Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “Then what was it?” she asked, her tone cautious but edged with curiosity. “If it wasn’t everything you’d envisioned, how could it have been worth the risks?”

  “It was . . . a sense of relief,” I said. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud to have accomplished everything I set out to do in my career, but I should’ve felt more. The fact that I didn’t made me evaluate everything you said about expectations and loving this sport enough to dedicate my life to it.”

  “And that’s what prompted the sudden retirement announcement?” she asked.

  I nodded. “I love football, always have, always will. But it’s not my purpose—not anymore. It’s not what I picture when I think of the next five or ten years. But with a championship standing between me and the future, I couldn’t see that far ahead.” I inhaled deeply and continued. “As confetti fell around me, reporters screaming questions, I realized that at the end of the day, none of it really mattered because you weren’t there to share in the success with me.”

  She sucked in a breath, her eyes widening a fraction, but enough for me to recognize a gleam of something hopeful in the depths of brown. “If not football, then what do you want to dedicate your life to?” she asked.

  “I’m not entirely sure yet, but I still have a restaurant to deal with and an ovarian cancer charity that could use my attention. I’ve got time to figure out the rest.” I hesitated, then rounded the island so we were near enough that I could extend my arm and sweep the wisps of hair off her shoulder. “The point is, I don’t care what I do as long as you’re there with me. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you or take your objections seriously. I acted selfishly and recklessly and discounted your concerns.”

  Sighing, Gwen turned away from me and focused her gaze on the row of brightly enameled Dutch ovens on the wooden shelves adorning the walls. When she looked back at me, her lips were a thin line, in frustration or anger, I wasn’t certain. “You didn’t discount my concerns, Logan. You left me out of the decision-making process entirely.”

  “If I could go back and behave differently I would, but you never gave me the slightest indication you wanted something permanent with me,” I said, raising my palms in defeat. “It never crossed my mind to consider how my actions would affect ‘us’ when there was no ‘us.’ You refused to let me in, Gwen.” After a beat, I quietly added, “And you weren’t the only one left out of a decision.”

  She bit her lip, then nodded. “I know. I’ve done some thinking, made some decisions.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, anticipation and apprehension building in my chest. “Chris told me you went to New York.”

  Gwen nodded again. “As much as I still don’t agree with your choice to put on that uniform, you were right that I was being a coward.”

  “You had your reasons,” I said.

  “I did. Still do.” Slowly, she dropped her arms to her sides, relaxing her posture. “It’s not an easy thing for me, admitting what I want. Especially when I want it so bad I’m terrified what will become of me if I don’t get it—or if it’s ripped away from me.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you don’t at least try,” I said.

  “That’s so simple for you to say.” She held up a hand when I went to respond. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. But you grew up in a house that glorified success. Your father is a sterling example of what happens when it all goes right.”

  Gwen made it sound so idyllic. Like I hadn’t been under constant pressure and scrutiny and strain to outperform Dad. Like it all hadn’t threatened to drown me each and every day. “His successes cast a large shadow. It took me a long time to figure out how to define victory in my terms and not his. I’m still figuring that out.”

  “I recognize that had to be a difficult legacy to live up to, but still, Logan, you saw what happened when it all came together. When hard work and dedication and sheer determination paid off,” she said. “But I saw what happens when it doesn’t. When you put everything you are on the line, again and again and again. To get so close to your dream that for a moment it feels as though it’s yours, only to watch it get snatched away.”

  Gwen looked past me, concentrating on the TV. After a moment, she shook her head, as if releasing a memory, and met my gaze. “I know what failing can do to someone, how it can change them, turn them into a smaller, more hollow version of who they once were,” she continued. “For so long, I thought that keeping my feet on the ground, keeping my expectations and ambitions balanced and level, was the smart thing to do. A way to ensure that I didn’t become too attached or a person I didn’t recognize—or worse, a person I didn’t respect.”

  “But you went to New York . . .”

  “Like I said, I had time to think. And to get some help from my mother.” She smiled like she was recalling a private moment. “You were right. I wasn’t taking risks, embracing the unknown, and I realized that if I kept playing everything so safe, I was going to miss out on some amazing opportunities. So I got on a plane to discover if I’d blown what could have been the biggest opportunity of my career.”

  “Any kitchen would be lucky to have you,” I said, only now fully comprehending all the unintended consequences our fight in the hospital had sparked. How the words I’d shouted at her had also stirred Gwen up and emboldened her—and potentially sent her out of my life for good.

  “Thankfully, the restaurateur was willing to meet with me and listen to my pitch for a new concept despite my rejecting his earlier offer,” she said. “He loved my idea and agreed to provide the financial backing required to start my own restaurant.”

  Gwen’s eyes flashed, a fire that told me the victory was still fresh and new. I wanted to share in the awe, the excitement, but all I could focus on was the geography. New York was so far away. But I’d relocate if it meant we could be together permanently.

