On Lavender Lane

by JoAnn Ross

  “I’m approaching thirty,” she told him when he asked her about it. “Which is actually getting up there in this business. Culinary life is like dog years. But I have hopes that things will change because they can’t keep going the way they are or we’re going to have more and more people either burning out or dropping out.”

  She sighed. “More and more chefs are coming into culinary schools from other occupations, which I partly blame on all the TV shows, although I’ve admittedly contributed to the problem. Doctors, lawyers, cops, Wall Street traders…They’re all making up a huge percentage of wannabe chefs. Did you know there are one hundred and fifty hot new chefs every year?”

  “I don’t think I could name one,” he admitted. “Except maybe that Puck guy, because I used to buy his frozen pizzas at the grocery store whenever I was back for training in San Diego. Oh, and your soon-to-be-ex-husband, but that’s mostly because of the video.”

  Great move, Chaffee. “Excuse me while I ask Van for a butcher knife,” he said. “To cut out my tongue.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m beginning to accept that it really doesn’t have anything to do with me.…And yes, Wolfgang Puck also contributed to the celebrity culture everyone seems to get caught in. You only know two names. With very few exceptions, most people couldn’t name one of each year’s stars.

  “Which is why no one should get into this business just to get on television or see their name in lights or have a cookware line named after them.”

  “I saw the commercial for your pans on your show.”

  “I needed the money. Simple as that,” she said. “I don’t think I’m going to be renewing because it involves too much travel, and it’s not what I got into the business for.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I tend to get carried away. As you can see, I’m a lot more passionate about cooking than I am the business stuff.”

  “Never complain about being passionate. It was one of the things that attracted me to you. That and your eyes. Which are remarkable.”

  “When they’re not looking like road maps, you mean.”

  “So you’re human. Deal with it.”

  “Is that tough love?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Well, thank you. I much prefer it to people treading on eggshells around me. And, to get back to your original question, yes, although I realize it’s going to take a lot of juggling, I do want a child. I’d settle for one. But having been an only myself, I’d prefer at least two.”

  Bingo. “That’s pretty much the same thing I was thinking. I wasn’t an only child all my life. But for most of it. And I’ve always regretted losing my sister. Though I suppose it kept me from getting sent to juvie for punching out any guy who might someday have made her cry.”

  “Well, then.” She took another bite of toast. “You’re fortunate I didn’t have a big brother.”

  “Sweetheart, you’ve no idea how many times I’ve told myself that over the years.”

  Van, who’d left them to their conversation, returning only to refill their coffee cups and make sure they didn’t need anything, arrived at the table with the check.

  “No hurry,” she said again. “How were your meals?”

  “Fantastic,” Maddy said.

  “Roberta and Roxie couldn’t have done any better,” Lucas said. “I like the way you’ve added the sweet potato hash instead of just the plain white potato ones.”

  “That was Jimmy’s idea. It was his mama’s recipe while he was growing up in South Carolina.” She laughed. “You know what they say: You can take the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the boy.”

  “I took a bite of Lucas’ hash,” Maddy said. “It was fantastic. The cumin was a nice surprise, and the cayenne and paprika added just the right amount of heat.”

  Pleased color bloomed in Van’s cheeks. “I’ll have to tell him you said that. It’ll make his day.”

  “It’s true.” Watching Maddy, which was easily becoming his favorite thing to do, Lucas could practically see the lightbulb flashing on over her head. “Do you think he’d be willing to teach it at Sofia’s school?”

  “Willing?” Van laughed her surprise. “I’d like to see you try to keep him away. He’d be so honored.”

  “We wouldn’t be able to pay much,” she warned. Lucas found the we an interesting choice of words. Although, as if perhaps though she might not realize it yet herself, she was already considering staying here in Shelter Bay.

  “But”—she lowered her voice—“if you promise not to tell Mary, there’s a chance that the Cooking Network might be willing to put the school on the air. And if so, then we could negotiate. Especially if he has any more of those Southern breakfasts up his sleeve.”

