I dunno who the (expletive) titled this book, but they were on crack.
A frustrating read. Hilderbrand apparently operates under the delusion that a book takes only a few stock characters and a hint of mysterious mystery that isn't explained until the very end, bake at 500 degrees for fifteen minutes stir twice, success!
Why, Elin? (Can I call you Elin?) You had the ingredients for creme brulee au chocolat and you settled for microwave brownies. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? & more importantly, why would you do it to me?
Here is the story that should have been written:
Marguerite (plain; long hair; super-excellent chef) spent fifteen years on the end of the line jerked by Porter (wealthy, pretentious, selfish). He gave her a restaurant; she gave him good sex. Meanwhile, Marguerite is immediate BFF with his sister Candace (blonde; artlessly beautiful). Meanwhile, Candace has married and borne a child (Renata). Meanwhile, Marguerite has fallen in love with Candace.
On the night Porter breaks it off for good, Marguerite realizes/confesses her love to the leggy and ethereal Candace, who is overwhelmed and a bit squicked out -- either by this revelation or by Marguerite's insistence that her sudden desire be returned in kind. Candace decides she needs a breath of fresh air. Candace goes for a run. Candace is hit by a truck.
And so Marguerite wants to die too. She has placed all her emotional well-being in a single basket and it is sunk to the bottom of the reedy river. She has never been beautiful, never been strong or free in the way Candace was, so effortlessly graceful. So she goes to the woods and makes a fire and puts in one of her lovely silver spoons and burns the fuck out of her tongue, because destroying the last remaining joy in her life is the only sacrifice she can make that comes close to the pain of the loss of Candace. It swells up; she nearly dies; she is hospitalized (incarcerated) for a long time; she withdraws from the world and certainly from the restaurant ... until her god-daughter Renata calls and wants to meet her. I'm getting married, she says. I know I'm too young, but I'm in love.
That's wonderful, darling, says Marguerite, desperate to see this girl, this image of Candace, this miracle. Why don't you come over for dinner and we'll talk.
If it's okay, I had some questions about -- about my mum. He never talks about her.
Marguerite closes her eyes even though the child cannot see her. She does not choke. She says, so gently she does not recognize her own voice, it's been stiff from the salt of Nantucket and held-back tears since Candace died and here it is again, almost new, almost whole -- Whatever you want to know. I'm here.
And on opposite sides of the island, the women hang on to the telephone wire like it's the only solid thing in the world.
The real book has various drawn-out dinner parties, nasty rich white people, nasty poor black people, various omg-are-we-lesbians?! friendships, unfinished business, men who exist on the tangent of women's emotional lives and in the foreground otherwise, lots of lobster, and is penned by an author who knows a lot about cooking but very little about baking bread.
I like my version better.