I should’ve ignored Dad’s jab, but I couldn’t help myself. “You were supportive enough of the restaurant back in August. You even commented how overjoyed it would have made Mom.”
“That was before I found out you were using your mother’s memory to screw around,” Dad said, finishing off his scotch in two gulps and transitioning to the Chardonnay.
I wasn’t sure if he was referring to my relationship with Gwen or to the restaurant being a distraction, but either way, I had no intention of taking the bait. Not with Gwen present. Not with everything else going on.
I opened my mouth to change the subject, but Dad interrupted me, dropping a clenched fist onto the table and rattling the silverware. “I assume you’ll have enough self-control to avoid tarnishing your mother’s memory further when you speak at the gala on New Year’s Day. You are able to manage that. Right, son?”
The tension in the room was palpable. Chris hummed to himself, eyes trained on an oil painting hanging on the wall, while Rose muttered about how the corn bread stuffing and maple-glazed butternut squash looked particularly delicious. Gwen rested a palm on my knee in silent support, her expression calm, steady.
“How about everyone serve themselves before the meal gets cold,” Rose chimed in, her voice even more high-pitched than it’d been in the kitchen earlier. “Go on now. Load up those plates.”
For the next few minutes, as everyone passed around the roasted turkey and sides, the atmosphere brightened. Everyone except Dad made small talk, Chris and me sharing our experiences volunteering this morning, Gwen describing the new specials board she was working on for the restaurant, and all of us discussing how the Detroit Lions had slaughtered the Philadelphia Eagles today. Bad news for the Blizzards, because if the Lions maintained their streak, we might have to face them in the Super Bowl.
As we were about to dig into our food, Dad lifted his red wine and announced, “To the children who make us proud. Or pretend to.”
Rose raised her champagne flute toward the crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling. “To our children,” she echoed, a saccharine smile firmly planted on her face. Which left Chris, Gwen, and me no choice but to clink our drinks against hers in an attempt to humor Dad.
We ate in silence for several moments, which really consisted of us pushing turkey around and drowning our mashed potatoes in gravy. Only Dad seemed to be enjoying the food, inhaling the sautéed brussels sprouts, yam casserole, and cranberry sauce as if they were his final meal.
“Hey, Stonestreet, quit being stingy with the bread. Hand it over,” Chris said. Given that he still had a freshly buttered roll on his plate, I could only assume he was trying to initiate conversation, no matter how superficial.
“Sure,” I said, pushing the basket in his direction.
“Well, look at that miracle. You two can accomplish a simple pass. I’d begun to think you both had forgotten the basic principles of football,” Dad said, his voice loud and slurred. He took another long pull of his red wine, already having drained the Chardonnay.
“Now, Bob, remember there’s no Blizzards talk during dinner,” Rose chided, though I didn’t know why she bothered—Dad had never adhered to her rules.
Hell, it’d been because of a past argument between Dad and me over my perceived unwillingness to be patient in the pocket that the Thanksgiving table had been sanctioned a Blizzards-free zone in the first place. Frankly, it was a mystery why Rose still invited us over. I suspected it was a combination of my lifelong friendship with Chris and Rose’s respect and admiration for Mom.
“Fine, fine. No Blizzards talk,” Dad said, waving Rose off. “Not that there’s much to be grateful for in that department anyway.”
“We have the best record in the AFC West, so I’d counter that in regards to football, there’s plenty to be grateful for,” Chris interjected.
“That was the case last year and the year before, yet you all still couldn’t clinch the title,” Dad said.
“And that’s what’s great about this sport, Bob. Each new season is a new chance. You of all people should know that,” Chris said, and I gave him a small nod in appreciation. “How many years did you play for Seattle before you won that first championship? Five?”
“Fair enough, Chris.” Dad laughed a big, fake laugh. “But then I’m sure you can understand why it’s such a shame to see Logan wasting his talents on other endeavors when you’re both young and healthy and primed to capture the real prize.” He met my gaze. “Logan, imagine what your mother would think if she—”
It was as if the last thread of Gwen’s patience unraveled, because she tossed her napkin onto her plate and cut him off. “Oh, yes, Bob, let’s talk about what Jane would think of Logan coming home bruised after every game. Of the way his knee grinds, and how Logan is careful—too careful for someone his age—when he rounds a corner. Let’s talk about what she’d think of the daily pain injections, the constant physical therapy, and the unending pressure to play injured.”
“Gwen, sweetheart, now is not the appropriate—” Rose started.
“In fact, let’s talk about what Jane would say about your behavior, Bob,” Gwen snapped. “Everyone else here might tolerate your rudeness and grant you a free pass, but Jane certainly wouldn’t. In fact, I think she’d be ashamed. Tragedy happens to all of us. It takes different forms and leaves behind varying degrees of devastation, but we all experience it.”
“Sweetheart,” Rose said again, more sternly, but Gwen was on a roll.
