Page 93 of Sawyer
“Anytime, Doc.” He crisply nodded. “I probably should get back to the house in case Phoebe swings by. Be good if I can tell her where you are.”
His heart did a hop, skip, and a jump at that. “That would be terrific.” Now they had all the bases covered. He headed up the stairs to talk to Nanine. To share that she’d helped him find himself, again.
Soon he would be painting again for himself.
Phoebe was willing to reconcile with him.
He wanted to howl like a wolf on top of the proverbial mountain,Sawyer, I am.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The scene was glorious.
Steam was rising from the copper pots on the stove. There was a blur of chefs moving in mostly white uniforms to hand off one plate after another. Madison was like the black swan to their white ones. Stainless steel was everywhere, which would have overtaken the scene, so he’d pared back the extra noise and created a simpler kitchen for the painting from his imagination. One with handcrafted cabinets at the back and an old wooden table in the center cut with knicks of love from use. Like the family table in the back of the kitchen that had graced Nanine’s childhood home in Lyon.
Nanine had embraced him and agreed to be in the scene and was now kneading bread. Carl, who’d been upstairs with her, had asked if he might join them and watch Sawyer paint unobtrusively. Brooke’s father loved the arts.
Of course, Sawyer had agreed, aware he wouldn’t even sense the man was around once he got in the zone.
The lighting was softer in the scene he was painting as well, a golden honey tone. Because the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in long tubes were still a nightmare.
He switched paintbrushes, grabbing the one coated with Payne’s grey again to fill in the fictional cupboards he’d added to the right and left of the quaint old stove. The two women in his painting—representatives of Madison and Nanine—might as well be in an old kitchen in the countryside. He liked it better that way. Modern kitchens might be more practical, but they weren’t as romantic.
Like he’d done with his Belle Epoch painting in the main part of Nanine’s restaurant, he was creating a throwback. What a Paris kitchen would have looked like at that time. Butcher blocks for counters. Warm wood. Warm light. The flash of steel from a knife lying on its side beside a tranche of beef. A few ducks that had yet to be plucked of their feathers.
Totally old school.
He loved it!
Too bad he couldn’t capture the pleasant hum of conversation from the front of the restaurant or the way the gas gave an enthusiastic whoosh when someone turned a burner on or how thechop, chop, chopfrom a wickedly sharp knife sounded on a cutting board.
Nanine’s kitchen had been quiet when he’d worked here ten years ago.
Madison’s was not.
She swore, sometimes in delight or frustration, as she worked—in English, Spanish, and yes, even French. The other chefs enthusiastically did the same with Pierre squawking around them. This rare culinary parrot flew around to different stations, his black beak lifting in the air as he took in the scents and sometimes suggested a little more of something. It had been a no-brainer to paint him into the scene, resting on Madison’s shoulder as she gave Sawyer her demonstration, cooking the duck with cherries topped with frizzled tarragon and plating it before him.
He’d chosen to paint the moment when she drizzled the cherry sauce on top of the dish. The dark burgundyribbon gave the scene movement—as did him painting Nanine kneading bread dough. Fresh, of course, because even though little sister had left frozen dough, Nanine had insisted she wouldn’t re-knead already proofed dough.
Her white hair was twisted into a bun just off the crown of her head. Her strong arms moved with knowledge, strength, and grace—poetry in motion. But it was the warmth of her smile—that inner joy lighting her face—that had him painting faster than ever, wanting to capture her mood and the moment.
Madison was a complete contrast. She’d started off intense as she’d cooked the dish, but by the time she drizzled the sauce, she sported a smug smile.
Two women from different generations in charge of a bustling kitchen, equal in their passion.
People were going to love it. His former doubts? He’d crushed them under his proverbial heel at last. As an art professor, he’d learned what made great paintings great. Usually it came down to a story—or at least some mystery. Didn’t everyone from scholars to tourists wonder why the Mona Lisa was smiling? Tomes had been written about the artful touches that transformed the banal into the mesmerizing.
When his hands started to cramp, he stopped to wipe them. By then, Nanine was pulling the freshly baked bread from the oven. She’d left it for that first rise and then returned to shape it into a round country-style loaf for another, setting a timer she’d taken with her back to her apartment. Carl was still watching, however, drinking a glass of red wine in the corner at a small worktable. Nanine’s Bernard used to sit there and do paperwork, she’d once told him, and she’d left the chair out for it to be used by others dear to her and this restaurant.
Sawyer thought Bernard would be happy Carl was there.When you loved someone, you’d want them to find love again if you passed. He just knew it.
From time to time, his mind would tell him Phoebe had not yet come. His phone had not beeped. When he spied Nanine’s clock in the kitchen with the second hand for the chefs to time things like sauces and the like, he realized it was nearing eleven.
Ah! That was why the movements of the chefs were slowing. A few were cleaning up, he realized as he stretched his stiff fingers. Madison and Pierre were clustered together near the pastry section with a chef, watching him plate a special classic French chocolate tart with a mulled wine sauce. He could attest to how delicious it was because Madison had served him a slice with the duck with cherries.
The back door opened, and suddenly a gust of cold wind was fanning through the kitchen, causing him to shiver. His roommates and their Plus Ones filed in, one after another—everyone but Thea and Jean Luc, of course.
