4 Men Of The House with correct Also By page

by Knight, Natalie

  "I see you started early," he says. "Is the sun even out?" I watch as he rubs his eyes.

  "Sorry it's so early, but I have to leave soon, and before I leave, I wanted to cook and share breakfast with you."

  He walks over and presses his lips to my forehead. "That's thoughtful. I love it."

  "I wouldn't say that just yet. You haven't even tried it," I smile. "You might not say that after you've tasted it."

  He laughs. "I'm sure it's just fine."

  I watch as he brings the sandwich to his mouth and takes a big bite. He chews thoughtfully. "You know what I think?" he says.

  I shake my head.

  "I think this is a keeper."

  As soon as he says it, I smile. There's something about Palmer enjoying my cooking that always makes my mood soar and puts a permanent smile on my lips.

  I take a bite. It's a thick sandwich, so I struggle wrapping my mouth around it.

  But he's right. It's good. Real good. And it hits the spot.

  "Wait … you have something," Palmer says, stepping toward me. "Right… here."

  He reaches up and places a finger on the corner of my mouth, wiping off a stray piece of avocado. I'm usually embarrassed when someone points out a piece of food on my face, but right now, the only thing I can think about is his touch, and the way it makes me feel electrified.

  I smile, and I think about the way he opened up to me. He's so much more than the hotheaded, womanizing, soulless, chef that the tabloids make him out to be.

  He has depth. He's cultured, and likes art, and is so full of information that it makes my head spin. He's like a walking Wikipedia, and I never find myself getting bored in his presence. The truth is, I could listen to him talk forever.

  And what was up with what he told me? Is he sick? What did he mean by a "white mass" was found?

  As soon as he said it, he wanted to change the subject. It was clear he was trying to get something off his chest, but he didn't want to go any deeper.

  Maybe it's nothing. Besides, it's really none of my business.

  But I can't help but wish he'd go back to his doctor for a second opinion.

  "Someone's a messy eater," Palmer laughs, bringing my thoughts back to the present.

  "Look at this thing," I say, pinching the sandwich between both of my hands. "It's thicker than a mattress."

  We both get a good laugh at that, and as we're joking around, something catches my eyes. Behind Palmer, on the counter, is a magazine. It's opened to an article written by Percy Whitman.

  I can see that he reviewed The Pearl on Park, and it's not good. In fact, the review is downright scathing.

  I read one of the headlines: "The Pearl on Park—instead of being a culinary spark for the city—is an unpleasant and placid reminder of high-end cuisine gone wrong."

  It feels as if someone has dropped a bowling ball down my throat and its lodged itself into the pit of my stomach.

  My heart tightens.

  Percy is my friend. Did you write this review because of me?

  Am I to blame for this?

  Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on Palmer, and maybe I never should've vented any of my thoughts to Percy. I just feel like this is somehow my fault.

  "Everything OK?" Palmer asks.

  I smile. There's no way I want Palmer to know what I'm thinking.

  "Oh yeah, it's fine," I say, and then lie, pushing these thoughts out of my mind. "I was just thinking how I really should be going. I have a long drive ahead of me."

  "Not yet—finish breakfast at least," he says with a smile.

  It's a smile that's disarming. It's a smile that makes me yes when I should say no.

  He senses my hesitation and he continues to prod me.

  "You like this bacon, right?"

  "Who doesn't?" I say.

  "Want a strip?"

  "Very funny," I smile, placing my hand on his. "I see what you did there."

  God there's nothing I wouldn't give to play a game of striptease in this kitchen, with this man, but my family will kill me if I don't show up today.

  "I'd love to," I say, "But I have to leave. Rain check?"

  "If you have to leave, at least me drive you."

  "No, that's not necessary."

  "I insist," he says.

  "Seriously, it's far, and a pain in the ass—"

  "Fuck no—forget all of that," he smiles, dismissing every excuse I'm throwing his way. "I'm driving you."

