Chapter Text
A Note:
It is somewhat traditional, when writing a genre novel about food, to include recipes for the foods discussed. That being said, some of the dishes in this book I haven't personally cooked, and many of the ones I have made have been mostly for my own pleasure, so I can't judge how well a reader might enjoy them. Thus I present to you a novel about chefs without a single recipe, other than my own personal curried chicken salad recipe, which you can find at the end.
After all, why deprive the gentle reader of the chance to explore these dishes for themselves? The joy is in the attempt.
***
PROLOGUE
Content warnings: None.
Many years ago, I was hired to serve as the personal chef to the royal family of Askazer-Shivadlakia, a small nation I did not know well.
I had advertised my services as an elite personal chef, and had many offers, but the Shivadh king swayed me because of what he told me when we met: that he had only a passing interest in gourmet food, and that he was hiring the best chef he could find not as a status symbol or from personal desire, but as a gift for his wife on the occasion of their fifteenth wedding anniversary. I was charmed by such a gesture, explained in the king's excellent French, and pleased that he was interested to hire my brother Hugo as sommelier, a position which had been open for some time.
King Michaelis and his wife Queen Miranda had a little boy of four, and the family had suffered a tragedy which meant they sometimes cared for a young girl the same age, their son's cousin. I knew I had chosen my new job well when, arriving in the kitchen for the first time, two solemn little children were waiting to greet me in prattling French. They had strong Provencal accents from their mothers, who were of the Askazer side of the country, which borders on that region.
"Good morning, chef!" they chorused, and I bid them good morning as well, while I unpacked the pans and the knives I had brought with me. I did not know what the kitchen might already contain, and one likes the tools one is used to.
"Have you come to make croissant for Mama?" Prince Gregory asked.
"I have, but not this morning," I told the young prince. "You will have to wait until tomorrow for your croissant!"
"Oh, I like scones," he said boldly. "Will you also make scones?"
"Yes -- and baguette, and babka if you're very good," I told him. "What does Her Grace like to eat?" I asked little Lady Alanna, who was a trifle shy at the time.
"She likes potatoes," Gregory informed me.
"I asked the duchess," I told him, and that made Alanna laugh, which was a pretty thing.
"I like potatoes but I like baguette with cheese too," she told me.
"Do you like raclette?" I asked, thinking of her uncle the king and the slight Swiss accent in his French.
"What is raclette?" she asked, and I was all astonishment.
"What is raclette! It is very good cheese -- your first meal from my hands shall be raclette with potatoes and cornichons," I told her.
And although it took some hunting, for dinner that night I prepared for the royal family croquettes of potato stuffed with raclette, and also freshly-melted cheese tableside with baguette and quick pickles, the recipes for which I now present to you here -- a raclette feast for the little duchess.
Raclette-Stuffed Potato Croquettes
Quick Pickles
Baguette for Beginners
Tips For Choosing Cheeses
***
CHAPTER ONE
Content warnings: None.
King Gregory III -- much older, with less of a Provencal accent to his French but still willing to use Alanna as an excuse to request raclette and potatoes from the palace kitchen -- finished reading and looked up from the tablet he was holding with a smile.
"I think it's very sweet, Simon," he said, offering the tablet back to him. His newborn daughter Mira, cradled in the crook of his other arm, grunted in protest at being jostled. He made a soft shushing noise to soothe her until she subsided, then looked up again. "Were you worried about my dignity, discussing how I used to be a four-year-old scone-fancier?"
"No, not so," Simon protested. "But if I am to keep this website and discuss the dining habits and personal lives of the royal family, I feel you should be made aware of what is said."
"That's conscientious of you, but I don't think it's necessary on a day-to-day basis. We've trusted your discretion for -- what is it now?"
"Twenty-nine years, sire."
"Three generations," Gregory said, stroking Mira's mostly-bald head affectionately.
"Well, your children are young," Simon protested, smoothing down his own silver hair. Gregory grinned.
