by Jeannie Watt
“Relax a little, all right?”
Reggie tied the apron, then made an effort to smile. Sure. She’d relax. Just as soon as this week was over.
REGGIE LEFT ABOUT AN HOUR after Patty came in, leaving Patty with an extensive prep list and simply telling Tom what she needed him to do—brie-stuffed chicken breasts, a gourmet version of scalloped potatoes, poached Bosc pears in a cabernet sauce.
Tom cubed the brie and then sliced pockets into the chicken breasts, stuffing a few cubes of cheese in each one before sautéing them and then placing them on a baking sheet.
Patty was baking the sheet cake and cutting crudités. Slowly cutting crudités. It was almost as if she was doing it on purpose to drive him insane, but this wasn’t his kitchen. He didn’t need to fix the problem. And if he turned his back to her, he could almost believe it.
And if he couldn’t believe it, he’d fake it.
Once the chicken was stored, Tom disinfected his area then started on the potatoes. Regardless of what Reggie wanted, he had to do a few fixes to this sauce. While he was making the white sauce, he started to smell the distinct scent of burned vanilla and glanced over his shoulder at Patty, who was arranging carrot sticks and radishes.
“Patty?”
Her chin jerked up.
“Cake?”
She gave him a haughty look, then glanced at the timer next to her crudités plate. Her eyes bulged and then she whirled around to the oven.
“Oh, no. Oh, no,” she repeated over and over as she jerked the pan out, dropped it on the rack waiting on the counter. Tom was surprised she’d slowed down long enough to put on an oven mitt. Forget to set the timer, Patty?
“Ruined,” she moaned. “Look at it. Look at it!”
Tom could see the black edges from where he was finishing the white sauce. “Don’t cry!” If Reggie came back and this woman was bawling, there’d be hell to pay.
Her eyes suggested his command came too late.
“No,” he said, as firmly as he could without raising his voice. He was tethered to the white sauce that had yet to thicken, so he called, “We’ll fix it. Just. Don’t. Cry!”
Had he ever said those words in his kitchens?
Never. And now he’d just said them twice.
“How will we fix it?” Patty practically shrieked. “This is for an event!”
“I know.” Tom’s sauce had thickened to the point that he could take it from the burner. He set it aside and crossed over to where Patty stood wringing her hands next to the cake.
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said.
She glared at him. Platitudes really didn’t sound convincing coming out of his mouth.
“You have time to make another cake.”
Patty gestured dramatically at her prep list. “When? Reggie is depending on me to do all of this.”
Tom scooped up the paper and quickly read through it. Child’s play. He set the list down on the counter and put his hand on top it. “I’m good at this kind of thing. I’ll handle your list and mine while you make another cake.”
“But Reggie—”
“Doesn’t need to know.”
Come on, woman. He was offering the easiest fix, the quickest fix, and yet she was dithering… But he hadn’t taken her head off. Good, Tom. Very good.
“All right,” she said with a sniff. “But I will have to tell Reggie.”
“Patty…Reggie considers herself lucky to have you.” For reasons Tom didn’t quite get. “She’ll be all right with this.”
The prep cook gave another slight sniff. “Then we’d best get going.”
Finally.
“Yes.”
By the time Reggie returned, both prep lists were done and a perfect cake sat cooling on the rack.
“Wow, Patty,” Reggie said. “This is beautiful. Justin will have to watch out.”
Patty blushed, hesitated, started to speak, then glanced over at Tom. He shook his head and her mouth closed again. A second later she simply said, “Thank you.”
THERE WAS A CAKE IN THE TRASH. A yellow sheet cake, parchment still attached to the almost black underside, doubled over and lying beneath a few eggshells and vegetable peelings.
Both Tom and Patty had left, so Reggie had no one to ask about it. But whatever had happened, Patty hadn’t been in tears and Tom hadn’t been raging—which made Reggie wonder if he even knew.
