by Layla Reyne
“Yes,” Miller said softly.
Clancy didn’t hide his huge exhale, and Miller’s answering smile was worth it. The world steadied below Clancy’s feet even as the boat rocked over the waves. He drew his hand back and shoved both of them into his coat pockets. “Where are we going, then? On Martha’s Vineyard?”
Miller glanced back out over the water, toward the island that was growing nearer. “The first place I chef’ed.”
“I thought that was in New York, with Greg.”
He shook his head, a strange mix of pain and longing streaking across his face. “When Sloan and I left home, we came here first. A friend of Ma’s ran a B and B in Edgartown. It was the summer season and she needed the extra help. She rented us a dingy little basement apartment for cheap, Sloan cleaned and helped manage the inn, and I was the on-site handyman and landscaper. But I still needed to get out and make some extra cash.”
“So you found a restaurant to work in?”
“The kitchens in New York and San Francisco might have refined my skills, but Oscar M’Raihi gave them to me.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
A trilling ringtone pierced the quiet, and Miller dug his phone out of his pocket. A FaceTime request from Sloan lit the screen. Miller hit Accept, and held the phone out so both he and Clancy were visible. “Hey, babe,” Miller said. “What’s up?”
She looked to be in her office, elbows on her desk, eyes closed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’ve got a problem.”
“What’s going on?”
The shiver that ran through Miller could have been from the cold, but that’s not how Miller sounded. He knew Sloan well enough to sense something was wrong, to be worried. Clancy stepped closer, taking a bit of his weight.
When Sloan opened her eyes, they were as tortured as Miller’s, like she’d been crying too, but Clancy didn’t think they’d spoken earlier today. Miller’s escalating distress confirmed as much. Whatever this was, it was news to Miller too. Clancy eased an arm around Miller’s waist and Miller didn’t shake it off.
“Sloan, talk to me,” he said. “Is it—”
“I’m fine, so’s the cannoli and Tyler. I’m calling about the next stop on your tour.” She swallowed hard. “I got a call from Noelle. The restaurant’s closed.”
“Who’s Noelle?” Clancy asked.
“Oscar’s daughter.” Miller gave Clancy more of his weight, but he didn’t take his fearful eyes off Sloan. “Why’s it closed?”
“I’m sorry, baby. Oscar had a heart attack. He’s gone.”
Clancy caught the phone just before Miller lost it over the rail, then he caught Miller.
* * *
Mortality could fuck right off.
Miller didn’t need another reminder of it. He had a knot in his throat that wouldn’t let him forget it every time he fucking swallowed, and now, the person and place he’d looked forward to visiting most on this tour were gone. He’d skipped right over denial—Sloan’s face was all the confirmation he needed—and gone straight to anger, all the rage he’d banked since getting his own diagnosis roaring back. He shot out an arm and swept it across the hotel room’s marble vanity. Plastic bottles and industrial strength glass hit the carpeted floor with a muffled thump. Wholly unsatisfying, as was the string of “fucks” Miller let loose.
But it was enough to draw Clancy’s attention, his fist pounding on the connecting door between their adjacent rooms. “Miller, open up!”
“I’m fine,” he hollered.
“Bullshit! Open the door, so I can make sure you’re not hurt.”
Miller laughed, the bitter, unhinged cackle making his own ears ache.
“Miller! Let me in!”
Clancy had done enough already. Holding up his weight when the news had taken Miller’s legs out from under him. Then navigating across the island to Edgartown and getting them checked in to the hotel. Miller had shown Clancy more than he’d intended.
“Enjoy the night off, Doc.”
The knocking quieted, and a second later, Miller’s phone rang. He stepped to the bedside table, checking it. Sloan, again. He didn’t answer, again. Once the ringing stopped, there were another few seconds of silence in which Miller considered breaking it with the vase on the fireplace mantel, but before he could grab hold of it, the banging restarted, this time on the glass door to the patio his and Clancy’s rooms shared.