"And so are you and I. My point is, I know you understand what not to say, and in any case my life's been very public. If you have concerns, speak to Communications or bring them to me, but you don't need my say-so before every post," he said, rising carefully and carrying Mira to the nursery. Simon followed, leaning in the doorway as Gregory placed her next to her twin brother in the crib. Gregory looked down at the children, barely ten days old and born early to boot, but healthy and beautiful for all that -- and then smiled to himself and turned, joining Simon again in the living room.
"In any case, maybe check in if you're going to say anything about the kids," he continued, "but Joan doesn't shrink from the public eye, and Mira and Zach won't be interesting to anyone but family for a few years anyway."
He glanced over in time to see Simon smile. "I hope to help cater your daughter's coronation as I did yours," Simon said.
"She has a ways to go and she'll have to be elected, just as I was. But she's coming up on thirteen, and I'm sure we'll want your help for the Bat Mitzvah." Gregory settled on the sofa again, studying him. "You're happy here, aren't you?"
"Of course, sire."
"Not thinking of leaving or retiring? Thirty years of service is not inconsiderable. You could open a restaurant in Fons-Askaz. Or anywhere, really, these days," he added with a grin. "Your fans would flock."
"His Majesty Gregory is pleased to make fun," Simon said, mock-serious.
"His Majesty Gregory would miss the hell out of you, Simon. I don't want you to leave. I just want to make sure you're still pleased to be here."
"Very much. The work suits me. And His Majesty Eddie is...a stimulating challenge," Simon added. Gregory's husband, who had become king only after a previous career as television chef and foodie celebrity, was fond of Simon, Gregory knew. He was glad to know Simon was fond of Eddie as well. Nobody should be elbowed out of their job by the boss's new spouse, but particularly not Simon, who had been an indulgent occasional babysitter when he was a child, and a rock when Gregory's mother had been sick. He'd essentially become a third parent after she passed, when Gregory's father retreated into politics for a while.
"That's fine, then. I'm excited for future recipes," Gregory said. "What's for dinner tonight, by the way?"
"I have had requests for the mushroom soup, with the addition of traditional noodles," Simon said.
"Father?" Gregory asked knowingly.
"Princeps Joan made the request, but I suspect your father's influence, yes. He says he'll be at dinner this evening with Ser Deimos and your stepbrother."
"Could you do some -- "
"Twist bread and hummus, yes, sire."
"I won't keep you, then. Looking forward to it."
Simon gave him a bow and left, looking cheerful. Gregory grinned. He remembered Simon's arrival, if a little differently than the account Simon had given; for one thing, he was pretty sure Alanna had hid under one of the prep tables and Simon had spent half an hour coaxing her out with the promise of watching him make ice cream. Gregory had insisted you didn't make ice cream, it came in cartons, and been shocked to watch it come into existence under Simon's hand. He was pretty sure the raclette had been some other day. Still, it was a good story and not untrue in any particular, just...edited slightly.
Then again, Eddie told him most of those annoying essays on recipe websites were made up whole-cloth to expand the page so there was more room for advertising, and Simon, who had access to the palace's web hosting and didn't need to put ads on his site, seemed more inclined to earnestly explain the emotional resonance behind each recipe. Gregory knew Eddie silently approved; he'd been the one pushing for Simon to start the blog to begin with.
What a busy life it was becoming. He was grateful for Simon and equally grateful that Parliament wasn't in session at the moment. Technically the job of king didn't come with days off, but people were mostly going easy on Gregory, aware that he was trying to spend as much time with the new babies as possible. Eddie was covering for him a little, checking in on Communications and Operations, but today he should be back before Mira and Zach woke again. Their newly-adopted eldest, Joan, was spending mornings with her grandfather and grandem and afternoons with her tutor, but she'd be back with Eddie when he returned. Even knowing he'd see her in an hour or two, he missed her; he couldn't fathom how his parents must have felt, sending him off to boarding school, though he'd loved school and benefited greatly from his education.
