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“Never punish a man for eating meat, I always say,” purred Terrence.
“Lovely couple,” Edward said. “There’s a lot to be said for a long and happy marriage.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Did you get engaged yet, Juliet?”
“I’m, well, expecting it on New Year’s Eve,” I lied. What are you up to, Juliet? I thought frantically to myself. I couldn’t bear for Edward to think I’d been rejected by Ben. I felt like I was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Unwanted.”
“Good on him, then,” Edward said, face placid. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
“To tell you the truth…”
“And Lord and Lady Ambridge are in the Heather Room, of course,” Rose continued. “Mr. Roth had them come tonight so they could join us for breakfast, then go bird spotting.” Rose was putting lids on the last of the storage dishes and wrapping mince pies in foil.
Why didn’t I come out and say that we broke up? I hated lying. Lying just meant extra work. Now I was going to have to keep it going, operating in a state of paranoia and exhaustion.
I poured myself a second glass of sherry, and filled it so full I had to slurp some over the rim to keep from spilling it. I needed it badly. Edward raised an eyebrow and smiled.
“Actually, the truth is, Ben and I…” I started, but my voice was so soft, Rose didn’t hear me.
“The Ambridges arrived around the same time as the Deardens for cocktails and dessert, and I must say Edward outdid himself,” Rose nattered on. “Lady Helena made a noise about watching her waistline, but she ended up having two plates. The chocolate cake was an idea off of that Conley-Weatherall show…you know the one, Piers’s Family Table, I believe it’s called.”
“The ‘Who’s your daddy?’ bloke, she means,” said Terrence. “I like him. You can just tell he drinks while he cooks.”
“He’s my hero,” I said. “I couldn’t get his show in France, and I know it’s weird to say, but I missed him.”
“You feel like you know him, that Piers. He’s been married to his wife for over 25 years,” Rose said. “But Edward did some of his own recipes, as well. He offered an assortment of gorgeous treats, including that rich chocolate gateau and a fruit platter.”
“Did you cut the strawberries properly, according to Our Master, Jasper Roth?” I asked.
“Never tip to stern!” Edward laughed. “You’ll get a spanking for that round here,” he said, and winked at me. My insides turned to warm jelly. Is he flirting? C’mon Juliet, I said to myself. Stop looking for signs. You’re the one who put the brakes on. Since then, he’s been the model of propriety and professionalism.
The first time I worked at The Hall, Mr. Roth had stood over me, lecturing, as I scraped an Eton Mess for twelve into the trash because “the berries were vertical.” I bit my tongue till it bled, all the while thinking that he could pretend he came from an English boarding-school background to the others, but I had his number. It took one to know one, and I was American. I saw how hard he worked to fit in and hide his nouveau manners. He didn’t know any more about Eton messes than I did.
Roth was jealous of the real English, especially those who’d inherited peerages. The Earl of Gloucester, Lord of Thornton Hall, and his best mate the Baron of Hinckley, who owned the neighboring estate, had something Roth couldn’t compete with. Try as he might, Jasper Roth would never be listed among the titled in Debretts. He could buy land and houses in the old country, but he couldn’t buy status. It baffled me that he wanted to. He was practically Donald Trump. As a “celebanker”, he was always on camera or in print. It made no sense to me that he was chasing down acceptance in some caste-driven society whose rules didn’t come naturally to people like Roth and me.
The Earl was an artist in addition to being a British blue blood. Below stairs, we usually called him The Painter. Somehow, that vocation rang more true to us than his having been born titled. Hanging on the walls of this grand house, along with the countless gloomy, dark, heavy oil paintings of his ancestors, were vibrant, fresh, and sometimes shocking modern works by the Earl himself. The art world knew him as Hugh de Audley, Hughie to the insiders.
