“I promise.” He waited a beat, watching Jake’s energy fade like someone had turned off the gas to his heart. Damn it.
“Where is it?” Law whispered.
“I still…haven’t found…” He ground out each word, fighting for breath…and life. “Looking for…”
He didn’t know where it was? This was crazy, but it was midnight in the ICU, and Jake was barely coherent. They’d talk about it when he got better. He had to get better.
“Yeah, I’ll look, too. I’ll find it.”
“Won’t be easy.”
“Nothing ever is.” Law leaned over the bed, the loss already gutting him. Don’t die, Jake. “But you have to rest, man.”
“I want you to have the Pelican. It’s yours. No one else’s. Yours.”
It wasn’t like Jake had a line of heirs and siblings. His family tree was a stump, and despite his heart of gold, he didn’t have a ton of friends outside the regulars and some long-term employees.
“I mean it,” Jake said, growing a little agitated.
“I got you,” Law said. “But I’d really rather you live, get strong, and we work together. That’s a better plan.”
Jake lifted a gnarled hand out from under the blanket, using all his strength to place his fingers on Law’s arm, holding his gaze, and taking a deep, ragged breath that sounded a lot like someone’s last. “You. No one else.”
“Jake, you’re going to live through this.” But even as he said it, Law had doubts.
Jake exhaled long and slow. “Secrets,” he murmured.
Secrets? What was he talking about?
“You are my son. Good as one. I always wanted…” He made face. “God, I wanted that.”
The words choked Law, threatening to make those stinging tears slide out. He managed to nod, digging for composure. “You’d have been a damn good father, old man.”
“I love you, Lawson.” He was fighting for every syllable now, but Law let him speak. The words were a balm to both of them. “I believe in you. I trust you. I know you can do anything.”
Something inside Law twisted, an ancient pain, a hollow echo of another man’s slurred voice from the past. Slurred from booze and pain and grief. A voice that called him a loser. A quitter. Worse.
He silenced the hateful words of his real father and focused on the one in front of him, his heart cracking in his chest.
“You do this, Law. You’ll take over and make…the Pelican yours.”
“With you,” Law insisted.
“For me,” Jake gasped. “Do it for me.”
“I will.”
“And don’t let them…” he added, his voice barely a thread of a whisper now. “No matter what…secrets…” Jake’s blue eyes closed as he fell back on the pillow, sighing as he fell sound asleep.
Not sleep, Law learned soon enough. A coma. Eight days later, after suffering a second stroke while still unconscious, Jake died and took his secrets to the grave.
And Law never found the will.
Chapter One
Eleven and a half months later
Clanging dishes, sizzling meat, and the cacophony of the controlled chaos of the Naples Ritz-Carlton main kitchen, serving four top-notch restaurants in the middle of a dinner rush, were all drowned out when Law closed his eyes and tasted the cognac demi-glace.
And wanted to spit it on the kitchen floor.
As he suspected, the sauce was broken and bitter. Law hadn’t made it, but this was his steak au poivre, and he was the one who’d writhe in shame when a discerning customer sent it back. Or when a heady-with-Internet-power diner tossed a shitty review up on TripAdvisor, adding to the string they’d been getting since the new executive chef had arrived.
Grabbing a clean spoon, he took another taste of the lifeless sauce. The butter had been whisked too fast and the shallots hadn’t sweat.
“You got a problem with that sauce, Monroe?”
Law met the beady brown gaze of his boss, Executive Chef Delbert Tracey-Dobbs across the stainless steel pass. “I have a better idea, Chef.”
“You always have a better idea,” Chef Del leaned closer, narrowing his eyes to pinpoints of hate. “But I’m the one in charge.”
Proving that life went way beyond unfair and possibly into the ZIP code of pointless. At least this argument was. Still, Law had principles. And that sauce? It crushed his principles and his palate.
No, that wasn’t true. This arrogant, incompetent, and clueless moron in charge had crushed him. Exactly who had this crappy excuse for an executive chef blown to get that job, anyway?
