Chapter 3 - The Prep Work
Cooking a six-course dinner for twenty high-society guests with one functional arm is an exercise in physical torture. But every pulse of agony in my broken arm served as fuel.
I spent the afternoon working in the kitchen. I used my teeth to rip open spice packets, my knee to stabilize heavy wooden cutting boards against the counter, and my left arm to stir rich, bubbling sauces in iron pots.
At three in the afternoon, Derek’s parents arrived.
Arthur and Eleanor Bennett walked into the kitchen wearing matching cashmere coats, bringing with them the chill of the outside air and decades of practiced family arrogance. Eleanor immediately dropped her heavy leather handbag onto the island counter, ignoring me as I struggled to pull a fifteen-pound rib roast out of the industrial refrigerator with my left arm.
"Good heavens, Monica," Eleanor sighed, adjusting her pearl necklace as she looked at my fiberglass cast. "Derek told us on the phone that you had an accident. Really, falling on the porch right before his big night? You’ve always been so clumsy."
Arthur didn't even look at my arm. He walked straight to the wine cellar door, pulling out a bottle of vintage Cabernet. "Is the roast aged properly? Michael Stanton is a stickler for prime cut marbling, Monica. Don't ruin it with too much rosemary like you did at Thanksgiving."
"I won't ruin it, Arthur," I said, offering a serene, perfect smile as I set the roast onto the prep block. "Everything is seasoned exactly as it should be."
"Where is Derek?" Eleanor asked, peering into the copper pans simmering on the stove. "He should be resting before his guests arrive. He’s been under tremendous pressure at the firm, you know. He carries that entire practice on his shoulders."
"He's at the country club," I replied smoothly, slicing through raw garlic with a chef's knife stabilized in my left hand. "He said he needed to clear his head before his big night."
"Well, he deserves it," Eleanor declared firmly. "He works far too hard for this family. Make sure you use the silver serving platters, Monica. And do put on something presentable. That cast looks terribly unrefined."
"I'll make sure I look unforgettable, Eleanor," I whispered as she walked out toward the guest wing.
By six o'clock, the dining room was fully decorated. The long mahogany table gleamed under the crystal chandelier. Fine porcelain plates sat atop polished gold chargers. High-stemmed wine glasses reflected the soft candlelight.
At six-thirty, Derek returned from the club, smelling of expensive cognac and fresh cigar smoke. He walked into the kitchen, looking me up and down with critical eyes.
I was wearing a tailored emerald-green silk dress with a high collar and long sleeves. My right arm was pinned neatly inside a matching silk sling, concealing the thick fiberglass plaster beneath. I had spent an hour applying makeup, covering the pale exhaustion on my face with golden highlighter and dark crimson lipstick.
Derek paused in the doorway, momentarily taken aback by how composed I looked.
"You look... fine," he muttered, adjusting his silk tie in the mirror reflection of the microwave. "Is the roast ready?"
"It’s resting," I said, wiping down the marble counter with a clean cloth. "The wine is decanting. The appetizers are plated."
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Derek stepped closer, reaching out to pat my left cheek with a condescending touch. "See? I told you that you could handle it. Women always exaggerate their little injuries. Just make sure you stay in the kitchen once the main course is served. I don't want Stanton feeling uncomfortable looking at that sling while he's trying to eat."
"Of course, Derek," I smiled, leaning back slightly from his touch. "Tonight is all about your future."