Born into the peerage, he could certainly have lived a gentleman’s life but he worked hard instead. In his youth, he studied in Paris, the States, and extensively in Spain. He’d apprenticed himself to some famous Modernists and developed a smart style of his own, influenced by a mix of the Spanish masters Picasso, Dali, Joaquin Sorolla, while still drawing heavily from painterly English artists like Millais and Turner. I was no expert, but I knew Hugh de Audley was the real thing.
The Painter is one of Britain’s most beloved and celebrated modern artists. And, in the social media age, it doesn’t hurt that he’s a one-hundred percent, grown-up English lad, with a fairly fit and youthful body, big wooly sweaters, and a full head of wavy and still golden hair – even in his late sixties – flopping appealingly over one ultra-blue eye.
Aside from some health issues and some noticeable thickening around the middle – inevitable with age – he lead a robust life. I liked him a lot. He treated me well and wasn’t above coming into the kitchen on his own to prepare a cup of tea (which we, of course, never allowed, though the pretense was kind).
“You know,” Terrence said to me, refilling his glass of wine dangerously close to the top, “you really missed it. I was asked to bring champagne to the drawing room the night Roth ‘surprised’ The Painter by announcing he’d host Christmas and handle all of the guest lists ‘as his Christmas gift’ to him and the Countess. His Christmas gift!
“He’s lucky he’s still allowed round here, given what the rags are all saying about the state of his marriage.” Terrence took a deep draught of his drink. “Anyhow, his Lordship leaned over as I was pouring and said, ‘He may not have noticed, but I’m not dead, yet’ just a hair too loudly. He then thanked his son-in-law for his ‘imaginative generosity in gift innovation’ and pointedly asked me if I had the time, as his Patek Philippe watch seemed to be broken and would need replacing. I nearly wet myself on the Chinese rug.”
“If anyone can put Jasper Roth in his place, it’s The Painter,” I said.
“I’d say you do a fair job of it, yourself,” Edward remarked, twirling his wine glass by the stem.
“No, no!” I blurted, blushing faintly. “Not like The Earl.”
The Painter got Roth’s goat. He’d make a big show of standing at the head of the table until his son-in-law was compelled to stand and hold the old man’s chair for him, underscoring his rightful place at the seat of honor. Despite Roth’s bales of money, his father-in-law’s status always trumped him in this Medieval-rules country. On one of my last engagements at The Hall, the Earl had delighted in winding Roth up by refusing a priceless bottle of Petrus in favor of a Californian Chardonnay, even though the main course was Porterhouse steak.
“I don’t know who’d be happier to see His Lordship gone to the grave – Roth or Chizz.”
“That’s rough, Terrence. Old Chisholm’s just trying to do his job and stay out of trouble, like the rest of us,” Edward said.
“Well, he’d be much happier doing it in a manor house than a London townhouse.”
“Juliet, take a look at the guest roster,” Rose said, opening a folder of papers on the table.
“Oooh, let me see,” said Terrence. “If that 20-year-old Earl of Glastonbury’s coming, his room assignment is ‘Meadow Cottage, my bed.’”
“You’d better watch your step with that,” I cautioned. “He’s not even gay.”
“He will be after one night with me,” Terrence retorted, thrusting his pelvis forward. “Let’s see, Dr. Dearden…aged Scotch, dry sherry, doesn’t like cilantro blahblah – rank 5 – Lord and Lady Ambridge, already here…no red wine, Ketel One martinis, she’s allergic to strawberries, organic produce, yadda yadda – also rank 5. Oooh! Kaylie Hart and her escort Jaques Lacoste…sizzling brunette and her froggy food critic lover! Rank 4? I’d go higher than that, myself. Roth’s put them in the Regent’s Room and Tapestry Room, very sexy indeed, with that adjoining bath and dressing room. Did anyone see her latest flick, Remembrances of Autumn? Art film, that one. She shows full bush.”
“Language!” gasped Rose.