“And I understand you’re hurting, that this time of year is difficult for you, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat the only family you have left as expendable and unworthy of common courtesy.” Gwen’s nostrils were flaring, eyes bright and wide, filled with more fire than I’d ever seen. “Logan—your son—is still here, and he still cares. Perhaps you should remember that the next time you insult him.” Gwen pushed back from the table and stormed out of the dining room.
For a moment everyone sat there unmoving, as if in shock over her outburst. Then, Dad being Dad, he picked up his wineglass and polished off the rest of the Pinot Noir.
I cleared my throat and stood. “I’m . . . going to check on her.”
I found Gwen in the conservatory, peering up at the pitch-black night, the stars bright in the sky. Outside, the ground appeared gray and crystallized, the trees covered in shrouds of ice. I knocked on the arched doorway. Gwen turned, her shoulders collapsing, the moonlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminating her features in a metallic glow.
“I know you’re capable of fighting your own battles, but I couldn’t listen to one more passive-aggressive comment,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.
I walked toward her, my footsteps muffled on the ceramic tiles. “I used to argue, but after a while, I realized there’s no reasoning with Dad when he’s in one of these moods.”
“What the heck happened to him?” she asked, collapsing onto one of the wicker couches framing the space. “He’s acting like an entirely different person . . .”
“I don’t know. It’s as if a part of him is fractured beyond repair,” I said, lowering myself onto the cushion beside her. “This side of him only comes out during the holidays, thankfully, but I’m still sorry you had to witness it. And I’m sorry for all of his veiled insults.”
Gwen bumped my shoulder and smiled, just the slightest curve of her mouth. “I’ve heard worse insinuations about me.”
“And none of them true,” I said, gazing straight into her eyes.
She stared back in a sort of stubborn standoff until she blinked first. “I’m not sorry for what I said.”
“I know,” I said. “And I appreciate your concern.”
“But you don’t agree.” It should have been a question, but we both knew it was a statement.
“The game is brutal on every player’s body,” I said. “Mi
ne’s no exception, Gwen.”
“So you keep reminding me,” she said. “I just don’t understand how you can claim to love a sport that breaks you down like this.”
“Claim?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She nodded. “I think once upon a fairy tale, you fell in love with football. Much like I did with cooking. And while I believe a part of you still loves football and what it represents, I also think those feelings have become overshadowed by expectation and pressure to be the ultimate franchise quarterback.” Gwen shifted her body toward mine, looking at me as if she knew my innermost secrets. “I’ve watched nearly every game this season, and it doesn’t seem like you’re having much fun out there these days.”
“Because the owners aren’t paying me millions of dollars to have fun. They’re paying me to perform. To deliver championships. So if that means I get knocked around a bit out there, then so be it,” I said, annoyance creeping into my tone, wishing she could see my point of view on this issue for once. Loving the game, wanting to win, and being a professional didn’t have to be mutually exclusive. “Ultimately this is a job, Gwen, and one I have to execute in whatever way is most effective and efficient. The same way you do every time you sharpen your knives and tie on an apron. I expected you more than anyone would understand.”
We stared at each other in a sort of contest again, and like before, I won.
She averted her gaze, her focus on a fox darting across the frost-covered lawn. “So, what’s the deal with the gala?” she asked after a while.
“It’s a charity Dad and I founded that benefits ovarian cancer research,” I said. “I’ve been asked to give the keynote this year, specifically describe Mom’s battle and who she was as a person.”
“That sounds . . . meaningful.”
“It is.”
“But?” she asked, finally glancing at me.
I scratched my jaw and sighed. “How do I begin to talk about the best person I’ve ever known?”
Gwen’s expression softened. “Jane was extraordinary, Logan,” she said, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck. “And I get that it’s impossible to boil down the kind of person she was into a simple speech. So instead think about when you hear her voice in the back of your head, when it’s the loudest—what is she telling you? Whatever it is, maybe start there.”
I consider Gwen’s words, remembering all the little “lessons” Mom used to share that at that time had sounded like platitudes but now carried me through everyday life—show authenticity and kindness, live with conviction and purpose, act with integrity always. There were other things, too, like urging me to fight for every moment, even the bad ones, and to be patient with Dad, how he’d need my support more than ever after she was gone.
All at once, something Mom had said just before she died, something I hadn’t thought about since, flooded my mind: Someday you’re going to meet the right woman, Logan. And when you do, you’ll know it’s her because the only thing more overwhelming, the only thing scarier than wanting to spend every waking moment with her, is the idea of losing her. So make sure you state your intentions before you miss the opportunity.
And it was as if everything foggy had become clear. I wanted it all with Gwen, and if we had any shot at all at a real relationship—a future—there had to be a solid foundation of trust and honesty between us. The problem was, I didn’t know if Gwen felt the same—or if she would ever feel the same. I could be all in, do everything in my power to show that I wasn’t Stephen and that we were more than what she’d had in San Francisco. But it still might not be enough, especially if she’d already made up her mind.
