up the kitchen. “We’ll start with a soup?”
“Lobster bisque,” he confirmed. He was a middle-aged man, slightly plump, wearing a white jacket over black trousers and a tall, poufy hat. The hat was a good sign, as was the extra weight, Pauline decided. Who trusted a skinny chef?
“I make it with just a splash of cream and sherry, and chunks of the lobster I selected at the market this morning,” the chef continued.
He reached for a tasting spoon and offered her a bit. She rolled her eyes in a show of delight. She was sure most people would consider it delicious, but the fishy taste revolted her.
“Perfection. Just to double-check, there’s no shrimp in it, is there?”
“No,” he said.
“Good. I know I mentioned it, but one of our guests is allergic.”
“Yes, madam.” The chef turned to stir a pot while she opened the double-wide refrigerator, noting a dozen bottles of white wine were already chilling on the bottom shelf.
“Are you planning to serve a different wine with each course?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “And a Madeira with dessert.”
“Which is?”
“Warm chocolate puddle cakes with raspberries and blood-orange sorbet.”
“Wonderful.” Pauline smiled as she uncorked a bottle of Pinot Grigio and filled two goblets. She’d approved the menu a week ago, and it was good to know the chef wasn’t straying from it.
She’d booked a waiter from a nearby resort to serve their dinners, with the exception of the clambake, which would be more casual. She wanted to make sure glasses stayed full and plates were cleared at the right time between courses, and she wasn’t sure the maid was experienced enough to gauge the rhythms of a fine dinner. It wasn’t just that things needed to be perfect for Dwight’s birthday; she wanted everyone to be blown away. To praise Dwight—to admire him for providing all of this. And, okay, to admire her as well, and to recognize that Dwight, the man who could’ve had almost anyone, had picked a wonderful wife. Even if she hadn’t become pregnant yet.
“Is the waiter here yet?” Pauline asked the chef as she glanced at her watch and noted the time: seven-fifty.
“He’s on his way,” the chef said, and she nodded her approval.
“Ooh, something smells good!” Savannah came into the kitchen, her hair still wet from the shower. Her feet were bare, and she wore a coral-colored sundress that, against all reason, worked with her hair. Pauline looked down at her own dress. It was similar to Savannah’s, but contained about twice as much material.
“We’ll eat at eight-thirty,” Pauline said. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” Savannah said. “Oh, are you pouring drinks?”
Pauline handed Savannah the wineglass she’d intended for herself and reached for another one.
“Mmm.” Savannah took a sip. “I feel like we’ve been here a week already.”
“Jamaica is magical that way,” Pauline said, as the chef sliceda few pieces of cheese and placed them on a white china plate along with crackers and three fat red strawberries.
“A little nibble, for the starving lady,” he said, putting the plate next to Savannah.
“You must be a mind reader!” she squealed. “This is just what I needed. I think I’ll take this and go sit outside by the pool for a bit.”
Pauline smiled. She didn’t want to be rude and walk away from Savannah, but she’d promised Dwight. By the time she returned to their suite, he’d already put on a dark blue T-shirt and white shorts. He was standing next to the bed, typing away on his BlackBerry.
“Room service,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said. He tucked his BlackBerry in his pocket and took a sip from the glass she handed him. “It’s good.”
“It’s a 2008 Chassagne-Montrachet. One of your favorites,” she reminded him.
“Are the others still getting ready?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, her mind sliding past the image of Savannah sitting alone by the pool.
“Lobster bisque,” he confirmed. He was a middle-aged man, slightly plump, wearing a white jacket over black trousers and a tall, poufy hat. The hat was a good sign, as was the extra weight, Pauline decided. Who trusted a skinny chef?
“I make it with just a splash of cream and sherry, and chunks of the lobster I selected at the market this morning,” the chef continued.
He reached for a tasting spoon and offered her a bit. She rolled her eyes in a show of delight. She was sure most people would consider it delicious, but the fishy taste revolted her.
“Perfection. Just to double-check, there’s no shrimp in it, is there?”
“No,” he said.
“Good. I know I mentioned it, but one of our guests is allergic.”
“Yes, madam.” The chef turned to stir a pot while she opened the double-wide refrigerator, noting a dozen bottles of white wine were already chilling on the bottom shelf.
“Are you planning to serve a different wine with each course?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “And a Madeira with dessert.”
“Which is?”
“Warm chocolate puddle cakes with raspberries and blood-orange sorbet.”
“Wonderful.” Pauline smiled as she uncorked a bottle of Pinot Grigio and filled two goblets. She’d approved the menu a week ago, and it was good to know the chef wasn’t straying from it.
She’d booked a waiter from a nearby resort to serve their dinners, with the exception of the clambake, which would be more casual. She wanted to make sure glasses stayed full and plates were cleared at the right time between courses, and she wasn’t sure the maid was experienced enough to gauge the rhythms of a fine dinner. It wasn’t just that things needed to be perfect for Dwight’s birthday; she wanted everyone to be blown away. To praise Dwight—to admire him for providing all of this. And, okay, to admire her as well, and to recognize that Dwight, the man who could’ve had almost anyone, had picked a wonderful wife. Even if she hadn’t become pregnant yet.
“Is the waiter here yet?” Pauline asked the chef as she glanced at her watch and noted the time: seven-fifty.
“He’s on his way,” the chef said, and she nodded her approval.
“Ooh, something smells good!” Savannah came into the kitchen, her hair still wet from the shower. Her feet were bare, and she wore a coral-colored sundress that, against all reason, worked with her hair. Pauline looked down at her own dress. It was similar to Savannah’s, but contained about twice as much material.
“We’ll eat at eight-thirty,” Pauline said. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Starving,” Savannah said. “Oh, are you pouring drinks?”
Pauline handed Savannah the wineglass she’d intended for herself and reached for another one.
“Mmm.” Savannah took a sip. “I feel like we’ve been here a week already.”
“Jamaica is magical that way,” Pauline said, as the chef sliceda few pieces of cheese and placed them on a white china plate along with crackers and three fat red strawberries.
“A little nibble, for the starving lady,” he said, putting the plate next to Savannah.
“You must be a mind reader!” she squealed. “This is just what I needed. I think I’ll take this and go sit outside by the pool for a bit.”
Pauline smiled. She didn’t want to be rude and walk away from Savannah, but she’d promised Dwight. By the time she returned to their suite, he’d already put on a dark blue T-shirt and white shorts. He was standing next to the bed, typing away on his BlackBerry.
“Room service,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said. He tucked his BlackBerry in his pocket and took a sip from the glass she handed him. “It’s good.”
“It’s a 2008 Chassagne-Montrachet. One of your favorites,” she reminded him.
“Are the others still getting ready?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, her mind sliding past the image of Savannah sitting alone by the pool.
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