Jackson's Love (Lake Hope Book 3)

by Mel Walker

  “Hidden behind a VCR tape of that western movie Silverton in the office,” Aaron says. “It didn’t take long once I began to look.”

  I gaze quickly at Tyrone, who isn’t offering any theories. His guilt is written all over his face. “So when I told you to leave, you devised this stupid scheme to hang around? And do what, Ty—convince me to take you back?” His lower lip quivers, but I don’t want to hear yet another lie.

  I turn back to Aaron. “What made you look for the key?”

  He reaches back in his other pocket and pulls out a red tube with white writing on it.

  “What’s that?”

  “This morning as I went to prep for breakfast, I noticed the pack of food coloring had been opened, the plastic wrap ripped. I oversaw the pantry inventory at the start of the week and knew it hadn’t been opened before. Given the menu choices we had all week, I also knew we hadn’t used unhealthy ingredients such as food coloring or corn syrup.”

  Aaron spits the second ingredient in Tyrone’s direction. I’m lost as to the meaning of corn syrup, but it appears to hit Tyrone hard as he lowers his chin in surrender. I half expect him to extend his arms out and present his wrists for the handcuffs.

  Aaron continues with the explanation. “Red food coloring and corn syrup is what Hollywood uses to create fake blood. I quickly put two and two together. Jackson was right all along.”

  Just hearing the words reconcile the disturbance I’ve felt in my heart. Aaron has connected the dots, the pieces my past and anger refused to allow me to connect. “You made the whole thing up, Ty? What type of person does that? Why did you even bother to come this far if you haven’t changed one bit? Still looking for a shortcut, an edge, never able to get by with just your merit.”

  I squeeze my hands to prevent myself from doing what I really want to do.

  “It’s not like that, D. He’s not good for you. I may have faked the cut, but he is a hothead, and before you condemn my past, maybe you should look at his.”

  “You’ve said enough, Ty. You don’t get to tell me what to do or who to do it with. Aaron, give him his keys. I want you out of here before my students get up.” It’s a flashback moment to yesterday, yet it feels so different. I have no hesitation with Tyrone. I not only want him off the property, but I want him out of my life forever.

  “But…”

  I turn, no longer interested in his lies. I hear Aaron move behind me. “Don’t even try it. Pack your shit and go. I don’t live a Zen life and will have no problem forcing you off the property.”

  If I cared, I’d stop and turn around. But I don’t. I can’t believe that I believed Tyrone over Jackson, and as a result I sent him away. I feel like a fool, and I still have two sessions left to teach. I don’t know where Jackson went, and no clues as to how I will ever get through this day.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jackson

  I’m running on adrenaline and anger as I sit in the green room at the television studio. My agent is next door ripping the producers a new one as they withheld some key information when they asked me to come out.

  The cooking show is called Redemption Kitchen. A brain fart of a name probably thought of by one the many interns on set. The network was rebranding their original concept, the loss of Chef Jacques’ content forcing them to make poorly thought-out plans.

  During the walk-through this morning, they explained the concept: famous chefs who flamed out spectacularly in public. It’s a show for chefs who have screwed up in their professional life—you know, out of the kitchen and into the fire. Without our consent, they’ve already begun running promos.

  I look around the room and am surrounded by three chefs I would not usually associate with. One chef lost everything as his nightly closing ritual of drinks evolved into a full-blown alcohol addiction. The second chef was run out business by boycotts based on racial bias at his restaurant. The third chef, and by far the most famous one, was caught bribing a city health food inspector. What a lot I’ve been thrown into.

  The reason I’ve sent my agent all Rambo on them is that they plan on introducing me with a recap of my past transgression. I’ve been trying to get past it and had hoped that the time away would have buried the stories. With me no longer paying to suppress the video, it’s slowly coming back into the public view. It’s already on page three of an internet search of my name and rising like a record on the Billboard chart. If we don’t change it, it will quickly be trending once again.

