Abby
As I chop, stir, melt, and saute, the others stand around me, watching intently. The pasta simmers on the stove, the air smelling like warm butter and spices.
It’s enough to make anyone’s mouth water. But my focus isn’t on the rumbling in my belly, nor is it even on the lingering pain in my ankle.
My focus is on the black truffles in front of me.
“Chop them nice and small,” Anton instructs, watching as I work. “That’s perfect, Abby.”
“Thank you, Anton,” I say as I drop the finely chopped mushrooms into the melted butter. “How much time do we have?”
“Don’t worry about the clock,” Karl retorts. “If Mr. Cunningham wants this dish so badly, he’ll just have to wait.”
“Yeah. You can’t rush perfection,” John chimes in.
As I watch the truffles turn glistening
