by Lisa Jordan
The evening chill crept down his neck. The crunch of his steps through the dried leaves broke the stillness of the darkness as he trekked down the road to the farmhouse, where the front porch light shined brightly, beckoning him to find solace for his pain.
He was fine.
Or at least he would be.
He’d survived greater pain than this.
He just had to keep moving. One foot in front of the other.
He entered the farmhouse without knocking and headed to the kitchen as sounds of the game filtered from the family room.
Tucker opened the cabinet and pulled out two plates, filled them, then tossed one in the microwave.
Bella didn’t need to know he’d watched YouTube videos to see how to make the pastry-wrapped asparagus. And she didn’t need to know he’d pored through his mother’s old cookbooks searching for her recipe for molten lava cake.
Wasted effort to impress a girl who didn’t want to be a part of his life.
Grabbing steak knives, forks and napkins, he carried the food into the family room. Dad lay stretched out on the couch, but when he saw Tucker, he jumped to his feet and reached for one of the plates.
He inhaled. “Smells good. What is it?”
Tucker listed the food he’d made for Bella.
“What happened to dinner?”
“She got a better offer.” Tucker sat on the matching leather chair and cut off a bite of steak. Then he set the plate on the coffee table, his appetite gone, and rested his elbows on his knees. Cupping both sides of his head, he told Dad about his conversation with Bella.
“I thought we’d be enough for her, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Son, this isn’t about you or anything you’re lacking. It’s about Isabella wanting something she hasn’t had for years—a relationship with her mother. And honestly, you can’t blame her for that.”
“I know, and it would be selfish to stand in the way of that, but she seemed to think it was an either-or thing, and she wouldn’t be able to have both.”
“So instead of standing in her way, you stood aside.”
“She kind of blindsided me with her news. And it didn’t seem to be the right time to tell her how I felt.”
“So you let her walk away. You risked your heart and ended up getting hurt.”
“Something like that. I should’ve realized I had my happily-ever-after already.”
“Tucker, you’re no stranger to heartache, but I think that’s a lie the enemy plants in your head to keep you from going after what God’s mapped out for your life. Perhaps a form of self-preservation against more hurt. The Bible tells us perfect love casts out fear. And God doesn’t give us a spirit of fear but one of courage and boldness.”
Dad’s soothing tone laced with compassion and words of wisdom chipped away at the foundation of the wall Tucker was rebuilding around his heart—the wall Bella had helped tear down each moment he spent with her.
“I know that in my head, Dad. I do. I’d planned to tell Bella how I felt, to see what a future together could be like, but I didn’t get the chance. And now I have to figure out how to get over her.” He drew in a ragged breath through his aching lungs. “I can’t lose her, Dad. I can’t go through that again.”
“You love her.”
Tucker paused and pressed his forehead against the palm of his hand. He swallowed several times as he realized Dad hadn’t asked a question but made a statement.
“Yes.” The whispered admission gave him renewed strength. He pushed away from the wall, squared his shoulders and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “Yes, I do.”
Standing, Tucker moved in front of the window, his shoulders slumped and his chin to his chest. Snow was beginning to fall, covering the grass flake by flake.
“If you love her, then make sure she knows that. And no matter what happens, God’s got this...and you.”
The weariness from the past few days weighed on him. He knew his father’s words to be true. All he needed to do was lean into them and release his burdens.
God, I’m tired. So tired. I can’t keep going like this. What do I do now?
Chapter Fourteen
Isabella had spent years not being that girl—the one who fell apart when the cute boy didn’t call her—and she wasn’t going to start now.
Because if she spent even half a second thinking about her ruined dinner date with Tucker, then she was going to crumble into a million pieces.
And she was not going to be that person who let someone break her heart.
Focus.
If she didn’t get her head in the game and stop second-guessing herself, then she’d miss out before she had time to get her plates in front of the judges.
She’d done too much of that on the drive to the Briarwood, replaying her conversations with Tucker and her father in her head.
Was she a fool for leaving everyone she loved behind?
Especially Tucker.
Stop thinking about him.
“Jeanne, can you remove the asparagus from the oven?”
“Five more seconds.” Her friend, with her blond tangle of curls pinned in a French twist and dressed in matching chef whites, gave her a thumbs-up as she reached for a pot holder and removed the pan from the oven.
Crispy-looking heads of asparagus crowned the golden pastry wrapped around it.
Isabella added oil to her cast-iron skillet and seared both sides of the rib-eye steak she’d baked in the oven on low heat. The reverse sear method will maximize flavor and moisture. Then she tossed in a couple of tablespoons of butter, let it melt and added garlic cloves and sprigs of thyme. She spooned the butter sauce over the meat, then pulled it out to rest on the cutting board while she plated the asparagus and herb-roasted potatoes.
When Jeanne managed to get her entered into the competition at the last minute, Isabella had scrambled to come up with a menu. With Tucker at the forefront of her thoughts, she’d borrowed the menu he’d prepared for their dinner.