  I would have walked out immediately if it wasn’t for the prize and the fact that my bridge in Destiny Falls has been burned to the ground.

  The winner of the round-robin competition will be awarded an eight-week pop-up restaurant anywhere in the continental United States. That is a huge incentive and would go a long way to reestablishing my reputation, putting money in my pocket, and most of all provide a platform to reconnect with food critics and bloggers. My mind is already racing with how quickly after a pop-up campaign I could spin up a new restaurant.

  But none of this works if my agent can’t get them to change my introduction. None of this works if my past comes out. I refuse to acknowledge that none of this will work without Dana. It’s only been a few hours, the hole in my heart still dripping in blood. It was ripped out so quick that I’ve barely had time to acknowledge the pain.

  I need to stay focused. I can do this; I remind myself that Zach has been an asshole a lot longer than the dutiful, caring Jackson.

  I grab a Lysol disinfectant wipe and approach the table of my competitors. I lean over in front of Chef Three and wipe down the counter in front of him. The legs of the chair scrapes against the floor and I spin it around stepping backward. I pull out my phone and tap the phone. “Ebony and Ivory” by Stevie Wonder and Paul McCarthy streams in front of Chef Two. I pop open the first of my beers and push the remainder of the six-pack in front of Chef One.

  I push down the smirk on my face and sip the beer, and I hear the three chefs whisper in unison, “Asshole”.

  See, that wasn’t hard.

  Chef Zach is back.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Dana

  I am only able to make it through the sunrise yoga session by changing it to a moving meditation session. It allows the students to be introspective and quiet. I fail in my attempts to clear my mind as the thoughts of the week play on repeat in my head. As a teacher, I make a terrible student.

  I busied myself during breakfast by running interference in the kitchen. Aaron and Ryan clearly had it under control, but I couldn’t let myself stop moving for one moment. I didn’t want to think about the mistakes I’ve made this week. I didn’t want to feel the weight of what I did to Jackson. I needed to keep busy or I would crumble yet again into a blubbering, crying mess.

  When I planned the week, I really looked forward to the final closing session. In my mind I would be faced with a class of enlightened faces, each one transformed from day one of the retreat and all energized to rededicate themselves to the practice of yoga.

  But like most things this week, it isn’t going according to my plan. I had hoped I’d get caught up with each student discussing their breakthrough, the stories keeping my mind off Jackson. Yet it is the students who continue to bring him up.

  “I’ve learned that I can actually eat healthy for a week without feeling hungry. Jackson shared with me some recipes,” Janice says, and I see several heads nod. Janice has been struggling with a body image and is very sensitive about her eating habits. Just seeing her address it in an open forum is a huge step for her.

  When Carrie steps up and steals a glance back toward Sanjeev, I expect a reference to finding love and am not disappointed. “I just want to say that when I came out to the retreat, I expected to grow my practice and gain confidence, but this week has changed me. I’ve always struggled to find someone who is supportive of me. Seeing Jackson all week working so hard and supporting you and your dream has been an inspiration for me. I’m hoping to replicate your s
uccess.” She winks at Sanjeev, who has his hands in prayer as he nods back at her. Maybe they will succeed where I have failed.

  “Where is Jackson?” Kelsie asks. I try to maintain a poker face, knowing that I suck at lies.

  I snicker as I rub my hands together. “You gals wore him out. I think I saw him peel out the parking lot a little while ago.”

  “He left?” Kelsie asks.

  “Without saying goodbye?” Carrie piles on.

  “You can catch him back in town at the coffee shop.” I can hear the ice in my voice. I need to shift the conversation before I break down in front of everyone.

  I nod at Evelyn, happy when she returns the focus to the testimonials. As her words fade, my own echo in my head. Coffee shop. Will I be welcomed back in the coffee shop? Will Jackson forgive me for believing Tyrone over him? Will I even be able to face him again?

