Page 29 of The Artist and the Muse

“Did we do something wrong?” my mother asked, her eyes widening as she turned to face the chef.

“No, not at all. I just enjoy seeing students put their own spin on my recipes. Browning the meat before stewing it was a great idea. Everything smells delicious here,” she assured us.

“Thanks,” my mom and I said in unison. I felt a surprising amount of accomplishment at the praise.

We added the meat and vegetables, some red wine, and a surprising ingredient (a can of Guinness) and Worcestershire sauce to the Dutch oven.

By the end of the class, we were sweaty, tired, and ready to eat our food.

My stomach grumbled as I smelled the stew. Surely having one cheat day wouldn’t hurt my diet, right?

As we ladled the meal into bowls and ate it around the table, Mom seemed to sense my hesitation. “Georgia? Why aren’t you digging in? You worked so hard to make this.”

I forced a smile. My hands felt icy cold despite the day spent in the hot kitchen, and I knew it was because I hadn’t eaten anything that day except a handful of carrot sticks and some almonds. “I-I’m just savouring the smell.”

“Well, don’t savour too long, or else I’ll eat it all,” she said smiling, the moment of concern dropped.

I spooned some stew into my mouth. It was delicious—the first proper meal I’d had in what was probably a week—and I loved every bite of it. The rich, complex flavours and the tender lamb melted in my mouth. It was a hearty dish, more suited to autumn and winter than to summer, but I loved it nonetheless.

Chef Michelle complimented everyone on their work and sent us all home with copies of her cookbook. On the drive home, my mother surprised me with a statement.

“You know, I think you would make an excellent cook.”

“It’s just a hobby,” I was quick to reassure her. I knew about the hours people worked in the restaurant industry. It was gruelling, being on your feet all the time, working around other people’s mealtimes, and dealing with rude customers or harsh critics. Then again, the modelling industry wasn’t renowned for treating its employees well either.

“Well, it’s a hobby you’re fantastic at.” She squeezed my hand as we sat in the backseat of the taxi taking us back to our apartment. “Why didn’t you ever try to pursue it? Go to culinary school or something?”

Her question startled me. After years of pushing me towards modelling and pageantry, she wanted to know why I’d never taken cooking seriously? It rankled me slightly, and I wanted to tell her that. Instead, the same old excuses sprang to my lips so I could avoid answering her question.I’m not good enough. It’s just a fun hobby. If I took it seriously, I’d end up hating it.

“Just because a few people think my cooking is good doesn’t mean I’m skilled enough to be a professional chef. I mean, don’t we always watch those people onAmerican Idolwho think they can sing and then the judges prove them brutally wrong? What if it turns out like that?”

She just sighed. “I don’t compliment your cooking just because I’m your mother, dear. I do it because—”

“Because you love me.”

“No, because it’s delicious, Georgia. Even the chef praised your cooking today.” That was true; Chef Michelle had tried a bite of our stew and had given us the culinary equivalent of an A+, which was mimicking an Italian chef’s kiss with her fingers.

“Whatever, Mom.”

“Don’t youwhateverme, Georgia. You’re not a teenager anymore and you haven’t been one for a long time. You’ve seemed so down lately, and the only time I’ve seen you actually look happy is when we were in the kitchen just now.”

“And maybe if I pursued cooking as a career, I would come to hate that, too.” I shook my head. “Can we just drop the subject?”

She sighed. “Fine. Tell me about school.”

I launched into an embellished description of the artwork we were studying and she listened attentively. Yet even as I talked about my Anthropology degree, and how much I was looking forward to graduating, I couldn’t help but feel like there was something missing in my life. Like perhaps she was right, and I should pursue something like cooking.

Sometimes I wondered if my sole purpose on this earth was to be decorative, an ornament for others. The wild cousin who brought adventure to my family’s lives. The picture-perfect model who made designers’ clothes look dazzling. The perfect daughter to my mom, ensuring her needs were met and she never had to worry about me.

And what about what I wanted? What I needed?

I swallowed the bitter thought.

My life was fine the way it was. Making any changes to it now would just be a foolish mistake, and I’d made enough of those already.

Chapter Fifteen: George Devereaux

“I’m ready for my official uncle duties,” I declared, stepping into the Steele-Devereaux residence on the Thursday morning before the Italy trip.

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