by Terri Osburn
“You two need to face reality,” he argued.
His sister blew out the match. “And you need to think positively.”
Right. Because that would help him cheat death.
“Start the song, Mia,” Nota said, and the pair sang the traditional tune in perfect harmony. When the song ended, they both said, “Make a wish!”
The only thing Nick wished was that the women in his life would stop pretending, but to make them happy, he closed his eyes and did the pretending for them. Seconds later, he opened his eyes and blew out the candles.
Mia passed him the knife and three paper plates. “Do you really like the mural, Grandma?”
Nick had stopped calling Nota grandma years ago, but Mia never lost the habit. He meant no disrespect. She was simply Nota to him. Other than Mia, his paternal grandmother was the most important woman in his life.
His mother had remarried right after Nick graduated high school, and he loved her as any son should, but she’d severed her connection with Dad’s side of the family after the second marriage, and then moved to Florida without even discussing the idea with her kids.
“I do,” Nota replied. “You brought our beloved island to life on that wall. Everyone is going to love it.”
“I hope so.”
Once the cake was cut and the pieces distributed, Mia added a scoop of ice cream to each, then they ate in silence until Mia exclaimed, “Your present!” Rising from the table, she rushed off toward the bedrooms down the hall.
“That new chef is beautiful, isn’t she?” Nota commented.
She was. She was also a hard-ass with a chip on her shoulder. Nick knew the type well. A chef with a superiority complex while also being scared shitless. He’d bet his best blades this was her first time running a kitchen. The inexperience was written all over her face. Being able to cook didn’t mean a damn thing when it came to managing people. A fact he’d learned long ago.
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“What?” she mumbled, attempting to look innocent and failing miserably. “I’m just making an observation.”
“Like the observation that she and I would make a good match?” Nick had vowed years ago to never date a fellow chef. They were all control freaks with horrible hours, and by nature too damned competitive. He included himself in that summation.
The older woman grinned. “Am I wrong?”
“You are.” Other than her profession, Nick knew little about Lauren Riley, but his answer would be the same no matter the woman in question. He never took any relationship beyond casual dating, and what Nota had in mind went well beyond casual.
“Happy birthday,” Mia said, returning to the table and setting a photo album down before him.
“What’s this?”
She returned to her seat. “Your present.”
“Presents are usually wrapped,” he pointed out, teasing as he loved to do.
“Consider my drawings wrapping paper,” she said before sticking her tongue out at him.
“There are many memories in there,” Nota murmured, her eyes focused on the album.
Nick sobered and ran a fingertip over the hand-drawn lettering of their last name. Ironically, a name that literally meant stop dying. Tension tightening his chest, he lifted the cover to find the last family picture taken before his father had passed away. A gangly fifteen-year-old Nick stood beside the man who had been everything to him. His hero. His mentor. His biggest fan.
Mia held a similar position beside their mom, lips shut tight to hide the crooked teeth that would land her in braces two years later. He hadn’t noticed at the time, but Mom—who was the same age then that Nick was today—looked far older. Her smile looked forced and dark circles lingered beneath her eyes.
Raising two kids while her husband ran the family restaurant had clearly taken a toll.
Behind them loomed the narrow two-story home where Nick had spent every day of his life up to that point. The home he would leave less than a year later as the ill-equipped new man of the family. His gut clenched at the rush of memories. Family-filled holidays. Sunday barbecues. Rare but treasured talks on the squeaky old metal glider on the front porch.
He snapped the cover shut. “I’ll look at this later.” The two women exchanged a glance but neither pushed. “Thanks for the cake, but I’m going to head out.”
Since Mia lived next door, he didn’t need to drive her home. Nick rose from his chair and tucked the album under his arm before walking around to his grandmother and dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Take it easy.”
Nota placed a hand along his jawline. “I will.” Staring into his eyes, she looked as if she wanted to say something else, but then shook her head and broke the contact. “Don’t write that new girl off just yet. I have a good feeling about her.”
She had a good feeling about every woman who crossed his path.
Ignoring the statement, he placed a kiss on the top of Mia’s head, and then said, “Tell Olaf I said hello.”
Olaf Hogenschmidt was a native islander and his grandmother’s unofficial male companion for the last year. She doggedly refused to acknowledge anything between them other than friendship, but they behaved more like an old married couple when they didn’t think anyone was watching. Nota had never remarried, or even dated as far as Nick knew, after being widowed in her mid-thirties. If Olaf made her happy, then Nick had no problem with the man being in his grandmother’s life.
“Who said Olaf is coming over?” Nota asked.
Nick’s eyes cut from the cake to his grandmother. “That man can smell cake like a shark senses blood in the water.” Snatching his keys from the kitchen counter, he added, “Besides, we both know you invited him.”
“I did no such thing,” she argued, the claim punctuated by a sudden knock.
Nick crossed the small cottage and opened the front door. “Hey, Olaf. Funny seeing you here.”
“I heard there was cake,” the older man replied.
