Heron's Landing: The Complete Series

by Iris Morland

  Jaime had worked his entire life: in his mother’s store and then culinary school. He didn’t regret his path, but sometimes he wondered what life would’ve been like if he could’ve just gone to school, figured things out, and maybe relaxed for once.

  Relaxing is for white folks, he thought wryly. He’d had to work twice as hard to get just as far as his white peers. It was just how it was.

  Jaime saw that Eric was finishing off his cigarette, dropping it onto the ground without a backward glance. Jaime gritted his teeth. He’d gone through three sous chefs this year, and Adam had forbidden him from firing Eric preemptively. At his interview, he’d seemed capable. But after Eric had realized he couldn’t coast, he’d become sullen and lazy, probably because he knew that even if he were fired, he’d just find another position without hurting for money. His parents were loaded—his dad was a senator, for Christ’s sake—and would pay his rent if he asked them.

  But Jaime wouldn’t dwell on that right now. He waited until Eric returned inside before following him. He got together the menus for next week and remembered that he still needed to talk to Adam. Adam, who had seem him holding his sister out a window. He winced inwardly. Did he suspect that his executive chef had kissed his sister? If he did, there’d be hell to pay. Adam had a tendency to see his sister as a little girl in need of his protection, and if he thought Jaime was using her…

  Well, to say Jaime’s balls would be ripped from his body would be an understatement.

  It doesn’t matter, because it isn’t happening again. It was a one-time mistake. I can avoid her if I need to.

  Jaime entered Adam’s office, the door unlocked, only to find his boss in an embrace with his fiancée Joy. Joy had bright purple hair that was currently up in some complicated hairstyle, chandelier earrings jingling as she laughed. Adam looked at her like she hung the moon in the sky and caused the earth to rotate on its axis, and if Jaime weren’t so uncomfortable watching them, he’d be jealous.

  “Oh, Jaime, there you are.” Adam didn’t let go of Joy, but she turned to Jaime as well. “Do you have the menu ready?”

  Jaime watched as Adam stroked Joy’s bare arm. He was happy for his friend—he really was. Adam had been so lost after the death of his wife Carolyn that when Joy had entered the picture, everyone had been thankful. Until Adam had screwed things up, but they’d managed to find their happy ending.

  Jaime placed the menus on Adam’s desk. “Joy, it’s nice to see you. Any new stories brewing that will piss off you fiancé?”

  Joy laughed. “I’ve been too busy to write, but there’s always something up here.” She tapped her temple. “It also helps that it’s so easy to rile Adam.” Patting his chest, she added, “Isn’t that right, honey?”

  “I don’t know why I put up with you,” Adam said.

  She smiled. “Do you want me to answer that right now?”

  “Behave yourself.” Turning back to Jaime, Adam asked, “How’s everything going? Is Eric improving?”

  Jaime grimaced. “Can I be honest? I’d like to punt kick the kid into the river.”

  “I think this is my sign to exit.” Joy leaned up to kiss Adam on the cheek. “See you later?”

  “See you. Try not to do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Joy just waved a hand as she left.

  Going around to his desk, Adam sat down, and Jaime sat down across from him. “What’s Eric done now?” Adam asked.

  “Well, for one, he can’t cook worth a damn. Two, he’s lazy. Three, he’s a spoiled brat. I could go on, but I’d rather fire him and find someone worthwhile.”

  “And fire the fourth sous chef we’ve hired this year? I hate to even say this, but do you ever wonder if it’s you that’s part of the issue?”

  Jaime knew it was him—but that wasn’t the problem. He had exacting standards, while all of these white boys sat on their asses and thought they didn’t have to work hard because mommy and daddy would always take care of them.

  But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he said in measured tones, “I know I’m a hard ass. But they aren’t going to become great chefs otherwise.”

  “I get that, and you do amazing work.” Adam rubbed his forehead. “We just have too much on our plate right now. Eric isn’t my favorite person either, but can you try to work with him? At least until after the New Year? We have four weddings and the farm to table event in April to focus on.”