Didn’t matter. Chef Del had the job, and Law had…nothing. Only a promise that died with his best friend and mentor, leaving Law stuck in this kitchen working for Satan’s henchman.
He corralled some calm and faced off with his boss. “Chef, I think we should—”
“I don’t care what a sous chef thinks, Monroe. Don’t care what we should do. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do and then, guess what? You’ll do it. Today, tomorrow, and for the rest of your days in this kitchen, which, if I have anything to say about it, will be few.”
“One can hope,” Law muttered.
“Excuse me?” Chef slammed his hands on the pass, shaking a few waiting dishes and toppling a tower of thinly sliced tuna that another sous chef had spent ten minutes building. Here it comes, Law thought. A reminder of how many people wanted his job.
“I have a hundred résumés on my desk for a sous chef position,” Chef barked, right on cue. “I could have you replaced before the last dish is served tonight.”
Some of the clatter around him died down as a few people nearby slowed their choreographed movements on the line to listen to the showdown, most of them probably expecting it since Chef Del arrived six months ago and decided he wanted Sous Chef Law Monroe out of his kitchen.
“Add the cognac sauce and get the order up, you scum-sucking bag of shit,” Chef said between gritted teeth.
The words were as bitter and broken as the sauce. And all too familiar.
Law pushed a memory out of his head and willed himself to do what he’d done for the last eleven months: keep his smart mouth shut and cook. Just until he figured out who owned the place where he was supposed to be cooking now…except he’d been locked out by a nameless, faceless company claiming ownership. He had to stay here until he found a will that may or may not have been the morphine-induced ramblings of a dying man.
“The sauce, Monroe. Now!”
His whole body chafed at the order, and his hands itched to rip the chef’s coat off his body and fling it in that ball-busting shithead’s face.
Don’t quit, Law. Don’t do it. “I can have a new sauce in five—”
“Screw your sauce!” Del barked, silencing the entire kitchen now. “Order up or get the hell out, Monroe.”
It wasn’t quitting if he was fired, was it? And if he didn’t move…
“Three seconds and you’re finished,” Del ground out.
Three seconds and he’d be a free man. Free to breathe, free to fail or succeed, free to devote every waking minute to finding out who took what was promised to him.
“Two.”
Law closed his eyes, counted the two seconds, and tasted the sweet flavor of freedom from this hellhole, from this prick who reminded him of his father, from the prison this place had become when Chef Del showed up.
He lifted his hand and fingered the top button of his chef’s coat.
“You wouldn’t.” Chef Del leaned closer, a challenge in his eyes. “Or would you?”
Law flicked the first button.
“In the middle of a rush on a Saturday night?” Del’s voice rose in disbelief, and now everyone in the kitchen stilled to watch the drama unfold. “You are such a loser. A lightweight. A talentless bag of self-important air.”
His eyes still closed, Law was transported back forty years to a tiny house on Mimosa Key. The smell of Jim Beam and burnt mackerel mixed with tension so thick it lay on his skin l
ike the salty harbor air. Through it all, his father’s words bounced off the walls and flattened Law’s self-worth.
You worthless piece of scum, Lawson. Beckett was worth ten of you.
That made the second button slide open easily enough.
“You’ll never work for a Ritz-Carlton again.”
He didn’t want to work for anyone but himself, he rationalized. So that threat was music to his ears. He unhooked the next button without taking his gaze off his boss’s reddened face.
“You’ll never work in this city again.”
Fine. Naples, Florida, was full of old fart millionaires who didn’t appreciate real cooking and their skinny trophy wives who didn’t eat. The last button took no effort at all.
“You’re finished, Monroe! Get the hell out of here! Go back to the twelve-step program you came from.”
Law slipped the jacket off and folded it neatly next to the now-gelatinous demi-glace, the simple act giving him a rush of pure pleasure.