  Jackson dropped everything for me. He didn’t blink an eye or give it a second thought. Somehow, he rearranged his life to clear a week to help me. All my life I’ve felt I’ve had to do everything on my own, that I couldn’t count on others.

  Aaron’s words return to my head. In my time of need, who stepped up to show their support for me, for my dream? Candice has been with me every step of this journey, Mia too. Aaron is here, going above and beyond. Hell, even Ryan has pitched in. Even Sydney and her cohorts trekked all the way out here in the middle of the week to take my load for a bit.

  Most of all, Jackson had been here. From the early days when I’d mentioned the thought of the retreat, his immediate endorsement that told me I wasn’t crazy. That I should not only follow my dream, but I need to chase it down and lift it up to the sky for the entire universe to see.

  How he humored me with the unnecessary swapping out of the flyers. Him stepping out of his comfort zone, coming out of retirement to step in and cook for me. For rolling with me as I placed him in the position of dealing with my crazy ex.

  How all he’s done is try to support me and help me succeed. I turned on him and sent him packing at the first sign of trouble. Me taking the words of my lying ex over a man who has done nothing but care for me, to love me.

  My heart races with the realization. I love Jackson. I love Zach. I love all of him. All his past, all his fears, all his failures, all of what he is trying to become. Instead of sending him away, I need him to know I’m here for him.

  We are two peas in a pod, our different worlds not so different. We have struggled, we have failed, and we are trying to build a better future. We don’t need to do it alone. In fact, as I look at my support system, I now know it won’t be done alone. I have a support system. I have people who care for me, people who support me no matter what, and I have people who love me. I have family.

  Jackson is still fighting his battle. I was all he had, and then I sent him away. I can only imagine what that will do to him. His past is filled with broken glass. I need to get to him. Now.

  Coffee shop.

  It echoes in my head once again. I need to fast-forward this day, get everyone in the vans, and race to the coffee shop and make up to Jackson.

  This retreat, even with all its ups and downs, has been a success. My dreams are slowly coming into focus. However, I realize now that it doesn’t matter if I don’t have someone special in my life to share it with. And Jackson is that special someone.

  I have to see him. I have to tell him, and most of all, I have to show him.

  Chapter Forty

  Jackson

  When my phone buzzes, I’m not surprised to see Dana’s name. I had received a full debrief from Aaron this afternoon when I checked in with him to make sure we had restored Mrs. Shaw’s kitchen at the lodge back to its original condition. He gave me the highlights of Tyrone’s deceit and Dana’s reaction. He attempted to apologize a dozen times for thinking I could do that to Tyrone. It wasn’t necessary, and I cut him off—the fact that he believed it at all says more about me than him. I’ve never fully dropped my guard and showed the world the true me, so why should it surprise me that they never see me. It’s a stupidly simple paradox which has baffled me for years. So, I don’t fault Aaron, who I’ve known in passing up to this week, to understand what I am truly capable of and what I am not.

  With Dana, it’s different.

  I thought she knew me, my heart, understood what type of man I am. Even if she questioned my actions, I would expect her to let me plead my case prior to her handing down a final judgment like an overdramatic TV judge.

  I’ve lost count of the number of times Dana has called—probably up to double digits now. It’s nearly 6:00 p.m. here in LA, meaning it’s nearly 8:00 p.m. back in Destiny Falls. The retreat ended hours ago, and I assume she is back home and wants to talk. I’m not ready yet to hear her. It’s my turn to focus on my future, my dream.

  I let Dana’s call to go to voicemail as one of the interns wave toward me. I’ve forgotten her name as the set seems full of twentysomething tall, thin blond interns who probably have six-figure Instagram followers. LA is a strange town.

  The intern leads me through the corridor and directs me to another small studio. Two cameras face a fake kitchen. A series of props lie across the table, a large red X made of electric tape on the floor in front of the tabletop. An assistant director is sipping coffee on a high-back chair as I enter. He points toward the counter.