Clancy stood outside in his jeans and T-shirt. “Open the door, Miller!”
“I’m fine, Doc, see.” He held his arms out wide.
Clancy did the same, as if to say, I’m not going anywhere, but the blinking neon message, from his visible shivering and rising goosebumps was, It’s cold as fuck out here. Yet still the other man didn’t move, just kept getting colder and more soaked by the falling snow.
“Fuck.” Miller stalked across the room, opened the door, and yanked Clancy inside by the front of his shirt. “Get in here.”
He went to close the door, but Clancy’s ice-cold hand on his arm stopped him. “No, leave it open. I want to smell the snow and hear the waves.”
“It’s freezing, Clancy.”
He squeezed gently. “Please. This is my first time on the Atlantic, and I miss the sound of the waves.”
Miller released the door. “Fine, but sit here.” He dragged one of the armchairs over in front of the gas fireplace, pushed Clancy down into it, and flicked on the blaze. “I’ll be right back.” He hustled to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, snatched the plush robe out of the closet, and returned to Clancy, thrusting the lot of items at him. “Dry off and wrap up.”
“I’m supposed to be checking on you,” Clancy said through chattering teeth.
“I’m fine, seriously.” He dragged the other chair over for himself. “Get yourself warm.”
Clancy finished wiping down, tossed the towel aside, and wrapped up in the robe. He tucked all his limbs in the chair and under a woolen blanket. “It’s cold as balls out there.”
“It’s winter.” Miller gestured outside. “In Massachusetts.”
Clancy yanked the robe tighter around him. “From LA. Even counting my trips to Chicago, I do not have the constitution for this much snow in a week.”
The bark of laughter surprised Miller, though after a week with Clancy, it shouldn’t have. His ability to deflate whatever balloon of tension was weighing Miller down was an unexpected gift on this trip.
As was his unfailing compassion. “I’m sorry about your mentor.”
“Thank you.” He patted Clancy’s knee, then slid back in his own chair. “He would have been eighty-two next year. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
“Doesn’t make it suck less. I lost patients that were north of a hundred and while I knew they’d lived good, long lives, it didn’t make losing them any easier.”
“How’d you do it?” It sounded like utter hell to Miller. He was having enough trouble dealing with his own impending death, and now Oscar’s too. He couldn’t imagine dealing with it for a living. Going to work every day knowing you could lose someone. Not for him.
“I’d focus on making it easier for them, to move on.”
Was that what he was doing for Miller? He was making it easier in some respects, like making him laugh, but the thought of moving on wasn’t getting any easier. And wasn’t that what this trip was about? Revisiting all his favorite places—his favorite tastes—so he could move on, having had his last suppers. Yet moving on felt harder than ever.
“Tell me about him,” Clancy said softly.
Miller stood and walked over to the open door, leaning on the jamb and looking toward the waterfront where Oscar’s was located.
Was.
He fought to get words out around the lump in his throat, this one of a different sort than the physical one that was always there now. “He was quiet, calm, a
nd patient. He taught me how to make a sauce and not break it.” He smiled, remembering all the nights he’d then tried to teach Greg. His smile dimmed, however, as he recalled round two of the argument they’d had that morning. He’d left his friend on no better terms than he had the night before. A cold gust of wind pushed him farther into the past. “But for all his calm, Oscar was also energized, about his food and the diner’s experience. It was his own little world, and he wanted people to visit and enjoy it.”
“Sounds like a great chef to learn from and work under.”
“The best I had.” Miller turned from the door and reclaimed his chair, scooting it closer to the fire. “A kitchen is like any other workplace. The mood and tone of a place is set at the top, by the head chef. If he’s a screamer, and there are some seriously loud screamers in the culinary world, everyone, from the line cooks to the servers, are on eggshells. The diners notice.”
“So the opposite is better?”
