Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [32]
Chefs, I’ve found, can generally be divided into two groups: those who bake and those who do not. Baking is for the rule bound, the people who sat up front in cooking class and paid attention, who wrote things down, rather than relying on the feel of a recipe. I did none of those things, which was why it was unusual that I initially found my niche in the cooking world as a pastry chef. I think it was because Mrs. Favish taught me to bake first, and at a time in my life when I was craving predictability, looking for rules, for reasons why things should work.
I bake biscotti, dozens of them. Hazelnut, pistachio, cornmeal, anise, and black pepper. Before long the soothing aroma of anise and toasting nuts fills the kitchen. While I’m waiting for Richard, I sample one of each, along with a pot of tea, strong and very sweet, because that is how Mrs. Favish taught me to drink it. Sometimes I think my only chance for happiness is in a kitchen, that any life I live outside is destined to be a shadowy, half-lived sort of life. It is, after all, where I’ve spent the better part of my adult existence, and a decent chunk of my childhood as well, a place where things both tragic and wonderful have taken place. Maybe the only place I really know how to be me.
I’m shaping the last of the biscotti logs when the doorbell rings. Wiping my floury hands on my jeans, I run to answer it. I open the door and fling myself into Richard’s arms.
“Sweetheart, watch the coat. Is that dough on your hands?” His words are light and teasing, but he holds me tightly.
“Yes, and I’m going to get it all over your expensive cashmere coat.”
“This old thing? So, where is she, the divine Chloe? It’s her I came to see,” he says, ruffling my hair. I can smell his cologne. Bay Rum. A smell so comforting it makes me want to bury my face into his shirt and weep.
I take his coat and hang it on the coat rack while Richard meticulously folds his Burberry scarf and places it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. At fifty-four years old Richard is still a good-looking man, due in part to two decades of near obsessive devotion to exercise and healthy eating, made necessary by a reckless and degenerate youth. In fact, the only clues to his age are a hint of silver in his golden hair and a few extra lines around his mouth and eyes.
We tiptoe into Chloe’s room so that Richard can sneak a peek at her. She’s sleeping on her back with her arms flung over her head in a gesture of complete surrender. Richard leans in, his palms to his cheeks in an exaggerated gesture of delight.
“She’s gorgeous,” he whispers, taking my hand.
She stirs, and I shush him. “Come on, you’ll wake her,” I tell him.
“Pleasant dreams, sweetie,” he says, gently brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead.
“Come on, I’ve made biscotti,” I tell him, hustling him out of the room. “And a pot of tea.”
“I just survived the flight from hell. I think we’re going to need something stronger than tea!”
In the kitchen, I watch as he opens the antique china cupboard and helps himself to two delicate demitasse cups and saucers. He opens another door and takes out the old-fashioned stove-top Italian coffee maker, for Richard’s idea of something stronger—espresso. He does these things with a minimum of looking around. Although he has been here only a handful of times, somehow Richard knows his way around my kitchen.
We work side by side, in companionable silence. It doesn’t seem to matter how seldom I see Richard, because no matter how long it’s been, we are somehow in sync. He rolls up the sleeves of his expensive shirt, revealing two strong, tanned arms and a Rolex watch. The antique business was obviously doing well.
“Nice watch,” I tell him.
“Thanks, it was a gift,” he says, smiling at my raised eyebrows. “No, it’s not what you think. I agreed to do the apartment of a little old matron who’s been coming into the shop for years. She bought one of those hideous-looking condos on Mount Washington. I did a fabulous job. She