Page 44 of A Recipe Called Home

Julian gave her a quick overview, echoing what Benjamin had already shared, but ended by asking Jules about her thoughts on the role.

“I want to be transparent with you, Mr. Arnault,” she started before he cut in, instructing her to call him Julian.

“Ok, Julian. I’ve always wanted to write for a major news outlet, as I did study journalism, but I’m not sure I’m the right person for this topic."

“Tell me more.”

“I’m at a crossroads in my career and not sure what comes next. But I do know that it needs to challenge my creative side. I’m worried that this role will be similar in content to what I’ve been writing about as a speechwriter for the past ten years.”

Jules was proud of herself for being so honest. A younger Jules would have leaped at this opportunity, yet here she was, telling Julian whatshewanted first.

“I understand. When your name came across my desk, we thought it would be a perfect fit given your writing experience and your background. But I see why you’d want to explore other options,” he said, which Jules took as a signal for ending the conversation.

However, after a brief pause, he continued, “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you think about what it is youwantto write about? Then we can talk again in a few days. I see potential in you, and I’d like to explore how we can work together."

She’d expected this conversation to be short. A quick, “Thank you for considering the role, we have other candidates…,” but it sounded like he wantedherto work there.

Jules told him she’d think about it, and they set up a time to reconnect early the following week. Never in her wildest dreams did she think Julian Arnault would offer her a job. Jules wasn’t used to being sought after like this. Sure, she was relatively successful at what she did, and Becca had asked her to come work with her, too, but she didn’t feel like that counted anymore.

For the most part, Jules had aggressively pursued every job she’d had, just like her accomplishments. The perseverance and grit that she’d developed at a young age, determined to have a future different from the other women in her family, had let her leave Illinois for college and move to D.C. days after graduation. She always knew what she wanted and worked hard to get it. But this time was different. Although Jules was out of her comfort zone, she could recognize an opportunity when it hit her in the face. She just needed to figure out how to make the most of it.

Now that Jules had concrete options ahead of her and not just the ambiguous black hole she’d been envisioning ever since she left D.C., time sped up. Thursday went by in a blink as she shopped for that evening’s dinner ingredients and planned out the meal. The actual prep and cooking went even quicker, as her mind was elsewhere. All she could think about was her conversation with Julian.What did she want to write about?

Jules got so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice Val standing next to her at the stovetop that evening. Jules jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Woah, I didn’t mean to startle you, but I’m glad I did. Your chicken is burning,” she said, pointing down to the sizzling pan in Jules’ hand. She was right. Instead of searing the chicken, she’d charred one side to a black crisp.

“Shit,” Jules sputtered. “It’s ok, I’m almost done anyway. I’ll fire up a few more,” she said, rushing around the stainless-steel workspaces to grab the last of the chicken breasts from the large walk-in fridge.

“What’s on your mind, Jules?” Val asked, watching her.

“Oh, just my future. No big deal,” Jules said. She wasn’t trying to come off rude. “Sorry, Val. I’m good, actually. Just a lot going on.”

“Ok. Well, the ladies would like to know if you could join them for dinner tonight. You know, after you’re done cooking? They’d love to thank you.”

In a rush to finish on time now, Jules nodded yes, and Val disappeared back to the happy hour event that The Landing hosted every night. Jules wondered if they just wanted a new face to gossip about later. The ladies were lovely, but they fed on drama.

Even with a few burnt pieces of chicken, Grandma Rosa’s recipe forPetti Di Pollo al Burro, Italian butter chicken, was a colossal hit. Jules served it family style in the dining room alongside enormous platters of cooked pasta and dressed greens. Eating, and now serving, family style meals were her favorite because they encouraged people to talk while they passed their plates. It was like an interactive version of dinning. Even from the kitchen, she could hear the different conversations happening over the table. It filled her with joy and contentment. She had created this experience for them, and it made her happy to hear them so happy.

After the last main dish was served, Val came back to the kitchen a few glasses of wine heavier and dragged Jules to a table of women yelling to hear each other—they did all have hearing aids, after all.

The dining room was an ornate space, designed to look traditional yet upscale. Each of the tables sat up to six people and had lavish place settings that the wait staff set out before dinner. This wasn’t their usual dining room, but it had gotten much more use for dinners now that Jules was cooking. Before that, it was only used as a meeting space for different groups and clubs. Val had commented earlier that week that the residents loved seeing it used for its original intention and Jules had to admit that it was an impressive room.

Following Val, she took the only other empty seat, as the room’s attention turned towards Jules.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” a woman with dyed black hair and very red lipstick demanded to know.

Before Jules could even answer, the lady sitting next to her yelled, “She’s Rosa Cuccia’s granddaughter, Bette. You know this!”

“Oh, leave her be, Flo. We all forget things,” said another, patting Bette’s hand. “Your food is wonderful, Jules. But what we all want to know is what is going on with that hunk of a man who helped you drop food off a few weeks ago.Whereis he?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows at her.

Oh lord.

“His name is Miles and we’re just friends,” she politely replied.

“That’s a euphemism these days, ladies,” another chimed in.

Luckily, Val came to her rescue, calming them down and returning the chatter back to Jules’ cooking. All the women complimented Jules’ food, some saying it had brought back memories of their mother’s cooking from their childhoods in Chicago. It was amazing how many of them were Italian and had grown up close to Grandma Rosa. It really was a small world.

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