“Not necessarily.” He threw his feet up on the ottoman Clancy was using and snatched a corner of his blanket to cover his own feet. “If the chef is too calm, too quiet, you run the risk of boring your staff and dining room. Granted, there are some people who want that experience, but personally, I like a lively dining room. I want everyone, from the diners to the dishwashers, excited and happy to be there.”
“That’s why we were coming here?”
“In part.” He shifted his gaze before Clancy could discern the entire truth. That Miller couldn’t get to the end without visiting his beginnings, one last time.
Clancy knocked his foot under the blanket. “What’s going to happen to his restaurant?”
A thought flitted through the back of Miller’s mind and he shut it right down, not allowing himself to give voice or further thought to it. That wasn’t moving on; not the way he had to.
“His daughter will decide.”
“Is she a chef?”
He shook his head. “She worked in finance, in Boston, until she retired and moved to Phoenix, though her son and his family still live in Cambridge. She was out here with her son when Oscar had his heart attack. Not the holiday any of them wanted, but at least they were together.”
Clancy’s brow furrowed, gaze unseeing as he contemplated. “Hmm.”
Miller chuckled. “What problem are you trying to figure out now?”
“All the restaurant stuff is still there?”
“As far as I know, yeah. He only passed earlier this week. They’ve been more worried about cancelling reservations and making funeral arrangements.”
Noelle had been trying to reach him, but she only had the restaurant number, which was now disconnected. When she couldn’t reach him, she’d left a voicemail for Sloan. The funeral would be after the holidays, in France, where Oscar wanted his ashes scattered. Sloan was already booking their flights. Part of Miller recoiled at the idea—he had his own impending death to deal with; no extra funerals, please—but he owed it to his mentor, assuming Miller was healthy enough to make the trip. Which assumed he survived this one, his confidence almost as shaky now as it had been in Jackson Hole. Not to mention the roadblocks that kept cropping up.
Clancy, though, had a work-around. “Call her,” he said. “See if we can use the space tomorrow night.”
“For what?
“Christmas Eve dinner.” Clancy leaned forward, gaze focused and alight. “Cook for us. Show me what Oscar taught you.”
Miller liked that idea, far more than he should.
* * *
They met Noelle outside a local bakery the next morning. Miller walked into the older woman’s open arms, and Clancy, not wanting to intrude, squeezed Miller’s biceps and continued inside to peruse the pastry cases. They joined him a few minutes later, both red-eyed but also smiling.
“Noelle’s going to let us use the restaurant tonight,” Miller said.
“Utilities are on until the end of the month,” she said. “You should be set.”
Clancy gave her a hug too, whispering, “Thank you for helping to make this miracle happen.”
She squeezed him tightly. “It’s what my father would’ve wanted.”
They shared a quick breakfast of croissants and coffee with Noelle, then gave her a lift to the ferry terminal so she could return to her family in Boston. From there, the rest of the day was a blur. They hit three different markets, Clancy feeling like he was a contestant on Guy’s Grocery Games, grabbing items off shelves as Miller shouted out his list. They were moving so fast, only a half day available before shops started closing early, that Clancy couldn’t guess exactly what Miller was planning for dinner, only that clams, steak and a lot of butter, bacon, and cheese were involved. No complaints from him.
They circled back to the bakery midday, and Miller exited with a mystery box of he wouldn’t tell Clancy what. As Miller played Tetris with the loaded rental car, Clancy spotted a general store still open across the street. Christmas decorations, with a SALE sign, hung in the front window.
“I’ll be back in five!” He crossed the street before Miller could shout back an objection or ask what he was up to. When he returned in ten, Miller met him by the car with a carrier bag bearing the logo of the neighboring wine store. It was a tight fit—wine bag on Clancy’s lap, a bag of goodies he wouldn’t let Miller see in between his feet—but Clancy smiled the entire five-minute ride to the waterfront restaurant. It was an immaculately kept, three-story New England colonial—cedar shaker shingles weathered gray, as was the custom, with bright white trim around the roof and windows. Not a single shingle was broken or cracked and the windows and trim were as clean as could be.
