Her Perfect Man- The Complete Series Box Set

by Z. L. Arkadie

  I fold my arms. “Let me know how bad things are.”

  Randy studies my face. He quietly walks up to me and kisses my cheek. “Talk soon.”

  I smile and nod stiffly. “Talk soon.”

  19

  The next few weeks, I take it easy—at least, as much as I can stand to. On my short days in school, I shop at the local thrift stores and go online, looking for any artwork or other decorations that might go well with the décor. I find some great lanterns from a guy on Craigslist who lives in Madison and is closing out a restaurant he owns in Milwaukee, so one Saturday, I take a trip there. In my neighborhood, there’s a rug shop that does a great deal of importing. I go there and find a couple of throw pieces, and they hook me up with a couple of their contacts who have access to exotic fabric that I think I can use for custom window coverings.

  Originally, I wanted to go with an upbeat, funky look, but Randy still prefers something more sleek and contemporary. Where I want to use a blend of reds and purples and yellows and blacks and whites, he just wants the theme to be more black and white. One day, while the contractors are working on site, we get into it.

  “The place is going to look like a fucking candy store, Gina,” he yells so loudly that everyone practically stops working. It’s the first time I’ve heard him swear in a long time, so I’m taken aback. “And I’m not cooking in a candy store.”

  I try to calm his nerves by showing him some pictures online of what I have in mind.

  “Here, something like this.” I give him my iPad.

  He huffs a few times. “Well, I guess that isn’t so bad. But look here…”

  He punches up a couple of his own ideas. “I was thinking something more like this.”

  I study it. He has good taste—I’ll have to admit that.

  We shuffle through a few more images and come to an agreement of what we can both accept. Instead of covering the gorgeous natural light-tan river stone on the walls, we’ll keep it exposed and add accent lights with a few nice pieces of art. The dining room will have oak or walnut-colored tables, and the lanterns I found in Wisconsin will work as candleholders, which we’ll use as centerpieces.

  “How about we take the more decadent colors you like and work them in as accent pieces? Like a red-and-purple pillow for the brown couch over here, and perhaps even some artwork in those colors over there?”

  I agree, but in exchange, he tells me that I will have to approve some new kitchen equipment.

  “Deal.” We shake on it, which isn’t all that hard for me because I wanted the new equipment anyway.

  Finally, it’s a month and a half later. Everything’s coming together, and it looks great. The tables are on back order—argh—but the chairs are in. I’ve found several colorful contemporary-art pieces for the walls, and the beautiful Rajkumari curtains from Persia are installed and look fantastic over the coffee-stained windows. In fact, I like the curtains so much that I’ve bought a couple of other patterns to use at my house.

  The next day, I look at my phone after I finish my class. There’s a text from Randy: “Call ASAP.”

  I give him a call. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a problem with the electrical, and I think you should come down here and check this out.”

  I’ll tell him I’ll be right there and race across town as fast as possible. As soon as I pull into the parking lot, I see a truck for an electrical contractor. This can’t be good. We were supposed to be all done with electrical work. I walk in, and there’s no one in the front of the café, but I can hear some people chatting in the back. When I get to the kitchen, Randy, Jeremy, and an electrician are having a discussion. Randy has his hand on the back of his neck, and his expression is perplexed. He sees me when I come into the kitchen.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  His hand falls from his neck. “Take a look at this.”

  He breaks away from the other two and leads me back to the electrical panel at the back of the building.

  I pass Jeremy on the way there and catch him staring at me. I’m not comfortable with him here, but I figure I’ll tolerate him the best I can.

  We get to the electrical panel, and Randy says, “It’s outdated.”

  I look at him, confused. “I know.”

  “The problem is that the new kitchen equipment requires us to replace some of the outlets, which are then incompatible with this old equipment here.”

  “So what’s the electrician saying?”

  “He’s saying that we need to replace this whole panel.”

  I bite my lower lip. I’m looking at a pretty big panel. “And how much is that going to cost?”