“Well, it’s nothing you can’t see every night at dinner, here at The Hall,” defended Terrence. “The broad above the dining table’s starkers from where I sit. She’s a real piece…I’d probably let her have it if I went that way.”
“Take it down a notch, Terrence,” Edward said quietly.
One of The Earl’s most famous paintings, a nude called The Veiled Madonna, hung in the dining room, opposite the head of the table’s chair.
Rose threw the baking sheet she’d been scrubbing into the sink with a clatter. “Excuse me! I’m going to the ladies’.”
Just then, Seamus came in through the pantry, brushing snow out of his hair. “Where’s Rose?” he asked.
“She’s gone to the toilet,” Edward told him. “Terrence was being a boor, going on about the nude above the table. Some people wouldn’t know art if it sneaked up and bit them.”
“He could use a trip through The Tate or The Cheltenham Art Gallery,” I agreed.
“Does anyone listen to me?” asked Terrence. “I said the naked babe was hot. That’s high praise coming from my tribe. No need to get your knickers in a twist. I’ll tell Rose I’m sorry for being rude. Quel sensitiva!”
Seamus’ face closed up and he busied himself making a cup of tea. “In fairness, Terrence,” he said, clearing his throat, “you take things one step too far, too often, for my taste.”
“Back to the guests,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. Rose and Seamus were, after all, Catholics. Not to mention from a different generation. “Who else?”
“All that’s left is a cancellation! Looks like we’re minus one Mr. Famous Member of Parliament and his boringly appropriate wife – Rank 4 – from The Crown Room. No subpar view of the horses’ rear ends for them, then.” The bedrooms were named individually and were allocated in strict accordance with an unspoken hierarchy The grandest rooms were The Oak Room, The Regent’s Room or the Heather Room. If you were placed in these rooms, you were either the only guests or the Posh and the Powerful – Rank 5. A bit lower, and you were taken to the Crown Room or the Hunt Room, for those slightly further down the social pecking order – Rank 4. If you were given The Chinese Room, The Blue Room or the Princess Room, you’d better suck up and laugh loudly at all Roth’s jokes, because you barely made the cut. In short, if your room had rugs from this century, singing for your supper was advisable.
“Roth hates plan changes,” Edward said, neck craning to read the list upside down. “Expect a foul mood out of him. Better yet, just expect a foul mood out of him. He rarely disappoints.”
“Edward!” I said.
“Are you defending him?” Edward’s jaw was set hard.
“No, but, is he really that bad?” I asked. I felt shaky. Something told me I should drop it.
“It’s not for me to say. To me he’s just another boss. It’s different for you, though, isn’t it?” he asked, staring hard at me.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, starting to breathe a little faster. I didn’t want to be having this conversation. “Like you, I’m just here to serve the guests.”
“Of which there are very few!” Terrence jumped in. “So you see, we don’t need an underbutler.”
“We don’t really need a second chef, either,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Sometimes we get what we want, even if we don’t need it,” Edward said, softening. “Whatever I think of Roth, in this case I’m glad he’s throwing his money around wantonly.”
“I say we pinch a few pennies and send Mr. Chisholm home on the next motorcoach,” Terrence said.
“Terrence,” I counseled, “just find a way to get along with him. He’s here to stay.”
Before long, Rose came back through the kitchen door, amiability restored.
“It’s getting late, you lot. Juliet, you’ve had a long journey, you’ll need your rest…and Terrence, I’d recommend stopping at the two bottles you’ve had if you hope to hold a candle to Mr. Chisholm tomorrow.”
“Drink doesn’t affect me,” Terrence announced. “I’ve a high tolerance for spirits and pharmaceuticals. I’m like Roth’s wife, the esteemed Lady Penelope of the Manor, in that respect…I could drink a case alongside a bottle of Percocet and still buttle circles around Mr. Chizz.”
“Terrence, don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” I said.
“If you’re talking about Roth, Juliet, I’d advise you not to bite anything of his,” Edward said.