“Mom would tell me to go after what I want with everything I have. And right now the only thing I want is you.” I touched her face, barely skimming her cheekbone. “Lying on the couch watching film with me after a game. Sitting on the kitchen counter as I attempt to cook you dinner. Wrapped around me in my bed both late at night and first thing in the morning. But more than all that, more than anything else, I want you to be the woman on my arm, in public and in private, but especially at the gala in memory of my mother.”
My words dangled in the space between us.
Her hand fell from my neck as she moved out of my grasp. “Logan.” Never had my name sounded so heavy, so loaded. “We’ve talked about this.”
Even though I’d anticipated this reaction, frustration surged through me. “No, you talked about this,” I said.
She shook her head as if I were the irrational one. “So then why do I have to explain to you again that I don’t want to draw that kind of attention to myself?”
“Because you never actually explained it the first time, Gwen,” I said. “You just made a decision and expected me to go along with it.”
“I certainly don’t remember you complaining about that last night,” she said, her tone drenched in sarcasm.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “I’m willing to concede we don’t have any trouble with communication in bed. But then, that makes sense since we’re not actually talking to each other.”
“Really? Because I think we’ve been communicating just fine. Until now, when you decided to change positions on me.”
“Heaven forbid I want to take you to a dinner in honor of my mother where other people will see us together,” I said.
Bolting up from the wicker couch, she crossed her arms and practically yelled, “Because it’s not just dinner. It’s a public-service announcement.”
“Bullshit. It’s intimacy. It’s an admission that we’re together and not this fling you keep trying to convince yourself of,” I said, my own voice getting louder as my irritation rose by the second. “Why is acknowledging that so hard for you? What are you so damn scared of? And why does it feel like you’ve constantly got one foot out the door?”
There it was: the chance for her to come clean, tell me the truth about the letter I’d found. But Gwen didn’t flinch, didn’t give any indication that my words had struck a chord.
“You’re demanding commitment from me, but how do I know that if I start to rely on you, start to trust in you, that you aren’t going to snap your fingers and decide to trade me in for a newer model?” she asked. “You’re the boss, and therefore, you’re the one with the power here, Logan. Let’s not forgot that.”
“When are you going to realize I’m not Stephen? And I frankly find it insulting that you still think I’m capable of treating you the way he did.” I inhaled a deep breath, refusing to allow my frustration and anger to get the better of me. “I’m willing to put myself out there—I want to put myself out there for you—in the pocket, no protection, risking the hard hit, but I need you willing to do the same.”
She sighed and looked out the window, her reflection in the glass almost haunting. “You’re changing the rules, Logan, and asking for something I’m not sure I can give.”
“I’m not saying it’s all or nothing.” I moved to stand in front of her, careful to keep my distance. “And I’m not proposing to take out an ad in the paper or to sit for a joint interview.”
Her eyes searched mine, her expression turning earnest but also cautious. “Then what are you asking?”
“That you stop acting like what we have is wrong or so fragile that it’ll break under even the slightest scrutiny. And that when I eulogize my mother in the most public way imaginable, you’ll be at the table waiting for me to return. I want you there with me, Gwen. I need you there,” I said, dragging the pad of my thumb across her bottom lip. “One day I hope you’ll let me catch you for good, but right now I’m asking you to catch me.”
Her whole body stiffened, and I was certain she was going to refuse, but after several long moments, Gwen exhaled a deep breath and said, “Okay, Wonder Bread, just this once I’ll catch you.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Gwen
Three we
eks after the disaster that was Thanksgiving, I was at the Cherry Cricket with Missy, her husband, Dan, and a group of his law firm associates, sipping beers and eating green chili cheeseburgers, waiting for Monday Night Football to get under way. Darts flew in the alcove behind me, kids in Bruiser the Bear shirts challenged one another to pinball, and twinkling Christmas lights and a festive spirit wrapped themselves around everything.
Missy and I had been coming to this historic Denver dive bar since we were in high school, and even after a decade nothing had changed—the green carpet, wood-paneled walls, laminate tables, and stuffed vinyl chairs were still as grungy and old as the building itself, the food the perfect balance of greasy and flavorful, and the drink selection vast. A hazy layer of smoke from the beef patties that were flame-grilled over lava rocks hovered above our heads, obscuring the upside-down ice hockey rink replica that adorned the ceiling, the whirling fans only giving the impression of ventilation.
The televisions switched over to ESPN. All around us, men straight out of investment banking brochures, hipsters, women in Chanel tweed and two-inch sling-back heels, and sports fanatics alike cheered as the Blizzards rushed onto the field at Qualcomm Stadium in San Diego to take on the Chargers. Logan and the guys had defeated the Packers in Green Bay last week, and fans were holding their breath to see if the team could preserve its winning streak, bring home an early Christmas gift. I just wanted Logan to survive the four quarters intact, though I noticed his gait seemed strong and stable as he rehearsed his dropbacks.
“Explain to me why Colorado is competing against San Diego again?” Missy shouted in my ear over the noise. “Didn’t we already crush them this year?”
Intercepting the Chef Page 21