Author's Note: Work sucks right now, so naturally I'm avoiding by writing this. Here's a fast update for ya. :)

- six: to market -
edward

"So tell me more about France."

Bella gives me a slightly wary look over her shoulder as we walk side by side. I send back my best friendly, reassuring smile.

I can't quite figure out what's making her so hot and cold with me. One minute, we're chatting and trading good-natured barbs like old friends. Then she'll clam up out of nowhere, go back to those narrow-eyed glances with a side of white-lipped skepticism.

I'm almost certain that she likes me. That she's impressed by my approach to food. But it's almost like she's fighting it, and I don't understand why.

I have a hunch that it's the key to sealing the deal on the job, and I'm nervous I won't be able to land on what's causing it.

But the weather is so beautiful, the streets so full of energy that I find my optimism rising anyway.

She'd apologized that we had to park her ancient red truck so far from the Farmers' Market that takes over the leafy Park Blocks every Saturday. But truth be told, I'm thrilled at the chance to walk in the sunshine. And so is the rest of Portland, if the streams of smiling pedestrians going to and from the market are any indication.

"Come on," I cajole. "I'm not probing you for weaknesses here. Just making conversation."

That makes her mouth relax a bit, and I get the reward of that tipped-up corner.

"What do you want to know?"

I give an exaggerated shrug. "Anything. Everything. Why did you decide to go? How long were you there? What did you do?"

That little glimmer of amusement spreads into a full, if reluctant, smile.

"I went over in 2013," she begins.

"For the harvest, right?"

She shakes her head. "Not originally. I was in the viticulture program at UC Davis but it was…not really what I was expecting." Her small nose wrinkles, and I think I get a glimpse of the kid she used to be. It makes her look younger, less worldly. "Lots of math, lots of chem labs. Almost nothing directly related to wine, at first. But my sophomore year, I got a serving job at this little farm-to-table restaurant and the sommelier kinda took me under his wing."

Her face softens at the memory. "I loved it," she admits. "I felt so much more connected to the wine, to the experience, than I ever did in class. Laurent—the somm—he saw how enthusiastic I was. His cousins owned a small, super traditional winery in Lirac, and he suggested I take an internship with them over the summer. I went, obviously. Then they asked me to stay for the harvest and…"

Her slim shoulder, clad in a light cardigan, lifts in a half-shrug. "At first it was supposed to be a pause, just for the fall term, to get some hands-on experience before I came home to finish my degree. But one term became a year, and a year became two…and in the end, I didn't move home til 2022."

I whistle low. "That's a long time." An inane thing to say, but true. "How long did you work for them?" Billy told me the broad strokes of Bella's background, but I'm surprisingly hungry for the details.

"Couple years." We're approaching a teeming mass of people and tents that must be the market, taking over multiple blocks of the long, narrow park. I hope she'll keep talking anyway, and she does. "I knew by that point that I didn't really want to make wine, I wanted to deal with the finished product. But I wanted to stay in France, and I needed something prestigious on my resume to get a somm job at a French restaurant."

I snort. "I can imagine," I say, grinning. I dealt with that particular brand of French patriotism from some of the chefs I worked for in New York. "So what did you do?"

"You want a coffee?" she asks instead of answering, motioning at a stand conveniently located at the edge of the throng. I nod, and we take a spot in the short line.

She returns back to my question. "The Fourniers—that's the family I worked for—recommended me to the Drouhin family in Burgundy."

I can't help but glance down at her at the name. That ghost of a smile is playing on her lips again, and her gaze slides unseeing over the nearby stalls, like she's looking somewhere beyond them.

"As in, Maison Joseph Drouhin?" I ask.

Her eyes slide back to me, and there's a mischievous glint there. "Oh yeah," she says. "They have no problem hiring Americans…especially not Charlie Swan's daughter."

That makes me laugh in delighted surprise. "Did everyone in the world know Charlie?"

She snorts. "Well, not quite," she says. "But the Drouhins happens to have opened a second winery in the Willamette Valley back in 1987, so..."

I rub a hand over my jaw, still grinning. "Damn, that's some pull your dad had."

We're at the front of the line now. Bella orders a double shot of espresso macchiato, and I opt for the house brew. She throws cash on the counter before I have a chance to even reach for my wallet, which makes me grit my teeth.