“I mean Lady Penelope, and you know it. Terrence, we all our have dirty little secrets. There are things we don’t need to know about her private life.”
“I’ll bet there are private things you’d like to know about her husband,” Terrence said, poking Edward in the ribs, and looking at me slyly from under his lashes.
“What? No! God, Terrence. God!”
Edward fixed his gaze on me, settling back in his chair.
Rose declared, “Bedtime, my pets. Time to stop torturing Juliet. Out of the kitchen, now, so I can finish cleaning!” She took Terrence’s glass away, opened the door to the pantry and literally shooed Terrence and me through and out the back door.
“Edward’s still here!” protested Terrence.
“I just have to bring a few things up from the store room.” Edward offered.
“What about Seamus?” whined Terrence. He hated to see a party end. “Why does he get to stay?”
“I’m here to see my best girl gets home safe. Think of me as her knight in shining armor. Now off with you,” Seamus told him.
“God save England,” mumbled Terrence to me as he split off, weaving in a serpentine pattern into the darkness, toward Meadow Cottage.
Chapter Four
I headed for Dove’s Nest. I took my keychain from my pocket, and turned on my tiny flashlight, following its tight beam through the dark and the falling flakes. I opened the door – doors on the estate were almost never locked – and saw that Seamus had recently lit a fire and placed all of my things neatly on my bed. It was so nice to be cared for by a decent man. I wondered if I’d ever have one of my own.
I pulled my phone out of my bag and checked it. Five calls from Ben. Fuck Ben. A year of devotion and all I got for Christmas was another woman’s panties.
I set my trusty wind-up travel alarm clock and put on my red plaid, flannel pajamas and a pair of fuzzy socks against the chill. But I was feeling agitated and too keyed up to sleep. I cursed myself for not bringing anything to read. Kicking my jeans aside, I saw Edward’s handkerchief fall out of the pocket. Rose can help me get the blood stain out tomorrow, I thought. Or, I don’t know, maybe he needs it. It is his handkerchief, after all. I could just give it to him tonight. And. And maybe borrow a book.
Edward and I were friends, I believed, even though we were so very different. He was a favorite of Lady Penelope, the Earl and Countess’s daughter, and she’d taken him from house to house before she’d married Jasper Roth. She always requested that he personally bring her tray when she took meals in her room, which was remarkably often, much to the annoyance of her husband. This was a breach of protocol – in a grand house, only the highest-ranking maids and butlers go into family quarters. Chefs remain in the kitchen. The nuances of English manners still manage to baffle me, but I do my best to play along. But Lady Penelope is a wild card. If she wanted to have a chef in her pocket, it was her prerogative.
And Edward’s skills were undeniable, so no one could say Lady P hired him just as eye candy. He’d started in the military, which he’d joined after his mother died, and once his stint was over, he’d been accepted at Le Cordon Bleu, London. On the strength of his training and admirable military record, he was cooking in fine English houses in no time. His haute-cuisine skills passed Roth’s muster, but Edward’s heart was plainly in his everyday cooking. Whenever MacGregor presented him with a goose, a wild turkey, or venison from the grounds, he made magic. When I’d first cooked at the hall, Edward introduced me to the kitchen library that Terrence loved so much. That whole south wall, shared with the laundry room, was lined with built-in bookcases and featured a collection of all the standard, rare, and antique cookbooks that attested to his wide-ranging curiosity. The shelves also featured guides to wild game and fish, scientific books on herbs and botanicals, and food photography. Edward pointed out all the family’s favorites, and his, too.
I use recipes as a guide and improvise from there, and that’s how I got really good, I think. Once I was out from under the thumbs of head chefs like Henri and that asshole from The Ivy I started to find my voice. When I got the chance to wing it, I felt exhilarated, and I did exactly that when I was cooking for myself or for friends. When I had employers with a more casual attitude, I got real job satisfaction from experimentation. And I’ll just say it straight – it felt good to have a tableful of diners who’d eaten all over the world fawn over me and tell me I’m the best. I’d never tell all that to Edward, though. I already felt vulnerable with him, like he could see right through me.