  It hit me then that she might not want me there. That she might want to capture her dream alone. And as she inhaled a quick breath, pinning me with a hard stare, I braced myself for the Band-Aid to be ripped off, for confirmation that Gwen was already gone.

  “I’m calling it Quince after the lesser-known forbidden fruit,” she said. “I’m opening it in the abandoned Millwork and Woodcraft Company building . . . right here in Denver.”

  My heart pounded against my chest. “What does this mean for us?” I asked.

  “It means that everything I want is right here in Denver. Right here with you,” she said, her voice steady and confident. Gwen stepped forward, her hand grazing mine. “My whole life I’ve been searching for purpose, for a place where I felt settled yet still free, and it took coming home for me to understand that passion and love don’t have to be mutually exclusive.” A flush colored her cheeks as she intertwined our fingers. “I love you, Logan, and that scares me most of all.”

  I didn’t need to hear any more. Cradling Gwen’s face in my palms, I kissed her, strong and sure. My tongue slid against hers, and she arched her body into mine. A sense of urgency rushed through me. I scraped my teeth along her lower lip, and Gwen hummed into my mouth, then moaned when I lifted her onto the island and wrapped her legs around my waist. Breaking away, I looked into her now slightly hooded eyes. Her chest rose and fell with shallow pants.

  “I love you, too, Gwen. I love your monochromatic wardrobe that clashes with your sharp wit and colorful personality. I love your passion for food and travel and culture, and your desire to share your experiences with those around you.” I undid her bun, relishing in the way her dark hair spilled around her shoulders. “I love the way you challenge me to be better and tolerate my cooking and pretend to laugh at my jokes. But mostly I love how you see straight into the core of who I am and—”

  “Hey, Wonder Bread?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The crab cakes are getting cold from all of your rambling.”

  I laughed. “Don’t you know they taste best room temper
ature?”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “Would you shut up and come here?”

  And as she twisted the fabric of my sweater between her fingers and tugged me closer, pressing her lips against mine, I smiled, thinking that maybe bringing the crab cakes and hot sauce wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  EPILOGUE

  Gwen

  six months later

  QUINCE

  * * *

  Chef’s Tasting Menu

  AMUSE TRIO

  * * *

  roasted carrot, brown butter, hazelnuts

  escarole, Grecian figs, ricotta

  chilled daylily broth, roe, flash-fried lobster, Japanese zucchini blossom

  BEGINNING

  * * *

  Breton-inspired buckwheat galette, caramelized cauliflower, mint

  snapper crudo, smoked cashews, tangerines, garlic in barley miso

  MIDDLE

  * * *

  halibut, petite rouge peas, butternut squash, anise, mustards

  red wattle pork Bolognese, garganelli pasta, chili oil, fennel

  Korean braised short rib, vanilla-lemon polenta, candied citrus, kale

  END

  * * *

  persimmon pain perdu, quince, crystallized ginger, cinnamon

  Comice pear, Guanaja chocolate, butterscotch, gold leaf

  Eve could have her apple. Denver now had its own temptation in Quince and its large wood-burning oven that every dish on the menu used in one form or another. The mesmerizing flames that danced over crackling logs, the subtle scent of smoke-kissed food lingering in the air, and the gentle warmth from the fire that spread throughout the dining room would soon lure people from all over the city to experience my version of farm-to-table cuisine with an international flair.

  Tonight the kitchen staff and I were doing a soft run-through of the multiple-course tasting menu for six special guests to smooth out any kinks before the official premiere. I’d never expected my father to attend the preview, and though a part of me wished he could have been here, I also understood that it was probably for the best.

  As I’d navigated the complex process of opening a restaurant, dealt with all the tiny details so unrelated to cooking and yet so entirely necessary, I’d realized that this was likely why all of my father’s endeavors had floundered—he’d never been able to see beyond the kitchen.

  High-pitched laughter pierced the air and I jumped, dropping the tweezers I used for handling delicate ingredients onto the stainless steel expediting station. From my spot at the head of the kitchen, I peered over my shoulder to where Trent Keller was leading the group into the lounge area. I exhaled slowly, trying to settle the fluttering in my stomach. Logically I knew I had no reason to be nervous—my family and friends supported me no matter what—but still I wanted to impress them, serve them the best meal of their lives.

  “The decor looks incredible,” I heard my mother say. She gasped when her eyes landed on the potted citrus trees adorning the walnut-topped bar, and I smiled.

  Over the last six months, the old carpentry shop had been completely transformed into an eighteen-table restaurant that had maintained its roots but managed to feel intimate and inviting. The redwood beams and trusses that supported the cathedral ceiling had been restored, the chipped and stained concrete floor had been repoured, and the exposed brick walls had been scrubbed and sealed to preserve the rich red color.

  The open kitchen that flowed into the dining room had been outfitted in stainless steel, white subway tiles, and French appliances. Hanging copper cookware, fresh herbs in terra-cotta pots, and tanks housing live seafood accented the industrial feel. When Trent and I had discussed the various design elements for Quince, we’d both agreed that we wanted to remove the barriers from the dining experience and share the sights, sounds, and smells of the kitchen with guests and allow every table a front-row view into the steps that went into creating each dish.

