Stir Me Up Page 9

  My insides clench. Suddenly, I can’t look at him. “Can’t sleep?”

  “No. I figured I might as well do something useful.”

  “But now you’ll have to get your wheelchair all the way back up to the house.”

  I glance at him and catch him studying me. “Yeah, I guess I will.”

  Probably on account of his injuries, Julian is stretching out his left leg and leaning back on the bench instead of just bending the leg and sitting normally. This is what’s giving me such an amazing view. Of his sweatiness. The sweat has dampened his hair, it’s filming his skin. There are a handful of scars on his chest, and with his head back a little like it is, my eye can trace the line up those scars in a kind of zigzag pattern.

  I gulp down some air and hope he can’t hear it. But he must, because that curve at the corner of his mouth deepens a little.

  “Can you come here a minute?”

  There’s a kick in my gut.

  Ugh, God. I blush and I go on over there. He smells faintly of sweat. The pheromones emanating from him are so strong they feel like they’re knocking me over, and I’m still an arm’s length away from him. “Hmm?”

  “Are there water bottles in there?” He gestures at the closed fridge door.

  “Uh...huh.”

  His lips twitch slightly. “Would you mind getting me one?”

  My face burns. “Oh. Sure.” Kill me. I open the fridge and get one for him.

  His hand brushes against mine as he takes it from me. “Thanks.”

  Okay, he has the water. I should be backing up now. No reason for me to still be standing so close, but my legs are locked, I can’t seem to move. So I stay there like an idiot and stare at him as he twists the cap off of the bottle and chugs the water down. Some of the wet rolls down his neck as he drinks. He wipes his mouth after and banks the empty bottle into the trash can in the corner. A photo I saw of him in a varsity basketball uniform comes to mind.

  “Want another?” I ask, a bit helplessly.

  “No thanks.” He’s eyeing me. Probably because I just got off work and must look like complete crap. I turn away from him, embarrassed, and almost trip on his wheelchair. “You’ll be all right reaching the house?”

  “I’ll be fine. ’Night, Cami.”

  The words sink through me for some reason. I keep hearing them as I get ready for bed and can’t figure out why. Then, just as I’m falling asleep, I realize it might be because that was the first time I ever heard him say my name.

  * * *

  I caught Julian working out in Dad’s gym last night, I text Taryn the following day.

  AND??? she texts back, almost at once.

  And he had no shirt on. He has a six pack.

  SLAY ME. SRSLY, WHO CARES ABOUT THE DAMNED LEG.

  I’m with Luke, remember?

  WHY? DOES HE HAVE A SIXER?

  Would you stop?

  YOU STARTED IT.

  I avoid Luke’s for lunch and go home but no one’s there. Then, when I get to étoile, Luke comes over to me. “Where were you today?”

  “I had to study.”

  “Again? You studied yesterday.”

  “I’ve been trying to get better grades this year. And I work more now, so it’s hard.”

  “You didn’t call. Or text.”

  “I’m sorry. I meant to, but I just got busy.”

  “Hmph.” Luke retreats back to his station, and I go fetch Georges some fresh herbs from the walk-in. Now, the walk-in is like a big room-sized refrigerator. With a door. I go in and two seconds later, Luke comes in after me, sweeps me into his arms and holds me so I’m pressed completely against him.

  “Luke...” I say in protest.

  “Have a sleepover with Taryn this weekend.”

  I hesitate. “I want to. I’ve barely seen her this year.”

  “I meant so you could be with me.”

  “Luke, we shouldn’t be in here doing this. Anyone could just...”

  As if on cue, my boss Georges opens the walk-in door. Luke and I instantly break apart from each other. Georges glowers at Luke and then tells me, in French, that an issue has come up with the Rothschild sauce and he needs me to deal with the soup.

  Georges is a brilliant chef. Dad relies heavily on him. One of my main secret goals in life, aside from impressing my father at work, is impressing Georges. So I switch dials and refocus.