Nick stepped back to let him enter. “Yes, there is.”
Olaf crossed the threshold, the accompanying scent of pine and varnish revealing he’d come straight from his workshop. With a wave for the ladies at the table, Nick exited the house and closed the door behind him. On the porch, he pulled the album from against his side. The knot in his gut returned, drawing a sigh from deep in his chest.
An important fact had been left out of the conversation inside, as it always was. This wasn’t only his birthday. It was his father’s as well.
“Happy birthday, Dad.” He followed the words with the statement that never left his mind. “I wish you were here.”
2
Will Parsons was harder to pin down than an octopus in a rainstorm. Lauren had been chasing her around the Destination Anchor office for the last five minutes and was quickly losing patience. The event planning company was another in the Navarro portfolio, and since wedding season was right around the corner, Lauren had been competing for her boss’ attention while also spending a significant chunk of her time creating catering menus for events large and small.
“I have to be able to compete,” Lauren said for the third time. How was the woman not getting this? “If the festival is as big as I hear, then a win would bring much-needed attention to the restaurant.”
The slender woman kept her eyes on the report in her hand. “Roxie, have we confirmed the photographer for the Leland wedding?”
“I sent the email yesterday and if I don’t get an answer by tomorrow, I’ll give him a call.”
Lauren didn’t know Will’s assistant well, but the younger woman seemed capable. Office attire on Anchor Island leaned much more casual than in Boston, so Roxie’s dark jeans and Doc Martens had taken her by surprise. Not many could pull off the punk rock edge and still appear professional, but Roxie Chandler did so with ease.
“Are you listening to me?” Lauren asked, struggling to keep her rising anger in check. “Will, this is important.”
Blue eyes finally met hers. �
�I’m sorry. I’m listening, really I am, but there’s nothing I can do. Destination Anchor is a lead sponsor, and I’m the committee chairperson.”
“Let someone else be the chairperson this year,” Lauren pleaded. “My win could ensure a successful launch for Pilar's.”
Will dropped into the chair behind her desk with a heavy sigh. “Lauren, Pilar's will have plenty of publicity regardless of the competition. Four regional publications as well as Food & Fare magazine will be covering the event, and I’ve already lined up interviews with all of them. There’ll be three days of activities, during which we’ll present dishes ranging from bite-sized hors d’oeuvres to a full main course. We planned the opening for May first precisely to take advantage of the festival. I assure you, the competition is completely unnecessary.”
“But I need—”
“You’re meeting the Steinmans in ten minutes at the Sunset Harbor Inn,” Roxie interrupted, holding out a bright-purple folder. “I’ve added an updated checklist and a current copy of all costs incurred so far.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Will bolted from her chair and snagged a light jacket off the coatrack in the corner. “I’ll be back in time to take you to lunch.”
“You’re meeting Randy at Dempsey’s for lunch, remember?”
Hugging the purple folder to her chest, Will glanced toward the ceiling. “What did I ever do without you?”
“You probably missed several meetings,” the assistant replied with a smile. “Don’t worry about me. Alex is bringing me lunch.”
Alex was the straitlaced island doctor whom Lauren had encountered during a previous visit to the Destination Anchor office. She’d never have guessed that Dr. Fielding would be Roxie’s type. The two couldn’t be more different, at least based on appearances. Lauren’s mother had tried the opposites-attract thing with little success, but then her mother had tried every type of guy and they’d all turned out to be losers.
Will set the folder down long enough to pull on the jacket, then grabbed her purse off a different hook and breezed toward the exit. “I’m serious, Lauren. Pilar's will have the best launch possible without you having to worry about that competition.”
“But I want to compete,” she mumbled as the busy woman left the building.
“She’s right,” Roxie said. “I get that you’re a fighter, but you’ll have to sit this one out.”
Lauren blinked, curious how a virtual stranger could know such a thing. “Sitting out is not in my vocabulary.”
With a chuckle, the assistant tapped the chair in front of her desk before returning to her own. “Sometimes life sucks like that. Have a seat. We need to talk.”
Without an excuse to decline, Lauren settled into the chair. “About what?”
Before she could answer, Roxie’s cell phone dinged and she checked the screen. A slow smiled curled her lips, but she didn’t pause to send a reply. “I’ll preface this by saying that I haven’t been on the island all that long, but in my short time here, I’ve learned a thing or two that might help you out.”
“I didn’t realize I needed help.”
“People seldom do.” Roxie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “My first suggestion is simple. Relax.”
Lauren tensed. “Excuse me?”
“Loosen up. You’re on island time now. If you keep giving off that ice queen vibe, you’re going to have a hard time fitting in.”
Suppressing a growl, Lauren said, “Why would I want to fit in?”
Roxie ignored the open hostility. “Why wouldn’t you?”
Because fitting in meant making friends, and Lauren preferred to avoid that activity.
Turning the tables, she said, “You don’t look like the fit in type.”