"Don't," she warns. "It's a business expense."

I'm sure a close reading of my discomfort with her paying would reveal some interesting truths. But I'm not interested in looking that hard.

The cashier hands Bella her change, which she promptly drops in the tip jar, and then we step aside to wait for her espresso.

"So. Burgundy," I prompt, taking a cautious sip of my coffee. It's not quite blistering-level hot, but it's close. But the rich brew is too enticing; I take a second sip.

She gives me that hairy eyeball, making me want to roll my eyes. "Aren't you bored of this yet?"

"Nope," I respond cheerfully. "Continue, please."

Unlike me, she doesn't try to hide her eyeroll. "Fine. Burgundy." She crosses her arms. It's a fight to keep my eyes on her face; the tank under her open cardigan is low-cut, and I am pretty tall.

Focus.

"Drouhin has a great tasting room," she says. "With a restaurant and everything. Started as a server, helping with the winemaking on the side. But they paid for my CMS courses, so I worked my way up to managing the tasting room."

"Bella?" the barista calls, setting a short paper cup on the counter. Bella picks it up, and motions for me to follow her. We start off down one of the crowded paths, strolling slowly through the vendor stalls.

She picks her story back up unprompted. "When I got my Certified Somm credentials, I started applying for restaurant sommelier roles. Eventually, I got a call back from this place called L'Annexe in Paris, and that was it. Worked there for just shy of three years, and then…Charlie."

She pauses in front of a stall overflowing with mushrooms—mostly morels—and glances back at me before she starts examining the goods.

"Damn," I say, stepping up beside her to pick up a mushroom and inspect it. "Paris. What was that like?"

I can almost feel her grin. "Amazing," she admits. "And awful."

I sneak a glimpse at her out of the corner of my eye. "Why's that?"

She wrinkles her nose at me. "C'mon, you've worked in fine dining long enough." She turns back to the path, ready to move on. I put my morel down with some reluctance—there's no place for them in our current menu plan, but they look good—and follow. "It's a nightmare a lot of the time. And L'Annexe was…"

She sighs. "You heard of Maison Arnaud?" she asks.

I nod. "Ardaud Lemoine's flagship." Lemoine is one of the greats of French fine dining, and Maison Arnaud is the three-star jewel in his crown. Every chef with dreams of fine-dining greatness knows it.

"Exactly," she confirms. "L'Annexe is like the little sister wine bar. The food is amazing at both places, but I feel like back-of-house at the wine bar all had kind of a chip on their shoulders or something. And being an American, and a woman…"

I cotton on quick. "They picked on you." There's a knot forming in my belly—apprehension, anger, self-righteousness. I've worked in kitchens like that, so I see where this is going.

Bella makes a face. "Look, I hate to blame it on that," she says. "Like, they do it to everybody. It's a hazing thing. We ran the gauntlet, now it's your turn. And if they smell any potential weakness, they're gonna exploit it." Her eyes flick to me. "You know."

"I do," I say cautiously. "But it doesn't have to be that way. It shouldn't be that way."

"Well, regardless, it was there." Her tone is resolute, with no hint of self-pity. "The first year was kinda hellish. At least, until I stabbed the saucier with a foil cutter."

"You what?" Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that. I can't tell if it sounds like I'm impressed or horrified.

She flashes those white teeth at me, and a shiver of something runs down my spine. "He snuck up behind me while I was decanting a really expensive bottle." There's a hint of pride in her tone. "They'd purposefully left a whole sardine out til it started to stink so they could use it to fuck with me. Saucier spotted me with that bottle and decided this was the opportune moment to shove it down my pants."

I make some small horrified noise, and she exhales sharply through her nose. "Get it, fish? It's funny because vagina." She rolls her eyes.

"Stupid," I growl. I notice I'm squeezing my coffee cup so hard that the top is threatening to pop off; I have to force my grip to relax.

"Very. But he didn't count on me being armed." Her expression turns smug at the memory. "I'd caught his reflection so I was ready for him, and just when he grabbed my waistband, I whirled around and slammed the foil cutter into his hand. Surprised the hell out of him."

I can't help it—I guffaw at the image of the teeny little blade on the end of a corkscrew sticking out of the douchebag's hand.

"Bet that got them off your back," I say, still chuckling.

"Well, it put an end to all the pussy jokes, anyway," she says with a rueful smile. "Things settled down to more or less the normal level of razzing, which I could deal with."

