Read Online Prelude to Heaven by Laura Lee Guhrke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Lee Guhrke
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mushrooms, and shallots. He showed her how to oil the pan and how to chop and sauté the vegetables. She listened with genuine enjoyment to the sound of his voice. It was a rich, languorous voice—warm and very French, and reminded her of the Provence sun.
She watched as he cracked eggs into a bowl rapidly, expertly, using only his left hand. A man's hands were something Tess had learned to be wary of, and Dumond’s were large, strong hands with the long fingers of an artist. She was fully aware of the strength in those hands, but she thought of how, together, they had milked the goat, and she appreciated that there was tenderness as well as strength in his hands. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the tension within her, tension that for three years had made her feel stretched so tight she thought sure she’d snap, seemed to slacken. Just a little, just enough that she sighed with relief.
He looked up at the sound, pausing, the fork in his hand poised over the bowl of eggs, but when she shook her head dismissively, he resumed his task and began to whip the eggs vigorously with a fork, ladled in a bit of milk, then poured the mixture into the pan heating on the stove. She noticed how, when the eggs were cooked, he added the spinach and folded the omelet over with an expert flick of his wrist. Curious, she asked him, “How did you learn how to cook?”
He turned a pepper grinder over the pan, lightly dusting the omelet with the black spice, and he was silent so long, she thought he wasn't going to answer her question. But he finally said, “When I was twenty-one, I went to Italy. I wanted to paint, I wanted to study the masters. But I had no money and no one to sponsor me. I needed employment.”
A wry smile tilted the corner of his mouth. “I happened to meet an Italian nobleman who was in desperate need of a French chef. As you know, French chefs are always in great demand. I convinced him that I was perfectly suited to the task.” His smile widened into that heart-stopping grin again. “He actually believed me when I told him I could cook.”
“Just like me, then.” Tess laughed. “But what did the nobleman do when he found out? Did he throw you out in the street?”
“No. In fact, he became my first sponsor. I painted portraits of his entire family.”
“Wasn't he angry at being deceived?”
“Of course.”
“But then why—”
“Perhaps,” Dumond said, his eyes meeting hers, “he felt that everyone deserves a chance.”
Tess pondered his reply as he slid the omelet from the pan to a plate. When he carried the food to the table, he walked past her and said something more. His voice was so low, she barely heard his words. He said, “You should laugh more often, mademoiselle.”
***
While her new employer went off to sketch, Tess continued her battle against dust and cobwebs. She dusted furniture, swept floors, shook out rugs and draperies, and washed down walls, working her way through most of the ground floor by late afternoon.
As she took yet another bucket of dirty water out to be dumped, she spied Sophie standing in the garden, munching happily on herbs and weeds. With a groan, Tess dropped the bucket and went after the animal, but time and again, the goat skipped nimbly out of reach.
Twenty minutes later, panting from the heat and exertion, she led the disgruntled Sophie back to her pen, her hand firmly clutching the collar of rope around the goat's neck, the other end of the rope, now chewed through, dragging on the ground behind them. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told the animal as she removed the rope and closed the gate of the pen. Sophie only glared back at her, unrepentant.
Tess coiled the rope and took it back to the barn. Unlike the hen house, the barn smelled only of hay and disuse. It was empty, save a few rusty tools and burlap bags, as dark and dusty as the château, and just as lonely.
She tossed the rope into one of the empty stalls and turned to leave when
She watched as he cracked eggs into a bowl rapidly, expertly, using only his left hand. A man's hands were something Tess had learned to be wary of, and Dumond’s were large, strong hands with the long fingers of an artist. She was fully aware of the strength in those hands, but she thought of how, together, they had milked the goat, and she appreciated that there was tenderness as well as strength in his hands. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the tension within her, tension that for three years had made her feel stretched so tight she thought sure she’d snap, seemed to slacken. Just a little, just enough that she sighed with relief.
He looked up at the sound, pausing, the fork in his hand poised over the bowl of eggs, but when she shook her head dismissively, he resumed his task and began to whip the eggs vigorously with a fork, ladled in a bit of milk, then poured the mixture into the pan heating on the stove. She noticed how, when the eggs were cooked, he added the spinach and folded the omelet over with an expert flick of his wrist. Curious, she asked him, “How did you learn how to cook?”
He turned a pepper grinder over the pan, lightly dusting the omelet with the black spice, and he was silent so long, she thought he wasn't going to answer her question. But he finally said, “When I was twenty-one, I went to Italy. I wanted to paint, I wanted to study the masters. But I had no money and no one to sponsor me. I needed employment.”
A wry smile tilted the corner of his mouth. “I happened to meet an Italian nobleman who was in desperate need of a French chef. As you know, French chefs are always in great demand. I convinced him that I was perfectly suited to the task.” His smile widened into that heart-stopping grin again. “He actually believed me when I told him I could cook.”
“Just like me, then.” Tess laughed. “But what did the nobleman do when he found out? Did he throw you out in the street?”
“No. In fact, he became my first sponsor. I painted portraits of his entire family.”
“Wasn't he angry at being deceived?”
“Of course.”
“But then why—”
“Perhaps,” Dumond said, his eyes meeting hers, “he felt that everyone deserves a chance.”
Tess pondered his reply as he slid the omelet from the pan to a plate. When he carried the food to the table, he walked past her and said something more. His voice was so low, she barely heard his words. He said, “You should laugh more often, mademoiselle.”
***
While her new employer went off to sketch, Tess continued her battle against dust and cobwebs. She dusted furniture, swept floors, shook out rugs and draperies, and washed down walls, working her way through most of the ground floor by late afternoon.
As she took yet another bucket of dirty water out to be dumped, she spied Sophie standing in the garden, munching happily on herbs and weeds. With a groan, Tess dropped the bucket and went after the animal, but time and again, the goat skipped nimbly out of reach.
Twenty minutes later, panting from the heat and exertion, she led the disgruntled Sophie back to her pen, her hand firmly clutching the collar of rope around the goat's neck, the other end of the rope, now chewed through, dragging on the ground behind them. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told the animal as she removed the rope and closed the gate of the pen. Sophie only glared back at her, unrepentant.
Tess coiled the rope and took it back to the barn. Unlike the hen house, the barn smelled only of hay and disuse. It was empty, save a few rusty tools and burlap bags, as dark and dusty as the château, and just as lonely.
She tossed the rope into one of the empty stalls and turned to leave when
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