Although I enjoyed working with him, I wouldn’t say it was easy for me as I was always in a state of high emotion around him, either on the cusp of a laugh or irritation. He threw me off balance. It wasn’t like that with Ben. With Ben, I’d been grounded and alert, and I could keep my feet planted. I always knew what to expect with Ben. That is, right up until the moment I’d found another woman’s underwear in his flat. Instead I felt floaty around Edward, as if I wasn’t Juliet, but just an idea that hadn’t fully taken shape. Boy, I thought, if I admitted that to Mother, she’d have a phalanx of analysts tackling me and tying me to a couch.
Like one time, I’d been making a North Carolina-style brisket at Mr. Roth’s request, with molasses and white vinegar. It had to slow roast for seven hours in a huge Dutch oven. Without asking, Edward poked his head in the oven, lifted the pot lid and threw in a cup of brown sugar.
“Why would you do that?” I asked, angry. Roth wanted what he wanted, and I was supposed to give it to him.
He smiled devilishly. “Why not? Don’t you like it sweet?”
“Because opening the pot alters the cook time and the recipe doesn’t call for brown sugar! And how about because it’s my roast?” My blood was boiling and I couldn’t see straight. I was usually more level-headed than this in the kitchen. In fact, I had a reputation for being the very opposite of a temperamental chef.
“What’s the big deal?” he said amiably. “It’s good to stir things up a bit.” He was wearing a pair of oven mitts printed with winged, pink pigs on them. I was doubly infuriated by that whimsical touch. The kitchen was done in slate and mineral colors. All of the dishtowels, potholders and other linens were gray or black. Jasper Roth had had a heavy say in the recent renovation. Jasper would hate those mitts.
“The best surprises in life happen when you just say yes in the moment.” He either couldn’t see he was winding me up or he didn’t care. “What else?” he asked. “Do you think maybe a little scotch bonnet?” he added, grabbing a pepper off the counter and making toward the oven.
“No!” I shouted, reaching for the pepper, which he was holding high, just out of my reach. I’d promised Jasper Roth this specific dish and my name was on it. “Stop it, Edward, I mean it. Seriously, I mean it.” My voice was a bit too loud and I could feel I was red in the face.
“Does it always have to be ‘seriously’ with you, Jubes? Can’t it ever be fun?”
Lady Penelope poked her head through the swinging door just then. She looked from me, to Edward.
“Am I interrupting something?” she asked Edward directly.
“No, Your Ladyship,” I answered, steadying my breath in an attempt to appear calm. “What can we get you?”
“Edward, if you’d be so kind,” she said, ignoring me, “I’d like a Nescafe in the dining room.” I could feel him glancing at my face, but I busied myself smashing the pits out of olives with the broad side of a French knife.
“Of course,” he said to Lady Penelope. He boiled the kettle and spooned coffee crystals into a cup, and set a tray while she stood watching. As he carried it out, I expected her to follow him. Instead, she walked up closely behind me.
“On second thought, put the tray on my vanity, will you Edward?” she called to him through the door. And then she said into my ear, “He’s not for you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What I mean to say is, he’s an excellent chef, but he’s rumored to be a Lothario. Just a word to the wise. You’re best to leave him alone.”
“There’s nothing between Edward and me, Your Ladyship.” As if it’s any of your business, I added in my head. “I have a fiancé.”
She glanced at my naked hand, and said, “Oh, don’t you wear your ring at work?”
Stammering, I said, “Well, we’re kind of… um… pre-engaged. Anyway, I have a boyfriend.”
“Ah, well, that’s a relief. For you, I mean,” she said.
Edward came back through. “I’ve set up your hot drink, Your Ladyship.”
