“Madrone. You live that close?”
“Yeah.”
“You were less than two hours away. In my head, you’ve always been…I don’t know. Far. This is just surreal.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey—” Cutting himself off abruptly, Cameron stood. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I should call you.”
Ronin stood, too. “Ronin. Or Roe. Sounds like you already have a dad.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
With a move of his head, he shook off his son’s words and the ache that happened with them.
“Okay…Roe. You want to take a ride?”
~oOo~
Cameron might not have known the inner workings of his car’s engine, but he knew how to drive it, and he liked to drive fast. He soared down the canyon hills, double-clutching around those sharp turns, grinning the whole time.
Ronin, not generally a fan of being trapped in a cage, where he had no choice but to crash where and when it crashed, held on and enjoyed his son’s enjoyment.
He took them out of the Hollywood Hills and pulled up before a little Irish pub, the kind with a shamrock hanging over the door.
Inside, Cameron was greeted by the bartender and one of the waitresses. He ordered a Guinness. Ronin did the same. When they had their drinks, Cameron led Ronin through a back door and out to a patio with a view of the hills and the city.
They sat at a basic picnic table, painted green. “You’re a regular here,” Ronin said, after a long draft of his stout.
“Friend of the family. My girlfriend’s father owns the place.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Yeah. Mac—McKenna, actually. We met at USC.”
Ronin nodded and let the subject drop. He didn’t know what to ask about Cameron’s romantic life. Any question he might have seemed excessively intrusive. In truth, every question he had about any topic seemed intrusive. He wasn’t comfortable pushing for information. He listened to what people offered. He didn’t dig. But this was his son, and he wanted to know him.
College was an easier topic, he hoped, than romance. “Your mom said you studied finance. And did well. You like math?”
With a shrug, Cameron answered, “It’s okay. I’m good at it. Numbers make sense to me, and I understand how money moves. It’s not a passion or anything. But I like working with Mom, and I like that I can help her with the business stuff. I have her on a personal plan, too.” He grinned. “She’s not good with details like budgets. She says they’re too abstract, which makes no sense at all.”
Ronin answered with a laugh. This was something they shared, this knowledge of Rainy. She was a disaster with money. It wasn’t that she spent wildly; she simply couldn’t keep her mind on it. She’d never been able to remember to pay bills on time, or make sure she had cash or even her ATM card on her. She used a disconnection of service as a reminder that a bill needed to be paid, even if the money had been available to pay it all along. He’d always thought of it as one of her hippie traits, like her weird clothes and dangly earrings, and her earnest lectures about the ‘patriarchy.’ She’d have done better on the barter system.
A few months after they’d gotten a place together, he’d taken over all the bills and accounts. They hadn’t had much, but at least he’d been able to keep the lights on.
Lost in fond memories of their little place above the hardware store, Ronin was quiet.
“Roe?”
He refocused and looked across the table at his son. He and Rainy had made this man. They’d done it in that little apartment. Even with all the fighting and angst between them as he’d prepared to head to basic training, he’d felt secure and happy with her. He’d never been as happy since. She’d told their son that he’d been made in love. That was absolutely true, no matter what had come next.
“I’m glad to know you, Cameron.”
With evident surprise, Cameron cocked his head. Then he smiled broadly. “I’m glad to know you, too.” He took a beat, then asked, “Would it be awkward to ask what your intentions are with Mom?”
Yes, it was awkward. Things had turned in so many directions during the past day that Ronin didn’t know what his intentions were in the next hour. But he didn’t deflect the question. “We’re working things out. But my intentions are honest. That enough?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know, I don’t know what she’d think about me telling you this, but she told me once that you were her great lost love. That’s how she said it. I know she screwed you over, but if you care about her at all anymore, it’d be cool if you gave her another chance.”
The topic was getting more awkward, and Ronin had no answer for him. Not because he didn’t want to give Rainy another chance—he thought they had already embarked on the path of a second chance—but because it was between the two of them. He didn’t want Cameron to be the reason for anything that was happening between them—whether they worked or they didn’t, he wanted his son to be something else. Now that he’d met him, he didn’t want to lose the first chance he’d ever had to know him and to be in his life.
Instead of responding to Cameron’s request, he asked another question that had been on his mind. “What’s your last name?” Then he steeled himself to hear an unfamiliar name, which would then mean he not only called another man ‘Dad’ but had taken his name as well.
Again, he’d asked a question that elicited surprise. “Milligan. Cameron Edmund Milligan.”
Relief sank into his shoulders. Rainy’s name. And his.
“Did your mother ever tell you my name?”
A frown and a head cock from Cameron. “No. Until she introduced us, she never said your name at all. I never asked, actually, which I’m thinking right now is weird. You were always just ‘my father.’” He laughed. “You had kind of the same position in my head as God—no clear picture, and no way to be sure you were real. Just there.”