Well, a concern for some other time. If Simon wanted to share little anecdotes of the king's childhood, it had been a great childhood; retelling it really could only be good PR. He'd have to ask Alanna and see if she remembered the ice cream incident or the raclette first.
***
Alanna was sitting in the kitchen when Simon returned to it. She was on a stool in the corner, working on a computer cradled precariously on her lap. Simon considered himself a gentleman and in any case she looked very uncomfortable; he entered without her noticing and went to the supply closet, fetching out the extra-tall wheeled bar cart and rolling it over. She didn't even look up until he took the computer off her lap and placed it on the cart, and then she raised her head and beamed at him.
"Not good for the posture, to hunch over like that," he said gently.
"Thank you, Simon, you're a life saver," she said. "I didn't want to get my grungy laptop on your nice clean counter."
"Worse has been on it before, and will again," he informed her. "That is why they are steel, madam. Always welcome, but why are you at work in my kitchen? Waiting for a snack?"
"Oh! No -- it's just, word got out that we brought Serafina into the office today," she said. "Everyone wants to come say hi to the baby, and I couldn't get any work done."
"Have you hidden her in a cookpot?"
Alanna laughed. "No, Gerald took her, but people kept coming, so..."
"Ah. Her admirers are more trouble than the little one," Simon nodded sagely. Serafina, Alanna and Gerald's daughter, was well worth admiring; a pretty infant, and well-behaved considering she was barely three months old. Simon was not a man who wanted his own children, but he felt proprietary about the Palace children, and now the children's children.
"Little bit that," Alanna agreed. "But Gerald's got less time-sensitive work than I do, and he loves showing her off."
Simon was opening his mouth to speak when they were interrupted; Gregory's husband Eddie came into the kitchen as he usually did, like a whirlwind.
"I've been told to avert my eyes," he announced, shading them with one hand to block out Alanna, who laughed. "Gerald says Al's here but I'm not supposed to perceive her. I'm just here to pick up a snack for Joan."
"Ah! Yes, I have this," Simon said, going to the covered basket on the table, where half a dozen meat pasties were slowly cooling. He plucked out one of the plumpest, wrapped it in a twist of paper, and presented it to him, then gave him a blank look when Eddie turned pleading eyes on him. He waited just long enough for Eddie's look to turn sad, then grinned and offered him a second, smaller one, which Eddie promptly tried to eat in two bites.
"You're a cruel man, Simon," Eddie told him, around a mouthful of warm pasty. "Hey, did you get your website up yet?"
"Oh! Yeah, how's the recipe site coming?" Alanna asked.
"Did you hear something?" Eddie asked Simon.
"Only the wind," Simon told him. "The site has been put up, but not yet the recipes. His Majesty only just approved the first recipe, and as Lady Alanna has also given permission, now I am to post."
"Oh! Oh, let me -- " Eddie stuffed the rest of the pasty into his face and fumbled for his phone. "Film it for Photogram," he said, swallowing.
"What for, filming it for the Photogram?" Simon asked, still mystified by the American habit of sharing every minute of one's life with the internet.
"Your adoring public!" Eddie said, holding up his phone, clearly filming. "Okay. I'm here in the royal kitchen with Chef Simon LeFevre who's about to post his first recipe on his new lifestyle and food website. Simon?"
Simon rolled his eyes a little, but he picked up the tablet and unlocked it, turning it to show the website-editing screen he'd left it on. Eddie began singing the theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey as Simon hovered his finger over the "post" button and pressed it with appropriate ceremony. The screen was replaced with a banner reading "YOUR PAGE HAS BEEN POSTED" and Eddie let out a cheer, hitting the button to switch to the selfie camera.
"Remember, friends and fans, hit up ChefSimon on Photogram for up-to-the-minute info, and follow the link in his bio to his all-new website!" he said, and stopped the recording.
