by Jeannie Watt
“Then why did you show it to me?” she asked, shuffling through the chips. Then she gave Reggie a sideways glance. “The two of you decided against green?”
“We went paint shopping. The green was Tom’s favorite until he saw it in natural light.”
“Get out.”
“It was a nice day. We can have fun doing superficial stuff. Enjoy each other’s company.”
“I think you did okay in the serious stuff, too.”
Reggie shrugged. “We did.”
“Any chance Tom could stay here?”
“And do what?” Reggie held up the blue chip, her favorite.
“Work at a hotel restaurant and not get fired?” Eden suggested.
“He could try,” Reggie conceded. “He could possibly work his way through several hotels here.” She dropped the card on the table. “He’s not a corporate guy, Eden. A hotel kitchen would be rough on him and he’d be rough on it.” Her mouth tightened ruefully. “Want to hazard a guess as to who would be the loser?”
“Maybe he could run his own place?”
Reggie shrugged before settling her elbows on the table. “He’s never said one word about doing that.”
“Maybe…” Eden said slowly “…he’s afraid of failing?”
“And maybe Tom was never meant to settle.”
“You guys haven’t talked custody yet?”
Reggie closed her eyes and shook her head. “I think the kid is just now becoming real to both of us.”
REGGIE HAD COME TO AN agreement over the phone with Frank and Bernie, and planned to meet them the next morning before work. The lumber, which the brothers had already ordered, even though Tom told them not to, had been delivered that morning. The truck had frightened Brioche and woke Tom out of a dead, wine-induced sleep.
And now he was yawning as he worked on the appetizers for a luncheon the next day.
“Tom?”
He looked up as Eden came into the kitchen from the reception area.
“There’s a large Scottish bear here to see you.”
Tom knew only one man who fit that description. How in the hell had Lowell found him at the Tremont kitchen?
“Tom!” Lowell called from the outer office. “Can I come back?”
“Could I stop you?” he asked.
“Probably not.” Lowell came through the kitchen door, tall and broad with bushy auburn hair, and enveloped Tom in a brief hug. Eden leaned her upper body out of range when Lowell turned his attention toward her.
“Why are you in Reno?” Tom asked, trying to redirect Lowell’s attention.
“Simone and I are getting married again.”
“But…did you ever finish getting divorced?” And don’t you have to be a citizen?
Lowell waved his hands as if Tom was talking about a minor detail. “And I wanted to talk to you.”
“Have you heard of phones?”
“Newfangled tools of the devil.”
Tom jerked his head at his station. “You caught me at a busy time.”
Lowell frowned. “You’re a catering cook now?”
“Something wrong with that?” Eden asked.
“Uh, no,” Lowell replied as she gave him the evil eye. “Just…” he leaned closer to say sotto voce “…just not what I thought you’d end up doing. I think it’s a good thing I came.” He turned and smiled placidly at Eden. “Where’s Simone?”
“At the hotel,” Lowell said, as if surprised by the question. “They have a bang-up spa and she’s getting something done. Or a lot of somethings. No matter what, it’s going to cost me.”
“I have to finish getting ready for this wedding. Could we get together tonight for a drink or something?” Tom winced as he made the suggestion. He’d yet to be in a situation with Lowell and alcohol that had ended well.
“Give me a call when you’re done here.”
“So now you believe in phones?” Eden said.
Lowell shrugged a shoulder.
“It’ll be late,” Tom warned. As if that was a deterrent.
“I’ll be up,” Lowell said confidently. “I’ll see you tonight.” He checked his watch. “Another couple hours and Simone should be done. Maybe I’ll just check out the bar at the pool.”
“Good plan.” Tom picked up his spoon again.
“Who’s he?” Eden asked as soon as Lowell had lumbered out.
“Lowell Hislop. An old friend.”
“Huh.” Eden balanced on her good foot. “Why’s he here? Other than getting married?”
Tom hoped he didn’t look guilty as he said, “I guess I’ll find out tonight.”
“ORDER GUINNESS,” LOWELL SAID many hours later as they sat at a table close to the hotel bar.
“I don’t want a…” Tom knew he was going to lose. He looked up at the server. “Like he said.”
“They have the most amazing method of pouring it here.”
“There’s more ways than good and bad?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Watch.”
The kid, who was barely old enough to pour beer legally, and knew nothing about Guinness, shoved the glass under the tap and pulled the handle. He didn’t pause halfway through the pour to let the beer rest, but instead filled the entire glass, then slammed it down onto the bar with a loud thunk. Tom watched in amazement as millions of tiny bubbles developed throughout the brew and rose to the top to form a creamy froth.
“Go figure,” he said.
Lowell laughed. “I was affronted the first time I watched, but I am now officially entertained.” He indicated his glass. “My third, and if Simone is going to be happy tonight, my last.”
Tom couldn’t say he wasn’t relieved.
“What I want to talk to you about is a partnership,” Lowell said after the bar server had placed the glass of beer in front of Tom.
Tom settled his forearms on the table and waited for him to continue.
