“Is that it then?” she asked. “In two weeks, you’re going to put on that jersey and play, damn the consequences? Should I tell you congratulations?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I may be guilty of pursuing my dreams with single-minded determination, but at least I’m not too cowardly to even try.”
Silence settled between us again, heavier this time. Final. Like we’d reached the edge of something we couldn’t come back from.
“Fine,” she said. “But don’t expect me to sit around and watch you ruin your life. Find yourself another executive chef. I’m done.” Gwen spun on her heel, jerked open the door, and slammed it behind her as she disappeared into the hallway.
Fuck, everything hurt.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Gwen
I was the worst sort of cliché, lounging on my couch in pajamas in the middle of the day and watching the first installment in the Fast & Furious franchise. I took a bite of the warm, gooey twenty-dollar grilled cheese sandwich I’d made, savoring the slightly sweet and nutty flavor of the Beaufort D’Ete, the finest and most expensive Gruyère available—at least in my depravity I’d maintained some standards.
It’d been three days since I’d walked out of Logan’s life. Three days since he’d reaffirmed my belief that passion trumped everything. Three days since my world had fallen apart. Again.
Ordinarily, when things got hard or stressful or complicated, I’d channel my feelings into cooking and throw myself wholeheartedly into my work—I wasn’t usually one for wallowing—but this time I just . . . couldn’t. Plus, it wasn’t like I had any work I could throw myself into, seeing as how I was unemployed. For the time being, my sous chef, Amy, had taken over executive duties at Stonestreet’s, and if Logan was smart, he’d make that permanent.
My cell phone buzzed and my father’s name lit up the screen, but I let the call go to voice mail. No doubt he’d recently discovered through the culinary grapevine that I’d turned down the audition. And because that grapevine loved a juicy story, my father probably also knew that I’d called Trent again two days ago, all but begging him to grant me another shot that was swiftly denied—it’s a damn shame, too, Gwen. Such talent shouldn’t be hidden, but it’s like I told you before, there are no take-backs in the restaurant world, and I never give second chances—and wanted to tell me what a disappointment I was. My father could join the club.
Outside the living room window, birds zipped through the cloudless afternoon sky. The sun was high and bright, its rays cutting like knives through the trees and melting the ice-tipped grass, the blades glittering like diamonds. On TV, a car chase started, and I turned up the volume, relishing in the sound of engines rumbling, tires screeching, and gears shifting into place.
Sometime later, the doorbell rang, and as I got up to answer it, I decided that for the rest of the Fast & Furious movies I’d alter my previous stance on drinking solo and take a shot of whiskey every time Vin Diesel’s character talked about “family.” If that didn’t get me tipsy and help me forget what a disaster my life had turned into, nothing would.
I opened the door expecting to find Missy on the other side—she was supposed to drop by after her tennis match had finished—but to my surprise, my mother stood on the front porch, dressed head to toe in vintage St. John and with an unimpressed expression on her face.
“Apparently I allowed you to do as you wished for too long,” she said, crossing the threshold without a hello, her coordinating St. John handbag swinging on her forearm. “I’d anticipated morose, but you look like you’re ready to be a test chef for Hostess cupcakes.”
“Nice to see you, too, Mom,” I said, forcing a smile as I followed her into the living room.
I hadn’t spoken to her since I’d left her and Chris hovering in the hallway outside Logan’s hospital room without a word. I knew they’d overheard our fight—along with every nurse and patient on the floor—and I assumed neither of them had reached out because they were giving me space. Guess that was over.
My mother glanced around at the dirty mugs and plates littering the coffee table and the sweatshirts, blankets, and slippers strewn across the floor. Sighing, she paused the movie and said, “I assume by the way you’re moping about there’s no easy escape for you this go-around and the position in New York has been filled.”
“It has,” I said without fanfare, not wanting to rehash my entire phone conversation with Trent or dwell on the fact that he’d selected the lead prep cook and my former coworker from Wolfgang Puck in Vegas for the position.
Ugh, how could I have been such an idiot to turn down the audition in the first place?
“Good. Then I haven’t wasted my time coming here,” she said. “Clean yourself up, then meet me in the car. There’s something I’d like to show you. And make it quick. I don’t have all evening.”
The last thing I wanted to do was put on real clothes and go out in public, but if it meant her leaving me alone faster, I’d oblige. And if I were honest, a part of me was curious about what was so important it necessitated an unannounced visit—something firmly at the top of my mother’s list of faux pas.
I changed into jeans, a plain gray sweater, and my beat-up Converse, brushed a comb through my hair, and texted Missy that I needed to take a rain check on our plans. The sky was darkening when I stepped outside. I ran to my mother’s Mercedes idling at the curb, the exhaust creating white puffs in the cold air.
“Where are we going?” I asked, buckling myself in and rubbing my hands together in front of the heater blowing full blast.
“Patience, sweetheart.”
