“I’m the new sous chef.” The woman steps forward, holding her hand out. “Natalie.”
“Right.” I sigh with a heavy breath. “Nice to meet you, Natalie.” I return her handshake.
“I hope I’m not too late.”
“No.” I wave her off, grabbing the inventory clipboard from my desk. “You’re a bit early, actually. If it were Max, that’d be a different story.” I lightly laugh, hoping to ease her worry.
“Great.” She smiles back.
“Have a seat.” I point to the empty chair beside me and start up my computer. “I just need to print out the inventory sheet before we get started. Max likes them to be printed out only on the days we need them. He hates clutter and unnecessary paperwork.”
“Okay.” Natalie sits with her hands in her lap, wringing her fingers. She looks nervous, scared even.
“Are you excited about starting here?” I ask her, hoping to put her at ease.
“I am. This restaurant is one of the best in Seattle. I still can’t believe Max hired me.”
“I was shocked when he hired me too.” I click my mouse several times, opening the document we use every week for inventory. “But this is a great place to work as long as you put in the time and effort.”
I glance over my shoulder at Natalie. Her brown hair is tied back in a tight ponytail and her chef coat is void of any wrinkles. She seems like the type of person who takes her job seriously. Max may be strict, but at least he has a knack for hiring the right kind of people.
The silence in my office swells and I have the sudden urge to fill it.
“So, Max tells me you graduated from San Diego Culinary Institute.” I turn back to my computer and open the inventory file. “That’s pretty impressive.”
“Thank you.” She smiles. “They have a very strenuous and tiring program, but it was worth it. I’ve always wanted to be a chef.”
I’m nodding along, hoping the printer won’t take long to print the papers I need. It’s not like I’m uncomfortable talking to Natalie, but I’m finding myself catching my phone in my peripheral vision. There’s an invisible tether tying me to my phone, wondering why Lena felt the need to tear down our shed out of the blue this morning. My unfinished text fades to black as my phone screen times out.
Natalie taps her finger on the desk, bringing my attention to her. “Max didn’t tell me where you went to school. He only told me you started working for him this past year.”
I pause in my seat and stare at my computer, swallowing the familiar lump in my throat, the same one that grows any time anyone asks me about my past. The printer kicks on and I spin in my chair, turning my back to Natalie. “Yeah. I went to a school out on the east coast and moved here last year.” I keep it vague as I always do. I’ve learned to stay as close to the truth as I can without it appearing as if I have something to hide, all while keeping the details of my past a secret. It’s a double-edged sword. Bend too close to the truth and I risk the life I’ve built with Lena. Staying too vague only heightens suspicion.
Max didn’t ask too many questions when he hired me. He was in a tight bind for a line cook last summer when Lena and I moved out here. In the spur of the moment, I decided to check out our local farmer’s market, hoping to pick up some heirloom tomatoes for a soup I wanted to make for Lena. I’d caught sight of Max as he picked out a persimmon, knowing it was a fruit that most people didn’t gravitate toward. Unable to help myself, I asked him if he knew how well those worked in a grilled cheese with prosciutto. At first, his stare was cold, as if he didn’t understand why a stranger would interrupt him while he picked out the best ones. But then his eyes softened slightly, realizing what I had actually suggested.
And that was all it took. Max hired me on the spot, convinced my knowledge of persimmons and grilled cheese recipes was all he needed to know I was exactly the kind of line cook he was needing.
I’m relieved when the papers are finally ready. I grab them quickly and stand, turning back to Natalie. The swelling in my throat has all but vanished. Thank God.
Natalie’s face remains placid, her almond shaped eyes slightly wider than they were when we first met. I can tell she’s caught off guard by my short answer. Most chefs will jump at the chance to brag about their credentials and their world travels. They would describe adventures and how they toured the streets of Japan and trained under the best culinary chefs in Paris. But not me. Even if I’d had the traditional training that most chefs in the culinary world have had, I still couldn’t wear it like a badge of honor. My past was a secret and my life will always remain a secret to protect Lena.
“Oh.” She falls back in her seat, her shoulders sagging. Again, chefs love to brag so I’m not surprised by Natalie’s reaction. But she doesn’t question me any further and I’m sure it’s only because she’s new. I’m thankful for her silence and I’m eager to move on from the conversation.
“Come on. I’ll show you the best way to take inventory.” I pop another Tic Tac in my mouth, and pick up my phone, quickly finishing the text I was sending to Lena. My fingers tap against the screen, entering my passcode. The day Lena and I got married. I quickly tap send, close out my messages, then drop my phone on my desk. Natalie follows me