That explanation struck Ronin as bittersweet. “Ronin is a road name. It’s the only name I answer to now. But when your mom and I knew each other before, I was Eddie. Edmund.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Why would she not tell me that she gave me your name?”
Ronin didn’t offer an answer. He had none.
~oOo~
After a second round of stout, Cameron drove them back into the hills to Rainy’s home. He dropped Ronin off, explaining that he had to get ready for work, and they exchanged phone numbers.
As Ronin walked up the steps to the house, wondering if he should ring the bell, Rainy opened the door. She was dressed differently. When they’d left, she’d been wearing faded jeans and a loose cotton top with embroidery around the neck and hems. Now, she was in one of her long skirts and a trim sleeveless top that looked more like a vest than a blouse. Her hair was coiled and pinned at the back of her head. She was ready for work.
She’d told him that Mythic only served dinner, so she didn’t go in until the afternoon. Usually, she went to the market on her way in, but today she’d called and sent somebody named Peter out to shop for her.
When they met on the walk, she lifted her arms, and he pulled her close. He had a lot of questions—more, not fewer, since he’d talked to their son—but at the moment, they weren’t important. Holding her was what he needed.
“How’d it go?”
“Good.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she leaned back and squinted at him. “That’s all? ‘Good’?”
He smiled and brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. He had no intention of debriefing her. Cameron could tell her whatever he wanted, but Ronin only said what was necessary. When he’d thought some things through, then maybe he’d have some things he needed to say.
With a dissatisfied sigh, she said, “Okay. I have to leave for the restaurant. Will you stay until I get back?”
“No. I have to go home.” He didn’t have to, exactly, not for any external reason. He hadn’t gotten a club call, and he didn’t have stunt
work lined up. But he needed to get back to his home, his sanctuary, and let his mind sort through the day that had just passed.
“I’m afraid to let you go. I’m afraid I won’t see you again.”
He knew exactly what that felt like, but he needed to set thoughts like that aside—one of the things he could sort out in his own home. “You will.”
She nodded and put her hand on his face. “I love you, Ronin. I want this new chance.”
“So do I.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lorraine ran her kitchen the way she had been trained to run it: she delegated. She hired staff who were not only talented but with whom she was in sync. They knew what she wanted, and they understood and appreciated it—moreover, she trusted their tastes and instincts, as well. Thus, her most hands-on work happened when the restaurant was closed—when she created new dishes and planned the specials menus, when she shopped, and when she hired new people. During open hours, she mainly supervised. And schmoozed—many patrons, especially those whose names were well known, liked some personal attention from the chef.
Peter, her sous-chef, had been with her since San Diego, and he knew exactly how she wanted her kitchen. Lorraine knew it was only a matter of time before he would want to have a kitchen of his own, but she held out a small hope that his ambition would run concurrent with her desire to step back, and she could simply hand this kitchen over to him. But she wasn’t even fifty yet, so she didn’t think she’d be ready to retire anytime soon. She could, whenever she wanted; her community property share in the divorce had set her for life. But her favorite place to be in the world was her kitchen.
She generally worked seven days a week because she got restless when she was away from the restaurant. Not nervous—she knew things would run smoothly in her absence—but, well, lonely. She liked the energy, the people, the complete sensory experience of the kitchen. She liked her home quiet and her work busy.
The day that Ronin had ridden off after meeting their son was the first day since Cameron was little that she hadn’t been happy to go to work.
Tuesdays weren’t especially busy nights, but in Los Angeles, every night in a well-regarded restaurant was a busy night, and the past couple of weeks had seen a dramatic change in Mythic’s renown. Lorraine wanted a low-key place, not a ‘hot spot,’ where paparazzi gathered hoping to get a shot of the A-list faces, and she and Cameron had chosen the location carefully, away from the real nightlife but near enough not to be inconvenient.
But since she’d catered Oscar Mendel’s lunch, Mythic had found its clientele. Cameron had been right that all it took was that man’s word of mouth. Almost immediately after that day, Mythic had had a full reservation book every night and a full bar as well. Not crammed, however; her maître d’, Philip, was very good at managing walk-ins so that the dining room stayed at the optimal occupancy.
Lorraine and Cameron had designed the dining room to be warm and welcoming as well as elegant, and to be as private as a potentially famous diner wished to be. An open main floor, which included the bar, for those who didn’t mind attention from other diners, and a nook of high-backed booths, for those who preferred to dine in peace.
They hadn’t had any obviously recognizable diners yet, although they’d had several important behind-the-scenes types, and that was perfect, as far as Lorraine was concerned. People like Mr. Mendel, about whom the paparazzi and the people in the Safeway checkout cared nothing, but to whom the whole Los Angeles entertainment industry bowed down—that was the way to keep Mythic’s profile right where she wanted it. Too many famous faces turned a successful restaurant into a ‘hot spot,’ and chaos followed right behind.
