Nicole
I look around Palmer's kitchen, taking stock of the ingredients at hand.
Let's see… he has bacon. That will work; who doesn't love bacon? It goes with everything.
I decide to surprise Palmer by making avocado BLTs for breakfast. The last trip I took to California caused me to fall in love with avocados. Now, I add them to anything I can.
The bacon has been smoked with apple wood and glazed with maple syrup. As soon as I open the package, it smells divine.
I heat a skillet, and once hot, I place each strip on the hot stove. The fat immediately sizzles, and the aroma fills the kitchen. While the bacon is getting crisp, I grab a loaf of country bread and slice thick pieces off. I decide to toast them, and then slice slabs of purple heirloom tomatoes.
Only the best ingredients on hand, which doesn't surprise me. Palmer's a fellow chef, after all.
Once everything is ready, I layer the bacon, tomato, and lettuce on the crusty bread, and top it with buttery wedges of avocado. My mouth is watering just looking at these stacks.
"Something smells good," Palmer says, causing me to jump.
He laughs. "Did I scare you?"
"I was so focused on getting these BLTs just right, I didn't even hear you behind me," I say with a smile. "It's a lot of pressure cooking for one of the world's most famous chefs, you know."
"I see you started early," he says. "Is the sun even out?" I watch as he rubs his eyes.
"Sorry it's so early, but I have to leave soon, and before I leave, I wanted to cook and share breakfast with you."
He walks over and presses his lips to my forehead. "That's thoughtful. I love it."
"I wouldn't say that just yet. You haven't even tried it," I smile. "You might not say that after you've tasted it."
He laughs. "I'm sure it's just fine."
I watch as he brings the sandwich to his mouth and takes a big bite. He chews thoughtfully. "You know what I think?" he says.
I shake my head.
"I think this is a keeper."
As soon as he says it, I smile. There's something about Palmer enjoying my cooking that always makes my mood soar and puts a permanent smile on my lips.
I take a bite. It's a thick sandwich, so I struggle wrapping my mouth around it.
But he's right. It's good. Real good. And it hits the spot.
"Wait … you have something," Palmer says, stepping toward me. "Right… here."
He reaches up and places a finger on the corner of my mouth, wiping off a stray piece of avocado. I'm usually embarrassed when someone points out a piece of food on my face, but right now, the only thing I can think about is his touch, and the way it makes me feel electrified.
I smile, and I think about the way he opened up to me. He's so much more than the hotheaded, womanizing, soulless, chef that the tabloids make him out to be.
He has depth. He's cultured, and likes art, and is so full of information that it makes my head spin. He's like a walking Wikipedia, and I never find myself getting bored in his presence. The truth is, I could listen to him talk forever.
And what was up with what he told me? Is he sick? What did he mean by a "white mass" was found?
As soon as he said it, he wanted to change the subject. It was clear he was trying to get something off his chest, but he didn't want to go any deeper.
Maybe it's nothing. Besides, it's really none of my business.
But I can't help but wish he'd go back to his doctor for a second opinion.
"Someone's a messy eater," Palmer laughs, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
"Look at this thing," I say, pinching the sandwich between both of my hands. "It's thicker than a mattress."
We both get a good laugh at that, and as we're joking around, something catches my eyes. Behind Palmer, on the counter, is a magazine. It's opened to an article written by Percy Whitman.
I can see that he reviewed The Pearl on Park, and it's not good. In fact, the review is downright scathing.
I read one of the headlines: "The Pearl on Park—instead of being a culinary spark for the city—is an unpleasant and placid reminder of high-end cuisine gone wrong."
It feels as if someone has dropped a bowling ball down my throat and its lodged itself into the pit of my stomach.
My heart tightens.
Percy is my friend. Did you write this review because of me?
Am I to blame for this?
Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on Palmer, and maybe I never should've vented any of my thoughts to Percy. I just feel like this is somehow my fault.
"Everything OK?" Palmer asks.
I smile. There's no way I want Palmer to know what I'm thinking.
"Oh yeah, it's fine," I say, and then lie, pushing these thoughts out of my mind. "I was just thinking how I really should be going. I have a long drive ahead of me."
"Not yet—finish breakfast at least," he says with a smile.
It's a smile that's disarming. It's a smile that makes me yes when I should say no.
He senses my hesitation and he continues to prod me.
"You like this bacon, right?"
"Who doesn't?" I say.
"Want a strip?"
"Very funny," I smile, placing my hand on his. "I see what you did there."
God there's nothing I wouldn't give to play a game of striptease in this kitchen, with this man, but my family will kill me if I don't show up today.
"I'd love to," I say, "But I have to leave. Rain check?"
"If you have to leave, at least me drive you."
"No, that's not necessary."
"I insist," he says.
"Seriously, it's far, and a pain in the ass—"
"Fuck no—forget all of that," he smiles, dismissing every excuse I'm throwing his way. "I'm driving you."