POV Ella
"Mmmmmmm." Keith moans.
The deep bass of his voice causes my belly to flutter and heat pools in my abdomen. I feel warm and light all over and I could float all day.
I grin. I can't help it. When I decided to give Joan an off today, I was certain I would be punished. My dad would have thrashed the living daylight out of me if I'd pulled such a stunt at his house. But I couldn't help myself.
How could I let her suffer like that?
I could see how much she was suffering; how stiff her movements were, but she never once complained. I remember what it feels like, to be forced to endure due to circumstances beyond my control, like the winter days when Eliana denied me blankets because I couldn't complete some impossible demand or other.
"Find me a snow rose Ella!"
"Make the snowman dance, Ella!"
Nanny would secretly find me in the night, and layer my clothes before nearly swaddling me in her coat.
Joan reminds me so much of Nanny, it hurts. They couldn't possibly be more different, yet in their kindness was a warmth and comfort that made me feel safe.
Having Joan around the past four days has made the otherwise completely intolerable beginning of my marriage borderline pleasant. That she manages to exude this warmth while being clipped, professional and to the point with me is even more amazing. I can tell Keith holds a special place in her heart, but then, I know how kind Keith can be, even to complete strangers. And here, Joan is his employee… he has more of a relationship with her than he had with the thirteen year old me he helped.
I'm thrilled to now have a common love of these pancakes with Keith. It makes me feel closer to him. Like he's somehow more reachable now. That a man who could afford to eat fancy each day liked my humble food gives me some confidence.
I can't help but reminisce about the last two years. When I was in college, I couldn't even afford a slice. Perhaps, I still can't. My wages from the cafe I worked part-time at only just managed to cover the cost of rent and utilities. Most of the groceries I purchased were from the student grocery store on campus, which sold basic ingredients at heavily subsidised costs.
I suddenly remember the gruff, complaining voice of Pierre, the brilliant French chef-owner of the Coffees and Cakes, who taught me to make the pancakes.
"Mon Dieu, why are you ogling ze cakes again?" Pierre asks, his voice a familiar, sharp grumble. "Tch! I have told you mille fois, your staring iz not elegant. Zis is a classy cafe, do not drool over ze customers' food! C'est compris?" He gestures wildly as he talks, and I look away from the cake quickly. I see some of the customers look up, and pray it won't affect my tips.
It's my third month working here, and Pierre has caught me drooling over his cakes no less than 5 times, and I know he's at the end of his tether with me. Still, I can't afford to lose this job. With the tips I pull in, I'm managing to keep to part time work, and barely rent the hovel I call home.
He slams the swinging door of the kitchen shut, and I wince. I'm so wiped today, my eyes feel heavy as I move across the floor, cleaning around and under the furniture. Captain Pierre sure runs a tight ship. God forbid if he ever caught one of us slacking.
The last of the customers trickle out, and it's just Pierre and I now. I struggle to stand as exhaustion sweeps over me and I collapse into a chair. I massage my calves to try and relieve some of the cramping and my back aches something fierce.
Just ten minutes, I tell myself. I'm just going to rest my eyes and legs for 10 minutes and wrap up the chores for today.
I hear Pierre's pots and pans banging in the kitchen, a lullaby all on its own. I drift off before I know it.
"I don't pay you to nap, mademoiselle!" I hear the bitter snap of Pierre's voice and cringe as I straighten. I catch the watch on the opposite wall, and my stomach drops to my feet. Good God, I overslept!
"Pardon, Pierre! Je suis désolée!" I cry, but my sincere apology is drowned by the grumbling of my stomach.
Red floods my cheeks, and I am so mortified I could die.
" Are you trying to make me deaf?" he grumbles, "When zid you last eat?" He slides a plate of soft, fluffy pancakes in front of me and the aroma is so decadent I know I've found heaven.
My stomach growls as I reply, "I had lunch for yogurt."
Pierre stares at me like I've grown a second head. "You had yogurt for lunch?" He sighs, points to the plate and says, "Eat."
"That's what I sai— Oh my God, Pierre these are amazing!" I groan as the pancakes practically melt in the mouth. He smirks.
"Complete all ze chores and close up properly."
After that evening, Pierre would randomly slip me a couple pancakes here and there, and three more months in, one day, when he was in a particularly good mood, he taught me how to make them. It was the single greatest gift I received during my college days.
Then and today, the best part about these pancakes is that I can afford the ingredients on even the direst of days — eggs, flour, milk. When cake was a distant dream, these pancakes helped me float.
Sure my dad covered my tuition for two years, but I didn't know when I enrolled that he would find a way to punish me for going away for such a long time.
I watch Keith as his delight peaks through between the mouthfuls when he thinks I'm not looking. I feel a rush of gratitude towards Pierre.
I hadn't realised how much I would have to fight to make the impossible possible. So many dreams, desires, aspirations and hopes were sacrificed to the altar of this degree. I don't even want to imagine how embarrassed Keith would've been of marrying me if I only had a high school diploma.
I shake my head at these thoughts and turn to Keith, again, feeling such pride at his joy. I was afraid he would hate them. And me.
I return to the stove before I make a bigger fool of myself and proclaim my undying love to him.
I hum the song Pierre sang, an ode to Jacques Brothers I think.
I glance up a couple times to Keith staring at me between bites, and my nerves rampage. I'm unsure what to make of his inscrutable expression.
Was he faking his delight at the pancakes? That's exactly what my father would do, raise me up to crush me down.
"You should know your place Ella. You will never amount to anything. Just make sure to pay your debts." My father's cruel words echo in my ears, and I feel my heart sinking.
I grip the spatula tighter. No. Keith is not my father.
I take a deep breath and fix another smile on my face. Keith doesn't hate me. He liked the pancakes. And a stylist is coming to make me look presentable for lunch.
And it's only been four days since our marriage. Who knows, we might even become friends?
My first friend since Toto. My smile becomes warmer.
I cross my fingers and hope. Maybe today will be a day to remember.
Krnnngg!
The doorbell shocks me with its sharpness and a chill races up my spine.
Even so, I glance at Keith and smile. I'm still riding the wave of hope and excitement, fervent wishes cast behind silent lips.
Keith looks at me. "I think the stylist is here." A thrill of anticipation runs through me and I turn to get the door.
I should've remembered how often my wishes fell to Fate's deaf ears.