  “All told, about twenty-five grand.”

  “Humph.” I stand and study the big metal box full of circuit breakers. It wasn’t the news I was looking for. We’re already over budget. There could be a workaround, but since we’re starting new, we might as well make all things new—even the electrical system. “Then let’s do it.”

  “Good call,” Randy says.

  We head back to the kitchen, and I’m somehow left alone with Jeremy as Randy goes off to check more of the electrical with the electrician.

  “Well…” I say, looking toward the exit, wanting to escape the awkwardness.

  “You know,” Jeremy says, “things have never been quite right with us since that night.”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  “Well, why don’t we have dinner or something and talk and try to smooth everything out?”

  Is he kidding me? Does he not care that the father of my unborn child, who happens to be his cousin, was just standing right here?

  Randy comes up out of nowhere to stand next to us. “I think it’s a great idea,” he says. “I’ve heard both of your versions of what happened between the two of you, and Jeremy, you were in the wrong. But now here we all are, and we have to figure out how to become better business partners for the sake of the restaurant.”

  He’s right. I don’t want our restaurant to eventually fail because I can’t forgive Jeremy and set things straight.

  I take a deep breath. “I’ll have a drink with you.”

  Randy looks confused.

  “But you’re pregnant,” Jeremy says. “How are you supposed to have a drink?”

  I look at him. “Just because it doesn’t have alcohol doesn’t mean it still can’t be called a drink.”

  Now he and Randy both look confused.

  I spell it out for them both. “I’ll be having a tonic water.”

  I meet Jeremy at Calhoun later in the day—it’s a bar and restaurant that’s just down the street from our location. Jeremy arrived before me, so as soon as I sit down at the crowded bar, the bartender serves me a nice tall glass of tonic water.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  The bartender, a college-aged guy with blond dreadlocks, nods. “Anytime.”

  I take a sip of the cold liquid and set my eyes on Jeremy. “So here we are.”

  He swirls in his seat to face me. “First off, I really wanted to apologize for going overboard with you. I shouldn’t have crossed that boundary when you made it abundantly clear that you didn’t want to.”

  “Thanks, apology accepted.”

  “You are beautiful, though.”

  “Okay,” I roll my eyes and let out a long sigh. “Are you coming on to me again?”

  He sets his drink on the table. “Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “Just acknowledging why I did it, which is not an excuse. I’m just…”

  “Not used to being turned down,” I say.

  He rubs the back of his neck. “I guess not.”

  Slowly, I nod. It’s well within my rights to kick any guy in the balls when he crosses that boundary, especially in my house, but maybe I didn’t need to go so hard. “And I was maybe a bit rougher than I needed to be on that particular night. For that, I apologize.”

  He looks with sincerity at me, picks up his drink, and holds it in the air. “Apology accepted.”

&nb
sp; We toast.

  “So what else besides the big renovation has been going on in your life?” he says.

  I look down at my belly. Obviously…

  He chuckles.

  I update him on school and other regularities of my life—doctor’s visits, etcetera.

  “Yeah, Randy mentioned that you were doing pretty well these days.”

  “Yeah… he’s been helping out a lot.” I take a drink. I really don’t want to get into how I feel about Randy at the moment. It’s very confusing. Sometimes I feel as though if we decide to make a relationship work, then we could be pretty good lovers and parents. But then I remember he’s with Deanna, and I’ve never let myself hope to be with a man who’s in a relationship with another woman. No use in coveting what you can’t have, and if you seduce an involved man—well—karma’s a bitch.

  “Cool. And what is your exact graduation date?” Jeremy asks.

  “Next Friday.”

  His face lights up. “Really? Where’s the party.” Then he looks at my belly and then shifts nervously in his chair. “I mean, I’m sure you’re having a get-together. Right?”

  I shift in my chair too. “I’m not trying to make a big deal about it, you know,” I say, swirling my straw through my drink.