“Thank you,” she said, turning and walking out the door.
I wiped my hands, picked up my French knife and got back to work. I couldn’t look at Edward. I felt foolish that I’d gotten that upset.
After a few beats, he said, “Don’t mind her. That’s her way.” And then he was very quiet for a while.
“It’s her house,” I said, impersonally.
“You know, Jubes,” he’d said to me, “it’d be nice if you’d loosen up – in the kitchen, I mean. Rules are meant to be broken.” He was a bundle of contradictions in appearance and manner. His hair was still cut in military style but he had a thick tribal tattoo on the top of his left forearm that peeked out of the sleeve of his chef’s coat. His uniform was always starched and spotless, but he sported unorthodox accents such as a heavy silver wallet chain or a thick, brown leather wrist cuff with an antique barn nail wrapped around it. And well groomed as he was, the shadow of a beard was always threatening to appear on his square jaw.
“In my book rules are meant to be rules. That’s why they’re called that. Rules.” I listened to myself talking, wondering why I was being such a prig. I sounded like Mother, a wet blanket on any hint of fun. I’d broken the rules in search of fun with Stephen, and I’d been left with egg on my face. Once bitten, twice shy. Better to be safe, I told myself. Still, a little black ball of longing was curled up in my stomach.
For the rest of that evening, we cooked, cleaned up and made our way to our cottages with very little conversation, and I’d slept like the dead. After any tour of duty with Edward at the Hall, I always returned to London exhausted. I decided that being in a heightened state all the time didn’t suit me. Better a calm routine, like the one Ben provided me.
Sometimes, though, I did find relaxation at The Hall. Sometimes, after dinner was cleaned up, we staff all sat together in the kitchen, cozily drinking wine and watching videos. I had a fine time doing jumbles, sudoku and crosswords with the others. Since Ben, I’d rarely passed the time this frivolously in my off days in London, the way I had with Posy, when I was single. There was always a biography to be read or a gallery to be visited. And I certainly never watched films like The Terminator or Airplane. At home, Ben and I took in documentaries, or French films, or Woody Allen. Edward teased me about wanting to be the “smart girl with my ducks in a row” and delighted in flustering me.
Edward and I took an occasional run together on the grounds. He’d pretend it was boot-camp, military style, and he always kicked my behind. From time to time, Lord Chinnerton, the Baron of Hinckley, would gallop by, enjoying the freedom to ride on his own land, and the land of his best friend alongside it. He was genial and casually friendly.
“Good afternoon!” he shouted on one occasion. “The rain has left us behind, at least for today. Fine day for some exercise.”
“It certainly is, Sir,” Edward had replied. “I’d venture Thunder thinks the same,” he said, approaching the horse’s muzzle and giving it a stroke. “Gorgeous!”
“Not as gorgeous as your pretty companion,” he tipped his riding helmet to me. “‘To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides,’ as the quote goes,” he said.
“Oh,” I responded, coloring. “It isn’t like that, Your Lordship. You see, we both cook at Thornton.”
“I’m sure you do, my dear,” he said wickedly. “See that you enjoy every minute of it.” He nudged Thunder on and galloped away, kicking up mud.
Sadly, it was all-too rare that we could find the time to sneak away to exercise, which was tragic, as Edward was an excellent baker and was always making double-batches for us staff… which we naturally gluttonously accepted. “You have to stop tempting me, or I’ll gain ten pounds,” I protested. He knew I found it impossible to say no to his sugary treats. Ben didn’t care for sweets and I didn’t really like to indulge when I was with him.
“More of you to love,” Edward had shrugged. His saying that made my heart hammer.
“A word of warning, Miss Juliet, if you don’t mind,” Seamus had said to me toward the end of my first stint at Thornton.
“Course I don’t mind,” I’d told him, worried that he was going to tell me that everyone in the drawing room was gagging on the cocktails I’d just sent out. I knew pairing hibiscus and mint was risky but hadn’t thought of it as a deal-breaker.
