Page 84 of Chaos
If that happens, I’d need a way to get back in here.
But everyone knows I work in the greenhouse. Plumberger called me the gardener. And he said he’d only make an exception this one time.
By the time we’ve cleaned up every tray and bowl and mixing spoon we used, and dishes are coming back from lunch—and four special cupcakes sit on a plate for Yorke, Auden, Shane and me to enjoy later—Plumberger is crankily slamming pots around as he begins to prepare for dinner.
I still haven’t solved the problem of how to get back in here, but I do have an idea.
“So …” I clear my throat. “Plumberger?”
He glares up at me.
“Shasta wants a job.”
Behind her sunglasses, her brows snap together. “Huh?”
I squeeze her arm. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to help?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I did.” There’s a tiny edge to her voice.
“A job?” Plumberger barks.
“Yes! Thank you.” I grin. His eyes narrow, so I hurry to add, “It’s so kind of you. Being blind is hard for her. She wants to be useful.”
Shasta releases a tiny indignant puff.
“And we’re planning a big holiday celebration,” I improvise, but the second I say it, I know it’s right. Ruby talked about having a White Winter party. It’s time to give the unhappy soldiers and the cranky ex-townees a taste of Thornewood at its best. “We’re going to need all kinds of food.”
“When?”
“Soon. Really soon. You’re going to need help.”
“I could use help prepping, I guess,” he says begrudgingly.
“Chopping is probably not a great idea,” Shasta says. “Blind. Remember?”
“She loves food though. She’s really talented with flavors and seasonings.” Since she looks like she might start arguing, I talk faster, “She’s got instincts. And she listens to recipe books all the time.”
“I don’t need instincts.” He sets out a container of powdered buttermilk, and I cringe wondering what he intends to do with it. “You ever work in the kitchen?”
“Not once,” she says.
I ram my shoulder into her.
Plumberger glares at us. “You think I’m a bad cook?”
“Kind of,” Shasta says, same time I say, “No! We didn’t say that.”
He sets down his wooden spoon. “I can run a kitchen.”
“You put salsa on beets,” she says.
His face reddens.
“Being a good cook is about more than heating up food in sufficient quantities,” Shasta says. “Some flavors don’t belong together—and you routinely put those together. You could use some help menu planning, and I think you know it.”
“We’re not saying you’re bad,” I hasten to add placatingly. “But we have a huge holiday celebration to create. White Winter. Colleen just approved it. You could use some help.”
His nostrils flare. “At the Glenn, I followed pre-set plans. But here …herethere’s none of the stuff we need. This …” He splays hand around to encompass the room. “Working with random bottles, and your stupid endless root vegetables, and your pickled shit. This isn’t what I signed up for.”