days of the retreat!” He turns to the shelves. “Now, for dessert!”

My urge is to flee. To go someplace quiet and figure out what is happening.

But I don’t want to upset him. To shut this thing down. Not yet. He’s clearly using me, but I go into it knowing that. And it’s what I came here for. To make connections to get me out of the rut I’ve been in. He’s not influenced by my father. He thinks I can help him.

As long as I don’t involve my heart, it might be fine.

We gather sugar, flour, and baking powder. I head to the stations behind him. Several other chefs trickle in and decide to join in the fun.

We bake cookies and make custard and show each other up with sauces and glaze right up until the nutritionist returns with more meat for us to learn to prepare without adding fat and calories.

But the dishes all make me think of Hex. Fight prep. Glycogen stores.

He hasn’t come back. Did he leave the retreat?

I already know the afternoon lessons well, so I sneak to the lobby and sit down to text Max.

Me: I’m worried about Hex.

I wait a few minutes, not sure if my international plan is even working, or if Max is available. He might be struggling with the crew without me there.

But then my phone buzzes.

Max: Not what I expected from you. What’s going on?

Me: He’s out of his element. He left the class.

Max: Want me to ping him?

I hesitate. He’s made it easy for me. I can have Max cheer up his friend, maybe convince him to come on home.

I stare out the windows at the heavy fall of snow. Only the heated sidewalks are clear.

What do I want?

Hex came for me. Chef Moreau wants to forge an alliance with me.

Me. Jeannie Young.

The cabins look like a small winter village. Snow piles around the trees and drifts up against the walls. The lamps are on even though it’s afternoon. There is no activity in the lobby. I wonder if the chefs are the only ones here.

I need to answer Max.

Me: No. I’ll check on him.

I head to the front desk. A lone woman sits there, swiveling back and forth on a tall stool. She stands when I head her way.

“Can I help you?”

“Which cabin is Hex in?”

A sly grin comes on her face. “That’s a very popular question around here.”

“I bet. I’m in the far one. Which is his?”

She scrunches her nose. “I can’t give that information out.”

“Really?”

“Privacy.”

“But we’re friends.” I guess we are, anyway.

“Yeah, he’s had several ‘friends,’ two ‘girlfriends,’ and even a ‘wife’ ask about him.”

“I see.”

“I can ring his room.”

“That’s okay.” If I want to call, I can ask Max for his number.

No, I sense that what Hex would want is face time.

The other chefs are in the class. I can knock on all the doors until I find him.

But I don’t have my coat. Getting it would mean heading back to the kitchens. Moreau might spot me. People might ask where I’m going.

I’ll risk the cold.

I head out the back door, the chill instantly biting my face.

I take the first sidewalk. It’s perfectly clean, as expected, but I notice the heat doesn’t extend to the porch of the cabin. There’s a thin dusting of snow on it. No one has walked on it in hours. That one undoubtedly is empty or belongs to a chef who is still inside.

Now I know what to do.

I jog to keep warm, glad for my comfortable chef shoes. I go back up the sidewalk and down the next to another porch. Also clear.

Then the next.

Clear.

I’ll finish this side, then start the other. There’s only one more before mine.

And it has footprints. Big ones. Recent ones.

This is bound to be it.

I draw in a breath. I don’t know what I’ll say. Normally, I’d rehearse a moment like this for hours.

But I’ll take a page from Hex’s playbook. Be spontaneous. Don’t think too far ahead.

And I knock on his door.