Chef’s expressive face was full of sympathy and sorrow.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the timer went off. Darla wiped her face as he went to check the bread, and took a large gulp of orange juice. It felt like a relief to talk about things with someone, even if the problem didn’t look any less futile.
The fragrant bread did not, apparently, meet with approval, and he put it back in the oven, setting the timer.
“Miss Grant...” he started, when he returned.
“Darla,” she corrected. “Please call me Darla.”
“Darla,” he agreed. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”
Darla looked at him with all the steadiness she could muster. Talking over her dilemma had only solidified her resolve. “I am going to get married. I am going to walk down the aisle and recite fifteen generations of ancestors and wear flowers and seventeen necklaces and say vows that will bind me to someone else forever.”
“And your mate? Are you sorry you met him?”
Darla’s gaze wavered. “I’m not sorry,” she said at last. “Even if I only got a glimpse of what might have been, I’m glad I got that much.” She sounded more miserable than brave to her own ears.
It could be so much more, her snow leopard wailed.
Chef turned away, and Darla wondered if she’d said something wrong. When he turned back, his eyes looked misty.
“I’m not sorry you met him, either,” he said warmly. “Breck’s got a big heart, and you clearly do, too.”
“Will you… will you tell me about him?” Darla asked hesitantly. Was it foolish, wanting to know more about someone she couldn’t have?
Chef smiled at her. “You’ve probably… heard things,” he said knowingly.
Darla’s blush betrayed her.
Chef pulled out a wicked knife and began chopping a bin full of vegetables into tiny, perfect pieces as he thoughtfully spoke. “What you have to understand about Breck…. he’s not what he’d like everyone to believe. He isn’t bothered by people thinking he’s a hedonistic heartbreaker, out for his own pleasures, nothing more complicated than a shallow, self-centered playboy. But if you look a little closer, you’ll see that he’s more than the stereotype he sets himself up as being. He cares more about people than he cares about what they think. He’s not afraid to look weak to make someone else feel strong; he’ll sacrifice every shred of his own dignity to give someone else their own.”
He shook the dirt off of a clump of carrots and cut the leafy tops off. “I’ve known a lot of people over the years who imagine themselves as heroes, for standing up to bullies or muscling their way to success. But I’m not sure any of them has ever given a fraction what Breck has given, to people he’ll never see again, in ways they usually never even recognize. He isn’t kidding when he boasts that he could have his pick of partners, but he never selects the most handsome or the richest. He always chooses the one who needs him most. And he doesn’t do it for their acknowledgement, only for their happiness.”
“Your mother, she only sees the stereotype. Breck’s not ashamed of his sexuality, and he’s never been afraid to use sex to comfort someone or give them confidence. But don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s in it for his own pleasure first or that the jokes and flirtation are all there is.”
“My mother doesn’t understand comfort or confidence,” Darla said quietly, absorbing Chef’s words. “Appearances have always been more important.”
“Then you, of all people, know how much weight to give them,” Chef said wisely.
The timer went off again, and he got up to remove the bread from the oven a final time. Darla finished her plate of food while he busied himself preparing the day’s food.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely.
“Thank you,” Chef said oddly. “I hope you’ll stop in tomorrow morning, as well.”
“It’s nice to miss the breakfast bustle,” Darla agreed. “I think I will.”
Chapter 18
Breck was surprised that Chef trusted him with the bread again after his previous blunder, but he didn’t mind the early assignment.
It wasn’t like he was sleeping much anyway, and it gave him the excuse not to linger in the common room with the others that evening.
He rose well before dawn and walked in the drizzly darkness to the kitchen, trying not to think about Darla.
He was very unsuccessful at it.
So unsuccessful that he stopped and stared at her for several moments before he realized that it actually was Darla, standing at the back kitchen door. Her hair was getting wet and sticking to the sides of her face.