  Jaime didn’t want to spend one more second coddling Eric O’Neill, but Adam was still his boss. So he nodded tightly and muttered something about “doing his best.”

  Adam looked at his monitor and opened up what was probably an email. Scanning what looked like a spreadsheet, Jaime watched as he frowned and made “hmmm” sounds at his computer for a few moments.

  “Are you going to share why you’re grunting at your computer, or should I leave you two alone?” Jaime asked.

  Adam looked up, as if he’d forgotten Jaime was there. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a financial spreadsheet sent over from the CPA. These numbers aren’t adding up…” He frowned again. “Sam must’ve put in some numbers wrong. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. What are your thoughts about getting chefs from around the state for this farm to table thing?”

  Jaime was glad to talk of something else. He gave Adam a list of potential chefs in the state who could be invited, along with ideas for panels and food served. Ever since the harvest had been abysmal for the past three years, River’s Bend had since expanded into events, hosting its first wedding only a week ago. That same wedding where Jaime had kissed his boss’s sister.

  He shook off the memory. He could not let himself get distracted. He had work to do, a restaurant to run, a boss to keep happy, and a sous chef to avoid murdering. Getting entangled with Grace Danvers would be career suicide.

  After talking with Adam, Jaime returned to the kitchen to finish prepping for tonight. This was a slower time of year for the restaurant, and he didn’t expect a huge crowd. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want the food to be perfect each time: it didn’t matter if a customer was a state senator or some local from Heron’s Landing. Every time they served food, it should be amazing.

  Eric, though, seemed hell bent on doing the exact opposite. Jaime caught him texting in the pantry when he should’ve been prepping. Later, Eric overcooked the salmon, and Jaime almost tossed the plate in his sous chef’s face. A headache was threatening, and this was one instance when he wished he were the boss of River’s Bend and could fire anyone he wanted.

  Technically speaking, he could fire Eric, but Adam had asked him to stick it out. So he would stick it out. Even if it drove him to drink, he would do it, at least until after the New Year. The last thing Jaime wanted to do was add to Adam’s plate when the vineyard still wasn’t out of the red completely.

  As the night wore on, Jaime began muttering in Spanish, calling Eric all kinds of names he wouldn’t understand. Everyone knew when Jaime spoke Spanish in the kitchen was when he was pissed. The words flowed in a river of rolled r’s and slightly lisped c’s, the accent regional to El Salvador and how his parents spoke Spanish at home. Jaime often worked with the Latino workers who came to help with the harvest, as some didn’t speak much English, but sometimes he wasn’t up-to-date with all of the Mexican-Spanish slang. They would tease him for being an old man who spoke proper Spanish, but it was more because Jaime didn’t spend time around many Salvadorans and thus hadn’t picked up on any regional slang in a long time, and speaking Mexican slang seemed weird to him.

  At any rate, by the time he got to go home, Jaime had decided a bottle of wine would be his best partner. Sometimes he hated Heron’s Landing—or rather, hated how small and insular it was—while other times it had been the place he’d felt most at home. It was a strange contrast, and one he’d yet to fully reconcile. He had friends here—Adam most of all—but oftentimes he still felt like the strange foreigner, even though he was just as American as his sous chef.

  And of course
, there was Grace. Grace! In his mind, Jaime had begun calling her Graciela, and sitting on his couch, he leaned his head back and sighed. Graciela, Graciela, what am I going to do with you?

  When he’d first met her, he had to admit, he’d barely noticed her. She’d been shy, young, her long hair in her face, and she’d stuttered her name and subsequently hadn’t said another word when Jaime had come over for dinner at the Danvers’ home that first time. Back then, Carolyn had still been alive, and she and Adam had kept the conversation going, laughter and jokes filling the room. Even the Danvers patriarch and the boss of River’s Bend at the time, Carl, had been in a good mood. Jaime had just been offered the job of executive chef at River’s Bend, and he had all kinds of ideas of how to bring the restaurant to a whole new level. Although Carl had been skeptical, Adam had been wholly supportive.

