Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Already the idea of using his fame to my advantage leaves me with a gross feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d hate if people could Google me and find all sorts of private information I didn’t put out there myself. Public person or not, the guy seems to value his privacy, so I’ll give it to him.
Though I’m sad to do it, I close the drapes and block him from view.
For three days, we continue on like this, with me mostly keeping to myself, cooking, cleaning, making myself useful. I start to post a proposed menu on the fridge in the morning so Luke can make any changes if he wants to. By the third day, I already have a request.
Can we get those roasted shrimp again? And I finished the strawberry cake last night…
I practically float off the earth.
Since I’m not around at mealtimes, I don’t know what Luke thinks about my cooking. I mean Harper has been raving about it, but Luke’s extremely reserved compared to his daughter. If we bump into each other around the house, it’s “Hi, how are you?” or “Lunch will be ready in about thirty minutes!” or “I’m headed to the store if you need anything!”
I try to be careful with Harper. It’s a balancing act. If she and I had it our way, we’d be together all day, BFF status. I crave her company—any company, really—but Luke’s never all that enthusiastic about us hanging out together. I try to let her down gently when she invites me to join them for meals or accompany them into town. I did let her help me make the strawberry cake though, as promised. I told her how I fell in love with baking because of Ms. Paulette and all the time I spent sneaking around the Plaza, and she told me all about school.
“I was the tallest girl in the entire first grade,” she proclaimed proudly.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, and I’m really fast too. And athletic. I just finished playing Little League and I hit three homers this season. That’s more than any of the boys hit.”
“People are hitting home runs in Little League?!”
This is frankly astonishing to me.
“Not people, me.”
“And do you like school?”
She shrugged. “It’s tricky sometimes. Reading doesn’t come that easy for me, but Dad says that’s normal. We work on it together a little every day. Even when he was gone more, we would talk on the phone and I would have to read a few pages aloud to him, no matter if I was tired or in a bad mood. Do you like to read?”
“I love it.”
“Yeah, me too,” she said as she picked up the frosting spatula. “Could I…”
She asked the question timidly.
“Lick it?” I finished for her.
She looked surprised, like I’d just read her mind.
I gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Go for it.”
I’m starting to settle into the quiet life here a little more. I went on a run yesterday.
Well…I put on running shoes and workout clothes and went outside with every intention of running, but I ended up walking most of the way and it took me forty minutes to go two miles, so does that really count? Who cares. I’m going again today, and I’m going for three miles come hell or high water!
I also made a friend.
It’s the sommelier from the grocery store—though to continue calling it a grocery store is a bit misleading. It’s like calling Chanel “just some place you can grab a purse”. Bridgehampton Market is a luxury supermarket that focuses on niche, locally produced, organic foods at prices that routinely make me do a double take. We’re talking $50 bottles of “specialty” barbecue sauce, $17 smoothies, $20 chocolate bars arranged neatly near the checkout. Luke didn’t balk at the cost when I showed him the first receipt.
“I didn’t realize it would be that expensive. I don’t have a problem driving to the Stop & Shop, but their produce selection is lacking. I could still make it work though.”
“No, this is fine. Yeah, prices are a little crazy, but that’s the way everything is out here.”
So Bridgehampton Market is where I head most days. Oliver is always there, steering patrons toward the best bottles of wine while wearing pressed khakis, a button-down, and swanky Italian loafers. He’s nice, if a bit snobbish, until I make some offhand remark about one of the wines he recommends being a fan favorite at Fig & Olive.
“Oh, I love that restaurant. I always have a killer time getting reservations, but it’s worth it for the dessert alone.”
“That’s me! I mean…it was. I used to be the pastry chef there.”
He seemed skeptical at first, like it wasn’t possible that I, a girl with an untidy braid and a mustard stain on her shirt, could possibly have been the source of such delicious delicacies.