smile, she flipped the menu card in the air. ‘‘We are having additional guests today?’’
The chef nodded. ‘‘The board of directors will hold another meeting with Mr. Howard. He said to expect their arrival midmorning.’’
‘‘So we will need to prepare only the noonday and evening meals for them?’’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘Who can say? Mr. Howard said their meetings may not be concluded until tomorrow. I doubt any of them will remain until Monday.’’
Olivia frowned. ‘‘Unless they have a matter that requires their immediate attention. With the convention beginning tomorrow, I’m sure the board members are concerned.’’
Chef René wagged his plump index finger. ‘‘While in the kitchen, we are to concentrate on the food rather than the reason our guests have elected to stay at our lovely hotel.’’
Mrs. DeVault patted the chef ’s arm. ‘‘I’m going to go downstairs and begin my work. There’s much to do before the noon meal.’’
He smiled and covered her hand with his own. ‘‘Oui. I will come downstairs once breakfast is completed.’’
From Olivia’s vantage point, it appeared the chef had gently squeezed Mrs. DeVault’s hand before releasing his hold. Olivia remained transfixed. Fred had revealed nothing about a relationship between his mother and Chef René . Yet, with the excitement of the convention about to begin, she doubted Fred would take notice of anything other than union activities. With the exception of discussing several new desserts she wanted to serve at the hotel, Mrs. DeVault hadn’t broached the topic of work or Chef René with her. If time permitted, Olivia would pay the older woman a visit this evening.
‘‘Something is wrong with my menu?’’ Chef René pushed away from the table.
‘‘No, not at all. Why do you ask?’’ When Olivia turned, she noted the roses had disappeared. Mrs. DeVault had obviously carried them downstairs with her.
‘‘You have studied the entrées for nearly ten minutes.’’
Olivia dropped the menu card onto the worktable and removed several bowls from the shelf. ‘‘I wanted to make certain there were no unfamiliar dishes being offered.’’ She began to crack eggs into the pale gray crock.
The chef rounded the counter and rested his forearms on the worktable beside her. He looked up at her with a glint in his coffee-colored eyes. ‘‘And you wanted to hear what we were saying.’’ She squared her shoulders and met his unwavering stare. ‘‘Yes, I did. Suffice it to say that I was surprised to see that you and Mrs. DeVault have formed a . . . well, such a . . .’’
‘‘Warm friendship?’’ His eyes sparkled with amusement.
She whisked the eggs with a vengeance. ‘‘Well, yes. It’s none of my business, of course, but—’’
‘‘You are correct. It isn’t any of your business.’’ He laughed. ‘‘But I do understand your curiosity. After all, she is the mother of your Fred, and you have concern for her welfare. Oui?’’
‘‘Yes, of course.’’ She had agreed too hastily. It seemed the chef was enjoying their game of cat and mouse far too much.
‘‘Then I must set your mind at ease. I enjoy Hazel’s company. She is a fine lady, and we have much in common.’’
‘‘Hazel?’’ The name croaked from deep in her throat.
‘‘Mrs. DeVault,’’ he replied. ‘‘Since we have become friends, we agreed to address each other by our given names.’’
‘‘During working hours?’’
He shrugged. ‘‘You concern yourself over unimportant details. Other than the kitchen help, who hears our conversations? The maids and kitchen boys are addressed by their first names. Why not the baker?’’
‘‘You address me as Miss Mott.’’
The chef laughed. ‘‘Because you English worry over insignificant issues such as using the proper name.’’ He pointed to the bowl. ‘‘You should do something with those eggs.’’
Olivia whisked the eggs one final time
The chef nodded. ‘‘The board of directors will hold another meeting with Mr. Howard. He said to expect their arrival midmorning.’’
‘‘So we will need to prepare only the noonday and evening meals for them?’’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘Who can say? Mr. Howard said their meetings may not be concluded until tomorrow. I doubt any of them will remain until Monday.’’
Olivia frowned. ‘‘Unless they have a matter that requires their immediate attention. With the convention beginning tomorrow, I’m sure the board members are concerned.’’
Chef René wagged his plump index finger. ‘‘While in the kitchen, we are to concentrate on the food rather than the reason our guests have elected to stay at our lovely hotel.’’
Mrs. DeVault patted the chef ’s arm. ‘‘I’m going to go downstairs and begin my work. There’s much to do before the noon meal.’’
He smiled and covered her hand with his own. ‘‘Oui. I will come downstairs once breakfast is completed.’’
From Olivia’s vantage point, it appeared the chef had gently squeezed Mrs. DeVault’s hand before releasing his hold. Olivia remained transfixed. Fred had revealed nothing about a relationship between his mother and Chef René . Yet, with the excitement of the convention about to begin, she doubted Fred would take notice of anything other than union activities. With the exception of discussing several new desserts she wanted to serve at the hotel, Mrs. DeVault hadn’t broached the topic of work or Chef René with her. If time permitted, Olivia would pay the older woman a visit this evening.
‘‘Something is wrong with my menu?’’ Chef René pushed away from the table.
‘‘No, not at all. Why do you ask?’’ When Olivia turned, she noted the roses had disappeared. Mrs. DeVault had obviously carried them downstairs with her.
‘‘You have studied the entrées for nearly ten minutes.’’
Olivia dropped the menu card onto the worktable and removed several bowls from the shelf. ‘‘I wanted to make certain there were no unfamiliar dishes being offered.’’ She began to crack eggs into the pale gray crock.
The chef rounded the counter and rested his forearms on the worktable beside her. He looked up at her with a glint in his coffee-colored eyes. ‘‘And you wanted to hear what we were saying.’’ She squared her shoulders and met his unwavering stare. ‘‘Yes, I did. Suffice it to say that I was surprised to see that you and Mrs. DeVault have formed a . . . well, such a . . .’’
‘‘Warm friendship?’’ His eyes sparkled with amusement.
She whisked the eggs with a vengeance. ‘‘Well, yes. It’s none of my business, of course, but—’’
‘‘You are correct. It isn’t any of your business.’’ He laughed. ‘‘But I do understand your curiosity. After all, she is the mother of your Fred, and you have concern for her welfare. Oui?’’
‘‘Yes, of course.’’ She had agreed too hastily. It seemed the chef was enjoying their game of cat and mouse far too much.
‘‘Then I must set your mind at ease. I enjoy Hazel’s company. She is a fine lady, and we have much in common.’’
‘‘Hazel?’’ The name croaked from deep in her throat.
‘‘Mrs. DeVault,’’ he replied. ‘‘Since we have become friends, we agreed to address each other by our given names.’’
‘‘During working hours?’’
He shrugged. ‘‘You concern yourself over unimportant details. Other than the kitchen help, who hears our conversations? The maids and kitchen boys are addressed by their first names. Why not the baker?’’
‘‘You address me as Miss Mott.’’
The chef laughed. ‘‘Because you English worry over insignificant issues such as using the proper name.’’ He pointed to the bowl. ‘‘You should do something with those eggs.’’
Olivia whisked the eggs one final time
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