All I Ask of You

by Iris Morland

  Julia cupped her glass in her hands, saying nothing.

  Grace was about to go upstairs when her mom said, “You’ll tell me, won’t you, if anything’s wrong?”

  Grace wasn’t a good liar. So she didn’t look at her mom when she replied, “Of course I will.”

  Upstairs, she gazed out her window, sipping the tart lemonade. She glanced at her art supplies in the corner, a blank canvas sitting on its easel. After attending the University of Missouri and graduating with a degree in studio art, Grace had returned home, unsure of how to proceed. She’d loved painting since she was a young girl and had even won a number of awards for her work. But after graduation, she’d found herself burnt out and unable to paint a thing. Not to mention, there were few jobs out there for painters.

  Suddenly determined to do something, she set her glass on a side table and sat down on the wooden stool in front of her easel, setting up her paints and beginning to mix some colors. She tended to paint abstract paintings, with layers of color and emotions bleeding from the pictures like tears on a page. Swirling the yellow paint, she began lightly creating strokes across the canvas, not even sure what she wanted to paint. She just wanted to see if anything resulted.

  Grace layered orange and red and then blue, a blur of colors manifesting on the canvas. It seemed startlingly bright in the dim room, and after a couple of hours had passed, she stood back to examine her work.

  It looked…lifeless. Uninspired. It wasn’t even a painting of a particular figure or scene: just colors. Smeared, pointless colors. She hated it on sight. Tossing her brush onto a table, she flipped the canvas around so she wouldn’t have to look at it. She wondered if her parents would freak out if she started a fire in the fireplace to burn it.

  Instead, she got ready for work and made sure to scrub the paint from her fingers until they ached.

  Chapter Two

  When Jaime found Eric outside smoking instead of prepping for tonight’s dinner, he had to restrain himself from kicking his sous chef in the shins and send him packing.

  To be fair, he wasn’t in the best of moods. He hadn’t been the moment he’d seen Grace in River’s Bend’s front room, looking like some kind of angel out to haunt him—did angels haunt people?—with all of that long, blonde hair and light eyes. She had the creamiest complexion with freckles dotting her nose, and he was pretty sure even her eyelashes were tipped with blonde. Add to that a swan’s neck, a rosebud mouth, a sweet smile…

  Jaime groaned. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t lust after his boss’s younger sister who also happened to be seven years his junior. What kind of asshole did that make him? And now he’d definitely hurt her when he told her they’d be a disaster together.

  Standing outside, he shaded his eyes, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t take his frustration out on Eric—even if the lazy asshole deserved it—and he couldn’t take it out on his staff, either. They didn’t know he’d effectively cockblocked himself and was dealing with the consequences. Maybe he just needed to get laid.

  It had been six months, but who was there to date in tiny Heron’s Landing? The pickings were slim in terms of single, eligible women, and Jaime had already slept with two of them (which seemed excessive, given how small the population already was). He didn’t want to expand that list any further.

  Thus, his current torment. He told himself he just wanted sex. He refused to think that he could just want Grace Danvers. She was like a younger sister to him: he’d known her since she was eighteen years old, for Christ’s sake. She’s been starry-eyed and hopeful for the future, just about to attend college and do all of the things you’re supposed to do when you’re in your early twenties.

  Jaime envied Grace that, in a way. His parents had emigrated from El Salvador to Missouri with next to nothing except a job offer from Washington University in St. Louis for his dad, Fernando.

  An archeologist specializing in Mayan culture, Fernando had worked at the university for close to three decades now, while Jaime’s mother Ana had owned her own jewelry store—now expanded to two more locations—for just as long. They were the embodiment of the American dream. Jaime had been born—a surprise to both of his parents—five years after their arrival in the States.

  Jaime had worked his entire life: in his mother’s store and then culinary school. He didn’t regret his path, but sometimes he wondered what life would’ve been like if he could’ve just gone to school, figured things out, and maybe relaxed for once.

  Relaxing is for rich people, he thought wryly.