  “That it does, Rose.” Logan’s voice carried through the space, as deep and commanding as it’d once been on the football field.

  Dressed in one of his many expertly tailored suits, he personified everything GQ stood for. Broad shoulders stretched the boundaries of dark gray Armani, and a starched white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, gave a glimpse of his summer tan. My heartbeat sped up as I envisioned the two of us alone together in the dark later, his mouth and hands all over me while I peeled all that fabric off his body.

  “But really the focus is all about wood and fire,” he continued.

  “Because fire is the soul of the restaurant,” Missy said in her familiar too-loud tone that echoed off the walls. “Gwen’s explained the concept to us. Multiple times.”

  I was glad she’d decided to come out tonight. In the months after she’d finally told Dan she didn’t want children—ever—and the resulting separation, she’d been a muted version of herself. Perhaps this evening would mark a new chapter for both of us.

  “Gwen’s been obsessed with finding vendors whose ingredients complement her vision. On weekends, she’s been dragging my ass out of bed at five a.m. and taking me to all these farms, ranches, and markets. She’s even made Dad tag along. Isn’t that right, old man?” Logan slapped Bob on the back.

  “Stonestreet, we know. It’s all you’ve talked about since hanging up your jersey,” Chris cut in, not even attempting to hide his agitation. Chris still hadn’t forgiven Logan for the way he’d announced his retirement on national television without discussing it with him first. It didn’t help that training camp had ended a couple of weeks ago without the front office settling on a quarterback for the upcoming season.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Logan said. “I just know how excited Gwen is for you all to try the dishes she’s been refining.”

  I was excited, and while I appreciated his encouragement, I also recognized how much focus had been on my goals recently. Thankfully, Logan was healing well after his two knee surgeries to repair all the damage he’d caused, and he was currently in negotiations with FOX to join their team of NFL broadcast analysts, the position granting him the opportunity to still be a part of the sport that had defined his life for so long and put his in-depth knowledge of the game to good use.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I wiped my hands on the cotton denim and leather apron, straightened my spine, and walked over to welcome the first diners at Quince.

  “There’s the chef of the hour,” Trent exclaimed, smiling as I approached.

  The group greeted me with hugs and rounds of “Congratulations!” and “What smells so wonderful?” and “The open kitchen layout is amazing.”

  As if sensing my apprehension, Logan wrapped an arm around my waist and rested a firm hand on my hip. “You’ve got this,” he whispered, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. The anxiousness inside me dissipated a fraction. He was right. I did have this. Now it was time for me to demonstrate it.

  “Would you all like to be seated?” I gestured toward the table set up near the cold-prep station, where the garde manger chef was busy plating a starter trio of garden-inspired bites—roasted carrot with brown butter and crumbled hazelnuts, escarole with figs and ricotta, and chilled daylily broth with roe and a flash-fried lobster-stuffed zucchini blossom.

  “A toast first,” Logan exclaimed, grabbing the bottle of champagne my father had sent as a gift from behind the bar.

  Popping the cork, he poured six glasses and passed them around, skipping his father—Bob had quit drinking and had begun visiting a therapist to work through his unresolved grief over Jane’s death. One of the many positive things that’d resulted from Logan’s retirement, the biggest being that the two of them had been able to reconnect as father and son without the pressures of football driving a wedge between them.

  Logan cleared his throat and squeezed me tighter against him. “Gwen, we’re so proud of what you’ve accomplished with Quince thus
far. I know you’ve been avoiding the buzz surrounding the opening, but I had to share that Food & Wine magazine in the issue released today named Quince as one of the most anticipated restaurants of the year and you as one of the hottest chefs to watch.” He paused, peering down at me, and the intensity of his gaze sent warmth racing through my body. “But most important, we’re so proud of you for chasing after your dreams and taking the culinary world by storm. This is merely the beginning of your journey.” Logan looked up at the group and raised his flute. “To blazing new trails and endless possibilities.”

  “To endless possibilities.” Everyone clinked glasses and sipped their champagne.

  At the magnitude of his words, nervousness fluttered in my stomach again. Not out of fear that I was on the wrong path or that I would fail, but because it meant that this was real. That all of this had happened because I’d finally gathered the courage to try.

  And as Logan leaned down to kiss me, the sound of laughter and happy conversation swirling around us, I was reminded that not having a road map was part of the thrill of the future. That with each new adventure and stumble and challenge, Logan and I would figure it out together. We’d always catch each other.

  Jane’s Classic Lasagna Recipe

  * * *

  Total: 2 hours

  Yield: 8 servings

  Level: Easy

  NOODLES

  2 pounds dried lasagna noodles

  Extra-virgin olive oil

  BOLOGNESE SAUCE

  11/2 pounds ground beef

  11/2 pounds ground Italian sausage

  1 medium onion, roughly chopped

  4 cloves garlic, peeled