by T. Neilson
“Luke, what did you think of the sake?” Hiro asked. Luke turned his attention to Hiro, and Simon pulled his phone from his pocket to text Tristan.
Something came up. Need you to cut for the focaccia tomorrow. 10 sharp. Observer coming.
Then he slid the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to Luke and Hiro. He took a moment to admire Luke’s shape, the soft timbre of his voice, the goodness and patience in his every word as he gently guided Hiro to the answer—the sake needed to be paired with pickle too, not just the fish—things that came easily for a Michelin-starred chef and were still mind-blowing for a young sommelier. He smiled.
Lucky Tristan.
I CAN’T go.
Tristan’s text came in long after the tasting had wrapped and Simon was returning to his office. He scowled at the phone.
You need to be there. Luke Ferreya is going to be there.
Sorry. The insurance guy is coming with the paperwork.
Simon scowled and dropped the phone onto the stack of paperwork on his desk. “Why are you making this so impossible?” he whispered at the phone. But he couldn’t actually fault Tristan. After the fire, dealing with the insurance company had become almost as time-consuming and demanding as his baking schedule. Tristan was desperate to sign the paperwork and put the whole summer behind him, and Simon could hardly blame him for not wanting to put off the meeting to go to the farm.
He dropped down into the desk chair and looked at the work in front of him. Timesheets for sign off, requests for vacations, and wholesale suppliers’ bills nearly covered the battered brown surface of the ancient desk that had once been his dad’s. Tangled phone cords and chargers lay half-covered by the unfinished work. Catalogs stood open to pieces of equipment they needed to replace. A vet bill for one of the calves was still flagged with a bright pink sticky. And two mugs, one empty and coffee stained, the other half full of yesterday’s brew, the cream congealing on the surface, sat on the corner.
“This place is worse than a teenager’s bedroom,” he muttered as he took it all in.
He closed his eyes and thought of the low light that painted everything golden, the long table of scrubbed, bare wood, and the Luminara test menu laid out. He thought of Luke savoring those tiny, perfect strawberries. He thought of the bright sparkle of champagne on his tongue, almost glimmering like the low sun on the lake. He thought of Luke’s impromptu toast to Mark and Jenny’s success and his easy smile, those three undone buttons at the neck of his shirt, his strong thighs, and his hand as he held the stem of the champagne flute. He remembered Luke’s interest in the farm and his warm, earnest smile when Simon invited him.
There were worse things than hitting the farm with Luke Ferreya.
Simon smiled. He’d make it worth their while. He’d pack a charcuterie plate, and they could share it. He would add Tristan’s black bread and herbs and flowers fresh from the garden. They could have a quiet moment in a hectic summer, out of the office, away from the press of work and bodies and the heat of the kitchen and the clatter of the dining room. It would be a stolen morning on a cool, quiet day, just as things were ramping up and summer was becoming brutal. He smiled a little, just thinking about it.
Tristan had no idea what he would be missing.
LUKE left the tasting a little muzzy with all that wine. He hadn’t intended to do so much talking. In fact, he hadn’t intended to do much more than show up and enjoy the offerings, but Mark had been so patient, so clearly mentoring Jenny into a chef, and Jenny was so clearly good and eager that they made him want to help shape a future great chef. So he opened his mouth about the charcuterie platter. To his surprise, he enjoyed a teaching role. Mark had no ego. He simply let Luke slide right in and agreed or disagreed with mild, well-thought-out commentary. Luke found himself fiercely fond of the guy. He clearly knew his trade, and he clearly loved the work, even though he knew his own limitations. Mark was a good chef and a decent man—something too rarely combined in great kitchens.
He supposed it was no wonder Simon’s kitchen ran so well, now that he had seen the head chef and sous together. He imagined they could cook in the dark and still manage just fine.
If Simon had asked him yesterday if he’d like to go to the farm, Luke would have feared some kind of trap to get him into a kitchen and said no. But the tasting had been so pleasant and the work of mentoring so easy and the company—no, Simon—so clearly understood him that his natural wariness had started to ebb.