  Jaime saw that Eric was finishing off his cigarette, dropping it onto the ground without a backward glance. Jaime gritted his teeth.

  He’d gone through three sous chefs this year, and Adam had forbidden him from firing Eric preemptively. At his interview, he’d seemed capable. But after Eric had realized he couldn’t coast, he’d become sullen and lazy, probably because he knew that even if he were fired, he’d just find another position without hurting for money. His parents were loaded—his dad was a senator, for Christ’s sake—and would pay his rent if he asked them.

  Jaime had nothing against with people who made more money than him—that was life, and he was happy with his life as it was now. But guys like Eric who thought they were too good to work hard, who had had everything paid for and had never had to face consequences for bad decisions? Yeah, Jaime wasn’t a huge fan of people like Eric.

  But Jaime wouldn’t dwell on that mess right now. He waited until Eric returned inside before following him. He got together the menus for next week and remembered that he still needed to talk to Adam.

  Adam, who had seen him holding his sister out a window. He winced inwardly. Did he suspect that his executive chef had turned down his sister? If he did, there’d be hell to pay. Not because Adam wanted them together—no way in hell. But making her cry? That would be bad news. Adam had a tendency to see his sister as a little girl in need of his protection, and if he thought Jaime had done anything to hurt her, even unintentionally?

  Well, to say Jaime’s balls would be ripped from his body would be an understatement.

  It doesn’t matter, because it’s done. I did the right thing. I can’t feel guilty about that.

  Jaime entered Adam’s office, the door unlocked, only to find his boss in an embrace with his fiancée Joy. Joy had bright purple hair that was currently up in some complicated hairstyle, chandelier earrings jingling as she laughed. Adam looked at her like she hung the moon in the sky and caused the earth to rotate on its axis, and if Jaime weren’t so uncomfortable watching them, he’d be jealous.

  “Oh, Jaime, there you are.” Adam didn’t let go of Joy, but she turned to Jaime as well. “Do you have the menu ready?”

  Jaime watched as Adam stroked Joy’s bare arm. He was happy for his friend—he really was. Adam had been so lost after the death of his wife Carolyn that when Joy had entered the picture, everyone had been thankful. Until Adam had screwed things up, but they’d managed to find their happy ending.

  Jaime placed the menus on Adam’s desk. “Joy, it’s nice to see you. Any new stories brewing that will piss off your fiancé?”

  Joy laughed. “I’ve been too busy to write, but there’s always something up here.” She tapped her temple. “It also helps that it’s so easy to rile Adam.” Patting his chest, she added, “Isn’t that right, honey?”

  “I don’t know why I put up with you,” Adam said.

  She smiled. “Do you want me to answer that right now?”

  “Behave yourself.” Turning back to Jaime, Adam asked, “How’s everything going? Is Eric improving?”

  Jaime grimaced. “Can I be honest? I’d like to punt kick the kid into the river.”

  “I think this is my sign to exit.” Joy leaned up to kiss Adam on the cheek. “See you later?”

  “See you. Try not to do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Joy just waved a hand as she left.

  Going around to his desk, Adam sat down, and Jaime sat down across fro
m him. “What’s Eric done now?” Adam asked.

  “Well, for one, he can’t cook worth a damn. Two, he’s lazy. Three, he’s a spoiled brat. I could go on, but I’d rather fire him and find someone worthwhile.”

  “And fire the fourth sous chef we’ve hired this year? I hate to even say this, but do you ever wonder if it’s you that’s part of the issue?”

  Jaime knew it was him—but that wasn’t the problem. He had exacting standards, while all of these boys sat on their asses and thought they didn’t have to work hard because mommy and daddy would always take care of them.

  But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he said in measured tones, “I know I’m a hard ass. But they aren’t going to become great chefs otherwise.”

  “I get that, and you do amazing work.” Adam rubbed his forehead. “We just have too much on our plate right now. Eric isn’t my favorite person either, but can you try to work with him? At least until after the New Year? We have four weddings and the farm to table event in April to focus on.”