“I think Mr. Roth has his eye on you and the young chef,” Seamus said, busying himself by making a cup of tea.
“Thank you, Seamus, but there’s nothing to keep an eye on,” I told him. “Do they like the drinks?”
“Yes, yes, everyone’s oohing and aahing about the color and the flavor. Back to the point, though, Mr. Roth doesn’t like to know that those of us in his service have earthly wants and needs, like for food and water, and romance…or air, come to think of it,” he said, chuckling at his own joke.
“Don’t worry. I have a boyfriend in London. I don’t need romance.”
Back then, I was just getting a foothold as a chef in this world and didn’t want to jeopardize it, so Seamus’s words niggled at me. Plus, there was Ben. Even in the early days, I found myself defending Ben to Edward. Like that time we were making a multi-course Indian meal.
Washing lentils at the sink, I told him how we made sense as a couple – how Ben was working to make partner, how he and I were intellectually compatible, how his law degree and my undergraduate degree in psychology made us both analytical, how we had similar views on financial independence. “We split all expenses now, and I suspect we’ll have separate accounts when we marry,” I said smugly, feeling like one of the smart-woman financial advisors from The Eva! Show.
“You go Dutch at dinner. So he’s a cheapskate?” Edward asked. He measured out jasmine rice into a pot.
“No! We’re simply both autonomous,” I told him.
“That sounds hot,” he'd replied, getting under my skin again.
“Do all relationships have to be hot?” I demanded. At the very mention of the word hot, I became aware of Edward’s shoulders under his close-fitting t-shirt. The family was out for the afternoon, so he’d taken off his chef’s coat and hung it on a chair. That’s Edward in a nutshell – a maddening combination of rule follower and risk taker.
“Hell yes, relationships have to be hot. That’s part of it, anyway. A big part, if you ask me,” he said, turning from his pot and shooting me a look. Anyway, you can’t see much of him. How can you, when you’re always here with me?” He smiled.
“Well, I’m trying to earn a good reputation in the business, in case you hadn’t noticed. That’s why I’m here, of course.” Not to be near you, I said in my head.
“Or maybe you’re just holding out for someone of higher rank?” He tossed this out casually, rhythmically chopping onions while he spoke. “Crossing the invisible line has its appeal. I mean, that’s what I hear,” said Edward.
I thought about Jasper Roth and flushed deeply, not waiting for an answer to my question. “Look, if you’re implying that I have some kind of crush…”
“I’m just asking if…” his knife stopped. “Nothing.”
“What were you going to say?”
He didn’t answer. He lifted a pot lid, and began measuring out different colored powders into the curry he’d been making. I watched, pretending to be interested in the dish, but really wanting to hear Edward say more about Jasper. I reached around him to take the ghee off the stove, grabbing the hot handle of the iron pot without a potholder.
“Damn!” I cried, letting go immediately.
“Slow down, Jubes. There’s no rush.” He took my hand in his, and eased my clenched fist open. He kissed my injured palm, very lightly. “Let me wrap that hand up with some aloe gel,” he said.
The tenderness set off a longing in me that I didn’t want him to see. “That curry’s going to be too spicy,” I said, pulling my hand away, pretending it didn’t hurt. “The tastes in this house are particular, you know. That combo will be too much for them, they’re not The Rolling Stones.”
“There’s a saying in India, ‘Spice wakes the sleeping.’” He looked directly at me, his emerald green eyes with the gold flecks holding me in his steady gaze. Then he took my hand again, pulling against my resistance. “Open up for me,” he said. “You must be in pain. Let me look after you.”
My hand did hurt, and I did need looking after. I imagined leaning forward and kissing his full lips. He always smelled like cinnamon to me, and I could almost taste it in my mouth. After a moment I said, “I’m here to do things by the book,” and I turned away.