“If the inside is anything like the outside...”
“Oscar bought the building in the eighties,” Miller said, as he unlocked the service door. “He was meticulous about keeping it up.” He disappeared inside and returned a moment later with a rolling service cart. “Oscar was hell on the first floor retail tenants, inspecting their spaces regularly, but he held himself to the same standard with his residence on the third and with the restaurant.”
“On the second floor?” Clancy asked, as they loaded up the cart.
“Yep.” Miller smiled over his shoulder. “Wait until you see the view.”
Cart full, they rolled it directly into a service elevator, squeezed in behind it, and rode up to the second floor. Clancy stepped out of the cab and froze.
“Doc, you gotta move.”
“Can’t.” He was too busy staring out the bay windows that lined the dining room’s exterior walls, giving every table a spectacular view of Nantucket Sound. “How the hell wasn’t this your favorite view?”
Miller chuckled behind him. “Help me get these groceries put up and you can stare out the windows all afternoon. I’ve got work to do.”
And so did Clancy, the bags of decorations that wouldn’t fit on the cart dangling off his arms. Snapping out of it, he dropped them on the big stone hearth that separated the dining room from the kitchen, shrugged out of his coat and scarf, tossing them on top, and helped Miller ferry the rest of the bags into the kitchen.
The cook-space wasn’t huge but it looked plenty roomy for a head chef and several other line cooks, definitely big enough for Miller to maneuver around in tonight. Clancy would have investigated further, except Miller’s hands landed on his shoulders and turned him around. “Out you go.”
“I can help prep.”
“Every meal on this tour has been a surprise. This one won’t be different.”
Miller sent him on his way with a smile and smack to his ass that made Clancy blush and grin, a little turned on and a lot pleased at Miller’s uplifted mood. Maybe this idea would work. And he needed to do his part as well.
Three hours later, Clancy stepped back and observed the results of his labor. Not too bad for drugstore decorations. What had looked like a ghost of a restaur
ant with a spectacular view just a few hours ago, now glowed with warmth from the roaring fire in the hearth, the twinkling lights strung overhead, and the tall taper candles arranged in the middle of the solo round table in the center of the space. He’d covered the table with a white tablecloth, put garland around the center table candles, and set plates on either side, a red plaid napkin, frosted pine cone and small ball of mistletoe in each. The Christmas transformation was completed with a larger ball of mistletoe hanging from an exposed ceiling beam by the center window and garland on all the ledges.
Sometimes it paid to be the son of a woman who’d made her career as a hostess, first in their home, then arranging homes away for people worldwide.
Satisfied, Clancy dug his last purchase out of the bag, pulled it on over his T-shirt, readjusted his glasses, and wandered back toward the kitchen. He was about to tease Miller on taking too long, the wafting aromas killing him, but Clancy was struck speechless at the sight on the other side of the pass-through.
Miller looked happy. The first time this entire trip. Sure he’d enjoyed himself, Clancy had made him smile and laugh, but there’d always been a slump to his shoulders, a shadow in his eyes, a gray cloud hanging over his head, even on the crowded dance floor in New Orleans. But here, he looked happy and at home. In a chef’s coat, sleeves rolled up and tattooed forearms bared, he moved around the familiar kitchen humming to the nineties rock on the radio and tasting something out of a huge stock pot. He was as warm and vibrant as the fire that crackled in the hearth.
Clancy’s fascination with him wasn’t because he was a foodie and Miller was a chef. He’d put all that away the first night, focusing on the food and the tour, and thinking of Miller as a person first, a chef second. But seeing him like this, it was impossible to separate the two, much less Miller from the tour. Like you couldn’t take the doctor out of Clancy, there was no taking the chef out of Miller. Not when it made him this happy. Deep lines around his sparkling blue eyes, his smile bright in its chestnut beard, and his face red with color, with life, that’d been missing thus far. Miller had called him stunning the other night, but he had it the other way around. Miller was the one who was stunning.