  “Oh. My. God.” This time the heat coloring her cheeks had her fanning her face. “I swear, he’d just die.”

  “It’s just an idea,” Maddy warned.

  “Oh, I’ve never been one to count chickens,” Van assured her. “But it sure is a fun thing to think about. Not so much for the money, but the thought of Jimmy bein’ on TV. I’ve always thought he was handsome enough to be on TV. The first time I saw him, I thought he looked just like Brad Pitt.”

  She sighed as she picked up the AmEx card Lucas had put down. “And I still think so, though I’m sure no Angelina Jolie.”

  “He got lucky with you,” Lucas said. “And obviously is smart enough to realize it.”

  “You always were a sweet-talker, Lucas Chaffee,” she said with a sassy toss of her chestnut hair. “Now you just need to turn that talent to keeping Maddy here in Shelter Bay, where she belongs. We could always use another restaurant, and since we don’t serve dinner, so we can spend evenings home with the kids, we wouldn’t have to worry about competition.”

  “That’s sweet,” Maddy said, as they watched her head back to the cash register with more of a spring in her step. “That she’s still so crazy about her husband.”

  “I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be. What did you think of her idea?”

  “The one about me staying here?”

  “Yeah.” He studied her, wondering when she’d gotten so good at hiding her thoughts. Perhaps, he considered, when she’d realized that her marriage wasn’t turning out to be all she’d hoped. “I guess this place would be a big letdown after New York.”

  “Not a letdown. Just different. There are a lot of chefs who’ve decided to work outside cities. Lee Skawinski’s Cinque Terre, where he specializes in small-town Italian cooking, was voted one of the top-ten best farm-to-table restaurants in America. It’s in Portland. Maine, not Oregon,” she clarified. “And Lisa Nakamura, who was chef de cuisine at a restaurant National Geographic called the number-one restaurant destination in the world, opened up a restaurant on Orcas Island, in Puget Sound, where she’s blending classic French technique with simple, Pacific Northwest flavors and ingredients.

  “It’s a fallacy that people have to live in big urban areas to get good food. If nothing else, it makes sustainable cooking much easier if you go where the food actually is.…

  “What?” she asked, when she stopped to take a breath and noticed he was grinning at her. “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No. I’m just enjoying your enthusiasm. And how sexy you are when you talk about food.”

  Pleasure lit her eyes. “Food is sexy,” she said. “Well, except maybe Pop-Tarts.”

  Displaying less-than-ideal timing, Vanessa chose that moment to arrive back with his credit card. Lucas signed the check, adding a hefty tip, and he and Maddy both agreed that they’d be returning soon. If nothing else, the food really was great, and it gave him an alternative to Cajun and the seafood at the Crab Shack.

  “Maybe you should cook me dinner one of these nights,” he suggested once they were alone again. “Educate my palate. Teach me all about the sex of food.”

  “There’s this quirky Japanese movie, Tampopo, about a mysterious truck driver coming to town
and helping a widow rescue her noodle restaurant, which has a gangster as a secondary character. It’s mostly only known among chefs and foodies for its soft-core food porn.”

  Her seductive smile reminded him that food had been used as temptation ever since Eve had polished up that shiny red apple. “If you ever saw it, you’d never look at an egg the same way again.”

  “Now you realize I’m going to have to go looking for it.” He reached across the table, took her hand, and pressed his mouth to the center of her palm, then folded her fingers over the flesh he’d warmed. “Our second date could be dinner and a movie.”

  She laughed, as he’d meant her to, even though, holding her wrist as he was, he felt her pulse pick up.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She stood up. Since she’d insisted on taking the time to stop by the house long enough for her to shower and change, she was wearing a pair of light blue jeans and a sunshine yellow pullover sweater. Although he’d really liked that sexy dress, Lucas found her just as appealing in the casual clothes.

