He left the statement hanging, wondering whether his father was in the mood to challenge him or in one of those my-son’s-a-star-football-player streaks of indulgence. You never knew with Edward Rhodes.
Not that his blessing mattered.
“Use your head,” was all his father said, and as far as Deston was concerned, the statement could be interpreted either way.
But as he left the cigar lounge, he didn’t head out of the house. Instead, his steps took him to an almost-hidden door off the foyer which led to elevators that traveled to a place he’d rarely gone before.
The kitchens.
What did Lila like to eat? Would food matter if she showed up tonight?
The service hall got darker as he traveled its length. More foreign. A different world altogether.
He ran into a maid first. When she saw him, she jumped back, dropped the towels she was carrying.
“Mr. Rhodes!” she said, then glanced at the floor.
He hated when they did that. He shifted lower, trying to catch her eye. When that failed, he thought maybe he could say her name to snag her attention. Unfortunately, he was ashamed to admit that he didn’t know her name. Didn’t know her face.
Truthfully, he didn’t know any of them.
Even when he was a kid, the line between the family and the help had been firmly drawn. Once, when he was five, he’d sneaked down to the kitchens, just to grab a snack. The cook— Mrs. Brown?—had given him a biscotti. He still remembered how crunchy and flaky it’d been. But the efficient Mrs. Wagner had caught him down there and had informed his mother.
His brother had told him the cook had been given a “talking to” about spoiling Deston. And Deston himself had been locked in his room for three hours, just to drum the lesson into his skull.
You’re a privileged one.
He didn’t belong downstairs. Encouraging friendly relations with the help was the sign of a loose household, and the Rhodes clan ran life with an iron fist.
The maid had already scuttled away, so Deston glanced around, finding no one else.
What the hell. Maybe it was time to set things straight around here. Maybe it was time to break the Rhodes mold—both in business and in household.
His parents couldn’t lock him in his room now.
Besides, Lila needed something to eat, and he didn’t have time to hunt down the proper liaison to get some food around here. It was ridiculous to have to pick up a phone to dial Mrs. Wagner and order the cook to prepare a simple meal.
He’d do it himself.
Deston pressed the button on the wall and waited for the elevator to take him down to the kitchens.
Lila. He hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Hated that he couldn’t wait to see her again.
Chapter Three
In the massive, stainless-steel-and-stucco kitchens, Emmy and Francesca Brown were wrapping up their discussion of tomorrow’s dinner menu, surrounded by the lingering aroma of the wood-burning oven.
“So there we have it,” Francesca said, massaging her hands. Blue veins stood against her browned skin like a string of twilight-smeared hills cresting the land.
Arthritis. It was forcing her out of the job, away from her passion.
Without another thought, Emmy took hold of a hand, rubbed it between her palms. “We start with a Vera Cruz maize tamale for an appetizer, then a salad and shaved fennel/onion bruschetta. Then we’ve got our moho-bone-in rib-eye steak, which Mr. Rhodes will love because it’s beef—”
“He does love his meat.” Mama agreed.
“—assorted vegetables— I’ll check the garden—and a pumpkin-espresso crème brûlée for dessert.” Emmy nursed her mother’s other hand without pause. “I can start gathering ingredients, and… What is it, Mama?”
Francesca Brown’s eyes were tearing as she watched her daughter minister to her. “Your father would bust his buttons, Emmylou.”
Would he? Even after this afternoon? “Well, you-all invested enough money in me, right?”
“Cara, it’s not merely your job I’m talking about.” Mama gave a weak, strained pat to Emmy’s arm. “I know being an only child was hard on you, if only because Nigel made no secret about wanting a son to carry on his line of work. Butler to the master of the household.”
“Everyone has something that makes them feel special,” Emmy said. “Some ride bulls in the rodeo because they’re good at it. Some become professional singers because of the applause. Papa had his work to make him feel that way.”
“And so do we.”
Mama closed her brown eyes, and Emmy knew it was from pain, the frustration of advancing age and a particularly bad arthritis day catching up to her.
Robbing her.
She wished she had desire enough to carry on in her Mama’s name. But she’d always wanted more. Had almost gotten it, too, with Paolo. And she wasn’t talking about superiority. She longed for respect. Being treasured for what she had to offer the world.
Shaking off the thoughts, Emmy said, “Why don’t you go to your room? We’ve cleaned already. Fritz and I will prep for tomorrow. You rest.”
“I’ll finish here.” Mama’s eyes—so much like Emmy’s own—opened again. She flicked the backs of her fingers under her chin: Italian for “I’m not interested.”
Then, with effort, she tried to tuck a gray lock back into the hairnet holding the chignon she favored. Most of her hair was a rich mahogany hue, but silver had crept in, bit by bit.
Emmy reached out. “Why don’t you…”
“No one orders a mama around her kitchen.”
It was agonizing to watch her move. She all but creaked as she forced her hands to grab a cloth, to wipe down an expansive counter.
Stubborn woman.
Emmy took the rag from her. “You and Papa. I swear. He wouldn’t slow down, either. You know what that got him? Sick. And it got you a bunch of medical bills that insurance didn’t cover.”
“Ah, the British and their stoic resignation. How I miss it.” Mama eyed the rag but didn’t try to grab it from her daughter. “Sometimes I wonder if you shouldn’t have been raised with more of your papa’s English calm and less of my village’s fire. You All-American melting pots don’t respect your elders like we did.”
Emmy patted Mama’s cheek. “I missed you, even if you’re still too hard-headed to let the Rhodes know about all of Papa’s debts.”
“Not a word, Emmylou—”
A dish broke in the hallway, near the elevator.
Mama mock-growled then aimed her voice in that direction. “Fritz, if that’s the Delft china, I’ll sauté you in olive oil.”
The assistant’s flustered words stumbled over apologies until a more masculine voice overrode him.
“My fault,” said a deep, unFritz-like drawl. “Is there a broom around here?”
Emmy’s joints froze. She’d heard that voice before. This afternoon.
At the swimming hole.
“I’m…going to the gardens,” Emmy said, surprised she had enough breath to form a sentence. Her heartbeat