"This was all your idea," Simon told him, which was true; Eddie had made him a minor social media star when the influencer first arrived in Askazer-Shivadlakia. He even had a fan club, though he understood it was quite small. Still, ever since, Eddie had been pestering him to put up a website with recipes and anecdotes of Palace life. Now that he had finally caved, it appeared Eddie was going to continue to be his loudest supporter and most irritating friend. He did like Eddie, very much, but his enthusiasm could be a trifle overwhelming.
"I'm gonna spike your fame with or without your approval," Eddie told Simon, proving his point.
"I'm taking a restraining order," Simon informed him.
"Man, now I can't perceive either of the people in this kitchen?" Eddie asked, laughing. "I'll post this up as soon as I grab Joan from her tutor. Speaking of which, I'm out. Bye, Invisible Simon, bye Invisible Alanna!"
When he was gone Simon took a third pasty, laid it on a plate at Alanna's elbow, and went about preparing dinner, taking the twist bread dough out of the proofing box, setting out the fixings for the mushroom soup, and considering whether he wanted to make cookies or prepare a pie. A pie, he decided; he would use up the last of the fresh spring fruit, and buy some more on Wednesday, when he went to pick up the supplies he'd ordered for the Shavuot evening meal that coming Thursday, the twenty-fifth of May.
Perhaps, Simon thought, he ought to do his next post for the website about Shavuot, a holiday involving a significant amount of dairy, sometimes difficult to cook with. He would curate a few recipes and post them close enough to the holiday that it would be difficult for anyone to copy his recipes and steal his glory. If they wanted to make use of his wisdom they would have the dedication to wait a full year.
Pleased with himself, he hummed as he simmered broth for the soup, prepared the pie crust and put it in to parbake before changing it out for the twist-bread in the oven while he cooked the fruit filling for the pie on the stove. He finished the meal just as Gerald arrived with Serafina to fetch Alanna.
"Thanks again. See you in the dining room," Alanna said to Simon, hugging his shoulders from behind.
"Smells great as always, Simon!" Gerald called. Through the open kitchen door, Simon saw Joan run past and then heard her call a greeting to Gerald and Alanna, technically her father's cousins though she called them uncle and aunt. It had been many years since the palace was so full, he thought fondly; not since Queen Miranda passed. He loaded the serving trolley with a light heart and made sure he had plates for everyone, then pushed it through the door and down to the family dining room, where cheerful chaos reigned.
Once the family was served, his job was more or less complete for the night. He usually cleaned the kitchen while they ate, brought in the dessert and coffee when he judged enough time had passed, and then closed up for the night. That evening, he came back from collecting the dinner plates and serving dessert to find his brother Hugo in the kitchen, checking his stock of wine for cooking.
"Anything missing?" he asked, and Hugo looked up from the rack near the stove, smiling.
"All in order. Although you seem to be using more red wine these days, no?" he asked, turning to lean on the counter. He was a few years younger than Simon, but his hair was beginning to show the same silver threads Simon's had.
"The king emeritus," Simon said, and Hugo nodded gravely. A recent health scare for Gregory's father had turned out to merely be anemia, but Simon had taken it very personally. Iron-rich foods, cooked in cast iron, and fortified wine; these were the ticket. And since His Grace Michaelis did not drink red wine for preference, it had to go in the food -- the sauces, the marinades, the ragout. Hugo, though worried, was of course still very smug; he'd been trying to convince His Grace to drink more reds for years.
"Well, I'll find you something special for him," Hugo promised. "Sweet, fruity, rich. Perhaps you could modify your dressings."
"Perhaps. We must be subtle. You know he can be stubborn," Simon said.
"You should speak to Ser Deimos -- "
"I have! We're in collusion. You mind the wine, let me mind the food," Simon reminded him.
"All right, all right. Are you finished? I can drive us home, if so," Hugo replied.
"Just so," Simon agreed, giving the kitchen a last sweeping look. Clean, tidy, with pans either put up to dry or soaking to be washed in the morning. He would collect the dessert dishes from the dining room before breakfast tomorrow, if Eddie didn't bring them back personally, as he sometimes did. Simon shed his white jacket, dropping it in the laundry bin with the towels to be washed by the cleaning staff, and fetched his satchel from the pantry, following Hugo out into the little lot behind the kitchen garden.
