“Hey, Chef, guess who’s in the dining room,” Chuck asked as he punched an order into the computer. Uncle Angelo’s was a small place, and everyone pitched in wherever they were needed. Just then, Chuck was needed at the front end of the house, since Jill, our usual server, was out on maternity leave.
“Emeril Lagasse?” I’d long since stopped trying to get my kitchen crew to stop calling me chef.
“No.”
“Wolfgang Puck?”
“No!”
I grinned at the batch of dough I was preparing, then glanced up through my eyelashes. “All right, then, who?”
“Mr. Beaumont.” My crew were all young enough to have had Artemas as their chemistry teacher and always referred to him as Mr. Beaumont.
I felt a grin light up my face. Artemas and I had been friends since he’d driven up to Cambridge eight years before, an