She pulled onto the street and adjusted the radio to the sports talk station. Of course the sole topic of conversation was how the Blizzards would fare against the Saints in the Super Bowl. Though in listening to the hosts’ commentary, either the media was downplaying the severity of Logan’s injury, which was doubtful, referring to the partial tear in his left ACL as a sprained ligament, or the team hadn’t shared the complete story.
Either way, the radio personalities agreed that the efficiency and precision of the Blizzards’ offense against the speed and tenacity of the Saints’ defense would result in a tough matchup. Still, the Vegas sports books had the Blizzards favored to win by four points. I tried not to care about any of it. I was succeeding a little.
Flashes of Logan landing on his neck in the end zone, the all-consuming terror that had gripped my chest, the crazed race across town to the ER came flooding back to me in a rush. My heart clenched, holding in the hurt and betrayal and anger deep inside of me.
How could I have been so stupid to fall in love with Logan? Believe that this time would be different? That he would choose me? I should have known better, but my emotions had erased my common sense, and now I was suffering the consequences. Logan had accused me of being a liar and coward, someone too afraid to put her heart on the line, and maybe he was right. But I wasn’t the only one who had messed up here or was acting selfish. Why couldn’t he see that?
I hit the off button, plunging the car into sudden silence. My mother pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly annoyed by my behavior, but she kept her opinions to herself.
We drove the rest of the way with only the sound of tires crunching over salt-covered roads between us. My mother led us through downtown to the newest area on the outskirts currently undergoing gentrification, with cafés, art galleries, eclectic stores and clothing boutiques, and upscale eateries replacing the once urban landscape.
She pulled the Mercedes into an empty lot and parked in front of an abandoned building that had belonged to the Colorado Millwork and Woodcraft Company before it went out of business when I was in high school.
“Why are we at the old carpentry shop?” I asked, staring out at the boarded-up windows tagged with graffiti, the crumbling brick facade, and the rusted corrugated roof.
I started
to get out of the car for a closer peek, but my mother placed a hand on my wrist and said, “What do you see when you look at it?”
“A fire hazard waiting to happen,” I said. “I’m surprised the building hasn’t been torn down already.”
My mother nodded. “The entire structure needs a full renovation, I’ll give you that, but it has potential.”
“For what?”
“Your new restaurant. The one you should’ve opened years ago.”
I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. And the list price is so cheap it should be considered robbery.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
Unfastening her seat belt, my mother shifted her body toward mine and cleared her throat. When she spoke, her tone was soft but sure. “I owe you an apology, Gwen.”
Shock washed over me at her words, and the force of it caught me so off guard I fell back against the leather seat. I opened my mouth to respond but nothing came out. My mother was sorry?
“Ever since you were a little girl, I’ve allowed your father’s misguided and selfish actions to color my feelings toward your career as a chef,” she continued. “I was wrong to do that.”
“I’ve never wanted to be him or look back on my life as a series of missteps and disappointments I could have avoided,” I said. Which was perhaps the root of my problem. Maybe, like Logan had said, I’d been so cautious and guarded in my decisions that in doing so it had prevented me from achieving anything significant at all.
“I know that, sweetheart. I should have given you more credit. And the other night, when I overheard everything Logan said to you, I realized that your refusal to put yourself in a position of failure was as much my fault as yours.”
“How so?” I asked, tucking my hair behind my ear.
My mother became quiet a moment, her eyes steady on mine. Finally, she offered a tentative smile and said, “I was so concerned about you following in your father’s footsteps and making his same mistakes that I only ever acknowledged all the things you and your father had in common. I never bothered to recognize all the things that set you apart. It was unfair, and worse, detrimental.”
“But understandable,” I said. “He wasn’t exactly easy to live with, and he caused you a lot of pain and heartache throughout your marriage—and after. You wanted better for me.” Heck, I wanted better for me.
She squeezed my hand, her smile growing broader. “Maybe so. Still, instead of nurturing your passion, I instilled the notion that taking risks in pursuit of your dreams was irresponsible and foolish, and I’m sorry. But all that stops now. Because if you don’t embrace the fear and change this pattern of running away from the difficult and unfamiliar, then you’re never going to achieve the sort of happiness you deserve or the sort of happiness you want in your career . . . and with Logan.”
My throat closed up and my eyes stung, but I blinked back the tears. “Thank you, Mom,” I said, my voice cracking.
My whole life I’d yearned for her support, the kind she so effortlessly provided Chris, desperate for her to confirm that I was more than my father’s daughter. And now she was not only encouraging me to become my own boss, she’d also found a location for me to finally take the leap. It all seemed possible, like I was standing at a promising new crossroad with a great adventure ahead. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for my relationship with Logan.
My mother leaned across the console and wrapped me in a hug. “What do you say we have a quick glance around?”
“How are we going to get in?”
“You’re not the only one who knows important people.” She pulled out a key ring and a flashlight from her purse, shut off the engine, and exited the car.