A quick glance at the clock showed they had less than two minutes to have their plates ready for the judges.
She grabbed her chef’s knife and cut through the steak, pleased to see the pink in the middle with nicely browned outer edges.
Five minutes later, Isabella stood behind the table with her hands clasped in front of her as her heart slammed against her rib cage so hard she was afraid everyone in the room could hear the beating.
In the past six years, she’d done so many events in this ballroom when she worked in the Briarwood kitchen, but she’d never been a participant.
The Briarwood ballroom, with its ivory walls, spoke of birthdays, anniversaries and wedding celebrations. Crystal chandlers hanging from the ornately tiled ceiling scattered diamonds of light across the linen-covered round tables adored with bowls of fresh flowers and filled with guests watching the competition. In the middle of the room, on the parquet dance floor, a long table covered in banquet cloths and surrounded by three chairs waited for the judges. The side door to the ballroom opened.
Chef Solange Boucher, tall and thin, dressed in a black pantsuit, led the way to the judges’ table. Her dark hair with the signature silver streak was confined in a chignon at her neck. Her eyes cool and face composed, as she sat and perused the crowd. Their eyes clashed, and Isabella’s breath hitched. Her mother’s eyes narrowed, but then Chef Scott, the executive chef at the Briarwood, sat next to her and pulled her attention away from Isabella.
Isabella let out a sigh. When she was busy cooking, she hadn’t taken the time to think about what was to come.
Justin Wilkes, Isabella’s former boss, sat on the other side of Chef Scott.
Perfect.
Jeanne had said Solange Boucher was going to be the primary judge, but she wasn’t sure who the other two were going to be.
Walking back into the Bri
arwood had been Isabella’s first mistake. Entering this contest had been her second. But she couldn’t back out now.
There was too much at stake.
The emcee of tonight’s event walked to the center of the ballroom, and a hush fell over the room.
“Welcome to the Solange Boucher Culinary Competition.”
Isabella tuned out his words at the mention of her mother’s name.
“We’ve narrowed our finalists down to three. Our first finalist’s entrée consists of seared steak with a garlic butter sauce, herb-roasted baby red potatoes and pastry-wrapped asparagus.”
Servers dressed in black pants and white tuxedo shirts carried her plates to the judges. They picked up their forks and knives and cut into her steak. For a moment, the room waited in silence.
Her mother set her fork on her plate. “The steak has a nice sear and a wonderful flavor combination with the herbs and butter, but the interior of the meat is a little cool for my taste.”
Justin smirked at her then nodded at her mother. “I agree. The entrée, while good, just seems a bit ordinary. I expected more from the chefs in this competition.”
Chef Scott looked between the other two judges. “Sometimes simple is best. Comfort food is soothing to the soul, and this entrée speaks comfort to me, yet it showcases the chef’s culinary knowledge, taking a simple meal into something that tantalizes the taste buds.”
Isabella pasted a smile in place and forced her face to stay neutral. She swallowed past the clog in her throat and tuned out the rest of the comments about the other finalists’ plates.
Less than an hour later, with her third-place ribbon crumpled in her pocket, Isabella headed back to her station in the kitchen to ensure it was as clean as when she found it. She washed her knives, then stowed them in her case and zipped it closed. She just wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
The memory of her humiliating career ending had resurfaced the moment she pulled onto the grounds. And now the memory would be coupled with her mother’s remarks about her cooking.
The quicker she left, the quicker she could put this debacle behind her.
Isabella left the kitchen and peeked in the ballroom to see if Jeanne was still cleaning up. Finding the room empty, she turned and promptly bumped into someone.
“Oh, excuse me—” She looked up, and the rest of her words died on her lips.
“Pardonnez moi, s’il vous plaît.” Her mother reached out and pressed a hand on Isabella’s arm.
She looked at her mother’s hand with manicured nails and opened her mouth, but she couldn’t make a sound.
Her mother took a step back and started to turn.
“Wait.”
Her mother turned, her cool smile in place without any recognition in her eyes. “Oui?”
“M-my name is Isabella Bradley. I’m your daughter.”
Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth as color drained from her face. “Mais non.”
“Yes. Joe Bradley is my father. Remember him? Us?”
Her mother looked around and lowered her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you. I wanted to ask why you left me twenty-five years ago crying at the airport with Dad and never came back. I’ve worked so hard to become a chef you could be proud of, to be the daughter you’d want back in your life.” Her voice choked as tears filled her eyes. She tried holding it together. A betraying tear trailed down her cheek.
Her mother reached out a hand toward Isabella’s face, but before she could touch her daughter’s skin, she lowered her hand and stepped back, shaking her head. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” Her mother hurried past her and fast-walked down the hall.
Isabella stared after her, her feet frozen no matter how many times her brain screamed to go after her.
What had she expected? For her mother to take her in her arms and beg for Isabella to forgive her?