  Palmer

  I must be going insane. First, my restaurant is under attack by some asshole critic, and now, here I am, volunteering to drive some girl to her parent's place.

  Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I should be going to the Pearl. I should be rallying my staff, and countering Percy's review with a PR blitz of my own. But am I doing any of that? No.

  What's going on? Am I falling for Nicole?

  No… it can't be. I don't just fall for women. And I have a plan for my life, and this scenario isn't a part of that plan. Not even close.

  Falling for Nicole is impossible.

  But as we're driving, and the music is blaring, and my fingers are tapping the steering wheel, and Nicole's hair is dancing in the wind that's blowing across my open convertible, she looks so happy… and I feel so happy…

  And I can't help but wonder.

  Isn’t it true that sometimes life is unpredictable, and no matter how well you plan it out, sometimes plans change?

  I shake my head. I can't get ahead of myself.

  I'm the kind of guy that writes everything down and plans it out. And I'm even talking writing lists for the lists I already wrote.

  Do you see what I mean? Everything is organized. This isn't on any of those lists.

  So right now I just need to recognize that I'm simply spending time with Nicole. We're having fun. It's nothing more than that.

  "There it is," Nicole says, pointing to a small house on the side of the road.

  I haven't been outside of the city in ages—has it been years?—so to be driving through the suburbs feels weird.

  "This is my childhood home," she says. "Nothing fancy, and as much as I couldn't wait to leave it, I have to admit… I still miss it sometimes."

  "It's nice," I say, and even though it looks like every other suburban home I've ever seen—a flower garden, a tree in the front yard, a driveway, and a white fence—I mean it. It is nice.

  It's kind of refreshing to not be walking into another crowded high rise. This is somehow more… personal.

  As soon as I get out of the car and open Nicole's door, a large dog runs out of the house barking. Its shaggy red coat is getting lifted in the wind.

  "It's OK," she says. "He doesn't bite."

  The dog recognizes her and immediately wags its tail. She pats his head, scratches behind his ears, and gives him a playful pat on the back. He licks her hand in excitement.

  "That's a good boy, Rusty—a good boy," she says, leaning down and showering him in playful kisses.

  "You're quite the animal lover," I say.

  I've never owned an animal. It's not that I don't like them, it's just that I've admired them from a distance.

  "I love them," she smiles, her eyes still fixed on the dog. "If I didn't go to culinary school, I think I probably would've become a vet."

  "I can see that," I smile.

  As she finishes petting Rusty, we walk up to her parent's house and before we reach the door, Rusty is all over me. First, he's jumping on me with his two front paws, and I'm trying to pet him, hoping that'll calm him down and he'll get bored with me, but it doesn't seem to work.

  "Get down, Rusty," Nicole urges, but the dog only listens for a few minutes before going right back at it. Then, when no one's looking, I feel him shoving his nose in the crotch of my pants, sniffing for God knows what. I shoo him away, and luckily he listens this time, taking the hint.

  "Baby, is that you?" a woman says, approaching the door.

  Nicole embr
aces her in a hug. "It's good to see you mom."

  Immediately, her mother looks over at me. "Oh, and who do we have here?" she smiles.

  "This is Palmer," she says, introducing us. "He's my… um, he's my friend."

  Her mother eyes me suspiciously, wondering if I'm a friend as her daughter says, or if I'm something more.

  "It's a pleasure," I say, extending my hand.

  "Palmer is a chef, mom," Nicole says. "He owns The Pearl on Park."

  "Well, isn't that nice," her mom says. "Come in, come in."

  We walk in and immediately to our right is the living room. A game of football is playing on the TV, and people are shouting.

  "C'mon—make that catch!" someone yells, and another says, "Did you see that? That was almost a QB sack!"

  "This," Nicole says, pointing to one side of the room, "is my dad, and this over here is my brother."

  They both turn to me, and give me a nod and a welcome handshake.

  I look back at Nicole. "I should go now," I say. "I'll let you guys enjoy your lunch."