I trailed after her, and together we pushed aside the wooden panel blocking the lock. Stale, damp air assaulted us as she opened the door, the hinges creaking. We stepped inside, and instantly the stench of rot, dust, and mold enveloped us. My mother clicked on the flashlight and swept the beam around the building, revealing discarded tools on worktables, cigarette butts, and machinery covered in cobwebs.
“Well, at least the reclaimed antique wood ceiling is in decent shape,” I said, dodging a handsaw that’d been forgotten on the concrete floor, the blade corroded but still sharp enough to infect me with tetanus.
My mother murmured in agreement, her eyes darting in every direction. “The bones are good. Once everything gets cleared out, you’d have a large blank space to design however you wanted.”
As we walked through the building, an image of a restaurant began to form. I pictured an open kitchen and a wood-burning oven that acted as the beating heart, an intimate atmosphere infused with laughter and good conversation, and delicious food that both inspired and comforted guests. It was all so vivid in my mind, but more than that, it all felt attainable.
In that moment, I knew it was time for me to quit commanding other people’s kitchens and take charge of my own. And I wanted to do that here, in Denver, where I had a support system around me and where I felt grounded. While the risks still scared me, the uncertainty also filled me with an excitement I’d never felt before. The possibilities were endless, the future wide open.
“What do you think?” my mother asked.
“I’d need to secure funding,” I said, which meant involving a restaurateur who could provide guidance, expertise, and most important, monetary backing while leaving all creative input and control to me. A partner of sorts.
Immediately Trent’s face popped into my head, but there was no way he’d even accept my call let alone entertain the idea. When he reached a decision, it was final. No exceptions. He’d made that clear the last time we’d spoken.
Still, at one point he’d believed in me as a chef, saw promise in my cooking. I had to try.
* * *
My flight touched down at LaGuardia Airport fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. A blanket of snow covered the ground outside, the late-morning February sky an endless gray that I hoped wasn’t a bad omen for what was to come. As the airplane taxied to the gate, I peered out the window at midtown Manhattan in the distance, my thoughts focused on Logan when they should be on my upcoming meeting.
Soon he’d be taking the field in Miami to face off against the Saints to fight for the championship he so desperately desired. Chris had sent me a ticket, but I’d declined. As much as I wanted to see my brother play in the Super Bowl, I couldn’t witness Logan destroy himself. Besides, I had my own future to secure.
The heat of our argument still weighed heavy on my mind. Logan had accused me of allowing the fear of failure to rule my decisions. I was determined to prove I was more than he’d claimed. Now I had to convince Trent Keller.
The unfasten-your-seat belt chime went off and passengers immediately shot to their feet, crouching like spiders in their designated rows until it was their turn to escape. While everyone hurried to deboard, I remained seated, collecting my bearings. After the final person had exited, I stood, retrieved my carry-on luggage from the overhead bin, and met the driver I’d hired in baggage claim.
“Welcome to the city, Ms. Lalonde,” he said, taking my duffel and signaling with his chin for me to follow him outside. The air smelled like burned pretzels, exhaust, and urine.
He guided me to the designated area reserved for limos. As usual, LaGuardia was a madhouse of congested traffic and a flurry of travelers coming and going. The driver deposited my bag in the trunk, and I settled into the soft leather interior, tucking the cashmere blanket from the basket beside my seat around my legs.
“We have a bit of a journey to Battery Park City due to the slick roads, so make yourself comfortable,” the driver said after he’d started the engine and adjusted the radio to the classical station, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “There are snacks and beverages in the bar area.”
He put up the privacy bar
rier and merged into the sea of vehicles. Billboards, high-rise apartments, and skyscrapers sped past my window. It’d been almost six years since I’d last visited New York, but it felt as if nothing had changed. The sidewalks were still crammed with annoyed locals and oblivious tourists. A stark contrast to Denver’s easygoing, laid-back vibe I’d grown to appreciate.
As we cruised across town, I reviewed the notes I’d jotted down in my journal and sipped on some Perrier, hoping the fizz in the sparkling water would tamp down the nervous tension that twisted my stomach. Despite years of working in high-stakes environments and demanding kitchens like at Brindille, none of that compared to the pressure I felt about approaching Trent with my idea.
He agreed to see you, I reminded myself. But only because my father had used what little clout he had left in the industry to secure me an in-person meeting. As it turned out, my father had worked with Trent’s business partner at his first job out of culinary school—something that would’ve been good of my father to mention when I’d first told him about the audition—and the guy still owed my father a favor, which my father had finally cashed in. For me.
I pulled out my cell and shot him a quick text: In limo on my way to see Trent. I didn’t expect a reply, but my phone vibrated in my hand with a new message. Remember Lalondes don’t beg. Be professional, but be original, too. I shook my head, imaging him reciting the words out loud in his stern fatherly voice.
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