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The whole reasonwhy Leland Page got into the culinary field to begin with was because he loved the fast-paced, high-pressure environment of a professional kitchen. He loved racing against the clock to create beautiful things that tasted amazing. It appealed to his sense of adventure and risk-taking, but also to his innate need to take care of people and nourish them.

The pinnacle of his career as a chef had come at an early age, when he’d worked as a sous chef atWaltz, a London restaurant owned by his friend, Walt Severance. Those had been the days. Expectations were lofty, the quality of the menus Walt put together was of the highest caliber, and the clientele was made up of some seriously big names.

And then it had all fallen apart when Walt buckled under the pressure. Leland couldn’t blame him for taking a mental break out in the country. He’d met his now husband, Kit Courrier, while on that break. And he’d soldWaltzfor a huge sum to the restaurant’s manager, Wesley, and his head chef, Pietro, and used the money to start a whole new farm-to-table venture with Kit.

Again, Leland didn’t blame his friend for doing what was best for him back then, but he’d never gotten along with Pietro, and whenWaltzwas recalibrated and rebranded, Leland was politely let go.

Two years and four jobs later, Leland was only just finding his feet again. He’d cycled through a few of London’s finest kitchens, never quite fitting in but learning so much in the process.

That learning was part of the reason why after a random conversation with a fellow member of The Brotherhood at The Chameleon Club, Leland had agreed not only to cater a benefit supper for the Hawthorne Community Arts Center back in the fall, and then their Christmas party in December, he’d taken up the offer to teach culinary classes at the arts center.

Which was where he found himself in the middle of a Tuesday in early February.

“No, no, not quite,” he told the pair of teenage girls who had managed to get flour all over their school uniforms as they giggled over a stand mixer. “Wait until the egg whites have stiff peaks. Stiff peaks,” he emphasized, taking the whisk beater from the mixer he’d used to demonstrate the techniques for making a genoise sponge. “And then fold the flour in carefully so that you don’t beat the air out of the egg whites.”

The girls giggled as if he’d said something naughty and continued to do whatever the pleased with their mixture.

“Sir! Sir! I think I’ve flattened my eggs,” another boy in the class called out from the far end of the counter.

Sure enough, when Leland went to look, the enthusiastic young man had done more than just fold his flour into the eggs, he’d stirred the mixture into a paste.

“Never mind,” Leland said, taking the boy’s mixing bowl and setting it on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “There’s still time for you to start over.”

That was one of his mottos in life. Everyone had to start over at least once or twice in their lives. He was starting over now, not as a Michelin-starred chef, like he’d always dreamed of being, but as a culinary teacher at an eclectic arts center in the middle of Kent, working for a family that he liked quite a bit. If it meant he had to teach the occasional school group along with more advanced classes for adults in the community, then so be it. He admired the Hawthorne family’s commitment to community outreach and involvement.

More than that, he was willing to do whatever the Hawthorne family needed him to do, since they were allowing him to live in one of the family flats in the east wing of the centuries-old manor house while his housing situation was up in the air.

Hawthorne House had once been a grand, aristocratic estate, but it had been converted into a convalescent hospital during the First World War, then a boys’ school after the Second World War, and once the family had taken possession of it again in the nineteen-nineties and turned it into the arts center, they’d converted what had once been dormitories into about a dozen small flats for members of the large and sprawling Hawthorne family to live in as needed.

“Mr. Page, sir!” Lucy, one of the girls who actually took the class seriously and who had expressed an interest in a culinary career called out from the other side of the kitchen. “Lottie and Alice are making a mess!”

Leland turned away from where he’d been supervising the boy whipping his egg whites again to see that not only had the two giggling girls made a mess, they’d somehow managed to spill an entire bag of confectioner’s sugar on the floor.

“Sorry, sir,” Lottie told him with a pinched expression. “It just fell.”

Leland didn’t believe that for a second, but he wasn’t angry. These were just kids. He knew full well that not every kid got the support and encouragement they needed at home, so as he walked over to help clean up the mess, he smiled reassuringly.

“It’s just sugar,” he said, walking past where the girls were to the broom closet. “It sweeps up the same as everything else.”

He handed the two girls brooms and dustpans, then stood back and trusted them to clean up. Trust was important in a kitchen. The chef de cuisine couldn’t micromanage everyone under them, not if they wanted to get the job done in a timely manner.

The mess presented a problem, though. Along with teaching cooking classes, Leland was in charge of food for the new dinner and special occasion initiative that the staff of the Hawthorne Community Arts Center had undertaken. That meant planning the menus for those events and, when and where he could, coaching some of his students through creating those meals.

Valentine’s Day was coming up that weekend, and already, the event was sold out. Leland’s mind had been spinning for days as he ran through different menu ideas. He’d settled on the menu now, but he’d been counting on his teen class to bake the cakes and make all sorts of sugared treats for dessert.

Now, not only was he uncertain whether this particular class was up to the challenge of baking for a crowd, the way they were going through supplies, Hawthorne House would go bankrupt purchasing sugar, eggs, and flour before it was all done.

Those thoughts scrambled around in his brain searching for solutions as the class continued. He could probably count on some of these students, like Lucy, for help with desserts, but certainly not all of them.

“The best part of making cakes is eating them,” the boy who struggled with his batter said with a wide grin at the end of the class, when everyone sat down to eat their treats. “Although mine’s so flat compared to Lucy’s.”

“That’s because I’m a natural chef,” Lucy said, her nose in the air, as she lifted a fork full of cake to her mouth.

Leland smirked. With that attitude, Lucy would fit right into most of the kitchens he’d worked in.

“Mr. Page, do you need help cleaning up the rest of the kitchen?” Lottie asked on behalf of her and Alice.

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