No. If Patty burned a cake, he’d know. He had an extraordinary nose.
Strange… And perhaps best to let the cake go out with the trash and ask no questions. Even if she was dying of curiosity.
She touched her belly after closing the lid of the garbage can. “Your father’s going soft.”
Your father.
It still gave her pause when she thought of Tom as the father of her baby.
He was biding his time now, waiting out the aftermath of his professional faux pas, but he didn’t belong in a catering kitchen. He’d actually made the right choice seven years ago, and so had she. She wouldn’t have been happy globe-trotting from restaurant to restaurant, trying to roll with the punches when he’d gotten fired more than once, trying to put down the roots she would have needed so badly in such a fluctuating environment.
So, yes, they were having a baby together.
But she didn’t see how they could possibly make a life.
WHEN TOM PARKED HIS CAR IN THE driveway that evening, an awful high-pitched mechanical squeal came from his neighbors’ oversize shop, followed by muffled shouts.
Ah, suburbia. What were Frank and Bernie up to now? Hopefully, this wasn’t part of their new sauce-making procedure.
The rat dog was waiting on the back porch and shot into the kitchen when Tom opened the door, skittering across the floor as she tried to stop her momentum.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked, getting the food out of the fridge and scooping some into the ceramic dish next to the table.
Tom poured a half glass of wine, then stood swirling it as he watched the dog dig into her food. He should probably give her a name, because there was no sense pretending he was going to turn the little beast over to animal control. As he’d told Reggie, he was no dog murderer, and he wasn’t going to take the chance that she wouldn’t get adopted before zero hour. Besides, she kept his feet warm.
He’d find her a home—a real home—when he left. Maybe with Eden. She looked like the rat dog type. Reggie had that spoiled cat he’d seen the night he was there, who’d probably hog all the dog’s food and knock it around when Reggie wasn’t looking.
The dog looked up at him, cocked her head, then went back to eating. She’d undoubtedly once had a name, given to her by those bastards who’d abandoned her. He’d ask the boys next door.
As Tom approached Frank and Bernie’s shop, the metallic squeal started again. He knocked on the door, but no one answered—probably because they couldn’t hear over the racket—so he let himself inside.
The brothers were at the far end of the cavernous building, next to a screaming saw Bernie was feeding wood through. Both men were wearing hearing protection, and Tom wished he was, too.
He clapped his hands over his ears until the noise stopped, and Bernie popped Frank on the chest, then pointed at Tom.
“Hey,” Frank said.
“I see you guys do more than cook ribs.”
“You gotta fill your hours after retirement,” Frank said.
“What are you retired from?” Tom had wondered what they’d done before moving in together and cooking ribs.
“Construction. We built a lot of the houses in this neighborhood.”
“Home boys, then.”
“I guess,” Frank said dubiously, obviously not one for puns. “We’re building a picnic table now.”
“I’ve never built anything in my life,” Tom said.
“You never had shop class?”
“I didn’t go to a regular high school. Got stuck in boarding school a lot.”
“Oh. I see.”
&nb
sp; Frank seemed at a loss as to whether or not he should offer sympathy, so Tom said, “I was wondering…did that dog that came with my house have a name?”
“Muffin.”
He made a face. “Those people abandoned a dog named Muffin?”
“You never know about people,” Frank said. “Hey, you need a picnic table? We’re making a prototype, but it’s not quite right.”
“Why don’t you guys keep it?”
“We have three picnic tables. Hobby of Bernie’s. Making picnic tables. Pretty soon we won’t have room for grass in the backyard.” Frank laughed.
“I’m not going to be here for long, unless something radically changes.”
“After this, then what?”
“I hope to have a new job,” Tom said simply. “How’s the sauce coming?”
“Made some adjustments. We’ll be grilling tomorrow if you want to try it.”
“I might not be here,” he said.
“Well, anytime you see smoke rising, come on over. We’re always happy to have people by.”
