LOUISA STOOD IN THE LIBRARY of the country house and thought she had never seen so many books except at the New York Public Library. An end table was littered with glossy coffee table books and paperback books with orange spines reached the ceiling. It really was the coziest room: mustard-colored leather chairs like something in a Sherlock Holmes novel and a fireplace big enough to fit Santa’s sled, and a window seat overlooking frozen fields. If she weren’t about to miss the most important event of her career, she would be perfectly happy to curl up with an Agatha Christie novel.
In the movies when the heroine was shipwrecked on a desert island or stranded in a rowboat in shark-infested waters, she closed her eyes and imagined being somewhere wonderful. Miraculously a helicopter appeared and she climbed the ladder to safety. She was whisked away to some luxurious hospital that seemed more like a hotel and fed waffles and fresh fruit until she felt better.
But Louisa was stranded at a country estate outside London. In the last two hours there hadn’t even been the sound of a car in the driveway. Her cell phone didn’t get reception and the house phone still wasn’t working, and she had no idea when someone would come back to save them.
Digby was in the drawing room nursing his third scotch, but Louisa was too anxious to sit still. What if he drank too much and wasn’t able to drive? She had never driven on the left side of the road in her life. Navigating holiday traffic on the A23 was as terrifying as Noah’s anger when they returned to London.
She thought about Noah and shuddered. The only good thing about not having cell phone reception was that she wasn’t tempted to call him. He would offer to come get them, of course. But she’d rather hitchhike in a snowstorm than have to hear Noah say she should have listened to him and never left Claridge’s.
Digby would get them back in time. His whole reputation was at stake. She was just overwrought from the shot of brandy and the central heating that was turned on too high. A brisk walk around the grounds would clear her head.
But she was wearing a dress and pumps. If she went outside she could catch pneumonia or slip on the ice. Then she wouldn’t be able to do the show and Noah would never forgive her. She wished she were back at the bakery on the Lower East Side with cinnamon rolls in the oven and rain pounding on the window. At least then she couldn’t disappoint anyone.
Kate had been so good to her: giving her Bianca’s suite at Claridge’s and letting her have an expense account and telling Noah to buy her clothes and a Christmas gift. What had she done in return? Flitted off to a photo shoot with Digby Bunting on Christmas Eve morning.
A clock chimed two o’clock and she thought she was overreacting. Even if Digby drank the whole bottle of scotch, someone could drive them. They were only two hours outside of London; it wasn’t as if they were stuck on a remote moor in Scotland.
She turned and Digby stood in the doorway. He held a glass and looked as relaxed as if they were waiting for a massage at some fancy spa.
“You disappeared from the drawing room. I had to finish that lovely scotch by myself.” He entered the library. “Don’t worry, I switched to water. Drinking too much alcohol in the afternoon gives me a headache.”
“I wasn’t worried.” Louisa concealed her relief. “I am a little concerned about getting back to London. Everyone is counting on me and I can’t let them down.”
“Our hostess probably decided to do some last-minute Christmas shopping in Chichester,” he assured her. “They’ll be back soon and we’ll be on the road in no time.”
Digby was right; she wasn’t achieving anything by worrying. And everyone did last-minute shopping the day before Christmas. Last Christmas Eve, she left her apartment in New York for a croissant and returned with lipsticks from Duane Reade and a book she saw in the window at Barnes & Noble.
“It is a gorgeous house,” she relented. “I’ve always wanted a library where the books are stacked so high you need a ladder to reach the ones on top. And the kitchen is like a movie set. It has the biggest walk-in freezer I’ve ever seen and the pantry is stocked with more spices than Harrods. I just know the rice pudding is the best I ever made.”
“I was never allowed in our kitchen when I was growing up.” Digby rubbed the rim of his glass. “My mother was a serious hostess and was afraid I would smudge the silverware.”