“Simone and I are opening a restaurant and we want you to run the kitchen. It’d be like old times except that I can’t get fired!” Lowell laughed and took a long swig of beer. “But you can.”
Tom realized that his heart was beating faster. “France?”
“Simone inherited property from her grandmother. A small house that can be converted into a restaurant. It’s something we’ve both wanted to do for a long time, but we need someone we can trust to run things during the times when Simone and I are…” His voice trailed off as he sought an adequate description of their rather unusual yet long-lived relationship.
“Working things out?” Tom saw no reason to beat around the bush. He’d witnessed the fireworks more than once. However, never at a restaurant. They might pout, ignore each other whenever possible, but they never allowed it to affect service. The fireworks happened, as all good fireworks do, after-hours.
“Exactly.”
Tom felt as if he’d been turned inside out. “I don’t know if I can go to France.”
“Why ever not?” Lowell asked, his eyes bugging slightly. “You love France. And you need a job.”
“I do.” He took a swallow of the Guinness. He hadn’t wanted it, but it tasted pretty damned bracing now. “Reggie is pregnant.”
“Reggie?” It took a moment for the name to register. “You don’t mean the woman who dumped you way back when?”
“The same. She owns the catering business.”
“You knocked up the boss?”
“She wasn’t my boss when I…knocked her up. That’s why I’m here. I’m between jobs, we need to work a few things out.”
Lowell leaned on the table, which creaked slightly under his weight. “So are you going to get married or what?”
“She won’t have me,” Tom said matter-of-factly.
“Smart girl.” He studied Tom, his expression too shrewd for someone who’d downed nearly three pints of beer. “Bugs you, don’t it?”
“I can’t say I’m ready to offer marriage, but I wish things were more…normal.”
“There is no such thing as norm
al. You know that. Let me serve as an example.” He raised his beer and gestured at Tom. “So tell me, Chef Gerard, what events are you catering next?”
Tom didn’t answer. He picked up his Guinness and took a long, long drink before setting it down again. “You may as well tell me about this restaurant.”
“ARE YOU HUNGOVER?” REGGIE asked the instant she set eyes on Tom the next morning. He knew he was looking beyond rough when she opened the side door of Frank and Bernie’s oversize barn of a garage and stepped inside. But at least he was there, instead of passed out on his futon, as he’d been a mere twenty minutes ago.
He attempted a smile. It cost him. “Why do you ask?”
“First, you look like I used to feel in the morning not that long ago, and second, Eden told me Lowell stopped by to see you.”
Tom scratched his ear. “Yeah. He did, and I probably do feel like you did not that long ago.”
She set her bag on a workbench and pulled the rolled plans out of it. “Kind of odd. Lowell. Here.” Reggie didn’t know Lowell, but she’d had one very bad experience with him—when he’d buzzed through Reno years ago with the offer for the job in Spain, at a restaurant owned by his uncle. Lowell was probably not on Reggie’s favorite-person list.
“He was passing through town. Getting married, in fact.”
“Wasn’t he married before?” Reggie asked with a slight frown. But there was something bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “And doesn’t he need to be a citizen to get married here?”
“I’m not certain of the legalities,” Tom muttered. When should he tackle this? Now? During a candlelit dinner?
Frank came into the shop, followed by Bernie. “Hey, you two. Ready to rock and roll?”
“Always,” Tom said.
Reggie smiled at the brothers. “Shall we go over the sketches and I’ll tell you exactly what I want?”
“You bet,” Frank said. The three looked over the hand-drawn plans and Reggie answered their questions. Less than five minutes later she was done.
She waved to the two men as she headed to the door, which Tom opened for her. “Frank. Bernie. See you guys later, and thanks.” The second she was outside her smile faded. She walked toward her car, Tom following, but before she got there she stopped so quickly he almost tripped over her. “Is there a job offer involved in Lowell’s swing through town?”
Just like last time?
Tom squinted into the sun. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Where?”
“France.”
“France?” No anger. No angst. Not much of anything by way of a response. A far cry from his announcement of a possible job in the north of Spain seven years ago.
“Nothing carved in stone,” he added.
Reggie’s expression remained calm. Almost serene. Ridiculously accepting. They might as well have been discussing the weather.
“It would be a good career move for you.” She walked to the car, but didn’t open the door.
“Is that a dig?” Tom asked flatly, stopping by the hood of her car.
“An observation, Tom.”
Was she trying to get rid of him?
Reverse psychology, maybe?
“Here it is, Tom. Spelled out. You had a career that many people would give their right hand for. Something like that involves sacrifices, which I didn’t really understand seven years ago. But I do now.”
“What do you mean?”
She gave him a weary look. “You aren’t done yet.”
“Aren’t done with what?”
“You aren’t done doing the work you have to do. The work you need to accomplish before you can settle.”
“How do you know that?” he asked, with more of a sneer than he intended. The headache was bringing out the worst in him. And Reggie wasn’t helping.
She just shook her head and opened the car door. The sunlight glinted off her dark hair as she got inside, bringing out the red.
“I’ll see you at the kitchen.”
Where he was supposed to make chicken cordon bleu this morning for an old-school dinner party, and where Patty would make conversation impossible.
