Erin folded the bill she had just printed off.
“Even if she applied and got a job, he’d talk her out of it,” Kylie continued, crossing her arms over her chest in a decisive manner, as if she and her fiancée were on the same page.
“So she can’t work there,” Erin replied.
I’m right here, Vivienne felt like saying as their talk slipped past her.
“Who can’t work where?” Ted Jameson had reached the counter at the same time Erin and Kylie had reached their conclusion. His blue eyes looked all the brighter against his tanned skin. A fine network of white lines radiating from his eyes deepened as he frowned down at her. A battered straw cowboy hat sat askew on his head, and the grin he gave her had a few gaps.
“Vivienne—” Erin said.
“—Can’t cook at the resorts over the pass,” Kylie finished.
“You can’t cook?” Ted asked, leaning to one side to pull his wallet out of the back pocket of a pair of blue jeans shiny with grime. Vivienne guessed they hadn’t been washed in months.
Mental note. Don’t sit in any booth Ted has just sat in.
“I thought you liked to cook,” he continued. “Thought you were some fancy chef?”
“That’s right,” Vivienne said, struggling to keep the haughty edge out of her voice. “I trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.”
Ted eased a few bills out of a wallet thick with cash. “Well, I suppose that means something to somebody.”
“It’s a very famous cooking school,” Kylie explained. “Gourmet cooking, in fact.”
“Gourmet, you say?” He snickered as he shoved his wallet in his back pocket. “Hey. That rhymes. I’m a poet.”
“And you didn’t know it,” Kylie finished for him with a happy grin.
“So you really know your way around a kitchen?” Ted asked, snagging a toothpick out of the miniature wooden barrel sitting beside the cash register.
“Yes, I do. I cook very well.” This was said with a defensive tone. Very well was not a phrase to be used by a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu. Graduates of that famous cooking school were superb. Amazing. Par excellence.
But her confidence had been shaken in the past month. How could things have gone so wrong with the wedding menu? She never had any doubts about her cooking.
Don’t go there. That’s over. Stick around long enough to get your inheritance. Then you can go back to New York with your head held high and your bank account flush. Then you can start your own restaurant and prove your old boss wrong.
“And you need a job?”
“Yes. I do.”
Ted looked her up and down, as he unwrapped the toothpick. Vivienne felt like he was assessing her as he would a prize stud or a bull.
“You look like you have an idea,” Kylie prodded.
A few more people came up behind Ted to pay their bills. The entry grew crowded.
Ted angled his head to the door as he tucked the toothpick in his mouth. “Let’s chat outside,” he said to Vivienne.
So she followed Ted across the street to the park, where he sat down on a picnic bench. Vivienne glanced down at the seat, trying not to make a face at the bird droppings liberally decorating the bench. She found a clear spot on the edge and perched there, hoping she didn’t come into contact with any other questionable material.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, crossing her long legs and flipping her long hair back over her shoulder.
“We’ll consider this part of your interview,” Ted said, resting his elbows on the rough wood of the table.
“Interview?”
“Yep. If it’s a cooking job you’re looking for, we could sure use you up at the Circle C.”
“But that’s a ranch,” Vivienne said, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her sweater. The sun had drifted behind a cloud and a breeze had picked up, tossing bright yellow leaves around their table, swinging the seats on the swings of the playground beside them. “I’m a gourmet chef.”
“Well, yeah. I get that.” The toothpick in his mouth migrated from one side to the other.
“I do gourmet cooking for high-end restaurants.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Ted leaned closer, his gnarled hands folded together, his eyes twinkling at her. “But we need a cook, and from what I hear, you need a cooking job.”
Vivienne chewed her lip, her eyes flicking down the street to the grocery store across from the Cowboy Café and the drugstore beside it. She doubted either place was hiring.
The squeaking of the chains from the swings created a melancholy counterpoint to her reality. No job, no skills other than kitchen ones.
She glanced back at Ted, wondering what Cody would think of this setup. “Do you think I would get the job if I applied?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sure you’d get the job.”
“But shouldn’t I do a test meal first?”
“If that’s what you want.” Ted gave her an encouraging grin.
Even as she turned the idea over in her head, Vivienne couldn’t stop her mind from moving ahead. Sure, it was cowboys she would be feeding, but surely she didn’t have to serve steak and biscuits every day? She could still bring her own brand of cooking to her job. Keep her skills sharp.
“So do I bring my own ingredients? Or is the kitchen fully stocked?” she asked.
“Honey, you bring what you think you’ll need and I’ll make sure the kitchen is clean and ready for you.”
Vivienne couldn’t help another look at the grime on the elbows of his shirt, the bits of mud and straw still clinging to his worn cowboy boots.
She made a note to bring her own pail and disinfectant.
“I guess I can show up tomorrow,” she said.
“Sounds good.” He pressed his hands against the top of the table to get up. “Now I gotta check in on my little girl, Karlee. She works at Hair Today, you know.” He pointed a crooked finger at Vivienne’s hair. “She could get you set up with a whole new look. She’s good.”
Vivienne nodded, then held her hand up to stop him. “So just to clarify. I head down Railroad Avenue to get to the Circle C?”
Ted frowned. “You’ve never been there before?”
She shook her head.
“Really.” He rubbed his forefinger alongside his nose in a gesture of puzzlement. “I thought for sure …” He flapped his hand again. “But, yeah, that’s right.” He pulled a tattered agenda out of his pocket, licked his finger and flicked through the pages. Then he ripped out an empty piece of paper edged with grease. “I’ll give you the directions, just in case.” He sketched a map with the stub of a pencil.
“And here’s where the cookhouse is,” Ted said, drawing an arrow, too.
“And how will I know which one is the cookhouse?”
“It’s the long, skinny building. The one with the most worn path to it,” he said with a chuckle. “Cowboys love their grub.”
He gave her the map and she folded it carefully over, trying to avoid the grease stains. “So I’ll