It's making more sense now, why she's so wary of me. She's spent years having her experience and abilities questioned. And now that she's opening her own place, I can imagine she wants to guard against filling her kitchen with the same kind of idiot.

My stomach twists a little, and I touch her shoulder to bring us both to a halt in the middle of the crowded path. Marketgoers file past us—we're two rocks in a fast-moving stream. "It shouldn't have come to that," I say softly. "It's a badass move, Swan, but a good chef or sous would have put a stop to all that long before."

Her lips purse. "Yeah, well. Chef was busy next door, and the sous was the one who got the idea to leave the fish out for a few days."

I see red for a second. "Fucker."

She waves off my anger. "Whatever. Over now." She breaks our eye contact and points up the path. "C'mon, we got shit to do. Let's go see what looks good at Billy's."

And then she's striding off, leaving me to trail after her.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The Blackheart Farms stand is crowded with patrons—Millennial dads with babies strapped to their chests, grey-haired older hippies feeling up the organic produce, cool 20-somethings snapping artsy photos on film, the perfectly coiffed Botox-and-Pilates set. I even spot a face or two I vaguely recognize from the kitchens I've moonlighted in over the last six weeks.

It's clearly the largest produce stand, with a broad variety of vibrant vegetables, fruit, and even a display of late-spring flowers.

"Well looky here, it's Belly!"

Bella groans. "Oh God, not you!"

But she's smiling as she says it, and she laughs when a mountain of muscle swoops in to wrap her in a big hug.

"Jake! Stop!" she protests when he lifts her small body off the ground.

For just a second, I feel awkward—the third wheel in this very friendly greeting. But then I get a glimpse of the guy's face and feel a little better. He can't be more than 21. Young, dumb, and full of—

"Jake, this is Edward Masen," she says, motioning to me. Her open cardigan slipped off her shoulder when Jake picked her up. I can't help but watch the sliver of smooth skin disappear as she pulls it back into place. "Not sure if you've met yet—he's been working at a few spots around town."

The kid grins at me, holding out a massive paw of a hand. I take it with a slightly firmer grip than I might usually do.

"Yeah, I've seen you around," he says warmly. "Nice to meet you officially, man. My dad's said good things."

"Jake is Billy's son," Bella cuts in. "He handles some of the delivery runs."

"Just enough for beer money," he quips. "Been too busy with school to do much else."

Now he says it, I do recognize him. "So this is what a lifetime of eating Billy's produce does to a guy?" I joke lightly. "I gotta tell you, I'm not used to looking up at people. This must be what Bella feels like all the time."

Jake laughs, and Bella rolls her eyes.

"Five-four is exactly average for women in the US," she gripes. "You two are just giants."

I grin at that—stupid to take pride in something inherent like height, but I can't deny I like towering over her a bit.

"So whatcha need, Belly?" Jake asks, clapping his hands together in anticipation. "Or are you two just out for a romantic stroll?"

The look Bella gives him is pure wrath. I have to cover my grin with my hand.

"We're working," she practically snarls.

Jake shoots me a surprised look, eyebrows raised. "You get the chef job, then?"

"Just on a trial run," I correct him quickly, remembering Bella's irritation when I called her boss earlier.

"We're doing a little dinner at Carlisle's next week," Bella tells Jake. "We're just getting him stocked up for recipe development."

"Well, good luck, man," Jake says earnestly. "I know my dad was real excited about your interview."

I let my eyes flick to Bella as I thank him. Her lips are pressed together and she's avoiding both our gaze, looking over the bin of multicolored chicories on display instead.

"I gotta get back to the register," Jake says finally. "Let me know if you need anything."

Bella waves him off and I give him a quick wave.

"Nice kid," I say.

"Oh yeah, real nice," she grouses, making me grin.

"You known him long?"

"Since before he could walk." She slips through a gap in the crowd to get closer to the herbs and leafy greens. I follow. "So what direction are you thinking for the granita?"

I pull out my notebook as I survey the multitude of bright green bundles. There's all the standards—oregano, parsley, cilantro, tarragon—but I want something a little unexpected, since the albariño-oyster pairing is pretty obvious on its surface.

"That sorrel looks interesting," I say, jerking my chin toward a small basket of the long leaves that's just out of my reach. "Can I try it?"