Isabella just wanted to leave. Leave the Briarwood and never set foot on the property again. It would be forever tainted by the memory of her mother walking away from her for the second time in her life.
With an ache hollowing out her chest, Isabella hurried outside to the back lot, where she’d parked her car.
This morning’s snow had turned into a whiteout. She stood in the doorway of the exit trying to remember where she’d parked her car. Finding it in the second row, she stepped outside.
“Isabella.”
She turned to find Dad standing outside under the awning holding a single peach rose tied with a white ribbon.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
“I came to watch you compete.”
“You were here the whole time? Why?”
“You’re my daughter, and this competition was important to you. I knew what was at stake. And I didn’t want you to face it alone.”
“Oh Dad.” She flew into his outstretched arms. He wrapped her in his embrace, holding her as the emotions she’d pushed back broke through the dam in her chest. “She didn’t want me.”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“I just want to go home. Back to Shelby Lake.”
Dad guided her through the snow, took her keys from her hand and unlocked the doors. He settled her in the passenger seat, then rounded the car to the driver’s side.
“Where’s your truck? How did you get up here?”
“Tucker drove me.”
“Tucker was here?”
Dad nodded. “He offered to drive me back home, but I felt like you needed me.”
She pressed her head against the back of the seat. “I was an idiot for expecting more. If she wanted to see me, she would have done it way before this.”
Dad gripped her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know this hurts, and you need time to process it, but you can’t force others to love you. I will always be here for you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. Let’s go home.”
Home.
Back to Shelby Lake. Back to the diner...for as long as they had it. Back to her ordinary life and where her heart, given time, could find wholeness again.
But could she do that without Tucker?
* * *
Maybe he was being a coward, but if Tucker could stay away from Joe’s diner, then maybe he’d have a chance to get over Bella.
Since watching her competition and seeing her awarded third place—and knowing what that meant for her—he’d longed to reach out to her, but during the long drive home in blinding snow, he’d talked himself out of it.
After getting in late, he tossed and turned most of the night, and now he was dragging when he needed to pull it together to catch up on patient care reports.
Hopefully the rest of his shift would stay nice and quiet.
“Hey, Holland. You got a minute?”
Tucker jerked up to see his operations supervisor, William Franco, standing next to his desk. “Yes, sir. What’s up?”
“How about coming into my office?”
He pushed away from his desk, passing the window as he headed for Franco’s office. Howling winds swirled snow, creating a gray haze and limiting visibility. He found his boss standing in front of his window, his back to his open door.
His muscles tight, Tucker rapped his knuckles on the door.
Franco turned and waved him into the room as he returned to his desk. “Come in and shut the door. Have a seat.”
Tucker perched on the edge of the padded chair, his gut knotted as his eyes veered to the storm outside the window. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and blew out a quiet breath. “What’s up, sir?”
Franco leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his hands together. “I’ve been watching you, Tuck. You’ve had a tough few years, and like I said a couple of months ago, I felt like you’ve been burning the candle at b
oth ends.”
“I remember our previous conversation, sir, and I’ve put plans in place to ensure I’m giving my all on the job without distractions.”
“I’m not worried about your job performance. You’re the best paramedic I’ve seen in years. You stay focused and steady on the street, respectful of your crew, and your bravery and professionalism have been noted by those who have been watching you for the past few months. Which is why—” He paused to pull out a sheet of paper and slide it across his desk to Tucker. “When Brandon submitted his resignation as EMS instructor, he suggested you as his replacement. Of course, before that could happen, you’d have to take courses to get your certification. The hours would be a bit more stable. You’d be off the street and spend more time in a classroom. Not sure if that’s a pro or con.”
Tucker studied the paper listing educational requirements, salary, outcomes, expectations. He looked at Franco, who leaned on folded arms watching him. “Thank you, sir, for your consideration. I’d like to take some time before giving my answer, if that’s okay?”
“Yes, of course, but I will need to know within a week or so.”
“You got it, sir. If there’s nothing else—”
Before Tucker could finish his sentence, someone rapped on the door before throwing it open. Harrison stood in the doorway. “Excuse the intrusion, sir.” His gaze shifted to Tucker. “Dispatch just received a 911 call of a five-year-old male having an allergic reaction to a mushroom. Holland, it’s Landon.”
Tucker’s body went cold.
He forced his rapid-fire pulse to slow as ice slicked his spine. “Let’s jump in the truck and go.” He pushed past his friend to head for the garage.
Harrison grabbed his arm. “Transport’s already been called out. We’ll meet him at the hospital.”
Tucker rounded back to Franco, his throat thick. “Sir...”
Franco waved him away. “Go, but be careful. That snow’s coming down pretty hard and steady now.”
Tucker stopped by his desk to grab his cell phone and jacket. He found two missed calls from Willow. For the next ten minutes, he crawled through town behind a snowplow, his wipers working overtime to keep his windshield clear. Even though he wanted nothing more to pass the lumbering vehicle, he needed to stay where he was. The plow was the only way he was able to see where he was going.