I tried to rein in my prickly, only-sister-among-six-brothers instincts and kept my voice as even as possible. “Last year alone they were named the best restaurant in Maine and won a Martin Williams Award. I think they might be worth checking out.”
“Yes.” Riccardo clapped his hands and the sound echoed through the cavernous kitchen. “We will go there first.”
Chapter Two
Beth
The flames wandered over the kindling, sparking golden as the rich scent of wood smoke filled the kitchen. It was early still, the sunlight weak and soft. Outside, the clear crack of Andrew chopping wood mingled with the cries of chickadees and jays. Inside, I was alone. I drew in a deep, steady breath to greet the dawn.
I was exhausted. The night before had been long, with a private event yawning long past midnight. The morning came too early and too busy. My to-do list snaked through my mind unrelenting: update the menus online, proof the boules, fill the tart shells, pick up the blueberries from my dad, answer at least fifty emails, follow up with vendors... Realistically I needed to hire someone else. But the last two guys I’d brought on didn’t have the right energy. They cut corners and didn’t connect with our mission. The recent onslaught of guests and publicity meant, however, that Andrew, Nina, and I were constantly exhausted. It wasn’t sustainable.
Okay, so priority number one: create a new job listing to post on Craigslist that might attract someone more attuned. Really, what I needed was another me. Or the ability to work endless hours with no sleep and no personal time. Or to pack up and leave this whole operation behind in favor of a beach in Tulum. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been to yoga or taken Hamlet on a hike. The last time I’d dreamed of anything but invoices and health inspections.
“Coffee... Must have coffee.” Nina’s scratchy voice preceded her round, flushed face.
I inclined my head to the blue and white speckled percolator keeping warm next to the hearth. “Just made another pot.”
“You’re a goddess.” Nina was still dressed in her running clothes, a pair of tiny spandex shorts and a hot pink tank top. Her golden hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. We’d been inseparable since childhood and drunkenly slept together a few times before settling back into a cozy, supportive friendship. She was a gifted cook, responsible for the vegetable-forward dishes that helped put our tiny kitchen on the culinary map. Nina poured us each a mug, adding a healthy splash of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar to mine. “What time did you get here, anyway?”
“Five.” I tried not to let any exhaustion creep into my voice.
“Beth!” Nina looked as though she might slap me. “You need to sleep, honey! Want me to do the job posting stuff?”
Guilt swelled in my stomach. This wasn’t just about me. Being short-staffed and busier than ever also meant Nina and Andrew suffered. “No,” I sighed. “You can get started on your prep. I can’t stop thinking we’re never going to find the right person. Roy was such a disappointment.”
Nina scoffed. “Yeah, in more ways than one.”
A laugh bubbled up from my belly as I turned back to the oven to ensure all of the wood had caught. The temperature needed to regulate by eight thirty so I could get the first of the breads and pastries in.
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.
I exchanged far briefer handshakes with the two men.
“Well, lovely to meet you.” I fiddled with a stray curl that kept bouncing in and out of my peripheral vision. “I’m Beth Summers, the madwoman behind this whole operation.” I jabbed my thumb back at the house.
I had no earthly idea what Bella Vista was. To be fair, though, I hadn’t eaten at another restaurant in ages. Most of my meals consisted of late-night affairs conjured up after the final guests left for the night. I’d developed the bad habit of burrowing into my own life so deep I sometimes forgot a world outside of The Yellow House existed.