It probably did get lonely, just the two of them. Tom wondered if they’d once had separate lives, wives and such, or if they’d always been together. Kind of like Reggie and her siblings.
“Well, I gotta go,” Tom said. He raised a hand to Bernie, who was measuring a board. Bernie waved back.
“That’s a nice dog,” Frank said before Tom turned back to the door. “I’m glad you’re giving her a chance.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m becoming a believer in second chances.” And so, even though they had to part company eventually, the dog was getting a name, and it wouldn’t be Muffin.
As soon as he walked into the house, she trotted over, cocking her head. He picked her up and held her out at arm’s length, studying the little animal for inspiration. She stared back with her bright eyes. Small and brown. Warm and comforting. Muffin was appropriate in some ways, but Tom wasn’t a muffin kind of guy.
Petite Brioche.
Perfect.
“Come on, Brioche. Let’s go surf the net.” He tucked her under his arm and headed for his laptop, where he found a ton of junk in his email in-box, plus one very unexpected message from Lowell. Tom hadn’t heard from the guy since their “you’re screwed” conversation six weeks ago.
The message was short: How’s your French?
He wrote back Bon. Lowell was well aware that his French was adequate in most places, fluent in the kitchen. Tom knew all the curse words.
He leaned back in his chair, a sense of excitement building in him. Lowell wouldn’t ask unless there was a reason, but he worked in his own way. Tom knew better than to ask questions, which tended to make Lowell react in a contrary manner. Tom began to feel a faint hope, though, that maybe he wouldn’t be unemployed or face underemployment for much longer.
Maybe he could work in a decent kitchen again—where he didn’t need to worry about making people cry. Make a decent salary so he could provide for his child’s care.
And maybe he’d be smart enough to keep his mouth shut and cook.
But if it involved speaking French…Canada? Or France?
CHAPTER TWELVE
CATERING A WEDDING, Tom discovered, was very much like preparing to fight a battle. Plans, details, to-the-minute time schedules.
There were also other less militaristic aspects. Florists, displays, rentals, temps…multiple details to juggle.
If one also had to create a business dinner a mere three days before the wedding, the tension and potential for disaster increased exponentially. Very much like a busy professional kitchen of any sort.
Reggie took it all in stride, despite Eden’s return to the kitchen being delayed by two days because of the swelling in her foot and ankle. Tom kept in the background as much as possible, doing whatever Reggie asked of him without argument, trying to take some of the pressure off her. Patty tried to outdo him, finishing tasks in record time, reinforcing his belief that professional rivalry was a fine thing when used for the forces of good.
And through it all, deveining shrimp, chopping crudités, making biscotti and roasting chicken breasts, he thought about Lowell’s email.
Lowell was a contrary bastard. He was also one of Tom’s closest friends and wouldn’t screw with him for too long. Tom hoped. Even this hint of possibility had lifted his mood…and also made him well aware that if he was offered a job, he had more to consider than he used to.
“Hey, Tom.” Justin came out of his pastry room, the white cotton stocking cap he wore smeared with blue icing. “I’m starting to get into the juice here. Could you give me a hand?”
“Sure.” Half afraid of what he was going to have to do, Tom followed Justin into his lair, where the cake was taking form. Fortunately, no frosting was involved. Just frou-frou desserts. Justin explained how to make the éclair filling and then pipe it into the shells he’d made earlier that day.
“You’ll do the final touches with the piping bag?” Tom asked, thinking that Justin probably didn’t want his reputation riding on Tom’s decorative skills.
Tom made the filling, cooking custard and then, after it had cooled, mixing it with whipped cream. He started piping filling into the éclairs, while Justin continued to work on his cake. Big piping he could handle. Leaves and flowers? Forget it.
Classic rock played through the speakers mounted on the ceiling, and Justin moved his head in time with the beat as his hands remained steady, creating petal after petal.
“Anything else?” Tom asked forty minutes later.