Home was not far; early in their employment they'd lived in the palace, but after Hugo married they'd pooled their money with his wife, Gwen, and bought a pretty plot of land east of the palace, close enough to walk to work if they chose and near enough to the main street of Fons-Askaz to provide easy access to the various markets and shops. They'd intended to build two houses, but it became quickly apparent that it would be an expensive waste. Instead they put up a single large building with a shared common room for entertaining, and Simon had the west end of the building, with the nicer kitchen, while Hugo and Gwen had the east wing, with the wine cellar. Claude, Hugo and Gwen's son, considered the entire establishment his, except for when Simon locked the door to his side for 'private' entertaining, which was generally after Claude's bedtime in any case.
"A quiet day for you?" Hugo asked, as they pulled out of the lot.
"Yes, more or less. His Majesty Gregory approved my essay, so I've posted it to the website; His Majesty Eddie seemed pleased. The young princeps suggested noodles in the mushroom soup, and I saw no reason to object. I may see about some sort of small dumpling. The broth would impart a nice flavor."
"And the little ones?"
"Well, I think. I saw little Mira briefly. I think we need have no worries about their health. You?"
"More inquiries about some of the wine from the lodge cellar," Hugo sighed. He'd been thrilled at the discovery of a lost wine cellar on the palace grounds, but significantly less thrilled at how many people he had to talk to about the bottles he was selling. Hugo was not a man who enjoyed conversation with strangers.
"Well, perhaps His Majesty should grant you an agent, someone to handle the sales," Simon replied. "What do they call it? An intern."
"In my wine cellar? No," Hugo shook his head. "I'll suffer along."
"Well, if you need help, I'm busy," Simon told him. Hugo shot him a brief curious look before realizing he was joking, and only then did he laugh.
Gwen and Claude were out in the front garden when they arrived, with Claude's telescope; the ten-year-old had inherited Hugo's intensity of fixation, but on the stars instead of on wine. Simon waved at them but didn't linger. Erreur and Desolee would be waiting for him.
When he let himself in, they came running -- Erreur a black void yelling at the top of her lungs, Desolee a grey patch of fluff half the size of her sister, silent but with a strong vertical leap. Simon bent enough for Desolee to get purchase on his shoulder without clawing, caught Erreur in his other hand, and carried both cats into the kitchen, where he set them on the one table where they were allowed and went about fixing their food as well. When they were finally hunched over their dinner, eating noisily, he poured himself a glass of wine and contemplated matters.
It was a Tuesday night, generally quiet, although in the tourist season 'quiet' was always relative. He did have a pick-up to make from his grocer in the morning, so if he went out, he couldn't stay out too late; he could, of course, stay in, but there was really no reason to, and he felt as though he would enjoy some company that was not either the royal family or his brother. In any case, he should celebrate the website's first official recipe post somehow.
He unlatched the kitchen window and leaned out, calling, "Hugo!"
"Yes!"
"I'd like the car tonight -- is that fine?"
"Oh yes, we won't need it," Hugo answered, glancing at Gwen for confirmation.
"Seeing one of your harem, Simon?" Gwen teased.
"I hope," Simon replied with a smile. "Asking first, just in case."
"Well, have fun."
"If you end up at the Promenade, Portia at Fine's owes us both a drink," Hugo added.
Simon nodded and leaned back, closing the window so the cats wouldn't try to escape. He went to his bag and took out a small notebook, worn and sauce-stained, the latest of many such, and flicked it open.
The notebook held both his professional life and his personal; it was equal parts address book, diary, lab notebook, and shopping list. There were more names in the back (where he always moved the married women) than the front, these days, but his list of contacts still offered plenty of choice. He studied the page, nodded, and decided to call Laurie, who he hadn't seen in a while and was usually game for dinner and an evening strolling the Promenade.
She answered already sounding amused, usually a good sign. "Simon, you old devil."