  Cooking is, at least for me, an interesting balance between breaking boundaries and working within them to achieve perfection. Each product, each ingredient. The velvety soups are the best. The ones where they slide off the spoon and down the throat in a way where the richness fills you, the perfume stays with you, the eyes close, you take a second dip of spoon into the bowl... Georges looks at me and nods. Because he gets it, that this soup isn’t coming from a recipe I’ve read somewhere. Ingredients go in the pot—veal stock, turnips, browned marrow bones, bay leaves, a mirepoix.

  I cook it for an hour and then strain it and add a roux, salt and pepper and, in a fit of inspiration, Calvados—apple brandy. Georges’ eyes go wide. Regardez votre fille, he tells Dad. Look at your daughter. I only hear him distantly. Who am I making this for, I pretend to wonder, though in truth I know full well. I stare into the pot as the ingredients blend together. Georges hands me the cream without me needing to ask for it. He smiles and shakes his head as I start making and cooking up dozens of tiny pork-and-veal meatballs to add to the soup as a final garnish, along with a chiffonade of spinach, chopped shiitake mushrooms and fresh herbs. Once it’s ready, I find a small container and a lid and set some of the soup aside to take home with me.

  Hours later, I bring it home to Julian and find him at his desk, falling asleep over his laptop. His head is bent and his eyes are closed. It’s really late. He breathes in deeply and opens his eyes a little. “Hi.”

  “Go to bed.”

  “No. Not tired.” He smirks. “What’s that?”

  “Soup.”

  “What kind?”

  “Just something I came up with at work today.”

  “Midnight soup sounds good,” he says. “Is there a spoon?”

  Midnight soup... “You’re falling asleep.”

  He tugs the spoon gently out of my hand, and I leave him to enjoy it.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Okay, so clearly you’ve been blowing off Luke to see Julian,” Taryn says after hearing the full rundown the next day at lunch. Taryn eats like nothing for lunch. A few carrots, and since I have a staff meal at three that serves as lunch/dinner, my noon meal is really more of a snack. Today, I have an apple. It occurs to me we both look like anorexics—which because of Taryn’s mother, I sometimes fear she might be.

  “I wish you’d have a sandwich with that,” I tell her.

  “Did you see Julian when you went home for that nap?”

  “I can bring you one if you want.”

  “That’s a ‘yes’. And do you know what? I don’t blame you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means Julian’s lost a leg but he’s also gorgeous and sexy and a Marine and good lord, the way he looks at you.”

  I try not to act like I find this overly interesting. “He looks at me?”

  “Well, mostly he goes to great pains not to look at you. But when he does...” she raises her eyebrows and shakes her hand like it’s burning.

  I lean in a bit closer to her so I can lower my voice. “Really?”

  She nods, and I sit back in my seat. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Sure it doesn’t.”

  Does it? Of course it does. Tears well in my eyes. Poor Luke, what am I doing to him?

  “Don’t cry about it!” Taryn says sympathetically.

  “It’s okay, I just...Luke’s nice and he’s crazy about me...a bit pushy, but...”

  “Look, you don’t have to rush this. Just take your time and see how it goes, okay?”

  I nod and wipe my eyes. “So, any new interesting developments with y
ou that you haven’t been telling me about?”

  “Nothing with guys,” she says. “But did you hear they’re doing Les Mis this year?”

  “I did. That’s a touch ambitious, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Dutch hinted that he has me in mind for Fantine. I had to tell him I’d be leaving school before opening night.”

  I glance at her—Dutch is our school’s incredibly awesome and talented music director. Taryn’s missing out on the senior year musical? “Did Dutch have a heart attack when you told him the news?”

  “Yeah,” she says with a smile. “You know, you’d be perfect for Eponine, the little waif who pines away for Marius. You can sing well enough.”

  “I have to work.”

  “It’d be fun. Everyone’s going to be in it. It’s your last chance.” Her eyes cloud over.

  “Nah, it’d be no fun without you anyway.”

