Chapter 2 - A Kitchen With Too Many Empty Chairs
On her fourth morning in Grey Haven, Grace learned that Mabel Foster did not believe in whispering bad news. She set a stack of invoices beside the mixer and announced that her dishwasher had quit, the winter tourist season looked dismal, and a wealthy family up the ridge had offered to pay for a temporary baker who could manage early breakfasts.
“I'm not sending you because I want to lose you,” Mabel said. “I'm sending you because that household pays hourly rates I can't match, and I can still use you here on Saturdays.”
“Why do they need somebody new?” Grace asked.
“Their longtime cook left to care for her sister. The replacement lasted five days. That's all I know.” Mabel slid a handwritten contact number toward her. “You meet their house manager. You get the terms in writing. And if anybody acts like owning a mansion means owning you, you come back and we'll find another way.”
Grace called after her shift. The house manager, Rosa DeSantis, asked about training, food handling, and availability. She also mentioned three children, aged nine, six, and four, who had been eating very little at breakfast. Grace requested a list of dietary restrictions and explained she would not promise to repair a family's emotional problems with pastry. There was a pause at the other end. Then Rosa said, “I think you and I will get along.”
The Marchetti residence sat behind a stone gate on a wooded ridge above the Hudson. It was less a house than several houses that had decided to stand together. Grace arrived at two in the afternoon for an interview and found the kitchen bright, professionally equipped, and oddly unused. Copper pans hung in obedient rows. Nothing smelled like dinner. The dining room visible through an archway held twelve chairs, though Rosa said only four people lived there.
Rosa was short, sixtyish, and moved with the economy of someone who knew exactly where every cupboard ended. She examined Grace's résumé, asked her to explain a food-temperature log, and produced a written two-week contract. Grace read all four pages. The hourly rate was generous, paid time would include preparation and cleanup, and Sunday was off unless she agreed otherwise. The contract said nothing about teaching, babysitting, or being on call after hours.
“Thank you,” Grace said. “I don't want a misunderstanding about the children.”
“Neither do I,” Rosa answered. “They have a nanny, but they barely see their father before school. That's the problem nobody knows how to put on a schedule.”
A voice came from the doorway. “Rosa.”
Grace looked up. Vincent Marchetti was taller than the photographs she'd seen in an article about a union corruption investigation. Black shirt, dark trousers, heavily tattooed forearms, a face that seemed built to prevent people from wasting his time. He had a reputation in the valley: old connections, influential friends, and a transportation business that had once been mentioned in the same breath as organized crime. Grace had no way to know which rumors were true. She knew only that he was looking at her baking case instead of her body.
“You're the baker?” he asked.
“I'm a baker. Rosa is interviewing me for a temporary position.”
His eyebrows shifted. “Can you make cinnamon rolls?”
“Yes.”
“Without making a production out of it?”
“Making them is the production. Talking about them isn't necessary.”
Rosa hid a smile. Vincent considered Grace for a moment, then stepped aside. “Rosa makes the hiring decisions. I'll be in my study.” He paused. “My children don't need a performance. Just breakfast.”
After he left, Grace looked at Rosa. “Was that the entire interview with the owner?”
“He usually asks fewer questions.” Rosa pulled a battered wooden recipe box from the pantry. “Their mother died two years ago. Lucia used to make Saturday pancakes in the shapes of stars. Some mornings the children want to talk about her. Some mornings they don't. You follow their lead.”
Grace thought about Mrs. Sutton, who had never forced a story out of a hungry teenager before handing her a warm biscuit. “I can do that.”
She began the following Monday at 4:45 a.m. The house was quiet enough to hear the refrigerator cycle. She measured flour, warmed milk, and rolled dough under a single pendant light. At five thirty-eight, footsteps appeared in the hallway. A little boy in dinosaur pajamas stood in the doorway with a stuffed fox under his arm. Behind him came an older girl carrying a library book and a smaller boy dragging a blanket.
“Are you the new one?” the girl asked.
“My name's Grace.”
“I'm June. That's Oliver. Ben doesn't talk to strangers before six.”
Ben immediately contradicted her. “I want the middle.”
Grace looked at the pan. “The middle roll belongs to whoever helps me decide whether the icing needs more orange.”
June frowned. “There's orange in it?”
“Just a little zest. You can smell it first.”
The children approached the counter as cautiously as woodland animals. Grace kept hot equipment out of reach, washed their hands, and gave each a small, safe job. June counted parchment squares. Oliver smelled the zest. Ben supplied a running commentary on what the dough looked like, which was mostly worms. When the rolls came out, Grace put them on a rack and made the children wait until they were cool enough to eat. Oliver waited with both hands beneath his chin, watching the icing settle into the spirals.
“You came back,” he said.
Grace glanced at him. “I said I would.”
“The lady last week said that.”
June kicked his ankle beneath the stool. Oliver looked embarrassed. Grace pretended not to notice the kick but heard the warning behind it.
“I'm scheduled for two weeks,” she told them. “After that, Rosa and I will decide what makes sense. I won't promise a day I can't give you.”
June studied her as if this were an unusual answer. “Okay,” she said at last.
At seven, Vincent entered in a dark coat, phone against his ear. He stopped when he saw all three children at the island. Ben held out a plate. “We made worms.”
“Rolls,” June corrected.
Vincent ended the call. He looked from the plates to Grace. “How did you get them down here?”
“I didn't. They smelled breakfast.”
Oliver pushed the middle roll toward him. “You can have half, Dad.”
May you like
Vincent checked his watch. Grace could almost see the meeting competing with his son's offer. Then he took off his coat, sat down, and accepted half of the roll. He ate in silence while Ben explained the critical differences between dough worms and real worms. For seventeen minutes the dining room's twelve empty chairs seemed less important than four occupied stools.
After the children left for school, Rosa showed Grace where to put her things. A slip of paper sat beside her baking case. In June's careful handwriting it said: IF YOU LEAVE, PLEASE TELL US FIRST. Grace held the note a long time. She could manage a difficult dough, a demanding employer, even a broken engagement. She wasn't sure how to answer a child's request without accidentally making a promise no adult could keep.