  He leans forward, concerned. ”What do you mean?”

  I sigh. “The last time I graduated, I had this big party, and then I made the decision to forsake my law degree and do something else…”

  “Oh,” he says in a delicate tone.

  “My accomplishment is personal this time, you know?”

  “You haven’t even invited your parents?” he says.

  “Nope.” I shake my head.

  “What about Randy?”

  “He doesn’t even know.”

  Jeremy leans back. “I see.”

  “Besides, it’s kind of awkward. He was living with that Deanna for a bit. I don’t even know anymore. So…”

  “Yeah, Deanna is quite attractive… smart too. Way out of my league—which is clearly one of the problems I had with you.”

  I chuckle but agree. “You’re a good-looking and rich guy. Plus, you’re humble enough to apologize for being a dick, so you’re more in the ‘league’ than you think.”

  He laughs. “Thanks. Well…” He looks around the place. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting pretty hungry. How about we have dinner after all?”

  I hesitate, but his genuine smile lifts a tad bit higher. Plus, I’m starving too. I shrug indifferently. “Sure. Sounds good.”

  We have a nice, cordial dinner, and Jeremy opens up more about Steve’s gambling addiction, which also includes whores and cocaine. He tells me that the family has done an intervention, and they are hoping he’s going to be okay.

  20

  I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my gown. Graduation day has finally come. I stare into the eyes of the woman watching me. She’ll—I’ll—be twenty-seven in three weeks. Not only that, but I’ll be seven months pregnant and days away from opening our new restaurant. It usually takes most people ten more years of life to accomplish all that I have—even to end up as a single mother who defies all obstacles to make something of herself.

  “I’m proud of you, Gina Gilbert.” I rub my stomach.

  I’m having a son. Hopefully, one day he will be proud of himself too. After all, raising an emotionally healthy and happy human being will be my greatest challenge of all. I’m still not sure I have what it takes to be a successful parent, but I’ve already carried my child a month longer than my mother carried all three of hers before miscarrying, so it seems I’m going to make it to full term. Also, I won’t be raising our child alone. I love that Randy has continually stepped up. We’ll be a modern family. Business partners, once lovers, deep down still in love with each other—probably.

  I sigh and put on my cap. Now that I have a look at the completed outfit, I’m even more satisfied. I smile. Today is not the day to think about how I really feel about the father of my child. Today, I become a chef.

  “Chef Gina Gilbert.” My grin is so wide that my cheeks ache more than my ankles.

  I drive to my school for the ceremony. It’s nearing the end of October, and the brisk feel of fall is in the air. My car has now started shaking, and I suspect engine problems. At least my tires are nice and new. The most horrific thing that could happen would be if my tires lost traction and I drove off the road, killing the both of us.

  “My baby,” I whisper while sitting at a red light.

  I rub my stomach. The child inside me is going to be his own person. I should give him a name. Lawrence? No. My dad is Walter, but not many people name their children that these days.

  “Walter,” I say as the light turns green. I love my dad, but gosh, his name is passé.

  My mother’s name is Terri Anne. There’s no way I can find a boy’s name from that combination that I like.

  “Randy Jr.” That would imply that he’s supposed to somehow live up to Randy’s standards. Nope. Our kid is going to live by his own heart. I could call him Maverick, but that’s too specific. I also once read that Hayden means strong.

  “Hayden it is.” From now on, I’ll call my baby by his prebirth name of Hayden.

  As I get closer to school, I consider other things I want for Hayden. I want him to be strong but not so much that he doesn’t feel safe crying. I remember Dusty Lyons. We were all around eight or nine at the neighborhood block party. Dusty went flying off the tire swing and scratched his leg pretty bad. My friend Kent and I helped him walk to where his parents were sitting in a circle of other parents, drinking beer. Dusty’s father shot out of his seat and instantly commanded him to stop crying like a girl. That confused, brokenhearted look on Dusty’s face—I’ll never forget it. All I wanted to do was kick Dusty’s father in the shin and call him a fucking quack. My dad taught me that people cry—boys and girls. It’s what you do after you’re all cried out that makes the difference. He used to say, “Have a good cry, kiddo, and then pick yourself up and learn from the pain.” Gosh, I was so glad I had my dad instead of Dusty’s.

