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"Henry, may I keep these three notebooks?" Audrey Hepburn asked.
Without even thinking, Henry nodded. "Sure."
If not for her request, he never would have painstakingly written everything down. It's not like a Kryptonian super-brain could ever run out of storage space.
So he handed them over without hesitation. He felt no loss—on the contrary, the exercise had been unexpectedly refreshing. Normally, with his super-intellect, solving math or physics problems was almost automatic; unless it was so unsolved conjecture, the answer would just co to him.
But literature and philosophy were different. Here there was no single correct solution. The challenge was to express ideas beautifully enough to persuade, to move others. In its own way, that was no less demanding than the work of a mathematician or physicist.
At last, when it was finally done, Henry exhaled with relief. He was ready to swear he'd never repeat such a marathon again—when Audrey turned those luminous eyes on him and asked:
"So, my dear, do you know any other love stories from different cultures?"
Henry almost jumped. "Another one?!"
"Of course," she replied with playful triumph. "No matter how old a woman is, she still loves a love story." Then, with a hint of mischief, she added: "You convinced that love isn't only Roo and Juliet or War and Peace. But if you want to truly believe you, you'll need more examples."
And then ca the eyes. Those wide, glistening eyes, bright as jewels, powerful enough to cut through any Kryptonian armor. Henry could practically feel his health bar drop to zero.
"Fine, fine," he surrendered. "But you'll have to wait until tomorrow."
"Why?" Audrey pouted with the subtle force of a seasoned actress. Kryptonian or not, Henry could only grit his teeth and endure.
"Because one story per day is the maximum. And tonight is Christmas Eve—I need to help prepare dinner." Her health was still fragile, so als usually fell to Henry or the housemaids.
Audrey relented, but not without a sly condition: "All right, but from now on, one story every day."
Henry groaned. "Boss, what is this—A Thousand and One Nights? Just don't have executed after story one thousand."
"Preemptively pardoned," she laughed. Then she leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. "By the way, since it's Christmas Eve, where's my present? You're not going to make wait until tomorrow to open it under the tree, are you? Be kind to an old woman—let have it early."
"You're already holding it," Henry said, nodding at the three notebooks.
Audrey frowned in mock protest. "That doesn't count—I asked for those. A gift has to be given freely."
Henry shook his head. "In every culture's stories, there's one lesson: greed leads to bad endings. You got your present. Now I need to cook, boss."
---
That evening, the household gathered. Alongside Robert, Audrey, and Henry, her two sons were coming ho. Sean Ferrer would even bring his girlfriend, Lila Flanagan. Dinner preparations were anything but simple.
Especially since Audrey had requested a feast of European traditions: Portuguese king cake, Belgian cookies, Czech carp, German Berliner doughnuts, Russian Olivier salad, Danish rice pudding, Romanian pork, Swedish pickled herring, smoked salmon and atballs, French foie gras and oysters with a bûche de Noël, and Spanish sweet bread.
Main courses, desserts, and starches—a lineup so extravagant that a nutritionist would faint on sight. Just a bite of each would send anyone's daily calorie count through the roof.
Henry hadn't made many of these dishes before, but with recipes in hand he trusted his skills. Timing was the real challenge; so steps simply couldn't be rushed, even with super-speed.
As usual, the first step was to shoo the five Jack Russell terriers out of the kitchen. They were already plump from sneaking scraps—round as balls, practically ready to be served themselves.
Sean and Lila arrived first.
In his early thirties, Sean was in his pri, with the striking looks of both parents. He radiated the warmth of a golden boy, the very quality that had chard Lila, a sweet brunette.
The mont he entered, Sean embraced his mother. "Mother, this is Lila, my girlfriend."
"Hello, Lila."
"It's an honor to et you, Miss Hepburn."
They exchanged a European kiss on the cheek. Then Lila handed over a paper bag. "I made this for you—a hand-knit scarf."
Audrey pulled out the scarf, admiring the tasteful pattern and fine stitching. "Oh, how lovely. Sean, your girl has such clever hands." She draped it around her neck imdiately, then clasped Lila's hand warmly. "And please, call Audrey. Co, sit with ."
The young couple bead. First impressions between future mother-in-law and daughter-in-law couldn't have gone better.
A little later, Luca Dotti arrived. With a psychiatrist father, Luca had inherited less of his mother's glamour than Sean but more intellect, excelling in school.
Raised together by Audrey, the brothers were neither especially close nor distant. The ten-year age gap ant that by the ti Luca was old enough to rember, Sean was already away at boarding school.
Their feelings toward Robert were complicated, but they knew their mother best: a woman who needed support, who needed soone to lean on. They had their own lives and ambitions; if their biological fathers hadn't been able to stand by her, then Robert taking that place seed natural enough.
At least he cared for her well.
Henry, observing, noticed the quiet distance among them. Each loved the sa woman, but not each other. Still, there was no hatred—this wasn't the drama of husbands and mistresses.
And Henry himself? Just the cook. The cook who'd wrangled a place at the table
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