"Nothing but an angel," he protested. "Here to carry you away to dinner, if you're free this evening."
"Last minute as always," she sighed.
"One must keep life exciting," he said gravely.
"Celebrating your new website, I take it? Shivadh Photogram is all abuzz."
"Yes! And I thought of you first," he said, which was after all true.
"And I'm just fond enough of you to believe that, but I think I'd better not," she said. "New man in my life, can't scare him off by being photographed with you."
"Only a fool would be scared of a woman having dinner with another man," he pointed out.
"Well, you aren't wrong, but he's too pretty a fool to let go of just yet, and he's got marriage on his mind," she said. "Have to pass, I'm afraid, but don't put me on the disqualified list just yet."
"I will be pleased to dance at your wedding."
"I'll send you an invite if it gets that far, or flowers if it doesn't," she said. "Ciao, my dear."
Mathilde was his next call; a long shot, but her company was worth taking the time. She already had a date for the evening, but wished him luck. He pondered who else to call, or if he should simply treat himself to a nice dinner and perhaps find a tourist to entertain himself with after. Considering and discarding the idea as too much effort, he found the number for the kitchen of the Daskaz estate, and called up to it. The estate didn't get very good mobile reception and the current Duchess, Irene, didn't care for mobile phones in any case, so it was often easier to call one of the land lines and try to locate someone from there.
He was in luck; Chloe, the sous chef, answered.
"Chloe my dear, it's Simon," he said, giving Desolee a cheek-rub as he spoke. Chloe laughed.
"Good timing," she replied, over water and clattering noises in the background. "We're just cleaning up, I was leaving in another ten minutes. Business or pleasure? Need to borrow an egg?"
"Oh, pleasure. Are you free for dinner and perhaps drinks?" he asked.
"You're in luck! I am free for the evening and ready to let you pay for everything," she told him.
"Ah, bon! Would you like escort from the estate as well?"
"No, I'll meet you in town -- say an hour?"
"I'll hold a table at Fine's," he told her. "Portia owes me a drink."
"Already making me jealous, I see how it is," she said. "I'll catch up to you there."
"In an hour, then," he said, and hung up. Chloe was young, but she also had a splendid sense of fun, and was easy to talk to. She was usually good about letting him pay, as well. He never insisted, but it did make things less awkward, when one person was willing to give way graciously -- and in any case, the chef to the royal family made a good deal more than the Daskaz kitchen's junior sous chef.
He made a note that perhaps he should consider Chloe as a first option more often, especially if Laurie was now on an earnest hunt for a spouse. It wasn't that Simon didn't care for marriage -- indeed, he loved a wedding -- but he had yet to find that rare combination of someone who appealed to his tastes, was interested in marrying, and would understand and tolerate his work hours (Laurie, for example, would not -- at least not on a regular basis). He'd given up that search some time previous and contented himself with casually wooing those who crossed his path for entertainment, little more.
Although, as he grew older, he did occasionally see the young people he'd known as children finding their lifemates -- not to mention the king emeritus, lucky in a second love -- and wonder if perhaps he ought to have kept on a little longer.
Still, no use in worrying about such things, especially with the delightful prospect of an evening out with Chloe. He went off to wash, dress, and drive into town with a smile.
***
As with many of the restaurants dotted around the main entertainment and shopping district of Fons-Askaz, known as the Promenade, Fine's catered mainly to the tourist crowd. It was first and foremost a cocktail bar, but they'd been lucky enough to land a decent chef, so when he was in town Simon often went there for dinner before it filled up with late-night drinkers. He was partial to their Yorkshire pudding, stuffed with spiced lamb and lentils, although it was a little heavy and rarely on the menu in the summertime.
Chloe caught up with him before he even made it to the restaurant. He'd parked in the lot reserved for Promenade staff (a perk of having known, and occasionally aided, so many of its chefs) and was just walking into the east entrance when she arrived from the other direction.