  Now that I think about it, Hayden might be pretty lucky to have me as a mother. I rub my belly with one hand, navigating into a handicap parking spot with the other. Since I’m officially on bed rest, Dr. Reinhart wrote me a note to receive a temporary handicap placard. When I park in the handicap space, no one ever looks at me as if they’re wondering if I really need the special parking. The sight of me holding my lower back as I get out of the car says it all.

  “Oh, Hayden.” I stand up. “You’re definitely making this hard for me.”

  I snicker as I reach into the backseat for my purse, cap, and special tassels. I’m graduating with honors.

  I stroll to the auditorium like the proud graduate that I am. Every so often, I wave to a classmate. We’re all happy, and that sentiment is in the air. Just for a moment, I wish I had invited my parents at least. I just didn’t want to make such a big deal out of it. Seeing me graduate from law school was their crowning glory. This culinary-school graduation is my crowning glory.

  My heart is filled with such contentment that everything on my body that normally hurts feels a lot better—my back, my ankles, and the pinching feeling in my stomach. Hayden always lets me know he’s inside me and will be joining us one day.

  Good vibes continue to rule the day. There are many hugs and excited chatter. Phoebe Lau is leaving for Paris on Monday to study the art of French cooking. She’ll be in training for six months. I toy with the idea of doing the same, but I remember both Hayden and the restaurant are going to need me, so I can’t go traipsing to Paris, Lyon, Madrid, and Rome to perfect the art of regional cooking. Oh, how I want to. If not now, then one day I will.

  I don’t reveal to my classmates that I’m opening a new restaurant, at least not yet. I’m pretty friendly with Lacy Howard at the marketing and development office. Once we open, I’ll pay her visit and ask her to send a blast to the student
s, asking them to try Sauce. I’ll even sweeten the deal. If they let us know they’re from the school, then they’ll get half off their meal. I’m confident students will love our food and continue to come back for more.

  Soon it’s time to line up and file out to the graduation march. We take our seats. Cameras are flashing through the auditorium, and every so often, the spark catches my attention. First Chef Sweet speaks, congratulating all of us, wishing us well, saying one day he hopes to taste our food and pay for it. Chef Grant encourages us to never give up. Chef Carlisle urges us to expand our horizons, be forever learners, which is the key to becoming award-winning chefs. My head is spinning, not because my pregnancy has thrown my hormonal balance off but because my heart is so inspired and my mind is filled with so many ambitions.

  Then my eyes gravitate toward a late arrival. I grab my chest as I watch him walk down the aisle confidently as if he owns the auditorium. It’s Randy. As usual, he makes heads turn. He sits in the third center row in an empty seat between two people. After he locates me in the sea of graduates, he waves. I wave back. I can’t stop smiling. I thought I wanted to have this day to myself, but now that Randy’s here, I’ve changed my mind.

  Dean Stewart gets up to call names. When my name is called, my classmates cheer the loudest. Randy stands and whistles. He’s so overtly animated that I can’t help but laugh. Gosh. I don’t know what has been going on between us, but the way my heart is fluttering says what I feel for him is more serious than I’m willing to admit.

  Randy and I smile at each other a lot during the ceremony. I even receive the Dorothy Pritchard Great Chefs Award, which is unexpected. Tears roll from my eyes as I take the trophy with my name engraved on it. This may be the best day of my life.

  The ceremony ends with us tossing our caps, giving hugs, and referring to each other as “Chef.” When I set my eyes on Randy again, he’s standing at the back of the auditorium, arms crossed and stance wide while talking to Chef Sweet and Chef Carlisle.