Bella plucks out a leaf from the top bundle without hesitation and rips it in half. She hands me a piece and takes the other for herself, popping it into her mouth.

I do the same with mine, concentrating on the bright, lemony flavor as I chew. It's a burst of pure spring green—acidic, but with a grassy undertone that mellows it out.

"Not too overpowering," she says thoughtfully.

I swallow the morsel, and the taste's gone. "Bit one-note, though."

She shrugs. "Maybe. But it'll line up nicely with the wine's acidity without overpowering the minerality. Albariño can be kinda delicate."

I wrinkle my nose. I like the flavor—I think it's the right direction. But the elements just aren't coming together in my head.

"Something's missing," I say under my breath, more to myself than anything.

I can feel Bella's eyes on me like a physical touch. "You don't have to figure it all out right this second. Give yourself a little time to sit with it."

I force myself to give her a nonchalant smile. "Yeah, I know. Just thinking."

Her face crinkles in concern, but there's a mischievous spark behind her brown eyes. "Be careful. You don't want to strain something."

I roll my eyes at the jab obligingly, but truth be told, it makes something glow in my chest. Every time she teases me, no matter how mildly, feels like a victory over her skepticism.

"Get the sorrel," she says. "We'll focus on the other stuff for now, but I bet you'll get some inspiration before we head home."

We spend nearly an hour at Blackheart, tasting and selecting. The produce is amazing—as fresh as anything I've had the privilege to work with. And the variety tells me Billy's operation must be pretty vast.

We order enough that Bella arranges a delivery to my house. A little frown appears on her lips as I give Jake my address, but she doesn't say anything. I wonder if she's making the connection that we're neighbors.

Our produce shopping done, we turn our attention to the rest of our list.

Meat, fish, specialty goods—it's all here, which surprises me. I'd assumed this market was mostly for civilians, not professional kitchens, but it seems most of Bella's preferred suppliers have at least some small presence here.

Watching Bella shoot the shit with all the vendors is a sight to behold. I feel like I get a whole other side of her. The wary cynic is gone, replaced with easy banter. She's cracking jokes, insulting the wares, asking about spouses and kids and vacations.

This is the moment when I really see it—the woman that could actually run a high-end restaurant. She's not just the creative mind behind the scenes. She commands attention, and everyone we talk to wants to dance to her tune.

It's magnificent.

It takes a couple hours to get it all done, but by noon, we're laden with bags full of ingredients for me to play with over the next week.

"Anything else you need, just keep the receipts," she tells me sternly as we lug our haul back to her truck. "I'll reimburse you. Once you have your plan, send me the full list with quantities and I'll make orders to be delivered to Carlisle's."

"Sounds good," I say. I'm used to making my own orders, but it's clear she considers the suppliers her domain. I'm wary of making any moves that might look like I'm encroaching on her turf just now—after that conversation at the end of our interview, I know I have to be careful. She's on the lookout for any hint of the control freak I've so carefully buried.

It's easy enough to hide away for the moment, when I'm laser-focused on landing the position. But I can't deny the little flicker of concern at the back of my mind. Her hold on the reins is tight now—not so tight that I can't work within it, but who's to say it wouldn't get worse over time?

I think of Aro, of his rapid slide from silent partner to dictator. I think of myself, and how quickly I became one of those hair-trigger, screaming chefs I'd always hated. Obsessed with my own authority in the kitchen, just to avoid admitting I'd lost control over myself.

I like to think I've learned a lot since then, but I know that streak is still there. If she tightened the screws, would I fall into my old patterns?

I watch Bella out of the corner of my eye as we load up the truck bed. The truth is, there's no way to know for sure. I can only hope she'll learn to trust me to run my own kitchen, release some of her iron grip on every aspect of Cygnet and let me do my job.

That is, if I get the job.

Footnotes:

Maison Joseph Drouhin and Domaine Drouhin are both real wineries in Burgundy and Oregon, respectively. The other restaurants/wineries mentioned in this chapter are made up.

A saucier is a position in the traditional French brigade kitchen system. It's a station/line cook in charge of the sautée station and sauces, usually the highest position on the line (but below sous chef and chef de cuisine).

Sous chef is the second in command in the classic kitchen brigade. The sous keeps everything in line and runs the day-to-day stuff of managing the crew.