Chapter 12 - The Brownstone Inspection
On Thursday afternoon, Audrey and Micah stood on the wide stone steps of the Lincoln Park brownstone.
The house was completely silent. The smart-home security systems had been deactivated by the bank; the custom imported Italian furniture was tagged with neon yellow foreclosure stickers; and the sleek, minimalist art pieces Brett had purchased to project an image of high-culture success looked cold and out of place in the afternoon light.
Brett wasn't there. According to Julian Thorne, he had moved into a cramped, temporary studio apartment near O’Hare Airport, frantically trying to salvage what remained of his professional reputation by cold-calling old culinary school contacts who were all pretending not to answer their phones.
Audrey walked through the double-height foyer, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. This was the house where she had spent five years playing the role of the quiet, supportive spouse while Brett hosted private dinner parties for wine critics and city politicians.
She walked into the oversized, state-of-the-art kitchen—a kitchen with six ovens, custom copper hoods, and marble countertops that had barely ever seen a speck of flour because Brett preferred ordering caterers for his social events rather than letting anyone actually cook in it.
Micah ran his hand along the pristine, unblemished marble island. “It’s too clean,” the boy noted, wrinkling his nose. “Doesn’t smell like yeast or butter at all. Just smells like expensive paint and regret.”
Audrey let out a quiet, genuine laugh, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the private courtyard.
“We’ll fix that, sweetheart,” Audrey said, resting her hand on her son's shoulder. “The first thing we’re doing is ripping out this marble and putting in butcher block. Real wood. Wood that can take a beating and still hold a dough board.”
As if on cue, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. It was an incoming call from an unknown number with a New York area code.
She swiped to answer.
“Audrey Finch-Holloway?” a smooth, corporate voice asked.
“It’s just Audrey Finch now,” she corrected crisply. “And you have about sixty seconds before I hang up.”
“Right. Understood,” the voice stammered slightly. “I’m calling from the executive committee of the National Culinary Awards. We’re... well, we’re restructuring our annual gala committee. Given recent events, we’d like to formally invite you to keynote our autumn symposium and accept the Golden Whisk Award for lifetime contribution to Chicago gastronomy.”
May you like
Audrey looked around the empty, echoey kitchen of the brownstone, then down at Micah, who was grinning ear-to-ear.
“Tell you what,” Audrey said, her voice ringing clear and strong through the receiver. “If you want me to speak at your symposium, you can change the venue. I don't do hotels with crystal chandeliers anymore. If you want my recipes, you’ll have to come down to the flour dust on Clark Street.”
