5. Yes, Chef

5

I watched the campus buzzing with activity from the attic of the faculty dorms, or what I affectionately referred to as my lounge.

During winter break the previous year, I had discovered the long-abandoned room. I had access through a trapdoor in my bathroom, which could be a bit precarious at times, but was always worth the risk to have such a large, cozy space to myself.

The high vantage point made for an excellent bird's-eye view of the myriad of students being dropped off, some by their parents, some by their staff, and some by nobody at all, to get situated in the dorms.

I had found the students at Montgomery to be such a mixed bag during my first year. Some seemed like normal teenagers, some were quiet and much too mature for their young age, but others were absolute terrors. I shivered at the memory of Claire DeLongpre, one of the queen bees of the school.

And as if summoned by my thoughts, I watched as she marched across the courtyard, her long blonde hair trailing behind her in waves, with two people, likely family staff, struggling to follow in her wake as they carted her belongings toward the dorm building on the west side of campus.

She screamed parental neglect and insecurity, but so many of the teens at the school did, as their wealthy parents shipped them off to boarding school, neatly tucking them away. Out of sight, out of mind.

But the kids knew. They felt it. How could they not? And their character was often showcased by how they projected the disappointment of being abandoned.

I knew all too well how it felt to be discarded by people you thought you loved, even by people who still loved you but didn't know how to do so in the way you needed. I sympathized with so many of the students at Montgomery, but they didn't often make it easy.

My stomach grumbled. The coffee I'd had that morning had worn off, and it was, after all, close to lunchtime, so I knew I'd have to vacate my sanctuary, at least for a little while, to go get something to eat. The ramen noodles I'd survived on over the summer, while the school's kitchens were closed, had more than outworn their welcome. But I hadn't had much of an option, needing to stretch my measly budget as far as I could get.

I donned the same slacks and Montgomery polo I'd worn the day before as I snuck across campus, trying to avoid being pulled in to help the students by one of the dorm monitors. Thankfully, I made it to the administrative offices without incident.

"Jolene?" I called out. I wanted to confirm her lunch order before grabbing food from the kitchen.

But again, I found the offices oddly quiet and empty.

Everyone must be upstairs helping.

I startled as the sound of a door closing caught me off guard.

"Miss Price, can I help you?"

Headmaster Winston's tall and imposing figure made its way down the hallway toward me in the lobby area. With a full head of light grey hair, big bushy eyebrows, and a stern jaw, Winston was easily intimidating, and he knew it. Maybe it was the years of reprimanding students, but anytime he spoke to me, no matter how friendly his tone, I always felt as though I was in trouble for something.

"I was going to bring lunch to Jolene," I squeaked.

"I sent her out on some errands; she won't be back until right before the mixer." He shuffled behind her desk, picking at the messages left for him on the notepad next to her phone. Even in the warm weather, he still donned his signature three-piece suit. His appearance and authority were always the most important things to him, especially when parents and board members were about.

"The mixer?" I swallowed, taking a step back from her desk without realizing what I was doing until his gaze snapped up to meet mine.

"Oh that's right, you weren't here last year at the start of the fall semester." He smiled, but it felt more predatory than genuine. "There's a faculty mixer in the great room."

The great room was a large lounge space just off the main dining hall. During the school year, it was where most students preferred to socialize between classes and on the weekends. Full of comfortable sofas and study tables, it was like my secret lounge, just on a much grander scale.

"I'm sorry nobody told you. It starts at six sharp. We serve drinks and appetizers," he offered. "Cocktail attire," Winston added. "Nothing too short; don't want anyone thinking you're loose."

I pursed my lips, willing every fiber in my body not to react to his obvious sexist bait. I could feel his gaze on me, waiting to argue. But he'd get nothing from me. "Thank you, sir. I'll see you at six then."

"Have a nice afternoon, Miss Price," he called after me as I ascended the stone stairs back to the main level, taking deep breaths to calm me as I went.

"Asshole," I muttered under my breath when I was sure I was well out of earshot.

I wound my way through the maze of service halls to enter the kitchen from the back, hoping I'd be able to grab some food and go undetected. But fate was not on my side.

"Violet Price. I know you aren't planning on taking food out of my kitchen without at least saying hello," a deep voice with an unmistakable Southern accent called across the din of the kitchen staff scurrying around.

I turned toward the voice. "Chef Lenny." I gave him a hard salute, my flat hand perpendicular to my forehead.

The grumpy old school cook and former Navy officer broke his eye contact with me to scold one of his assistants for chopping carrots inefficiently.