  I turn to leave and then feel a hand on my shoulder.

  "Oh, no—stay!" her mother says.

  "No, no, I don't want to be a bother," I say.

  "It's no bother. We have plenty of food," her mother insists.

  "No, he's busy, mom," Nicole says.

  "Nonsense, no one is too busy to eat a home cooked meal," her mother says, practically blocking my exit.

  Nicole looks at me with eyes that say I'm so sorry about this, but I just smile.

  "OK, why not—I think I can join you for a meal," I say.

  "Great!" her mother beams. "Now please, sit down."

  There's no escaping now.

  Nicole

  I'm kneeling on the floor, petting Rusty and watching him lick my hands, and my knees are digging into the carpet that is too shaggy to be anything remotely modern—I don't think my parents have replaced it since the 1970s or something, and I'm stunned. I mean really stunned.

  This entire day has not gone as expected.

  And above all, I'm nervous.

  How's this lunch going to go? Is my mom going to say stupid like, so when are you going to give me grandkids, Nicole? Or is my dad going to say something equally stupid like, But surely being a chef isn't a real career, is it son?

  And there's no telling what will tumble out of my brother's mouth. I should probably tell you that my brother's an animal, and he doesn't have a filter. I'm being serious when I say anything can happen, and I'm not sure I'm ready for that level of embarrassment. Not now. Not with Palmer.

  "You have a lovely house," Palmer says to my mother, and she's eating it up. I've never brought a man home before… and definitely never a man as handsome as Palmer, and I can tell she's just loving it.

  Her face is lit up brighter than the sun, and she’s melting into his gaze. She keeps giving him reassuring pats on the shoulder, which is the kind of thing she only does to people she really likes.

  I flash him another look that says I'm so so sorry, because let's be honest, I'm sure he doesn't want to be here.

  How could he, right? He has better things to be doing right now. He has a high-end restaurant to run.

  He'd probably rather have a filling replaced, or get a flat tire on the freeway than be here right now.

  And my mom practically held his hand to the flame, and blocked the door, which is so embarrassing it makes me want to die a little inside.

  But Palmer just flashes me a smile and something tells me he really doesn't mind. It's as if he does want to be here.

  "Can I help you with anything?" Palmer asks my mom.

  "Why don't you come in here and help me peel these potatoes."

  I roll my eyes. Why can't my mom be a normal human being and just let him sit here as our guest.

  This is Palmer we're talking about… a world-class chef. The kind of chef that people have to pay hundreds of dollars just to eat with.

  I love my mom. I really do. I love my entire family.

  But you don't ask guests like that to peel and wash potatoes, you know?

  But again, he's a gracious guest, and I watch him walk over to my mother, wash potatoes, and hold a sharp paring knife in his hands.

  He peels the skin with ninja-like speed, and my mom's impressed. Really impressed. I can see it in her eyes.

  I hear them make small talk. She's asking him about his restaurant, and where he grew up, and all the normal mom stuff, and he continues to smile and answer everything he throws at her.

  "Kitchens aren't always serious and stressed out places," Palmer says, and I crane my neck to hear what he's saying. I'm still sitting there, petting the dog, and pretending to not pay attention, but the truth is I'm trying to listen in harder than I've ever eavesdropped in my life.

  He continues, "This one time, a dish guy stretched a heavy duty yellow scrubbing glove over the entire top of his head—I don't know how he did it, but he did—and it looked just like a cock's comb. He proceeded to strut around the kitchen like this."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Palmer tuck his arms into his chest in the shape of chicken wings and bob his head, back and forth.

  I can't help but smile at that, and even my mom is cracking up. I mean, she's laughing so hard that she's wiping tears from under her eyes.

  "I kid you not, the dish guy was flapping his arms around, bobbing and tilting his head, and clucking like a chicken. It was one of the funniest things I've seen in my whole life."

  My mother is barreled over, clutching her sides.