  She pats my arm. “Thanks.”

  “Have you learned if you’ll be able to get your diploma yet?”

  “Yeah, I’ll just need to get a tutor.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “Maybe you can fly in for graduation.”

  Taryn frowns at her carrots. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “So,” I say, wanting to change the subject. “I didn’t know they could do Les Mis in high schools.”

  “They just released the rights for it.”

  “Someone should remind Dutch we’re in a small-town high school in southern Vermont.”

  “I don’t think he cares. To him, it’s the closest he’ll ever get to Broadway, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I look at Taryn and wonder if she’ll really ever make it big. She seems like she’s trying to hide how nervous she is about the movie, her future. But even if this role doesn’t work out, I think she’ll make it. She’s talented, after all. Beautiful. Smart... Could she be right about Julian?

  * * *

  Taryn’s comments about Julian keep nagging at me. I’m in the kitchen on my laptop a few days later when he wheels in from the bedroom. It’s very late. Dad’s already asleep.

  “Homework?” he asks.

  “No, I’m attempting to write college essays.”

  “Want some help?”

  “Sure. I guess. It’s past midnight, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He negotiates his way next to me and reads over my shoulder awhile. “They’re asking you to tell a story about a time when you’ve shown responsibility,” he says. “And you’re telling them about counting produce?”

  “Hey, it was a responsibility.”

  “If you counted ten flats of berries instead of eleven what would have happened?”

  “Dad would have yelled at me?”

  He reaches for the toggle buttons on the keypad to scroll down.

  His arm is now very close to me.

  “Yeah, this isn’t strong enough. You need to show you’re capable of being held to a measure of accountability.”

  “I’m...” Man, he’s really close to me. And what is that I’m smelling, some kind of soap? I glance at him—white undershirt, gray sweats, hair slightly damp. “Measure of...?”

  “Accountability.”

  “I’m not held accountable for much yet.”

  “Here. Just...”

  He brushes against my hand, which is still on the computer’s touch pad.

  “I make soap,” I say.

  “Soap?”

  “Soup.”

  “It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten, by the way,” he says.

  “My midnight soup?”

  A hint of a smile. “Yes. You’re going to a four-year college and not a cooking school?”

  “I don’t need a cooking school. I grew up in one.”

  “True enough.”

  He turns back to the laptop and toggles down, reading my work. Meanwhile, I’m forgetting how to breathe. He brushes my hand again. “Excuse me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can I use the scroll down bar?”

  “Oh. Sure.” I move my hand away.

  “The issue with this one is that chefs don’t need bachelor’s degrees.”

  “Uhh,” I say, glancing at him. “Hmm?”

  He clears his throat and peers at the computer. “Maybe you can sound like you want to pursue something related to cooking—like a business degree so you can own your own restaurant chain someday.”

  “I’ll have to rewrite both of these if I do that.”

  “No big deal,” he says. “For this one...” He scrolls back up. “Just start with something like Ever since I was little, my father has owned his own French restaurant.”

  He moves away from the computer and looks at me. “Ever since I was little....” I say.

  “You’ll need to put it in your own words.”

  “Okay. How about: I spent most of my childhood playing behind the stoves of my father’s French restaurant.”

  This mildly impresses him. “Did you?”

  “Yes. Basically.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I loved it. All the action and noise.”

  “The noise?”

  “Sure. The noises are great—the pots and pans and utensils and searing sizzling food, the chefs hollering and shouting at each other and the wait staff running around and the doors and the plates. It’s a concert.”

  “You...maybe you should just be a chef.”

  “Dad’s convinced I should get a degree first. So I don’t limit my options. Also because...” Julian’s kind of staring at me. “Because he never was able to go to college himself and he thinks it’s too hard a life.”

  Oh God. Stupid pale complexion showing everything all the time. I cover my cheeks with my hands. They’re burning.

  “Okay, well...let me know if you want me to read the new versions,” he says. And he wheels away.

  When Dad learns I’m working on the college essays the next morning, he’s thrilled.