On this Tuesday, however, Ashley, one of the servers, slammed through the kitchen door. “OH MY GOD. Oh my GOD, YOU GUYS!!!” Like so many servers in L.A., Ashley was a gorgeous young woman, tall, slender, and blonde, who went to open casting calls during the day, hoping to land her big break. Or at least find ‘representation,’ someone who might help her land her big break.
Peter and Lorraine looked up from the sauce they’d been discussing. “Problem?” Lorraine asked.
“No! Philip just sat DONOVAN WINTER in my section. And, I think, his son, who is like ten times hotter than his dad, which pretty much makes him a volcano.”
Lorraine thought Donovan Winter was hot, too, and she liked what she’d seen of his work, though she wasn’t much into pop culture. Since she’d been living on her own, she didn’t even have a television. She was a little excited that somebody so well-known had sought out Mythic, but her heart sank, too. He was at the top of the A List. If he was here, paparazzi was sure to follow.
She stepped away from the range. “Table or booth?” Philip assigned the server sections every night, and Lorraine didn’t pay much attention to that.
“Booth. They’re with a couple of other people. I’m pretty sure one of them is Gavin Greeley—you know, the producer?” Lorraine didn’t know, but Ashley went on as if that didn’t matter. “I read that Donovan’s in talks for that time-travel movie. Warp Echo, they’re calling it.”
A booth was good. A booth meant they wanted to be left alone, and they would be—they were designed to be practically private little rooms.
“Well, then, you should be serving them, right?” Lorraine smiled; she knew Ashley would give them the best possible service.
The pretty blonde checked her reflection in the stainless steel cabinet behind the door. “On it!” She turned back to Lorraine. “Will you be coming out?”
She’d already done a turn through the dining room, and she only did a couple a night. She wanted to be present and attentive, not hovering. “Later, unless they ask for me.”
With a perky nod, Ashley bounced back through the door.
Lorraine watched the door settle. She really hoped that their celebrity diner would turn out to be a good thing and not shake apart everything she wanted for Mythic.
~oOo~
Donovan Winter did ask to see her, after their meal, and she went out, trailing Ashley behind her, who carried a tray of complimentary crêpes aux fraises avec crème fraîche. Which translated, more or less, to strawberry crepes with sour cream. The strawberries had been spectacular at the market this afternoon. They’d been great all season so far.
Mythic kept a foundation menu of a few standards for those diners who liked things basic and familiar: a Caesar salad, a couple of pasta dishes, a mushroom risotto, and a filet plate. On the foundation menu was also crème brûlée as a dessert option. Almost every restaurant, except the prix fixe establishments, had those standards available. But they weren’t the dishes that made a restaurant, and they weren’t the dishes that chefs, or anybody in a kitchen, enjoyed preparing.
What Lorraine did on Mondays, and what she found at the markets throughout the week—those made the excitement. The specials. The kitchen loved it when a diner ordered one of the specials—those were the best dishes, always. The freshest, most exciting ingredients and the most inspired preparation.
Three of the four diners at Donovan Winter’s table had ordered from the specials. The fourth, a pretty young woman with aggressively affected cat’s-eye glasses, had ordered the risotto.
With a bright smile, Lorraine arrived at their table. “Good evening. I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal with us.”
The illustrious Donovan Winter smiled—and wow. The camera didn’t do him justice at all. “It was delightful. Really. This is my first time here, but it won’t be my last. The glaze on the swordfish—that was amazing.”
She’d concocted a lime-based glaze with ginger and fennel. It was really nice. She’d planned to try it out on Ronin the night before. Now, she gave her guest a nod. “Thank you, Mr. Winter. I’m so pleased you enjoyed it.” She reached her arm out toward Ashley. “We’ve brought you dessert. My compliments.”
The table made all the appropriate sounds of appreciation. Lorraine noticed Ashley lingering a little as she set a plate in front of the younger Winter—
who was, yes, quite handsome, too. About her son’s age, however, so Lorraine didn’t look too hard.
“Beautiful! Thank you.” Winter threw her another of those blinding smiles. “I was wondering—I’d heard that you do some catering. Is that right?”
Lorraine’s heart tightened. “We’re getting that off the ground, yes. We’ve done a couple of events. My focus is really on getting Mythic running ”
“Well, I think you’ve got that down already, if our experience is any indication.” Donovan Winter, the most famous person she could think of in a city full of famous people, slid two fingers into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out what looked to be a business card—but completely blank. Then he pulled a silver pen from the same pocket. He wrote a phone number on the pure white card. “This is my personal number. Please don’t share it with anyone. I’m planning a private party at my home in a couple of months. Not too crazy, less than a hundred people. If you’re interested, give me a call, and we can see if that works for us both.”
Calm & Storm (The Night Horde SoCal Book 6) Page 10