  It's so surprising, seeing Palmer like this. He isn't the arrogant asshole chef I knew him to be.

  He's funny and warm. And he's charismatic.

  And when it's all time for us to sit at the table, even my father seems to love him.

  "I'm a huge Buffalo Bills fan—always have been," Palmer says, and my father slaps him on the back.

  "A man of my own heart!" my father says. "Any Bills fan is a friend of mine."

  For a minute it almost feels like I'm in some alternate universe. Who are these people, and what have they done with my parents? Who is this man?

  Things are going so well, and everyone is getting along better than I could've ever hoped for.

  For some reason it's stunning… having man like Palmer, sitting here and sharing a simple family lunch with us, in this humble home because of his extreme wealth and fame… and what I thought was arrogance.

  But he isn't arrogant at all. He's captivated my family, and they're a tough crowd to please.

  This man… Chef Palmer could eat anywhere in the world. He could eat with any chef, and any celebrity.

  But he's here. In my childhood home. Sharing a simple meal with a simple middle-class family.

  And I love him for that.

  Palmer

  "Excuse me while I take this call," I say, pushing my chair back from the table.

  My cell phone is vibrating in my pocket as I grab it and walk out the front door.

  "Palmer speaking," I say, pacing the front porch.

  "Finally—there you are. You're a hard man to get a hold of. Look, I'll get straight to the point. I have some bad news." It's Roger Mills, my business manager.

  Any time I get a call from him, I brace myself and expect anything to come out of his mouth because he always gives it to me straight. But now the words bad news bounce through my brain like ping pong balls and I don't know what to think.

  "Give it to me."

  "The bottom line is that investors are feeling shaky about your restaurants, not just The Pearl on Park," he says.

  "Why now?"

  "It boils down to all the bad coverage you've received."

  I know exactly what coverage he's referring to. Percy Whitman.

  "I already know about those reviews—they're bullshit. Unfounded garbage and—"

  "Unfounded or not," Roger says, cutting me off, "investors are freaking. Those are some of the worst reviews a restaurant has ever
seen."

  "It's all lies, they can't be believed."

  "Tell that to the rest of the world," Roger says. "I'm serious. This is bad. Real bad."

  "Look," I say, "I'm actually in the middle of lunch and I'm busy, can I—"

  "We don't have time," he says. "We need to act now."

  "I don't want to talk about this right now. I'll figure it out and I'll call you back soon."

  "Palmer, wait, Listen, I think—"

  But I don't give him a chance to tell me what he thinks. Instead, I end the call and the connection goes silent.

  It's strange. It seems my entire business is in jeopardy, but being here with Nicole and her family—I'm happy. I gather my thoughts, take a deep breath and enter the house.

  "I was just telling Nicole's father about your chicken story," Nicole's mom says. The entire table is laughing.

  I smile. "There are more funny stories where that came from. I could spend hours telling you stories."

  "Well, we aren't going anywhere," Nicole's father smiles. "Tell us what happens in those kitchens of yours."

  "Well, in this business, we get every kind of customer you can think of. One day, many years ago, when I was first starting out, we got a particularly difficult woman. She orders the soup of the day—a French Onion.

  “The waiter brings it to her. She says it's too cold. So, no problem, right?

  “This is a typical, routine sort of complaint, if you will. The waiter brings it back into the kitchen, and we give her a new, piping hot batch."

  "Was she satisfied?" Nicole asks.

  "Oh no—the story doesn't stop there," I laugh. "So, the waiter brings it to the woman, but now she says it doesn't taste right and that we must've changed our recipe. The waiter assures her that isn't the case, but she keeps badgering him and badgering him. He tries to change the soup again, but to no avail.

  “The woman is insistent that again, it isn't right. She's really digging into him now, saying things like How hard is it to make soup, and Isn't this your job. So finally, the waiter reaches a breaking point. And I kid you not—he grabs that soup bowl and saucer and flings it across the dining room like a Frisbee.