Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 45 Jack

Chapter 45

Jack

M ason and I were pleased with the restaurant sign, and the last of the renovations were going smoothly. It wouldn’t be long before we’d leave our roles at the palace and set out on our own, masters of our own fates. We had warned Max well in advance, and he was behind us all the way. We’d now begun looking ahead to opening the restaurant within the next couple of months, though we knew the timing would be tight.

I swallowed hard at the thought. As thrilled as I was, I was also nervous. Would anyone want to eat at our new restaurant? More importantly, would they like it? Londoners likely hadn’t eaten red snapper topped with Cajun fried oysters, or pepper biscuits with honey butter, or chocolate cinnamon buttermilk cake. “ Epis ,”—spice—Grandpa would say in his thick Creole accent, “awakens the senses, brings one to life. ” And I would certainly awaken my customers’ senses with the dishes I’d planned. Mason and I had toiled over the menu offerings, making sure each dish was unique, substituting ingredients that were common in Louisiana but weren’t available in London. I sometimes worried the menu was too unique, but we were both willing to take that chance.

Mason poked his head inside the kitchen. “Olive is here.”

We’d both been working around the clock, and my energy was flagging, but I couldn’t wait to see Olive. Spending time with her would be a welcome distraction.

“Have you asked her out yet?” Mason said as he pulled on his coat. “She really is a great-looking girl.”

I took spices from the cupboard. “So? Not everything has to be about that.”

At this, Mason laughed. “Usually ends up being about that though, doesn’t it?”

“She’s with someone else anyway.”

“You should muscle your way in.”

“Maybe I will,” I said. “Anyway, beat it, will you. I need to get to it.” I set down the spices and met Olive at the entrance as Mason made a tactful exit.

“Hi,” she said. “Sorry I’m late. Again!”

My stomach flipped as she entered the room. She was dazzling in a simple pink cashmere sweater, her hair a cascade of soft waves around her face, her cheeks pink from the exertion of walking in the heat of a summer evening.

“You’re right on time.” I opened the door wide. “We definitely said...” I checked the clock, “twenty-five past.”

She groaned. “Sorry! I’m a disaster.” She tripped over a crate of wine as she stepped inside. “Oops. Hope that’s not the good stuff.”

I laughed. “Graceful as always, I see.” I moved deftly around the counter and poured her a glass of wine. “For you, ma’am.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She spoke with a pretend upper-class accent and a playful smile. “So, what’s cookin’, chef?”

“We’re making something simple that your dad can easily follow. A few ingredients, quick to pull together, delicious.”

“That sounds perfect. What’s it called?”

“A po’ boy,” I said.

“A what ?”

“It’s short for ‘poor boy,’ a sandwich the Martin brothers of New Orleans made at their coffee stand to feed the streetcar union strikers back in the 1920s. It’s become something of a classic. Oysters are everywhere—cheap, or free—in Louisiana, if you know how to catch them, just like crawfish.”

“Oysters? Aren’t they supposed to be an—”

“Aphrodisiac. Yes.”

“Are you trying to woo me, Mr. Devereux?”

I glanced at her. “Maybe?” Yes , I wanted to say . Yes, I am. But my timid nature got the better of me. “They’ll help your dad woo your mom for sure!” I pointed to a cutting board and a large knife. “Time to get to work! First, we’ll slice the lettuce, tomato, and onion.”

As she began slicing, I stood beside her, peering over her shoulder, showing her what to do. She didn’t even know how to hold the knife properly.

She looked back at me, meeting my eye. “I can chop vegetables, Jack!”

I could make out every fleck of gold in her amber eyes. “It isn’t chopping, it’s slicing, and if you keep at it like that, you’ll cut your fingers clean off.” I showed her again, placing my hand on hers as I winced at her haphazard hacking. I paused for a moment as I realized how close she was. The scent of her perfume. Her breath fanning across my cheek. I met her eye for a moment, studying her beautiful face.

“I think I’ve got it,” she said, looking away.

I removed my hand swiftly, cleared my throat. “Great.”

She followed my instructions without her usual light-hearted chatter, and when the oysters were perfectly fried and nestled on a smear of rich remoulade, lettuce, tomato, sliced dill pickles, and crusty bread, she waited for further instructions.

“That’s it,” I said. “You’ve done it perfectly.”

“It can’t be perfect. I’m a terrible cook.”

“Not this time.”

She met my eyes again. “Well then, you must be a good teacher. I suppose we should eat these.”

“I suppose so.”

We sat at the new staff table that had been delivered the day before and ate in silence. I wondered what she was thinking. She had a serious air about her this evening, as if something was on her mind.

“Is everything all right?” I asked. “You seem a bit... distracted?”

She shuffled slightly on her stool. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

“Work? Bullen still being an obnoxious pain in the ass?”

She smiled. “Always. This is delicious by the way,” she said, after taking a large bite. “Really, Jack. I’m so glad you’re opening your own place. London needs your food.”

“Thank you. I hope you’re right.”

We talked for a while about her parents, and how she longed for them to be happy with each other again.

“They could use a bit of romance and adventure in their lives, that’s for certain,” she said. “But every time I think they’re making progress, they slip back into their old routines. Hopefully, these oysters will work some magic on them.”

“Well, now that you know the recipe, let’s hope your dad will agree to making it for your mom. A little spice can go a long way. In recipes, and in life.”

She smiled. “A philosopher as well as a chef!”

“Well,” I said. “It’s late and I need to get some sleep. I have another long day at the palace tomorrow and then I need to put in a serious shift here if we’re ever going to open on time. This was fun though. We should do it again sometime.”

“I’d like that.”

As she rose to leave, my desperation grew. I had to do something, say something, or at least try to spend more time with her.

“Would you like to come over on Saturday, for Mason’s birthday? We thought we’d have it here, now that we have a stocked kitchen. Well, close enough for a party anyway. Should be a good time. You could bring Rosie... or Peter, if you like?” I was testing her, trying to get a reaction by mentioning him.

She hesitated. “That sounds like fun. I’ll need to see if my parents can watch Lucy.”

“Of course.”

“What time?”

“Eight o’clock?”

She nodded. “I’ll do my best. Thanks again, for tonight. And no fingers lost!”

I had so many more things I wanted to say, but for now, the hope of seeing her at Mason’s party would have to do. I watched her as she walked through the kitchen, nearly tipping over a tray of polished spoons in her adorable clumsy way.

Olive Carter, I thought, you have no idea what you do to me.