He let himself smile. After all, there was nobody to ask him what he was thinking about. He was alone, and the evening, soft as silk, was falling around him. The shimmering lake and the shadowed pines were his only companions.
He was happier here than he’d been in a long time, with the horses, the company, and the food too. But he felt a slow creep of sadness, like nostalgia building up for these days before these days had even ended.
If he was really was going back to Argentina, then this was the finest way he knew how to say farewell to the past that never was and a future that could never be—spend a day working with Simon, side by side, like old times, with none of the pressure of his old life, only the love of the earth and the food, only the joy of scent and taste, only the pleasure of good company. Yes. And after that, he would buy his ticket to Buenos Aires and start again, carve a new life from the carcass of the old.
But first there was tomorrow.
Luke bypassed the public beach where children whooped and shouted and splashed. Instead he turned up the hot black-tarmac road that led to the town. Old Canoe Brewery stood right before him, its huge windows plastered with a sign that read, We’re Moving! He pushed through the big double doors and sidestepped the pub in favor of the sales area, where he bought two bombers of the saison to share at lunch after a morning of working in the summer heat. Tomorrow, in the early hours of the morning, he would stop at Tristan’s bakery and pick up something to share for breakfast, since Simon was so clearly crazy for his brother’s baking.
He smiled as he planned it. He would break bread with Simon and toast him. Then he would say his farewells. He would leave Simon a friend. That was the love that was offered to him, and that was good enough.
Luke looked around until he found a small green-painted bench sitting empty in the evening sun.
He pulled out his phone to snap a picture and noticed the little missed-phone-call alert on the screen. Luke glanced at his messages and started in surprise. There was a number he hadn’t seen in a very long time—his uncle in Argentina. He frowned, suddenly worried. His uncle had called twice but hadn’t left a message. Luke dialed back. The phone rang a few times, and then his uncle’s familiar baritone answered.
“Lucas,” he said in a slow, chiding tone. “I have been trying to reach you all day. Your mother has been trying to get hold of you. She said you have disappeared off the map, and she’s worried about you.”
Luke rubbed his forehead with one hand. “I’ve been avoiding her calls,” he admitted. On the other end of the line he heard his uncle chuckle.
“She says you chucked it down the road, that restaurant of yours.”
Luke nodded. “I did. Had enough.”
“Ah. She’s not taking it very well, then?”
“No, she’s not taking it well at all.”
“Well, she’ll come around. In the meantime, I’ll tell her you’re alive. Where are you these days? In case she wants me to send a search party.”
Luke raised his head and looked at the glittering lake, the sky turning peach and purple, and the blue mountains in the distance. “I’m staying in a little town called Lake Balmoral, in Washington. Pretty place,” he added.
“And are you in hiding, or in exile?”
“Neither, I hope,” Luke answered with a grin. He and his uncle Alfonz had always seen eye to eye. A thought occurred to him. He had planned to go home to the ranch, since his sister ran the place these days. But that might mean his mom would descend in fury and wrath, and that woul
d be hard on his sister. “Hey, uh… listen, could you use a hand at your place?”
“Hmm?” his uncle asked.
“I have to talk to Mom eventually, and when I do I want to have something to tell her so she stops worrying so much. I’ve been planning to come back to Argentina for a while now. Olivia said I’d be welcome to stay with her, but….”
“You really are in hiding.” His uncle understood at once.
“Mom’s pretty mad.”
“Well, you’re always welcome here, Luke, you know that. We could really use a good polo player. The team stinks this year.”
Luke snorted. “Then you definitely don’t want me. I just started riding again after all these years. It’s ridiculous. I’m terrible.”
His uncle sighed. “Oh, well. Worth trying, I guess. When are you coming down?”
Luke looked at the sky and thought of Simon. “I have some business to wrap up here,” he said. “I’m not sure when it’ll be finished, so I was planning on coming back in late September.”
“September, huh?”
He could hear the disappointment in his uncle’s voice.
“When is a good time for you?”