As Reggie backed out of the driveway, Tom stalked to Frank and Bernie’s garage and jerked the door open with too much force. It got away from him and slammed into the side of the metal building, the reverberating crash making the pain in his head spike.
“You all right?” Bernie yelled.
“Fine,” Tom lied, as he tried not to wince. Damn Lowell and his Guinness. “Are the plans clear?”
“Yep,” Frank said. “Piece of cake.”
“And you can definitely be done by the weekend, so we have time to paint.”
“Without breaking a sweat,” Frank stated.
Tom wished he could say the same thing. Kitchens were hot and today he’d be sweating. And thinking. Not his favorite combination.
TOM WORKED LIKE A MACHINE FOR most of the day, silent and withdrawn. Patty stayed far away from him. So did Reggie.
She wasn’t going to bring more drama into her kitchen. They both knew Tom wasn’t going to settle for spending his days working as a prep cook here. He had dragons to slay. He was leaving, and before he went, they would make a preliminary agreement about the baby, since actual legal custody couldn’t be settled until the child was born.
She wasn’t looking forward to the discussion, because she had no idea what Tom was going to counterpropose to her full custody proposal. Summers in France, perhaps?
Justin swung into the kitchen around three o’clock with the happy news that the bistro was ahead of schedule. And it was spectacular. His only concern was transport and setup, since the piece was large and heavy and required hefty supports to avoid squishing the general public.
“Are you sure it’s sturdy?” Reggie asked.
“Once it’s bolted together, an elephant will be able to lean on it,” Justin said, his eyes cutting over to Tom, who’d barely looked up. “I’m going to get Donovan to help transport it.”
“Great.” Reggie went back to rolling out potpie crusts.
Justin looked from one to the other, then back again. “All right then. I guess I’ll just start in on those desserts.”
He stood there for another few seconds, then shook his head and disappeared into the pastry room. Patty looked as if she wanted to follow him.
A second later Tom’s hand closed over Reggie’s upper arm. He motioned with his head to the alley and she gave up and went.
When they got outside, Tom didn’t immediately say anything. Instead, he glared at her, as if it was her fault they were in this situation…which it was. So Reggie took the initiative.
“What do you want from me, Tom? I didn’t offer an ultimatum. I accepted that you may be going to France.”
“If I go,” he said, “it doesn’t mean that I’m out of your life. Out of the baby’s life.”
She only nodded, because he was deluding himself. Of course it would take him out of their lives. How could it not? And she knew the frantic pace of a restaurant, especially with a start-up. He’d be consumed.
“This isn’t like Spain,” he said.
“How so? The job in Spain catapulted you into the limelight. You need this job in France to jump-start your career.”
“That doesn’t mean the career comes first. I…just need to make a living in a way that doesn’t eat my soul.”
“I know, Tom. You have tough choices to make here.” She leaned back against the brick wall. “When would you go…if you did take it?”
“The end of the month. The restaurant opens in September. Lowell needs an answer soon.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TOM SHOWED UP FOR WORK EVERY day after dropping the France bombshell, and Reggie kept contact to a minimum—until she went over to Frank and Bernie’s garage to help Eden paint the bistro front. Tom was there, too, with the little dog prancing around him.
The five of them painted the set, then Frank and Bernie atta
ched the hardware and showed Eden and Reggie the awning they’d devised.
“Now it’s just a matter of getting it there,” Tom said, standing back, hands on his hips.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. We’re lending Justin our flat trailer. All we’ll have to do is attach the side braces on site.”
Reggie and Eden exchanged glances.
“You want us there, right?” Frank asked. “For technical assistance?”
“Of course,” Eden said. She leaned down to scratch a spot of paint off her compression boot with her fingernail, but Reggie could see her smiling.
Tom left with Reggie and Eden, carrying the little dog in one hand, calling good-night to the brothers, who were still inspecting their handiwork. Once outside, he said, “I want to go.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be there, and I can’t be trusted alone in the kitchen to answer the phone. Remember what happened last time?”
Eden took her cue and limped away from them to the car. Tom didn’t seem to notice.
“I thought you wanted to avoid recognition.”
“No one cares anymore, Reggie. I’m yesterday’s news. So I show up at a catering competition. Helping out a friend.”
“I don’t know that I want you to be recognized.”
“Embarrassed to be seen with a washed-up chef?”
Reggie massaged her forehead. “I’m not sure your reputation jibes with ours.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “No one will recognize me behind the scenes.” One corner of his mouth tilted up. “I’ll cut my hair.” And then he smiled that predatory smile of his. “Or better yet, you can cut my hair.”
“I haven’t cut hair since…well…since I used to cut yours.” Back in their peanut butter eating days. She’d honed her skills on Justin over the years—until he was sixteen and no longer let her touch his hair, preferring to shave it himself into a rebel skater do.
“I have scissors,” Tom said.
“Decent ones?”
“Hopefully.”
“Because I’m not cutting your hair with kitchen shears.”
Tom laughed and touched the side of her face. “Let’s get Eden. She can give technical advice.”