“How odd, I imagined you were always tinkering with recipes,” she mused. “I made my first pancakes when I was seven. The middle was a little soft and it was almost burnt around the edges. But the blueberry and whipped cream topping was delicious.”
“The first time I really used a kitchen was when I worked at Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant at the Connaught,” he began. “I was nineteen and not interested in attending university. My father was friends with Gordon and arranged an interview.”
“Gordon Ramsay is one of the most famous chefs in the world!” she breathed. “He must have recognized your talent right away.”
“I never baked for him, but we are both big football fans.” Digby shrugged. “We root for the same team.”
“Gordon Ramsay gave you a job because you both liked football?” she asked doubtfully.
“At first I was against it,” he remembered. “I’d rather go to the nightclubs. But I liked the camaraderie in the kitchen, and the waitresses were very pretty.”
“Is that where you created your chocolate and salted caramel cake?” she asked. “It was in your first cookbook and it’s one of my favorite recipes. The chocolate ganache filling is delicious and the white chocolate shavings are the perfect topping.”
“The closest I came to baking at the Connaught was wrapping a potato in aluminum foil and sticking it in the oven,” he laughed. “Though I did meet Alan, my publisher. He came in every afternoon and ordered John Dory and a gin and tonic.”
“What a wonderful story!” She hugged her arms around her chest. “I can just imagine it: the struggling sous chef prepares a dessert at home and brings it to the publisher of England’s most successful cookbooks. It’s like James Dean being discovered pumping gas, or Lana Turner being noticed behind the counter at the soda fountain.”
“That’s not how it happened. One day Alan dropped his gin and tonic and I swept up the glass,” he said. “He asked what he should order from the dessert menu and I suggested the chocolate hazelnut plume with praline cream. A waitress saved me a slice and it was excellent. A few days later, Alan returned and asked if I wanted to write a cookbook.”
“Alan Matheson asked if you wanted to write a cookbook when you never baked anything?” she wondered.
“The publishing houses had just started putting out those glossy coffee table cookbooks. They sold them at Harrods next to the Ralph Lauren aprons.” He ruffled his hair. “Alan thought my photo would look good on the back cover.”
Louisa’s hands were clammy and she thought she might faint. She opened her mouth but Digby kept talking.
“Desserts with Digby was a huge success and I was in demand on talk shows and at charity events,” he continued. “Alan didn’t want me to make a fool of myself so he signed me up for a few baking courses. I know how to bake simple things like pound cake and chocolate mousse.”
“But you’re the king of British puddings,” she interrupted. “Your recipes for raspberry blancmange and butterscotch trifle are renowned. And you said you’d rather be in the kitchen than attending book signings and appearing on television.”
Louisa remembered when she was a girl and discovered Santa Claus wasn’t real. If she told her mother everything she knew about him—his wife was named Mrs. Claus and he lived in the North Pole and his workshop was run by elves—her mother would say Louisa was right, he was real all along.
“Alan writes most of the recipes.” Digby shrugged. “And I do enjoy working in a kitchen. It’s satisfying and quite mindless. After all, anyone can follow directions in a cookbook.”
Louisa’s cheeks were pale and she was having trouble focusing.
“Are you all right?” he inquired. “You look a little ill.”
“It’s the central heating,” she said quickly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get a glass of water.”
She hurried through the hallway and down the steps to the kitchen. She poured a glass of water and leaned against the sink.
Lots of famous people came to their success from odd beginnings. You heard stories about an actor who started as a driver for a big producer and ended up a movie star. Or an author who wrote greeting cards and his entire novel was scribbled on the backs of sympathy cards. But Digby hadn’t done anything at all. His only contribution to his own success was the way he wore a blazer.
Her eyes pricked with tears. Maybe Noah was right and Digby didn’t care about her apple crumble or rice pudding. The only reason he was interested in her was because she had a fashionable hairstyle and her eyes looked big with her new mascara.