The woman’s smile grew wide. “I know, right? I walked onto this speck of sand with a chip on my shoulder the size of my Camaro.” Dark hair swayed as her head tilted to the right. “There’s just something about the people here. They don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. If you’re here and you pull your weight, then before you know it, you’re one of them.”
“What if I don’t want to be one of them?”
“I’ll repeat my question. Why wouldn’t you?”
Lauren didn’t answer and Roxie took her silence as encouragement.
“There’s no reason, right? I mean, you’re going to be living here. You need friends.”
“No, I don’t.”
Brown eyes narrowed but Roxie held Lauren’s gaze. If the busybody wanted a staring contest, Lauren would oblige. Seconds passed with neither blinking, until Roxie broke first.
“You’re stubborn. I like that. We’re going to get along, you and me.” Before Lauren could process that statement, Roxie leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk. “Now, about Will. There are three things you need to know about our boss. One, she’s the most generous person you’ll ever meet. Two, she also works harder than anyone in the history of ever. And three, she’s like the unofficial mayor of Anchor Island. She and Randy own five businesses here, and everything they do is for the betterment of both the islanders and the island.”
Unsure how to respond, Lauren once again chose silence, which she assumed Roxie would fill. She was right.
“Despite her busy schedule, much of what Will does is volunteer work, and the festival committee, which organizes all island activities, is something she’d never give up.”
Pointing out what felt like the obvious, Lauren said, “If it’s a committee, then there must be plenty of other people to handle her stepping away for one time from one event. I’m not asking her to take a vacation or to stop volunteering. I’m simply asking her to put the restaurant first. How am I supposed to stand on the sidelines while every chef on the coast competes for best food?”
Roxie leaned back again. “When you put it that way, it does sound a bit more reasonable. But it also sounds like you want her to put you first more than the restaurant.”
Lauren rose from her chair. “I am the restaurant. My success is Pilar’s success. That in turn becomes Will’s success. Isn’t that the point of running a business?”
The wide grin curled Roxie’s glossy lips. “You aren’t good at compromise, are you?”
“No.”
“That must make life pretty complicated at times.”
“Yes,” Lauren replied. More than complicated, but she would not apologize for who she was.
With a nod, the other woman rose. “Then I’ll talk to her.”
“You will?”
“I’m happy to go to bat for a friend.”
“But we aren’t—”
“Sure we are,” Roxie cut in. “You’ll get used to it.”
For her own comfort, Lauren changed the word friend to ally in her mind, and those she could use.
“Let me know what she says.”
As Lauren headed for the door, Roxie added, “I expect a free meal as payment.”
“That I can do.”
“You’ve got a visitor,” Annie Littleton, a long time Dempsey’s waitress, called into the kitchen.
“Who is it?” he asked, continuing to break down the chicken on his cutting board.
“Jackson Moore.”
A native islander who had been Nick’s equal at the Marina restaurant before the Navarros bought it, Jackson had become a good friend within weeks of Nick moving to the island. They’d talked shop, women, and sports, in that order.
“Tell him I’ll be right out.” Pulling off his latex gloves, Nick called out to Carl who was exiting the cooler. “Take over here, will you?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Nick washed his hands, then crossed through the kitchen while drying them. As he stepped out behind the bar, he tossed the towel over his left shoulder. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
Jackson’s typical easy smile was nowhere to be seen. “Can we talk?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes.”
When Nick remained behind the counter, the older man nodd
ed toward a table by the windows. “Over there?”
“Sure. Let me come around.” Nick went back through the kitchen and exited the side door close to the table where Jackson had taken a seat. “Is Denise okay?” he asked, concerned something had happened to Jackson’s wife.
Dark wrinkles covered the man’s forehead as the sun glistened off his bald black head. “She’s good. Ornery as ever, but good. I’m here about that new chef.”
“What about her?”
“I got an email about interviews for the new restaurant. The chef has some requirements for anyone looking to apply. High requirements.”
Nick had been afraid of this. “What are they?”
Jackson rubbed his burn-scarred hands together. “A minimum of five years’ experience for all positions from cooks on down.”
“Shit,” Nick mumbled, running a hand through his hair. That would cut nearly everyone out. “What else?”
“For cooks, we have to have worked in at least three different restaurants, and fast food doesn’t count. Neither do diners.”
That put Jackson out as well.
“Where does she think she’s going to find these people?” he asked.
“Hell if I know.” Jackson straightened and crossed his arms as his dark gaze shifted toward the scene outside the window. “Since they closed down for the remodel, I’ve picked up some work here and there, but I was counting on getting that job back.” His eyes cut to Nick, worry clear in their brown depths. “We can’t live on what Denise makes at the school alone. If I can’t get back on, we’ll have to think about moving off the island.”
This was a reality that every local faced eventually. In a village only a square mile wide, job opportunities were slim, which was the reason efforts to boost tourism had been rampant in the last ten years, and why hiring islanders had been a priority for all local businesses. There were commuters who came in from Hatteras, but those were the exception not the rule.