  “Julian helped me,” I tell him, interested in his reaction to this.

  His eyebrows go up. “He did?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well...good. You should listen to his advice.”

  Hmm. Did Dad just throw Julian a compliment? “Maybe I will.”

  * * *

  Despite the compliment, Dad still seems to want to avoid dealing with Julian most of the time. So it’s a surprise when I find them both at the kitchen table on Tuesday afternoon, involved in what seems to be a deep conversation. I’m not sure where Estella is—out somewhere I guess.

  “Obviously you’re the only person who thinks this way,” Dad is saying to Julian.

  “I’m the one who matters.”

  Suddenly, I feel like I’m intruding. I turn to leave.

  “You can come in, Cami,” Julian says.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You’re not interrupting. Julian has just been informed he is being awarded the Marine Corps Commendation Medal...”

  Julian closes his eyes, like he wishes my father hadn’t just told me this.

  “...with distinction for being in combat,” Dad adds.

  “Wow. Congratulations, Julian.”

  He says nothing.

  “Julian,” Dad says. “You pulled two wounded men from a burning truck when you were seriously wounded.”

  Julian stares down at the table and shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand?”

  Julian looks at his hands. “That I let them down.”

  “How?” asks Dad.

  Julian clenches his hands into fists and doesn’t answer.

  “How did you let them down?”

  “They died.”

  It strikes me hearing this that Julian knew and probably really liked these guys and was close to them. He risked his life trying to save them, but they died anyway. Dad is quiet, probably realizing the same thing.

  “You did everything you could,” Dad tells him.

  “This isn’t the Navy Cross
or the Medal of Honor.”

  “Don’t discount what you’ve done, Julian.”

  “I’m no hero.”

  I come up behind Julian and touch the back of his chair. “A hero is just an ordinary person placed in extraordinary circumstances.”

  “Who said that,” Julian asks, looking up at me, “Emerson?”

  “Actually, I think it was Spider-Man.”

  His mouth twitches into almost a smile. I leave them to finish their conversation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  That night Dad tells me he wants me to work the hot line on Sunday. I guess there’s a scheduling conflict and he wants me to give it a try. The hot line—my very own stove. I can’t believe it. How will it be, I wonder, working right next to Luke? I spend most of the week working fish—with some help, fish is a very difficult station. Makes you a stinking mess, too. I’m careful to avoid Julian when I come home so he doesn’t get a whiff of me.

  Finally it’s Sunday, the day of my big night, my first night working the hot line. I think about strutting in with the hot-line guys around two. Dad tells me I should come in then, because the work is hard at night. But I don’t listen. I’m there bright and early at 8:00 a.m., chopping onions and thinking about college and Dad and how my guidance counselor wants me to go to cooking school. Actually, she wants me to go to college but is willing to settle for cooking school. Why on earth would I pay a school to teach me how to cook? That’s even stupider than spending four years getting a liberal arts degree.

  I finish attacking the ten-gallon tub of onions and then take on the garlic. I’m working too hard and not eating or drinking enough, so I’m already tired by the time Luke and the other hot-line guy arrive.

  “Ready for your big test-run?” Luke asks me.

  I nod. I have no idea what’s going on with us anymore. I mean, he probably thinks everything’s fine. But inside me, I’m not sure.

  The afternoon ticks by and the staff gets a rundown of the menu, particularly the specials, which of course I’m well aware of because I’ve been here the whole day. The new dishes are set out for the wait staff tasting—they taste the specials each night so they can talk them up to guests more effectively—then Luke shows me how to set up my station, particularly with sauces and garnishes. He goes over how to test a steak for doneness one more time, and because I’m a newbie he gives me a digital thermometer with a little needle. I know how to check a steak; this whole thing is a big repeat of my life at home. But I say nothing and act interested. Luke turns my cap around so the bill is in the back. So I look cool, apparently, but this means my ponytail is too high. I have to take a moment for a styling break. Unreal.