She opened the fridge and took out cream cheese and butter and milk. She searched the pantry and found cinnamon and vanilla and powdered sugar. She was going to make cinnamon rolls and give them to Noah with a note. She was terribly sorry she didn’t listen to him, and he was right about everything.
She looked up and Digby was standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “You went to get a glass of water and didn’t come back.”
“I thought I’d bake cinnamon rolls until they return.” She kept her voice steady. “I always make them on Christmas Eve, they’re my favorite dessert.”
“I can think of a more enjoyable way to pass the time,” he said casually. “I found a guestroom that’s not in use. I chilled a bottle of champagne and there’s an en suite bath with a Jacuzzi tub.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, tying an apron around her waist.
“It’s really much better this way,” he continued. “I thought we’d have to grab a few moments in the powder room, or the backseat of the Range Rover. But now we have all afternoon and evening. Alan will fill in for me on the show; he’s done it before. And that producer of yours can take your spot. She’s very attractive with her blond hair and long legs.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Louisa wished she could close her eyes and be somewhere else.
“Of course you do.” Digby selected a green apple from a bowl. “Why else would you have signed up for my master class? You don’t need me to teach you how to make chocolate mousse. You brought me rice pudding when I was wearing a robe and slippers, and you accepted my diamond earrings.” His lips curled in a smile. “I’ve known it since we had afternoon tea at Claridge’s. You’re attracted to me, and want to go to bed together as much as I do.”
“I don’t want to sleep with you! I signed up for your master class because you are a renowned pastry chef,” she stammered. “I brought you the rice pudding because I wanted to show you it wasn’t lumpy. And the earrings weren’t a gift, they were a prop for the photo shoot.” She took the velvet box out of her purse. “I was going to return them but didn’t want to offend you.”
“Keep the earrings.” He waved at the box. “They were given to me by the manager at Harry Winston.”
“I don’t want the earrings.” She placed them on the counter. “All I wanted was to be taken seriously as a pastry chef. I learned so much from you: why an Eton mess has a funny name, and how to make the berries keep their shape in a blackberry fool. When we were together I felt like I could achieve all my goals: open a restaurant with gorgeous décor like the chocolate shop on Pimlico Road, and write a cookbook as good as the ones on your bookshelf.” Her mouth trembled. “I liked being around you because you made me feel like a proper chef. If I worked hard, I could get everything I wanted.”
“I’m not interested in any of that, I get recipes in the mail every day. Aspiring chefs leave marmalade cake and strawberry meringue on my doorstep. Somebody once climbed a tree and left a key lime pie on the ledge outside my bedroom window.” He moved closer. “What I am interested in is a lovely American with eyes like a young deer and a waist I can wrap my hands around.”
“Please don’t come closer.” Louisa stepped back. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood, there can’t be anything between us. I’m seeing someone.”
“I don’t care if you have a boyfriend.” He shrugged. “I’m not looking for anything serious, I just want to have a little fun. Why don’t I pop open the champagne and you can take off that apron and relax.”
“I care very much!” She gathered a baking tray and measuring cup and mixing bowl. “I’m quite busy. I think you should leave.”
“If you remember, that’s the one thing I can’t do,” he said with a little laugh. He looked at Louisa and there was a flicker of pain behind his eyes. “In fact, I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to finish that bottle of brandy. Getting drunk in the afternoon seems like an excellent plan.”
Louisa waited until Digby left and then turned back to the counter. She hadn’t done anything wrong; Digby made the whole thing up. Anyone could see she was only interested in him as a fellow chef; she never gave him a different impression.
Tears pricked her eyes and she wanted to curl up like the kittens she saw in the pet store window at Christmas. But she couldn’t let Digby’s words affect her. That wouldn’t solve anything.
She greased the baking tray and turned on the oven. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and fresh cream like a farm in the French countryside. When someone returned, she would beg them to take her to London. Then she would hand Noah the cinnamon rolls and he would say they were the best he ever tasted.