With every eye in the kitchen on him and most mouths gaping, Law strode down the line with his head held high.
Yes, damn it. He’d quit. And, like always, it felt about as good as the sweet burn of whiskey when it hit his gut and spilled into his veins.
Without a word, he grabbed his backpack from his locker and headed out the back door to the employees’ parking lot, where the blast of a blistering August night smacked him in the face, despite the proximity to the beach.
He sucked in a mouthful of air, getting a whiff of the Dumpster where that sauce belonged.
Trying to not think too hard about the fact that he’d just walked off the job he spent years working to get and keep, he slid a leg over the side of his bike, jammed the key in the ignition, and flattened his thumb on the starter button.
With a rev of Bonnie’s engine, he roared out of the lot loud enough to piss off the Ritz management. He didn’t hate them, and he didn’t hate the restaurant. He just hated being under anyone or anything, and the very definition of the word sous in his title meant “under” in French.
Well, now he wasn’t under anything, including a helmet. With hot wind in hair he’d cut short for summer, he blew out onto the main road with no real destination.
He didn’t have a “home”—or wouldn’t by Monday. After Jake died almost a year ago, Law had moved out of the house they’d rented. That was, after he’d combed every inch of Jake’s meager belongings for a will that never appeared.
Since then, Law’s life had been on hold, so he’d opted for a cut in pay at his job at the Ritz and taken one of the tiny efficiency apartments they offered to the staff, deep in the bowels of the hotel.
He’d have to move out of there as soon as management got wind of his latest stunt, making him officially homeless and jobless.
At least he was sober.
He waited for the kick of desire, the little tweak from a demon that resided deep in his belly and rose up on occasions just like this to whisper, “Jack and Coke, baby. That’ll numb all this misery.”
A year ago, that would have sent him straight over the causeway to Mimosa Key. There, he’d have slipped through the back door of the Toasted Pelican. Only a former drunk would appreciate the irony that his soft, safe place to fall was a bar and a glass of non-alcoholic beer.
A year ago, Jake would have been there, offering O’Doul’s and advice, cleaning up after the last customer had left. But Jake wasn’t there anymore.
Instead, the locks had been changed and the employees worked for a “shell” company that had mysteriously taken over. And Law had bruises from the brick walls he’d hit trying to figure out who had stolen the business Jake had promised to him.
He took the tight turn onto the causeway, settling into the seat as he accelerated up the long bridge over the gulf, headed to the tiny island where he’d grown up and still thought of as home, no matter how crappy that home had been.
Consumed by grief for the loss of his closest friend and the man who’d changed—no, saved—his life, Law hadn’t cared that much about Jake Peterson’s missing last will and testament at first. While Jake was in a coma, Law had looked for it in the closet Jake used as an office, but he’d never found it. After Jake died, he cleaned out the closet and everything personal in the house they’d shared, but it still never turned up.
But what did it matter, he’d thought at the time. He’d work out the legalities eventually. He called the staff and told them not to find other jobs, that he’d be taking over. Finding that will was just a matter of time and determination.
Then he showed up one morning and his key didn’t fit the lock, and he realized he’d better work out those legalities sooner rather than later. That was the beginning of a long, long nightmare, starting with the appointment Law made with an attorney.
Apparently, he was too late. The Toasted Pelican had been taken over by a private company based in South Florida that claimed to have “ties” to Jake Peterson, and ownership had been approved by some judge in Collier County. No one could identify the owner, but one by one, a few of the staff had been contacted by some guy named Sam in Miami.
A manager came on board who swore to have no clue who paid the checks, and the business stayed open and hobbled on. Turnover had been rampant, and most of Law’s friends were long gone, replaced by teenagers who didn’t know who owned the place and didn’t care as long as they got paid.
Law had even looked at other restaurants to buy, willing to give up on the Pelican just to realize his dream of owning his own gastropub. But, damn it, that’s not what he wanted. Not what Jake had wanted.
