Girard appeared from the other end of the pavilion nicely dressed in a beige suit.
Shane had on his signature chef’s coat and jeans.
“Daniel, Shane, we’re ready to bring you in for a couple of shots,” the head bee called.
With a roll of the eyes, Shane trudged over. The Murphy brothers with their partners in business, and now in life, the Girards. Shane was apparently about to become Audrey’s brother-in-law.
He had burned the few photos of him and Melina that they had taken the day they went to a justice of the peace in New York to become a legally married couple. It had been a no-fuss ceremony. Afterward, they’d had lunch with Reg, Shane’s parents and Melina’s mother. Melina’s estranged father was not in attendance.
When he looked back on it, Shane wasn’t really sure why he had agreed to marry Melina. It was she who’d wanted to. As a young man with the level of fame the restaurants brought, Shane attracted more than his fair share of chef groupies. He supposed Melina pressured him into marriage to try to insure his fidelity. The truth was that he’d been so immersed in cooking and the restaurants at that point, she needn’t have worried. Though he did seek acclaim, he had no interest in sexual dalliances.
Melina was an outcast blueblood. Her father, a wildly successful mogul overseas, had cut her off because of her party lifestyle, but that hadn’t changed her ways. Shane met her at an art gallery opening after he had returned to New York once the LA restaurant was up and running.
She was an eccentric who sang in a band. As a young star chef, Shane had temporarily enjoyed the diversion of her rock ’n’ roll crowd, who were in great contrast to the luminaries of New York who came into the restaurant.
But he’d tired of the superficiality of Melina’s orbit. And had become acutely aware that they were not growing closer. They were not turning marriage into a foundation to stand on together. Their apartment was not a home.
It had been a reckless and immature decision to marry Melina. Even their nuptials were a spur-of-the-moment plan on a Tuesday afternoon. They had never been right together.
His four years with her were now comingled with memories regarding the horror of her death. The phone call from the highway patrol. Police officers who were gracious enough to come to the cabin to pick him up during the snowstorm and drive him to identify his wife’s body.
Shane hadn’t even been a guest at a wedding in many years, so he’d forgotten about all of the pomplike engagement photos. Now, the next wedding he’d attend would be his brother’s. Studying Audrey again, whose mere being seemed to light something buried down inside of him, he simply couldn’t picture her and his brother together.
Reg seemed ill at ease with this photo shoot, breaking frequently to text. They hadn’t had a chance to talk privately last night, but Shane could tell his brother was bearing the weight of the world on his slim shoulders.
After the last photos were taken and the bees left, Reg’s phone rang and he took the call. Shane didn’t like the look of alarm that came over his face. “Rick in New York.” Reg identified the caller. “Shane, take Audrey into the kitchen and show her the progress you’ve made on the cookbook so far.”
“Alright, let’s go.” Shane took Audrey by her hand, which was even tinier and softer than he’d imagined it was going to be, and tugged her in his direction. There wasn’t much to show her but maybe it was time he assessed what he had.
In the restaurant kitchen, Shane rifled through the papers on his desk, all of which needed his attention. From under them he pulled a tattered manila folder. He dumped its contents onto a countertop.
Audrey looked surprised but managed a pursed lip.
“This is how I work,” he said.
Ideas for recipes were written on food-stained pieces of paper. On napkins where the ink had smeared. On sticky notes that were stuck together. On the backs of packing slips from food deliveries. On shards of cardboard he’d torn from a box. There was one written on a section of a dirty apron.
“O...kay,” Audrey prompted, “tell me exactly what’s here.”
He glanced down to the front of the floral dress she was wearing for the photo shoot. The pattern of the fabric was relentless in its repetition of pink, yellow and orange flowers. Begonias, if he had to guess. The way she filled out the dress sent his mind wondering about what sweet scents and earthly miracles he might find beneath the thin material.
Shane wanted to know what was under the dress, both literally and figuratively. She was an accomplished woman yet he thought there was something untouched and undernurtured in her.
He admonished himself for again thinking of his brother’s soon-to-be bride, although he took a strange reassurance in the fact that this was an arranged marriage between people who were not in love.
Still, it was nothing he had any business getting involved in.
What he needed to concentrate on were these scraps of paper that were to become one of those sleek and expensive cookbooks that people laid on their coffee table as a design accessory and never cooked from. A book whose pages held close-up pictures of glistening grapes and of Shane tossing a skillet of wild mushrooms.
“These are my notes.” A scrap from the pile caught his eye. “Feijoada.”
He’d scribbled that idea over a year ago. When Reg had asked him to think about how to make use of the lesser cuts of pork he had left over from other recipes. “I’ve seen Brazilians throw everything into this stew, the ears, the snout, all of it. The whole pot simmers with the black beans for a long time and you squeeze the flavor out of every morsel.”
“Let’s see what you have,” Audrey offered. She leaned close to him to read the note together.
His tendons tightened at the sweet smell of her hair.
“There are no amounts for the ingredients,” she observed.
“Obviously.”
“How are we going to use these notes for recipes then?”
“I have no idea.”
“How do you get the dishes to taste the same every time if you don’t have the measurements written down?”
“I feel it. They don’t come out exactly the same every time.”
“You feel it.” She bit her lip. “Then how would someone at home be able to cook them?”
“They wouldn’t.”
Shane watched Audrey’s expression go from irritated to intelligent as she thought through what she should say next. “You’re not at Shane’s Table in New York and Los Angeles cooking every single dish. How does your staff prepare the food?”
“Of course the restaurant menu recipes are written down. We’ll use a few Shane’s Table guest favorites for the book. But it’s supposed to be all new food. Reg promised we’d deliver fresh, rustic and regional, and I’m still working on the dishes. The measurements are the least of my problems.”
Audrey took a big breath into her lungs and
