After Five Years

1. Something Bad is Going to Happen

"Meghan." My boss, Henri, walks toward me as I sauté a pan of mushrooms. "A table would like to thank the chef."

I frown at him as he motions for Olivia, his other sous chef, to take over the pan. She's there the next second, grinning at me, as I silently hand her the pan.

The head chef, simply smiles at my confusion. "The habitué is the son of a close friend. Come, mon cherie," He holds his hand out, his French accent thickening as he speaks in his native tongue. "Come take credit for your masterpiece."

"Take credit?" I squeak, my hand starting to tremble. No one is supposed to know. They can't know.

"S'il vous plaît, mon cherie. The boy knows of my ailment."

"What if someone overhears?" I question, hesitantly taking his hand, as he starts to lead me through the kitchen. Other cooks and some of the waitstaff smile at me, a few giving an encouraging thumbs up, but it does nothing. "Something bad is going to happen."

My muttering stops when Henri and I walk through the double doors of Festoyer's kitchen.

The classical music, faintly ringing through the dining area, starts grating at my already fried nerves. Men and women crowd the tables, all of them engaged in serious conversations.

The women here are all dressed so elegantly it causes me to glance down at my black uniform. The wine from making the Coq Au Vin spilt on my white apron, leaving a large maroon colored spot.

"Nothing will happen, he's rented the whole terrace for the night."

What type of arrogant son of a-

'Stop Meghan! Don't you dare judge customers.' My subconscious barks.

"Henri,"

People can't know. This man, the closest thing I have to a father, owns the best French restaurant in New York. He met his wife in Paris while she was studying abroad, and instantly fell in love with her. He gave up his first dream of owning a grand restaurant in Paris and followed his new dream back to America.

"This way, mon cheri." He excitedly pulls me around the corner to a more closed off section of the restaurant.

Two years ago I was working as a cook in an old diner when a waiter told me a customer needed to speak to me.

'Shit.'

That had been my first thought. What did I do know? Or not do. I wondered as I went to his table. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he was tall, there was kindness in his blue eyes, and his white hair had a few strands of black left.

He needed a sous chef and I needed a job that paid more than the diner that I quit working for that same day.

His stroke last year left his right hand, his dominant hand, weak and unable to grip a knife.

"You'll have to be my hands now." He had told me as he lay in a hospital bed. Weeks of physical therapy proved useless when it came to his hand. When it became clear he'd never be able to cook in the kitchen again, we devised a plan. A plan that allowed a twenty-two year old which no culinary degree to be the head chef of a five star French restaurant.