The door clattered open and Andrew walked in, a stormy
expression eclipsing my brother’s normal goofy half smile. “Beth. Some people
outside to see you.”
Since The Yellow House had been awarded Best New Restaurant
in the Northeast by the Martin Williams Foundation, a prestigious culinary
organization I’d never heard of prior to receiving the letter in the mail, we’d
been bombarded with reporters, bloggers, and more diners than we could possibly
keep up with. Usually, though, they didn’t show up a full four hours before we
opened for the day.
Peeking through the window at the small gravel parking lot,
I spotted a gleaming black Mercedes and three people sitting at one of the
picnic tables in the garden. I wiped my hands on my apron and patted my hair,
hoping that my curls hadn’t dried in a frizzy mess. Dressing in the dark, I’d
hardly had a moment to make sure my socks matched before dashing out of the
house. A few too many times these visitors were enthusiastic with the photos
and
I appeared in Instagram posts and blog entries looking like
a wild and unruly thing.
“Good morning!” I called as I bounded down the stairs. The
morning air brushed cool against my clammy skin. Before the fire settled down,
the kitchen tended to get unbearably hot. The sunlight had gathered itself into
soft rays that glistened off the dew in the vegetable and herb patches. A
monarch butterfly fluttered across my path and I paused, letting it take its
time. Medusa, the barn-cat-turned-restaurant-mascot, snoozed on one of the
picnic tables, blissfully oblivious of the visitors.
At the sound of my voice all three of them stood: a tall,
slim man in a beautifully tailored suit, a shorter man with a ruddy, irritable
face, and another person with their back to me. She turned. Immediately my
cheeks heated, and an awkward laugh bubbled up from my throat.
She was like something plucked from my adolescent queer
fantasies. Bad boy and tough woman rolled into one. She wore dark jeans, a
thick leather belt, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves cuffed a few times up
to reveal sinewy biceps. Her dark blond hair was pushed back from her flawless,
angular face in a messy not-quite-pompadour. Straight eyebrows a few shades
darker than her hair. A long, delicate nose. Lips that probably would have been
ample were they not pressed together in a tense frown.
“How can I help you folks?” I bit back the comment that we
didn’t open until eleven and offered a sweet smile instead.
The woman stepped forward without missing a beat, extending
her hand. I closed the gap between us, shivering as her long fingers brushed my
palm. Her skin was warm and a little work-rough. A heavy quiet settled over me
as we shook hands. I had the strange thought that I could have held her hand
all day. Up close I realized her narrow, wary eyes were a soft shade of green.
They widened for a fraction of a second before she stepped back, shoving her
hands into her pockets.
“I’m Adah Campbell, the new executive chef at Bella Vista. This is Sean Jacobs, our GM, and Riccardo Visconti, the head of our restaurant group.” Beneath the formal veneer of her words, her voice thrummed with life. Her accent wasn’t quite Southern, more country than anything else. It was the sound of humid thunderstorms and steaming biscuits slathered in home-churned butter. I never wanted her to stop talking.
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