  Grace, though, hadn’t said much during that dinner. She’d just watched, passing a bowl of food whenever asked. Jaime had sat next to her and had tried to engage her in conversation, but she’d been so shy that he’d eventually given up. He’d been twenty-five and too interested in himself to draw out an awkward eighteen-year-old who wore long skirts and bangles.

  Something had shifted since then. After Grace had returned to Heron’s Landing after receiving her degree in studio art, she’d blossomed. Oh, she looked only a little bit older, and she still wore her hair in braids, but she wasn’t that shy girl of eighteen. She was a woman now, and Jaime—goddamn him—had noticed.

  Jaime closed his eyes. He’d never, in his wildest dreams, would’ve thought Grace would approach him and ask him to kiss her. She wasn’t as shy as before, yes, but she didn’t seem that type of woman. But when she’d come to him, wearing that dress, her mouth red and her creamy skin glowing in the lamplight? He’d been lost.

  He’d kissed her like she was the one person who could save him. Save him from what, he wasn’t sure. But it was a kiss he’d never forget.

  “Fucking hell, I’m a mess,” he muttered to himself. He took the bottle of wine and stuffed it back into the fridge. He wasn’t drunk, but he was buzzed enough that he was becoming sentimental. Since when did he sit at home and cry over kissing a woman? He must be losing his damn mind.

  About to turn in for the night, he heard his phone ring. To his surprise, it was Adam. He never called this late. Suddenly worried, he picked up. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Sorry to be calling you this late,” Adam said. He didn’t sound upset, but he did sound stressed. “But you know that financial spreadsheet from earlier?”

  Jaime had forgotten all about it. “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I looked into it further, and there’s evidence that someone is stealing money from the vineyard.”

  Jaime sat back down. Who would steal from River’s Bend? He couldn’t believe it. “How do you know? And do you know who it could possibly be? Jesus, Adam, this is the last thing we need.” His mind started whirling, trying to figure out what this would mean. They were already in the red enough: losing money like this could be a death sentence.

  “It’s not absolutely conclusive. But there are traces, traces that Sam sent me. We’re going to call a detective tomorrow and launch an investigation.” Adam paused, and Jaime could just imagine his friend clenching his jaw.

  “But do you know who?” Jaime ran through the people who worked there—Kerry, Adam’s assistant; Chris, the groundskeeper; Leah, the wine tasting coordinator. Would any of them do such a thing? He couldn’t imagine any of them would.

  “That’s the thing.” Adam took a deep breath. “All of the evidence points to one person—and that person is you, Jaime.”

  3

  A s Grace grabbed her paint supplies and stalked out of the house, she wished her hands weren’t so full that she couldn’t slam the front door as well.

  Why don’t you try to get a real job instead of wasting time down at Trudy’s?

  What are you going to do with your life?

  Her dad’s words echoed in her mind, making her stomp down the path that would lead to the river. It wasn’t that her dad was wrong, but Grace simply didn’t have an answer to his questions. She’d gone to school to paint, she’d earned her degree, she’d tried to find some kind of job that would allow her to continue painting…but she’d quickly realized she’d have to move back home if she didn’t want to starve. She’d applied for other kinds of work—office jobs, retail, even a dog walker—but no bites. Grace had a degree with no work experience, and the economy being what it still was, no one wanted to take a chance on a twenty-three-old when they could hire a forty-three-year-old with two decades of experience instead while paying that middle-aged worker half what they deserved.

  The weather had finally turned chilly, like fall was supposed to be. The leaves had changed into bright reds, oranges, and yellows, and they crunched underneath Grace’s feet as she walked down to the river. It was a spot she’d come to often as a young child, mostly to get away from her annoying older brothers, and now she used it as a place to clear her mind.

  She also hoped the gorgeous scenery would inspire her to paint. Even if she painted some hotel lobby landscape, something was better than nothing. She hadn’t completed a painting since before graduation.