He wasn’t going to quit until he knew the truth.
Someone had to know, Law thought for the millionth time in almost a year. And on a Saturday night? Maybe that someone was loose-lipped at the bar.
Parking in the back, Law shut off the bike, noting that the lot was sparsely filled. Business had been lousy for months, and now it was completely in the crapper. If only he could find out who the owner was, he’d make an offer to buy it. Forget the missing will; Law had some money saved. Not much, but he’d get a loan if he had to.
He yanked open the door and sucked in a whiff of two-day-old fry oil and stale beer. He glanced into the open door of the kitchen when he passed, noting the pimply faced nineteen-year-olds languishing in front of the grill. Down the hall to the dining area, he passed Jake’s closet and paused to check out the stairs that led up to a huge storage area and sometime apartment.
Something was…different.
Frowning, he noticed that the dark stain on the stairs had been stripped off, and long boards of hardwood were lying on the landing. What the hell? They were renovating up there?
Fire and fury shot through him. Some stranger was renovating his property.
More determined to get hard facts than ever before, he cruised through the dining area, which consisted of mostly tables, a worthless jukebox, and a lot of dusty crap on the walls. He headed into the connected bar, where the real action was.
Only there wasn’t much of that, either. He glanced around the dimly lit area, counting few booths with customers and more empty seats at the bar. This place could not be running in the black. So who had the cash to lay hardwood upstairs…and why?
He slid onto a barstool and looked around for the bartender. It would be one of the two guys who started working after Jake died—young guys, not locals, who also claimed to have no idea who signed their paychecks. He couldn’t see around the tower of bottles and mirrors in the center of the round bar, so he twisted all the way to look back at the booths, counting the meager patrons, who included some locals he knew, a few very old regulars, and one couple.
“I thought you didn’t drink, Lawless.”
At the woman’s question, he pivoted to the bartender and came face-to-face with…oh baby, what a face. He’d been admiring that face since he’d first seen it thirty years ago and started a cat-and-mouse chase that had yet to end with either one of them getting caught.
>
But they sure had fun running after each other in high school and again, a few months ago, when they’d met up at the Mimosa High reunion. Law made no effort to hide his attraction, and the beautiful lady in front of him gave a flirt as good as she got.
Only a flirt, though. Despite Law’s best attempts, their contact was limited to banter and wordplay, which was fun, but frustrating.
“Libby Chesterfield, you gorgeous piece of womanhood.”
She didn’t smile, didn’t move actually, except for the slightest tilt of her head. Blond hair—long, silky, sinful blond hair—spilled over bare shoulders. One perfectly arched brow twitched, and full lips pouted ever so slightly to remind a man that she owned a mouth that was made for one thing and one thing only. Kissing. Well, maybe two things.
“Piece of womanhood?” She put her hands on her hips, drawing his gaze over a formfitting red tank top, cutoff jean shorts, and about five-foot-six inches of luscious. Every stinkin’ curve was pure perfection, especially the ones that rightfully earned her the name “Chesty Chesterfield” in high school. “That’s the best you’ve got, Monroe? You are losing your touch, sweet cheeks. I expect better from you.”
He took the challenge, leaning in, devouring her up and down with a hungry look, trying to remember if she was forty-four or forty-five. Better err on the side of caution.
“Lib, you’re forty-four years old, and you still make mouths water, heads turn, and men rise up to praise you. How do you manage to stay so exquisite all these years?”
“Forty-five. I had a birthday on the Fourth of July.” She leaned over the bar just enough to blind him with a glimpse of sweet, deep cleavage. “And you, too, Law, are a miracle of nature at forty-five.”
“Six,” he corrected. “My birthday was in July, too.”
“Even more amazing.”
“Because we have so much in common?”
“Because you made it all the way to forty-six years old and you still think, act, and talk like the teenager who tried to cop a feel of my left boob during a game of touch football in co-ed gym class.”
Barefoot at Midnight (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 3) Page 2