Justin looked up as if he’d forgotten Tom was there. He shifted the pastry bag to his left hand and flexed his right. “We just need to get them in the cooler, so I can spread out here.”
“Will do,” Tom said. He wrapped the pans and made a couple trips to the walk-in, making room on one of the shelves for the wrapped trays. When he was done, Reggie was nowhere to be found and he needed another assignment, so he headed for the office.
The door was open a crack, and since Tom didn’t hear Reggie talking on the phone, he knocked and then pushed it open without waiting for a response.
Reggie was sound asleep, her head resting on her folded arms on her desk.
REGGIE WOKE WITH A GUILTY start, wondering where she was and why there was a warm hand on her back. Tom. She sat bolt upright.
She’d laid her head down for a minute and that was the last thing she remembered.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine. Yes. Just resting my eyes.”
“How much sleep did you get last night?”
She rose to her feet, straightened her apron, then looked Tom in the eye. “Plenty of sleep. Sleep is important, which is why pregnant woman fall asleep at odd times. Like now.”
“I see.”
“Are you finished with the chicken breasts?” she asked, cocking her head.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Over an hour ago.
“Good.” She reached for her clipboard with the battle plan attached. “I have a million things that need to be done.”
TOM ARRIVED AT THE KITCHEN early the next morning, but Reggie was already there, deep in preparations.
How much sleep could she have gotten?
She greeted him with a smile, then turned back to her work, leaving him with a strong desire to go over and put his arms around her from behind. Like he used to do. Back when they were in love.
Patty came into the kitchen within moments of his arrival, calling a cheery hello to Reggie and giving Tom a curt nod. They may have made an uneasy peace during the burned cake incident, but she was by no means a fan. Justin showed up next and the kitchen seemed almost crowded.
Or maybe Tom had simply wanted a few minutes alone with Reggie.
It wasn’t to be. Everyone worked steadily, cooking, packing, wrapping and loading, right up until midafternoon when Reggie and Patty took off to finish cooking at the Masonic lodge hall where the dinner was being held.
Justin rolled his sh
oulders as the van pulled away.
“More time on the cake?” Tom asked.
“Nope. I’m going home, having exactly two beers and then sleeping until it’s time to come back and help Reggie and Patty unload the van. Tomorrow is going to be a killer.” He opened the door to the kitchen. “I prescribe the same for you.”
Tom did indeed go home, leaving Justin to lock up. He was determined to beat Reggie there the next morning. It still bothered him that he’d found her asleep the day before—to the point that after feeding Brioche and making himself a salami sandwich, he settled on the futon with his laptop and punched “pregnancy” into a search engine.
What he found was hair-raising.
The stages of pregnancy themselves were matter-of-fact. But on the various websites he’d explored, he not only saw photos of the fetus—which was not a handsome creature by any stretch of the imagination—he also read about the many things that could go wrong with a pregnancy.
And then the birth…
He finally had to force himself to turn off the computer.
How on earth could Reggie be so calm when faced with so much potential for disaster?
THE LIGHTS WERE ON IN THE kitchen when Reggie pulled the van to a stop near the rear entrance. Justin was here as planned. Or not. The rear door opened and Tom, not her brother, stepped out into the alley. What the heck?
“Is something wrong?” Patty asked from the passenger seat. Instead of answering, Reggie got out of the van, as did Patty and Jenna, the temp for the evening, and went around back to where Tom already had the doors open.
“You’re still here,” Reggie said in surprise, pushing a few loose tendrils back from her forehead.
“I borrowed the key from Justin so I could help you unload.”
“Why?” She reached in for the first thing she could get her hands on, anxious to get the unloading done so she could go home, go to bed. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.
Instead of answering, Tom took the box she’d just lifted from the van, and handed it to the temp, who carried it inside. And then another. And another. For a few minutes it was like a bucket brigade. Reggie would grab a box or cooler and either he or Patty, not to be outdone by Tom, would take it away from her. “Why are you doing this?” she finally asked.