  “While you’re at it, think about this,” he suggested.

  As they left the restaurant, his hand on her back, he bent down and murmured just a few of the things he’d spent a sleepless night imagining doing to her. With her.

  “Sorry,” she said. Although she’d kept her tone brisk and matter-of-fact, he knew his suggestions had gotten to her by the color that had risen in her cheeks. “I’m busy tonight. It’s Gram’s night to host her book club. She roped me into joining the group.”

  “Who said anything about night? As it happens, I’m free this afternoon.”

  “No, you’re not.” She moved away from him as they reached the truck, but he beat her to the door. “You’re working on Gram’s restaurant.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Yes.” She smiled at that idea. “It appears I am.”

  She smelled like spring. And temptation.

  A temptation he found impossible to resist.

  He cupped her chin in his fingers. Moved closer.

  “Lucas,” she warned.

  He lowered his head. “Just one minute.”

  Then leaned down.

  And did what he’d been wanting to do since he stood in the doorway that morning, watching her sleep, forcing himself to resist the urge to join her in his bed.

  40

  His mouth was softer than it had been when she’d attacked him after killing off nearly an entire bottle of champagne. Rather than plundering, as they had in her too-hot dreams last night, his lips gently touched hers. Lightly, tantalizingly, retreating before she could respond. Or reject.

  Then, when she didn’t reject, he took the kiss deeper, savoring, enticing.

  Madeline had never been one for public displays of affection. She found them embarrassing to watch, and even more so to participate in.

  But as she clung to his shoulders, the reality of being parked in front of the restaurant faded, time gradually ebbed, and she imagined the asphalt beneath her feet giving way, like sands under a retreating tide.

  When her mouth opened in a soft sigh of acceptance and wonder, Lucas slipped his tongue between her lips, kissing her with the slow and easy confidence of a man who’d kissed more women than he could count.

  Don’t think about that. Not now.

  His lips continued to linger, tasting at their leisure in a lengthy exploration that had her trapped in misty layers of sensation.

  When she linked her fingers behind his tanned neck, arched against him, and clung, he murmured something against her mouth—it could have been her name, a curse, or a prayer—then pulled her even closer, allowing her to feel his heart beat against hers.

  His teeth nipped at her lower lip. On a throaty moan, she poured herself into a kiss that went on and on, going deeper. Darker.

  His wonderfully wicked hands grabbed her hips, pressing her back against the truck as he moved between her thighs. He was rock hard. Solid. And huge.

  And then he was gone.

  He’d dropped his hands and pulled away.

  “Damn.” He was winded, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. “I apologize.” He sucked in a breath. “I lost control.”

  Madeline drew in her gulp of air and licked her bottom lip. “You weren’t the only one.”

  “Yeah, but I never lose control. Not ever.”

  “Well, that makes two of us. So it appears you’re human, too. Deal with it.” She threw his own words back at him.

  “Bull’s-eye,” he said. He gave her a long look that made her heart—which had just started settling back down—stutter. “So, what do you want to do about it?”

  “Forget it happened?”

  “Not a chance. We could go to the cottage. I’ll take you up on that rain check.”

  She couldn’t remember any promise of a rain check. Then again, much of that champagne-fueled night was foggy. Madeline didn’t even want to consider how many brain cells that pricey bubbly had killed.

  “It’s not raining.”

  “Not now.” He winked, then opened the door, giving her a boost up into the high seat. “But this is the Oregon coast. I figure I won’t have to wait that long.”

  She bucked her seat belt. “Arrogant.”

  He grinned, his momentary annoyance about having lost control disintegrating like morning fog. “Patient.”

  * * *

  An idea had sparked while Madeline had been talking with Van about having Jimmy teach the students at the new school how to cook his sweet potato hash. An idea that the more she thought about it, the more she thought it would not only work, but it would also help fund the school and restaurant, as well as spreading her message of sustainable, healthy, good-tasting food.