  Grace shivered a little as she sat down on the hard ground, setting up her painting supplies. She had on leggings underneath her skirt and sweater, but the wind had enough bite that she probably should’ve brought a jacket. But she refused to go back home and face her dad right now. He only criticized her lately, like she could never be good enough in his eyes. He’d never understood why she had wanted to paint, and now that she was working minimum wage and living at home, his arguments that she should’ve majored in something practical were proving fruitful.

  Grace hated that he’d been right, in a way. She would’ve hated studying business or communications, but she’d have a job, wouldn’t she? At least she wouldn’t be under her dad’s thumb like she was right now.

  She sighed. She brushed a few tendrils of her long hair behind her ear, wondering again if she should cut it. She’d had it long for so many years that it felt like another limb. But lately she’d wanted to push the boundaries—even just by cutting her hair—but she’d yet to get the courage to do it. She could hide behind her hair when she needed to, and that was a security she wasn’t willing to sacrifice at the moment.

  Grace began mixing, focusing on the fiery colors of fall. The river provided a calm backdrop, with some birds calling overhead. The rains of spring had caused the river to rise almost above its banks, but now it was mostly back to normal. Spotting a heron flying down and banking onto the other side, she smiled. Sometimes she would come here to watch for birds, sometimes to fish for crawdads. When she was little, she’d bring a plastic container and search for tadpoles to bring home. Her mom always grimaced when she’d shown her the bowl of tiny amphibians, their tails bustling behind them as they swam in circles.

  Grace swirled dark orange paint onto the canvas, attempting to create trees and perhaps the river in front of her. She usually found landscapes uninspired, but now she was determined to paint something. She’d be just like Bob Ross and paint mountains and rivers and happy little trees and a stray bird overhead and clouds and everything banal. If she could catch a squirrel and keep it in her pocket like Bob did, she would do that, too.

  She painted as the afternoon waned on, creating the river, trying to paint shadows in its corners and currents. She painted a blue-gray sky, a few cirrus clouds swirling around its depths. She even added the heron, its leg uplifted and its beak to the sky. For a few moments, she stopped and watched as it fished, and she laughed out loud when he caught one and gulped it down.

  As the sun began to lower in the sky, she could feel the temperature dropping with it. Her once sunny spot had transformed into a shady one, and she couldn’t stop shivering. She really should’ve brought a jacket. At the thought of forgetting important weather gear, she couldn’t help but think of w
hen Jaime had let her stand under his umbrella that rainy day so many years ago—the day she’d fallen in love with him.

  She’d tried to forget about him. She’d dated other guys in college, but the relationships never lasted beyond a few months. Sometimes Grace wondered if she were broken: the kissing was nice, but eventually she’d get bored and want to go home. Now she was twenty-three and a virgin, and she found it somewhat embarrassing. How’d she get to be a college graduate without losing her V card? Then she felt stupid for feeling stupid, because virginity was a social construct and meant nothing anyway…

  Looking at her painting, she realized that it was crap. Absolute, complete, toss-it-into-the-dumpster-right-now crap. It looked like an imitation of a hotel painting that had been traced from a second grader’s drawing. Growling and swearing at herself, Grace wished she used paper as a medium so she could tear it up into tiny pieces. But, alas, canvases weren’t that easily destroyed, and throwing it into the river would be rude, so she just laid back onto the dirt and huffed out a breath. She threw her arms across her eyes and screamed a little, like a little kid. She was just glad she was alone.

  “Grace?”

  She shot up so quickly that she knocked over her easel with her foot and sent her paint supplies skittering across the rocky ground. And to make things even better, Jaime himself stood in front of her, looking rumpled and delicious. She hated him on sight. He needed to go away already and let her live her life. Dammit, now her paintbrush was soaked in river water and river goop and some of her paint had spilled, too.

  Jaime crouched down to help her. “Sorry if I scared you. Were you painting?”

  It was a dumb question, and Grace knew that Jaime knew it was a dumb question. But she was too agitated to care. She also didn’t want him to see her sad excuse for a Bob Ross landscape painting. “I was trying to,” she muttered, tossing her supplies into her bag without looking at them. “But nothing seems to stick.”