Page 2 of This Is Who I Am

As usual, heads turn. Up to a few years ago, I actually enjoyed the sensation of parading through the front of house, gorging on the admiring gaze from the people eating my food, but my body isn’t the same anymore. As my hips have grown in size, my self-esteem has shrunk accordingly. But still, despite the grueling hot flash, and my ex having a romantic dinner with her wife in front of my eyes, I grab the plate with the soufflé and saunter over to the stranger with the notepad.

CHAPTER2

ESTELLE

“Here you go.” A perky female voice pulls me from my calculations. “Our Black Forest soufflé. Enjoy.” The aroma of dark chocolate and cherry drifts up, making my mouth water even as my mind tries to cling to the half-formed equation I’d been working on.

I glance up and look into the face of Savor’s one and only head chef.

“What a treat,” I say. “A gorgeous dessert and a chat with the chef.” I keep coming back to this restaurant, securing a booking for the next week as soon as I get home after another delicious meal.

“I hope the food was to your liking?” The chef’s smile seems forced, a hint of unease beneath it. Her professional mask is perfect, polished by years of practice, but I recognize armor when I see it.

“It was divine, as usual. I’m a big fan.” I give her my warmest, widest smile.

“Excellent.” She seems to relax a little. Her glance skitters to my notebook. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m curious. Are you new to town? Just visiting?”

Very curious, indeed. “Not new-new,” I say, deliberately cryptic. “I grew up here, but that was a long time ago.”

The chef narrows her eyes, as though she’s searching her memory and might find an image of me buried deep down somewhere.

“Some of my staff have money on whether you’re a restaurant critic, what with all the note-taking between dishes.”

Ah. The chef can also be quite direct—that’s more my language.

“God no. Your food is beyond critique.” I tap a fingertip against my notebook. “I’m just working on something that has me totally transfixed. I’m sorry if that comes across as rude. This pencil is like a natural extension of my hand.”

“Not at all.” The chef flashes me a genuine smile now. “You just had us a little worried.”

“Absolutely nothing to worry about.” I mirror her smile. “I’ll be back next Friday simply because I can’t get enough of your food, Miss…”

“It’s Cass and thank you. I’ll put your name down then. For seven next Friday?”

“That would be wonderful. The sea bass tonight was out of this world.” Now that I’ve profusely complimented her food, Cass seems to have grown a few inches. Her blond bob peeks out from under her hat and her blue eyes have something commanding but also intriguingly vulnerable about them.

“Thank you again. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” Cass shifts her weight around, as though she’s unsure of what to do or say next. “You should really eat that soufflé before it sinks.”

“Right.” For a minute there, I completely forgot about my dessert.

“I’ll let you get to it. Enjoy and see you soon.” The smile she shoots me next reaches all the way to her eyes, lending her face a softness that throws me a little. I watch her head back into the open kitchen, but then intently focus on the dish in front of me instead of trying to figure out whether there was a vibe between us. Pity that sort of thing can’t be calculated with a mathematical equation—I’d be all over that if it could.

The soufflé is light as a cloud and just the right amount of tart with a mere hint of sweetness, just the way I like it. At the bottom, there’s a surprising crunch of dried cherries and I’m delighted yet again. Each bite is a dangerous indulgence, reminding me how easily pleasure can become a habit.

No wonder I keep coming back here. Did they really think I was a restaurant critic? Is that the energy I exude? I chuckle at how ludicrous that is. Then I glance into the kitchen. Cass is gesturing to a colleague, showing them something or explaining some culinary detail, but I’m too far away to hear.

Though my connections in town have dwindled, the few remaining can expect a thorough questioning about Chef Cass from Savor. I heave a small sigh.

No, no, no, Estelle, I admonish myself. Don’t go there. Don’t do it. Save yourself the trouble. But for someone who’s fucked up every single relationship she’s ever had, I’m desperately romantic and part of me has never given up hope—the rebellious, stubborn part of me simply can’t.

At almost fifty, I should have learned my lesson—and I have. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with admiring a chef’s cuisine, another woman’s superlative creativity. It’s got nothing to do with romance. Silly me.

Because I don’t feel like going back to my dad’s empty house, I focus on my notebook again. I’ve long stopped caring how this makes me look. If anything, it provides a kind of shield. I always seem busy and hard at work. The pencil scratches against the paper with a familiar rhythm, like a metronome keeping time with my thoughts.

My dad left this particular problem for me on his deathbed and it feels as though I can’t leave town before I’ve solved it. My father was the smartest man I’d ever met—and I’ve met some men in my day who were utterly convinced they were the cleverest specimen mathematics had ever seen—and his problems have always been the hardest to solve.

I’m not sure yet whether I’m happy that his challenge is keeping me here. I’m not that keen to go home. There’s literally nothing waiting for me there. My house in Berkeley is just as empty as my dad’s house here. And at least being here doesn’t remind me of how spectacularly I failed at a job my father, once again, made look easy.

I sink into the problem, forgetting the world around me—forgetting I’m in one of the best restaurants this area has ever seen—and for another delicious half hour, it’s just me and math. Exactly how I like it.

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