  And keep everyone, including herself, happy. But she needed to come up with a more concrete plan. Then make a few phone calls.

  “How long,” she asked Lucas as they drove back to the farmhouse, “will it take build the addition?”

  “That depends on how much you want done,” he said. “Obviously longer than just taking a sledgehammer, gutting Sofia’s kitchen, and putting in new appliances, countertops, cabinets, and floor, like we would if it were a straightforward residential remodel. The house has good bones.”

  “It does,” she agreed. Like so many of the homes in Shelter Bay, it had been built to last.

  “If everything falls into place, we could probably get it done in four months. If we have permit or weather delays, etcetera, six months.”

  “That’s doable. Especially since the garden goes into fall and winter root vegetables that can be used in the recipes.”

  “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “I’ve fantasized having my own restaurant since I was a little girl.”

  “I remember you talking about that. Which you sort of have done. Since the Frenchman’s built a bunch of them.”

  “Those are his restaurants. Not mine.”

  Yet she’d funded them. Could she have been any more foolish? Somehow she’d fallen into that male chef/female chef trap. The one that often had women in a kitchen prepping vegetables while the guys were on the hot line sautéing the salmon. One of the things that irked her most about her chosen profession was how many male chefs expected to be king. And how many women, such as she’d done, surrendered power so easily.

  “And every single one of those restaurants reinforced my belief that I wanted something far more simple,” she said.

  She’d always found the indoor waterfalls in Miami over the top. And when one of Maxime’s top competitors in Las Vegas had his designer create a four-story-high wall of all the wine bottles, with “wine angels” lifted on high wires for patrons to watch as they retrieved those bottles for their meals, Maxime had gone all out, creating a replica of the Palace of Versailles’s Hall of Mirrors. She’d tried to suggest that all those glass and gilt, enormous chandeliers, and frescos painted on the massive domed ceiling were the height of ostentation, and it wasn’t
as if her husband had the treasury that had been available to France’s Sun King. Even in the current culinary Gomorrah Vegas had become, it distracted from his food.

  Despite what that complaining diner in the taxi line had told her about those dry scallops at his Miami restaurant, when he actually lowered himself to prepare a meal himself, his food was admittedly exquisite.

  “Then that’s what you should do,” Lucas said. “Create your vision. Your way. You tell me what you want, and somehow we’ll make it happen.”

  We. How strange to think of the two of them being a team. Especially factoring in their past. But it seemed that’s what they were becoming. And, oddly, it was feeling more and more right.

  “There was a time when I probably would’ve gone with something more Italian themed, in an attempt to replicate my parents’ restaurant,” she confessed.

  “Stone walls, murals on the wall, grapevines on trellises.”

  She smiled at the memory. “It worked in its place,” she said. “But move it to Shelter Bay, and it could come off looking like Italy at Epcot.”

  “Dad accidentally took all the fun out of Disneyland for me forever by pointing out that Walt Disney ruined Ludwig the Second’s crazy operatic castle at Neuschwanstein by turning it into Sleeping Beauty’s castle. One thing I learned growing up with him was that all good architecture belongs to its place. That buildings are always part of a context.

  “The same way your parents’ restaurant undoubtedly was a part of the fabric of Umbria, the iron grill work of New Orleans, which is perfect for there, would look foolish in New England because if you situate a building in different surroundings, its character changes.

  “Another example, although they’re both on oceans, are those stark white Mediterranean houses from your father’s native Greek Islands. Originally whitewashed to reflect the heat of the sun, they’d stick out like sore thumbs here in the cloudy Pacific Northwest.

  “Exactly.” Madeline was pleased he so quickly understood something that Maxime either could not or, more likely, would not grasp. She could also tell that while Lucas might not have wanted to follow his father into architecture, he was as passionate about what he’d chosen as a second career as she was about her own.