We had formed an unlikely bond the year before when he caught me sneaking into the kitchen, hoping to find some nonperishables I could squirrel away in my room during winter break when the kitchen would be closed.

He had taken one look at me and his face had softened. I hadn't had to tell him why, he just knew. And he showed me through the pantry, talking through the various items that were overstocked and wouldn't be missed, but that would store well and could be easily cooked in the small kitchenette in my room.

Later in the year, he told me I reminded him of his granddaughter. He also confessed I was probably the only faculty member who knew his name or bothered to speak to him like a human being. He was certainly curmudgeonly, but I felt comforted by having a surrogate parent on campus. And my father had been in the service, although I'd never met him, so I felt a kinship with Lenny, leading to my respectful salutations in his presence.

"Any leftovers I can grab for lunch?" I asked sweetly.

Lenny rolled his eyes but tilted his head toward some metal trays covered with tinfoil across the kitchen.

"What do you know about the yearly faculty mixer?" I asked him as I grabbed a to-go box from the stack that never seemed to run out and had appeared shortly after my first run-in with Lenny.

"I cook the food," he answered shortly, walking down the line and inspecting the work of the kitchen staff to make sure they were on track with their assignments.

"Yeah, but what do they do? Do I have to just stand around listening to everyone brag about their summer vacations for hours?" I scooped a pile of mashed potatoes into the box, leaving a divot in the middle for the gravy I knew was in the next metal container.

"Don't know. Donors will be there." His tone was clipped.

They didn't invite him.

"Oh." I frowned. "Lucky you then."

That garnered a laugh, at least.

I plucked a roll from the last tray before closing the box and going to stand next to Lenny. "I'd give you a hug, but I know you'd hate it," I told him. "I'm glad you're back."

"Where else would I be, Violet?" He chortled.

I smiled, watching his aged hands move quickly while chopping next to one of his assistants, his chef's coat still a pristine and crisp white, always perfectly starched.

"I'll see you tomorrow for lunch," he commented, not looking up from his task.

"Yes, chef." I again brought my hand up to my forehead in a respectful and affectionate salute, before turning on my heel and striding out of the kitchen.

Taking the long way back to the carriage house, I passed the empty sports fields behind the main building and the athletics center that had been built years ago, after a generous donation from famous alumni and insanely successful businessman-turned-powerful politician, Thomas Roberts.

I kicked at the perfectly manicured grass, slowing my pace as I approached the rose gardens that were situated between the main building and the carriage house. I always went out of my way to pass through them when they were in bloom.

And although they were nearing the end of their bloom, they were still plush and fragrant.

Sitting on a shaded bench, neatly tucked away at one corner of the rose garden, I tore off pieces of the still-warm roll, dipping it into the mashed potatoes and gravy, indulging myself in the carbohydrates and non-processed food. The tastes were a delight on my tongue, so rich and salty.

Oh how I've missed Chef Lenny's cooking.

I had an ideal, but secluded view of the courtyard in the center of all the buildings on campus.

My eyes gently swept over the exterior of the carriage house. Covered in ivy, it was picture-perfect. It was the smallest building on campus, originally used as stables and housing for coachmen. In the seventies, it had been converted into studio-like apartments for the faculty who chose to reside on campus, as opposed to commuting from one of the small towns that dotted the surrounding area.

I sighed fondly as I found the windows at the top floor of the faculty dorms, planning out what I could get up to in the lounge by myself that evening, before remembering I'd be otherwise occupied with the faculty mixer.

While the sweet floral aroma combined with the heavy lunch left me feeling sleepy and lethargic, I eventually coaxed myself to get up, hoping to finish what was left of my fall lesson planning before the mixer.

When I was almost to the carriage house, I caught a flash of someone walking into the main building. I blinked and they were gone. I thought I must have been going mad. Because the man had looked exactly like Chance.

I shook my head.

Am I that desperate to get laid?

Trudging up the three flights of stairs to the fourth floor, I couldn't help but ruminate on the dalliance from the night before. I was still kicking myself for not giving him my number or just shoving him into my room, but I was also still a bit sour that he had refused my invitation, even though, deep down, I knew it had probably been the right thing to do.

He could have just come in and cuddled.

But I wouldn't have let him just cuddle with me. I wanted much more from him. The rejection smarted; however, it was unlikely I'd ever meet him again, so I tried not to think of his gorgeous blue-grey eyes and how deftly they had followed my every movement, or how good he had tasted and smelled, or how fantastic of a kisser he was, or how well-endowed I imagined he was, given what I had felt straining through his pants.

No, I refused to think about any of those things.

Even if they were all I could think about.