The Writing Retreat(37)

“Agreed.” She lifted her hands in exasperation. “That’s all I want.”

“Fine.”

“Are we done here?” She stood.

I nodded. My whole body felt wooden, dead.

She turned and left. The animal heads and I watched her go.





Chapter 14




As I left the parlor, the flat, heavy feeling in my chest began melting into anger. The rage radiated like a burn. Of course Wren would dismiss what had happened. Of course she would make me feel like the irrational and pathetic one.

This had always been a part of our friendship, the darkest part. When Wren got into one of her moods and there was no one else there to pick at, she’d take it out on me. Why did my room smell? Why was I such a bitch to the guys I dated? Why was I still at a job I despised? Why was I so boring?

My teeth were clenched and I rubbed my jaw as I approached the kitchen. I wasn’t Wren’s punching bag any more. I didn’t have to deal with this shit. I had bigger things to worry about, anyway. I’d get a snack and go upstairs and keep banging out my new book.

Because I was going to beat her, goddamnit. I was going to win.

Chitra was in the kitchen, stirring something at the stove. “Hello, love.” She turned and grinned.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.” I stopped short in the doorway.

“Come in, come in.” She waved a hand. “Just starting to get dinner on. Sit down. You here for a snack?”

“Yeah, but I can wait—”

“What kind would you like? Sweet or savory?” Chitra’s English accent and bustling, grandmotherly air—though she couldn’t have been more than a youngish sixty—relaxed me as I dropped onto a stool at the huge marble butcher block.

“Savory would be great.” I hoped she didn’t notice my reddened eyes.

“Okay, then.” She pulled a few plastic-covered containers from the fridge. “How’s the writing going?”

“Good.” That was true, at least.

“Glad to hear it.” She moved with a fluid grace. “You girls have a lot to get done. I don’t know how you’re doing it.”

“Well, I don’t know how you make such delicious meals.” I cleared my throat. “I didn’t get to tell you but the food last night was incredible. Someone brought a plate to me.”

“Roza’s idea.” Chitra winked. “She didn’t want anyone to interrupt you.”

“How long have you known Roza?”

“Oh, long time now. Met her almost twenty years ago. She came into my café.” Chitra’s voice held a smile. “I had no idea who she was. But after she ate she asked to see me. Invited me to come and be her personal chef.”

“Wow. Just like that. And you said yes?”

“Oh, no.” She scoffed. “I grew up in London; never thought I’d leave. But my café burned down less than a year later. The insurance was shit, so I reached out to her. And I’ve been working for her ever since.”

“Your café—it was like the food you’ve been making for us?”

“Somewhat.” She smiled, and there was a sad or wry twist to her mouth. “My specialty was Anglo-Indian. Roza wanted that for a while. But now she prefers more traditionally American dishes. Which is fine. I can do that.”

I wondered if her chipper tone was covering a different feeling. But maybe I was reading too much into it.

“You travel with her?” I asked.

“Depends. If she’s somewhere for a bit of time, I do. But when she’s running around, doing interviews and such, I go back home for a few weeks.” She walked over with a plate. “In fact, I’m going home at the end of the month. Get to see my daughter.”

“Wow.” It was a cheese plate dotted with artistic smears of jams and honey. “This is beautiful. Thank you so much.”

“Of course.” She smoothed back her salt-and-pepper hair. “Where’s home for you?” She leaned against the butcher block, crossing her arms.

“All over, really. But I spent the most time in the Midwest. Now I’m in Brooklyn.”

“Your mum and dad there?” Her mahogany eyes were quick and curious.

“My mom is. My dad—he’s not a part of my life.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, love.” Her expression shifted, becoming so concerned that I suddenly wanted to launch myself into her arms.

“That’s okay.” I tried to smile. “It was a long time ago.”

Someone cleared her throat at the doorway. Yana stood there, watching us with a cold expression. I wondered how much she’d heard.

Chitra straightened up and went back to the stove. “Need something?”

“Miss Roza would like tea.” Yana’s voice was flat.

“Absolutely.” Chitra swiftly pulled a teapot out of a cabinet. The cozy warmth of the kitchen was gone, replaced with an icy awkwardness. I stood, picking up my plate.

“Alex,” Yana said.

For some reason it chilled me to hear her say my name, as if she’d put me on some kind of list.

“Yes?” I forced myself to smile.

Yana glanced at Chitra’s back. “You should not be bothering Miss Chitra when she’s working.”