  Rob had explained that they would be shooting B-roll for intros, photos for their social media accounts, promos and the like today. I’m wearing my chef jacket and comfortable jeans, though nothing about this process is comfortable.

  I need to get my head in the game as the live recording is tomorrow.

  The only reason I’m in the studio now is that my agent Rob got the producer to suppress the video and the details of the incident. They will now glaze over my background, focusing more on my top chef under thirty article and how it all disappeared in what is being referred to an unfortunate incident in the restaurant.

  We both know it will probably lead people to search online for details, but I’ve given Rob the approval to take what little money I have left and pay to suppress the videos once again. It was a painful decision, but the only option for us. It’s the last of my funds, the decision placing even more pressure on my shoulders.

  I must not only win this competition; I need to create enough buzz to get the industry back with me.

  The assistant director hands his coffee to the intern. They exchange words before she disappears into the darkness behind the cameras. “Ahh, yes, Chef Zach. Welcome.”

  He stands and points once again toward the table.

  He is just as I imagined an assistant director would look like—a millennial kid who looks as if he graduated film school five minutes ago. “All we need are a few over-the-top clips for the promos. I’m sure they explained everything to you, right?” He doesn’t wait for me to nod. “Grab one of the knives, and how about we start with you holding one between your teeth and giving us that badass growl?”

  I look down at the knife. It’s a prop knife, its edge a dull gray rubber. It couldn’t cut paper let alone a steak. It doesn’t matter, I remind myself, for in La-La Land it’s all about the look. “What?”

  He lifts his hands up, forming claws like a sad bear. “You know, growl. It will play well on the app. Hell, maybe someone will make it a meme.” He taps his phone for emphasis.

  I pause. A year ago, I would have been all in, growling and prancing around the studio with a look-at-me-shine attitude. However, standing here in the studio with a kid telling me to act like a twelve-year-old, it hits me how ridiculous this all is. I step slowly to the table, my eyes scanning the props.

  “And while you’re at it, why don’t you roll up those sleeves and show off those sick tats.”

  I try to remember it’s an image. A caricature created for easy consumption by the masses. It’s not real. It’s not me. It’s not meant to be. My finger flicks the end of the rubber blade of the knife, and I nearly jump out of my
skin as a blast of heavy metal music is pumped into the studio. “What the hell?” I scream.

  “Just setting the mood, Chef,” he counters as he waves toward the intern, who holds a wireless tablet with what I assume are the controls to the sound system. She pushes back a strand of her blonde hair around her ear and shoots a sexy grin in the direction of the director. The two do not even attempt to hide their conspiracy.

  My pulse is racing and I feel the anxiety from my past arriving. It’s not a foreign feeling, but it is so different from the calm presence of the kitchen in the lodge. Instead of the false bravado that normally accompanies me, all I feel is the nervousness of a kid acting out in front of the school, fearful that their parents never see them this way.

  My gaze falls to my shoes and I push away the growing impostor feelings. Suck it up. I’ve come too far, have lost too much to give it all up now. A few stupid promo shots, and then I can show the world my cooking skills again. It’s a small price to pay.

  Right?

  “Let’s do this,” I scream and lift the knife up, its weight wrong, the rubber blade phony. I step around the plastic kitchen table and march toward my spot, ready to fake it until I make it.

  The music is lowered as a cue card is held up by the intern. “Seattle is my hometown, but my cuisine is the best in the world. If you disagree, prepare to…”

  I can’t push out the final word, and I hear the assistant director yell, “Cut.”

  “Who wrote this?” I ask as my shoulders slump, the last word, fight, bringing back memories of me kicking the defenseless Michael in my old restaurant. Is this the image I want the world to see?

  The director steals a glance toward the intern, who whispers into his ear. He spreads his knees on the chair, leaning forward, and whispers toward me, “That ad copy came directly from your agent.”