“Well, August is haying season, and it’s always nice to have an extra hand for the haymow. Honestly, the sooner you come, the better. I can tell your mom that you’re safe and sound and I’ve laid eyes on you.”
Luke nodded. He could see the benefits, even if it meant putting a timer on his stay at Lake Balmoral. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do with the ticket I have, and I’ll let you know when to expect me.”
“That sounds good. We’ll talk later. Oh, and Luke?”
“Hmm?”
“For the record, I understand why you gave it up.”
That surprised Luke. “What?” he asked. His uncle had been a polo player almost from his birth, and even after his injury, he hadn’t given up the sport. He just became a coach rather than a captain. “Come on. You never gave up on anything in your life.”
“I did, actually,” he answered. “I love the ponies. I couldn’t give them up. But I could have gone back on after I broke my collarbone. I just decided not to. Lost my love of it, I guess.”
“You’re kidding,” Luke whispered.
“Nope. Lucky for me I had an excuse. I don’t know if I would have been brave enough to just walk away.” His uncle thumped something twice. Tump, tump. “Anyhow, you let us know when you’re coming in, and I’ll be there to pick you up.”
“August,” Luke promised around a lump in his throat. “Soon as I get myself sorted out here.”
Chapter Nine
SIMON scowled at his wardrobe—or what passed for his wardrobe. He was the proud owner of three suit bags that lived in his coat closet and a three-drawer tallboy that held every nonsuit clothing item he possessed—mostly socks and underwear, but at least there was also a pair of jeans in there. It would be absurd to wear dress pants to the farm. Likewise, a dress shirt. Fortunately Simon had snagged a hotel-branded swag T-shirt on his way home the day before.
It did seem kind of incredible that he didn’t own a single T-shirt anymore. Didn’t he ever take a day off? He tried to remember the last day he’d spent killing time, but he couldn’t. The last few months had been nothing short of madness, with the ramp-up to summer tourist season, the drama around Tristan’s bad breakup, and then the terrible bakery fire.
Simon sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. What a summer. No wonder he felt worn thin. No wonder he was looking forward to the farm—and Luke—so much this morning.
HE drove out at six thirty to make sure the gate was open and there was coffee on at the farm office. By the time he parked his car in the gravel drive, the sun was already up, softening the blue morning with the first rays of light, making chandeliers of dew-covered spiderwebs, and illuminating the steam that rose from the open greenhouse louvers. Meghan, the herdswoman, passed him on the way to the barn.
“You’re early this morning,” she called with a wave. Then she brightened. “You going to see the dairy herd today?”
He nodded. “This afternoon.” Because his schedule wasn’t packed enough as it was. He’d have to pull a late night in the office just to keep on top of the exponentially increasing paperwork. “You sure you can’t make it?”
“Wish I could,” she answered. “Vet’s coming to take a look at the calves this afternoon. Besides, I know steak on four legs. Milk is a whole different animal.”
He laughed helplessly at that and gestured to himself.
“Bah, you’ll be fine,” she said.
He made a thin little noise.
She waved a hand as though it didn’t matter. “Picking today?”
He nodded. “Herbs and flowers,” he answered. Things delicate and floral were harvested in the morning, for maximum water and scent retention.
“Nice. I’ll be in the barn if you need anything. Coffee’s on,” she added.
“Bless you and your cotton socks,” Simon answered fervently. She waved goodbye.
Simon watched her walk across the gravel drive to the barn where the cows were clustered, waiting to be let in to rub against the big circulating brushes installed there. He ducked into the office kitchen and waited impatiently while the coffee coughed and spluttered water through the grounds and then took his cup out onto the porch that wrapped around the shabby old office.
Once, there had been chairs out on the porch, but one by one the plastic had yellowed and faded and finally broken. So now there was nothing. He sat on the step with the coffee held between his knees and watched as, twenty feet away in the blue shadows, a cat slunk toward the barn. The sun rose, the shadows receded, his cup emptied, and he woke up by degrees. A sparrow alighted on the porch rail and hopped along, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the wood. In the barnyard, the cattle shuffled and mooed.
