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When she’s done, I notice her glancing between her little basket and the worsening storm outside.
“I’ll carry it,” I offer.
Smiling, she hands me the basket and begins to re-bundle herself.
Chapter 13: Julia
I start by dicing an onion. Cut down the middle, remove the top, peel the skin, lay flat on the cut side, slice sideways, slice top to bottom, then chop—all done the way Gordon Ramsay showed me when he came to my father’s home and cooked dinner for him when I was thirteen. Next, I do a celery stalk. Carrots.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
I concentrate on my cuts until I realize Gus is watching me from the other side of the island. He’s seated on a stool, holding an old fashioned glass containing two fingers of something amber. His expression is cripplingly handsome and annoying all at once.
“What do you want, August?”
“I can stare at whatever I damn well please in my own home.” His response rolls off the tongue with ease, like he was waiting for me to ask.
I snicker. “Why don’t you stare at this recipe and help me, if you insist on being here.”
I slide my phone across the island. He glances at the recipe and then back at the cutting board. “Beef bourguignon?”
“Do you like it?”
He shakes his head before he rises and comes around the island to stand next to me. “I’ve never had it. I’m not big into…cuisine.”
My brow arches and I slow my cuts when I look at him. “So, what do you eat?”
“Basics. Pasta. Sandwiches.”
“Meat and potatoes?”
“Didn’t grow up a billionaire,” he murmurs, trailing off at the end like he regrets sharing a morsel of intimacy with me.
“Hm.” I slam the flat side of the knife against a clove of garlic. “So, how did you grow up?”
He takes the garlic off the cutting board and peels the skin for me without looking at me. His jaw flexes, squaring hard as he clenches his teeth.
“Well, I love beef bourguignon,” I comment to break the silence. “It’s the only dish my mother ever made when we were growing up. Chefs cooked for us three-hundred and sixty-four days a year, but she always did a beef bourguignon the week before Christmas.”
“Does she still?”
I shake my head. “My parents divorced when I was thirteen.” I crush another clove of garlic. “Mom bought herself a palace of a revenge house in Paris with dad’s money. She used to spend the holidays there, but she was diagnosed with cancer right after I graduated from Yale. After that, she wanted us to spend the holidays together. Easier to do that in Boston than in Paris.”
“Is she still…” Gus trails off.
“Mom? Cancer-free.” I push the rest of the unpeeled garlic cloves towards him. “Still likes her quiet Boston Christmases though.”
Gus takes a slow drink before he says, “My grandmother had cancer too. Breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry. Is she…” I trail off the same way he did.
When he doesn’t respond, I clear my throat and point to the oven. “Can you take out the center rack, please? Thanks.”
We cook for the next three hours. Once the beef is in the oven and the rich scent is starting to waft through the cabin, Gus leaves to set the table and pick out a bottle of wine for us.
When the beef is ready, I heave the Dutch oven and shuffle carefully into the dining room, where I’m surprised to find a fully set table: red placemats, gold chargers, and red cloth napkins at two seats, with white taper candles flickering between. It’s so…Christmassy.
Gus watches me examine the tablescape he arranged. There are a million snide things I could say, but I hold back. The moment isn’t appropriate for snideness, but I can’t seem to muster a compliment either. I put the food in the middle of the table, family style—even though we’re anything but family.