  Jaime didn’t want to spend one more second coddling Eric O’Neill, but Adam was still his boss. So he nodded tightly and muttered something about “doing his best.”

  Adam looked at his monitor and opened up what was probably an email. Scanning what looked like a spreadsheet, Jaime watched as he frowned and made “hmmm” sounds at his computer for a few moments.

  “Are you going to share why you’re grunting at your computer, or should I leave you two alone?” Jaime asked.

  Adam looked up, as if he’d forgotten Jaime was there. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a financial spreadsheet sent over from the CPA. These numbers aren’t adding up…” He frowned again. “Sam must’ve put in some numbers wrong. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. What are your thoughts about getting chefs from around the state for this farm to table thing?”

  Jaime was glad to talk of something else. He gave Adam a list of potential chefs in the state who could be invited, along with ideas for panels and food served. Ever since the harvest had been abysmal for the past three years, River’s Bend had since expanded into events, hosting its first wedding only a week ago. That same wedding where Jaime had rejected his boss’s sister even though if he were remotely honest with himself, he’d admit how much he’d wanted to reciprocate.

  He shook off the memory. He could not let himself get distracted. He had work to do, a restaurant to run, a boss to keep happy, and a sous chef to avoid murdering. Getting entangled with Grace Danvers would be career suicide.

  After talking with Adam, Jaime returned to the kitchen to finish prepping for tonight. This was a slower time of year for the restaurant, and he didn’t expect a huge crowd. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want the food to be perfect each time: it didn’t matter if a customer was a state senator or some local from Heron’s Landing. Every time they served food, it should be amazing.

  Eric, though, seemed hell bent on doing the exact opposite. Jaime caught him texting in the pantry when he should’ve been prepping. Later, Eric overcooked the salmon, and Jaime almost tossed the plate in his sous chef’s face. A headache was threatening, and this was one instance when he wished he were the boss of River’s Bend and could fire anyone he wanted.

  Technically speaking, he could fire Eric, but Adam had asked him to stick it out. So he would stick it out. Even if it drove him to drink, he would do it, at least until after the New Year. The last thing Jaime wanted to do was add to Adam’s plate when the vineyard still wasn’t out of the red completely.

  As the night wore on, Jaime began muttering in Spanish, calling Eric all kinds of names he wouldn’t understand. Everyone knew when Jaime spoke Spanish in the kitchen was when he was pissed. The words flowed in a river of rolled r’s and slightly lisped c’s, the accent regional to El Salvador and how his parents spoke Spanish at home.

  At any rate, by the time he got to go home, Jaime had decided a bottle of wine would be his best partner. Sometimes he hated Heron’s Landing—or rather, hated how small and insular it was—while other times it had been the place he’d felt most at home. It was a strange contrast, and one he’d yet to fully reconcile. He had friends here—Adam most of all—but oftentimes he still felt like the strange foreigner, even though he was just as American as his sous chef.

  And of course, there was Grace. Grace! In his mind, Jaime had begun calling her Graciela, and sitting on his couch, he leaned his head back and sighed. Graciela, Graciela, what am I going to do with you?

  When he’d first met her, he had to admit, he’d barely noticed her. She’d been shy, young, her long hair in her face, and she’d stuttered her name and subsequently hadn’t said another word when Jaime had come over for dinner at the Danvers’ home that first time. Back then, Carolyn had still been alive, and she and Adam had kept the conversation going, laughter and jokes filling the room.

  Even the Danvers patriarch and the boss of River’s Bend at the time, Carl, had been in a good mood. Jaime had just been offered the job of executive chef at River’s Bend, and he had all kinds of ideas of how to bring the restaurant to a whole new level. Although Carl had been skeptical, Adam had been wholly supportive.

  Grace, though, hadn’t said much during that dinner. She’d just watched, passing a bowl of food whenever asked. Jaime had sat next to her and had tried to engage her in conversation, but she’d been so shy that he’d eventually given up. He’d been twenty-five and too interested in himself to draw out an awkward eighteen-year-old who wore long skirts and bangles.