Somewhere, someone was riding a horse—the hooves crunch crunch crunched over gravel as it trotted. He realized the sound was coming nearer, not fading away, so he got to his feet and looked down the drive. He laughed helplessly when Luke Ferreya, like The Man from Snowy River, came riding out of the mist.
“You’re kidding,” Simon called when Luke was close enough to hear.
Luke shrugged. “I didn’t bring a car, and Kit Kat wanted a little ride anyway.”
“Kit Kat?” Simon echoed.
“I didn’t name her,” Luke answered.
Simon wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell the difference between a happy and an unhappy horse, but Kit Kat did indeed seem pleased. Luke looked around and then slid down from the saddle. “I’ll put her in the paddock over there.” He pointed to the little corral. While Simon watched, Luke took Kit Kat over to the corral, unbuckled the saddle, swung it and the blankets onto the top rail of the fence, and removed Kit Kat’s bridle. She trotted around the perimeter of the corral and then stopped and looked with ears perked forward toward the barn.
Luke hung the bridle off the fence post and then rummaged in the saddlebag. “I brought pastries.” He hefted the little white box with the Sweet Nothings logo emblazoned on the side. “And beer for after lunch.” He pulled a pair of tall glass bombers from the other pannier and frowned when he looked at the bottles. “There are well shaken now. Let’s put them somewhere safe.”
Simon took the beer from Luke, and his hand brushed Luke’s as he did. He felt himself blush as though he’d done something slightly embarrassing and was hoping nobody had noticed. It was probably the day-drinking. What was he? Twenty again? He didn’t even like beer. And considering how little he drank, one glass would probably go right to his head. He’d have to go back to the office, all muzzy and tired from the alcohol, and then wade through the paperwork he abandoned yesterday afternoon. But that wasn’t going to stop him.
He grinned at Luke. “You’re a genius,” he said.
“I know what you like,” Luke answered, and Simon detected the cheeky tone and the hint of a parody of what Simon had said to him t
he day before.
“True enough,” he said.
They started toward the farm office. “You know,” Luke said as they walked, “I was thinking about what you said at the tasting. You’re right. I should do what makes me happy.”
Simon nodded. “Yeah, you should.”
“I bought a ticket to Buenos Aires. I’m going to go to Argentina. Maybe for good.”
The smile froze on Simon’s face. No. No, surely not. Luke couldn’t leave. Simon had missed him so much, and anyway, he was going to be the perfect boyfriend for Tristan, and he’d come back to food one way or another, especially if he wound up coming to Family Dinners with the Love family.
“Wow,” Simon croaked.
“Right? I’m excited.” Luke rubbed his hands together. “I haven’t been back in years. I’ll tell you all my plans. But first we have work to do, don’t we?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And I brought pastry, in case you haven’t had breakfast yet.” Luke’s smile was cheerful, almost joyful, the smile of a man who has made a momentous decision and is happy with it. “I stopped at the bakery. Your brother picked some out for us.”
Simon nodded at the little white box with the Sweet Nothings logo stamped on the side. “Perfect,” he said a little weakly.
WHEN it was light enough and they’d had their fill of the sticky pastries and the rich coffee, Simon took two baskets from the stack by the office door and led Luke out to the herb garden.
The little space was still shrouded in mist and garlanded everywhere with yesterday’s cobwebs, all pearl-strung with dew. It wasn’t tidy or beautiful, but there was something about the cheerful chaos that made it picturesque. The nasturtiums rambled and tumbled in their corner, undulating like water, and overtaking everything within reach with their pie-plate leaves and brilliant orange flowers. Years earlier, he and his mom had tried to hedge in the nasturtiums with strawberries, but that ended with a tangle of vines and leaves and bright berries and flowers, which meant slow going for the pickers. In the end, it was the borage, standing in stiff and prickly regimented rows, that finally stopped the sea of vines, and all the little purple blue star-shaped flowers were already open to admit the earliest of the bees. Beneath them, hedged by fragrant rosemary and flanked by rocket, grew ground-cover oregano.