"Ah, you look charming this evening," he said, kissing her hand. Between him in a tailored navy suit and her in her deep orange cocktail dress, with a choker of thick coral beads and vivid lipstick to match, they could have been foreign holidaymakers going out for a nice evening. True, they did look like a man escorting his trophy wife, but if Chloe liked his company and he liked hers, he saw no reason to be ashamed.
"Thank you," she said, taking his offered arm as they walked on towards Fine's. "I probably still smell like onion -- "
"Onions cooking is one of the greatest perfumes of the world," he told her.
"Onions on my hands all day, meanwhile..." she sighed.
"Well, do you think I mind? A good smell of hard work. What do they say? Earthy," he said, as the big white pub-style sign for Fine's came into view. Or rather, should have; the edges of it were visible, but the rest was currently obscured by a large flag from the storefront next door.
"Is there a new shop going in?" Chloe asked, nodding at the flag. It was the blue of the Shivadh flag but instead of the flag's central orange star, there was orange text, impossible to read as it flapped in the breeze. "That front's been empty since the breakfast place went under at the end of last tourist season."
"No great loss; their coffee was dreadful," Simon remarked.
"Snob. Although I recall their pastries were a little leaden too," Chloe admitted. "I hope it's something fun, you get tired of the same old stores -- "
"It's a restaurant," Simon said, startled. From here he could just see the restaurant permit posted in the window, a largish sheet of neon green paper. He hurried up to study it, Chloe just as curious as his elbow.
"Plate&Press," she read, frowning. The same text, he now saw, was on the flag.
"Coffee press no doubt -- a new cafe. Probably Italian," he said.
"That'd be nice. Who's the owner, does it say?"
"Ylias Lazaar," Simon read. "Do we know him?"
"I don't. If you don't either, he's probably new. Immigrant, maybe."
"Many of those, of late," Simon said approvingly. New blood in Fons-Askaz meant new and different restaurants, money flowing in, and a smile on the king's face. "Well, we will need to try it when it opens."
"Good idea! Now, come buy me a drink," Chloe said invitingly, and Simon nodded and strolled on.
The rest of the evening was light, enjoyable, and easy. They had aperitifs at the outdoor bar at Fine's, chatting with Portia, and then went in to dine. The new summer menu was full of cold pasta dishes and light fresh vegetables, just the thing for the warm mediterranean nights to come. After, strolling down the Promenade towards the harbor overlook, he asked if she'd care to come home with him; he had an early morning, but then so did she, and there was no reason he couldn't take her home to change in the morning on his way into town to pick up his grocery order.
"Throw in breakfast and I'll consider it," she told him, smiling, and he chuckled.
"Anything else making you hesitate?" he asked, patting her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm.
"Not really. You know how people are, the gossips talk."
"Do they?" he asked, a little more seriously. "Surely you are not harmed by associating with me?"
"No, but people seem to think your reputation doesn't precede you, and that I needed to be warned. I've had a few concerned questions, making sure I know you're not serious when we go out."
"Ah," he nodded. Most people had expected him to settle down long ago, and when he hadn't, he'd gained a reputation of his own for avoiding relationships. It wasn't true, not really, but it was true that he wasn't interested in more with Chloe than the occasional nice night out (and in). "Chloe, if you have concerns -- "
" -- I wouldn't have gone to dinner with you tonight," she interrupted. "I like going out with you, and I have no expectations. I'm sorry, Simon, it really was just me teasing."
"I am not hurt," he told her, smiling. "I know people will talk. And I try not to give false impressions."
"You know what you're getting with Simon LeFevre," she agreed. "And yes, I'd love to take you up on your invitation. Although let's walk a little longer -- the night's so nice."
"Indeed. No reason to hurry pleasure," he said, and they strolled for a while longer.
In the morning, after the promised though very early breakfast, he dropped her off at her apartment with a kiss on the hand and an invitation to future dinners -- perhaps once the new cafe had opened they could try the menu? -- before turning his car back towards town and the grocery order, which had special fresh ingredients in it for the family's Shavuot party the following evening.
Which was when plans started to go awry.