The Billionaire’s Full Figured Desire

Of course, that was what she had hoped it would be, she hoped and longed that she was just having a bad dream and that someone would wake her up. She wished it was just a joke between her coworkers, but she knew it wasn’t, not with the gaping hole in her chest that seemed to grow bigger and bigger as time went on. It didn’t seem fair that she had lost it all, she had done everything right. She had worked hard and had worked from the very bottom-up. How could it be possible that in an instant it was all gone? It didn’t feel right.

And when it had finally dawned on her that it wasn’t a joke and that this was happening, Frida had felt sick. Felt like she wanted to throw up and not stop until all her guts were spewed across the sidewalk. It wouldn’t make the situation any better, and she doubted it would make her feel any better too, but her entire body wanted to react to the news as if she had eaten something had.

Frida had heard many times that life was a fickle thing. That it was an enigma. That new surprises, twists, and turns lurked around every corner. And yet, she didn’t think that she’d ever experienced it as fully as this before. Three years her career had been in the making. Three years she’d studied and trained and worked her fingers to the bone. She’d worked harder than any chef in O’Malley’s kitchen, and that was why he had recognized her effort and made her his successor when he’d finally resigned, as opposed to the many other capable chefs in L’Ultima Cena’s kitchen.

And make no mistake, they were all capable. Andrew, who’d been cooking longer than any of them. The chef de parties, the line cooks, the commis chefs, the assistant chefs…they were all worth their weight in gold, and it was a combined effort that had propelled L’Ultima Cena to number one bistro in Seattle. It hadn’t been Frida by herself. Of course, she’d played her part, but that was the point. They’d all played their part.

Running a kitchen was like stitching a big, old quilt. Frida had heard that there were some communities, down in the deep south in places like Texas, Alabama, Virginia, and Georgia who still kept up the tradition of stitching or knitting or even crocheting huge quilts. Back in the days, it had been away for the womenfolk of the villages and towns to keep busy, they’d all get together and stitch a huge, incredible quilt. But over time, as the barriers between genders were broken down, men began to join the fold also, helping to bring the tradition along.

And really, it was never about the quilts. Well, not the way that Frida saw it. She herself had never taken part in any kind of quilting competitions (quilting bees is what they were called), Seattle was far too modern a city with far too modern women to stand for “that kind of folly,” but from her perspective, it’d never been about the quilts. It’d been about putting a bit of oneself into anything that one cared about. Whether that be knitting, or crocheting, or sewing, or drawing, or painting, or writing. Anything.

And running a kitchen was very much the same, and Frida could personally attest to that, as a Head Chef with just over a year of managerial experience under her belt. No one part of the team was any more important than any other part. She, a Head Chef, was no more important than the kitchen porters, who cleaned and swept and mopped and made sure all the equipment was spick and span.

The chef de parties were no more important than the waiters and waitresses who took the orders and handled the most outrageous customers on a day-to-day basis. Again, Frida could personally attest to it, being a waitress was one of the toughest, most underrated jobs out there. How long had waiters, waitresses, and busboys been campaigning for a cost-of-living adjustment in order to support themselves? The public’s outcry was always that people who served food didn’t deserve fifteen bucks an hour. If they wanted good wages, they should have stayed in school and gotten their degrees, like the “smart” kids.

Frida had never agreed with that. Because the people who said those things were the same ones who had never been waitresses, never had to be waitresses and wouldn’t last a day in the job even if you did pay them a living wage.

Frida wished that she’d had more time. She wished that she’d been able to explain to her team more often just what they’d meant to her. But it was over now, and the time for such things was long past. For the past few weeks, since the restaurant had been shut down, Frida had been applying for job after job in and around the Seattle area. At first, she’d been expecting to be offered a high-level position because of her reputation, but now she saw how foolhardy that was. Her reputation was worth precisely nothing because her restaurant had gone down in flames.

Everybody thought that she’d bribed a food critic, or manipulated him in some way, despite Terrence’s many public statements that he had given an honest and accurate critiquing. As he’d told her, nobody believed them. Frida found herself wishing, quite often, that she’d taken Terrence’s advice and tanked the review. What’s the worst that could have happened? It couldn’t have been worse than this!

Frida had been offered quite a few positions in the area, but few were worthy of her skills and her experience. She was not going to start off as a Head Chef again, she’d made her peace with that much at least. But she refused to go back to being a waitress. That was a bitter meal that she absolutely refused to swallow, regardless of price or circumstance. They may have taken her restaurant and her reputation, but Frida Carter still had her pride. And no one could take that away from her, no matter how much they tried.

Two months later, Frida was leaving work. The best available job offer in the city had been at a little French restaurant on the edge of town as a line cook. A line cook! It was an insult! Yes, it may have been a very honorable and worthy profession, but Frida had been a Head Chef! And no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t seem to shake the memories loose. She couldn’t seem to shed the memories of all that she had lost.