  Something had shifted since then. After Grace had returned to Heron’s Landing after receiving her degree in studio art, she’d blossomed. Oh, she looked only a little bit older, and she still wore her hair in braids, but she wasn’t that shy girl of eighteen. She was a woman now, and Jaime—goddamn him—had noticed.

  Jaime closed his eyes. He’d never, in his wildest dreams, would’ve thought Grace would approach him and confess her feelings. He’d known she liked him—he’d be an idiot not to notice, but he’d assumed she’d be too shy to say anything to him. When she’d come to him, wearing that dress, her mouth red and her creamy skin glowing in the lamplight? He’d been lost.

  “Fucking hell, I’m a mess,” he muttered to himself. He took the bottle of wine and stuffed it back into the fridge. He wasn’t drunk, but he was buzzed enough that he was becoming sentimental. Since when did he sit at home and cry over a woman he couldn’t have? He must be losing his damn mind.

  About to turn in for the night, he heard his phone ring. To his surprise, it was Adam. He never called this late. Suddenly worried, he picked up. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Sorry to be calling you this late,” Adam said. He didn’t sound upset, but he did sound stressed. “But you know that financial spreadsheet from earlier?”

  Jaime had forgotten all about it. “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I looked into it further, and there’s evidence that someone is stealing money from the vineyard.”

  Jaime sat back down. Who would steal from River’s Bend? He couldn’t believe it. “How do you know? And do you know who it could possibly be? Jesus, Adam, this is the last thing we need.” His mind started whirling, trying to figure out what this would mean. They were already in the red enough: losing money like this could be a death sentence.

  “It’s not absolutely conclusive. But there are traces, traces that Sam sent me. We’re going to call a detective tomorrow and launch an investigation.” Adam paused, and Jaime could just imagine his friend clenching his jaw.

  “But do you know who?” Jaime ran through the people who worked there—Kerry, Adam’s assistant; Chris, the groundskeeper; Leah, the wine tasting coordinator. Would any of them do such a thing? He couldn’t imagine any of them would.

  “That’s the thing.” Adam took a deep breath. “All of the evidence points to one person—and that person is you, Jaime.”

  Chapter Three

  As Grace grabbed her paint supplies and stalked out of the house, she wished her hand
s weren’t so full that she couldn’t slam the front door as well.

  Why don’t you try to get a real job instead of wasting time down at Trudy’s?

  What are you going to do with your life?

  Her dad’s words echoed in her mind, making her stomp down the path that would lead to the river. It wasn’t that her dad was wrong, but Grace simply didn’t have an answer to his questions. She’d gone to school to paint, she’d earned her degree, she’d tried to find some kind of job that would allow her to continue painting…but she’d quickly realized she’d have to move back home if she didn’t want to starve. She’d applied for other kinds of work—office jobs, retail, even a dog walker—but no bites. Grace had a degree with no work experience, and the economy being what it still was, no one wanted to take a chance on a twenty-three-old when they could hire a forty-three-year-old with two decades of experience instead while paying that middle-aged worker half what they deserved.

  The weather had finally turned chilly, like fall was supposed to be. The leaves had changed into bright reds, oranges, and yellows, and they crunched underneath Grace’s feet as she walked down to the river. It was a spot she’d come to often as a young child, mostly to get away from her annoying older brothers, and now she used it as a place to clear her mind.

  She also hoped the gorgeous scenery would inspire her to paint. Even if she painted some hotel lobby landscape, something was better than nothing. She hadn’t completed a painting since before graduation.

  Grace shivered a little as she sat down on the hard ground, setting up her painting supplies. She had on leggings underneath her skirt and sweater, but the wind had enough bite that she probably should’ve brought a jacket. But she refused to go back home and face her dad right now. He only criticized her lately, like she could never be good enough in his eyes. He’d never understood why she had wanted to paint, and now that she was working minimum wage and living at home, his arguments that she should’ve majored in something practical were proving fruitful.