Faye shook her head. “I’m going to be bold and tell you there’s no point in beating yourself up over that. You put your trust in someone and something, and sometimes . . . well, things happen we can’t possibly see coming. You didn’t know what he was. Even your parents were fooled.”
“Deacon wasn’t.”
“Your brother is protective of you, maybe more so than even your parents.”
“I should have listened to him.”
“Aw, honey, the heart hears what it wants to hear.” Faye pulled away and reached for the tissue box on the TV console. She handed a tissue to Georgie. “It’s a tragic thing. It truly is. But you did the right thing coming here. We’re happy to have you, and don’t you think otherwise. Understand?”
Georgie blew her nose and nodded.
But the accident had been her fault, in a way. If she hadn’t broken things off with Ian that night, if she’d been more careful with the timing or figured out a way to let him down easier . . . But nothing had ever been easy with Ian Hudson. He was charming to his hot core. And his temper, she’d discovered too late, was volcanic. She didn’t even remember getting into the car or his speed or—
All she remembered was waking up and knowing she couldn’t be with him anymore. A decision she should have made a lot sooner. And then she’d learned that Ian had died in the crash.
So much time had passed, and still the guilt and the questions haunted her. She’d finally stood up for herself, for her mangled heart, and the result had left her numb and directionless. And despite her parents’ worry, despite the comfort she’d felt at home, she’d left. She’d come here to Camano Island to find direction. To remember. And maybe to feel again.
She hoped to be able to feel again. And that had to count for something.
Later that evening, after the movie, after Uncle Dar had come home from work on the mainland, after dinner had been made and eaten and cleaned up, after Aunt Tru had been tucked in on the couch to watch a reality show and Faye and Dar had retired to their bedroom, Georgie pressed her fingertips against the dull pain above her eye. Though her headaches had become less frequent, they weren’t any less painful, and the medicine only helped a little bit. She lay back on her pillow and remembered the gull.
She hadn’t married Ian. She’d flown away. But the guilt over Ian’s death pressed on her like a boulder, as it did every night.
She curled up in a tight ball, trying again to pinpoint when things had changed in their relationship. She tried to determine if the change had been over days or months and tried to remember why she’d fallen so hard for him so fast. She wished she’d succeeded in changing him. No. She wished she’d found a way to be who he wanted her to be.
No. That is wrong.
She wished she could figure out how to be her again. That was all that mattered now.
* * *
Dishes clattered along with called-out orders and sizzling food. The hum of chatting dinner patrons and low background music rose and fell as the kitchen door opened and closed with the coming and going of waitresses and waiters. Georgiana hurried to arrange the salads and garnishes, squirting balsamic vinaigrette in a swirl and dots. “Three.” A ruddy-skinned, college-age boy with a shock of red hair and a determined look hurried to collect the plates on a tray.
“I need a tuna on three. And I need blue cheese crumbles on the side,” he said.
Georgie spooned the cheese into a small ceramic cup and placed it on the salad plate.
The boy left with the salads.
Georgie turned. “Tuna with the sword and prawns on three.”
The chef nodded. She detected a sigh and hoped she wasn’t the cause of frustration.
Peter & Andrew’s Fishery had been her place of employment for three days now, and she was treading water to keep up with the pace of the popular restaurant. She’d never worked in the food service business, but she needed this job. It was on the island, minutes from her aunts’ house, and that meant she didn’t have to venture out into the sea of people or the traffic on the mainland. Job opportunities on the island were pretty scarce. Besides, she’d always enjoyed eating food. She’d watched cooking shows and wasn’t shy about trying new things. Even so, she really only felt confident preparing simple things, like cookies and scrambled eggs. The menu at Peter & Andrew’s was definitely on a different level, but she’d make this work.
Her head hurt.
She pulled the next ticket off the cable and began another set of salads. As expediter, she provided a buffer between the dining room and the kitchen. The position allowed her distance from both customers and staff. She worked mostly with the head chef, Reuben Blanchard, who had hired her to keep traffic organized and pleasant and to relieve the sous-chef of the smaller tasks of carrot rosettes, shaved chocolate, and aioli.
Reuben was an older man and had been owner and chef at Peter & Andrew’s for a little over a decade. He was professional and commanding in a quiet sort of way. His control of the kitchen eased Georgie’s nerves, and his outward respect for the staff earned what trust she could offer him. He was a large man with thick arms, and she sensed a sort of comfort around him that she liked. She didn’t read too much into it; she only knew her tension in the kitchen eased a little when Reuben arrived and took over.
She couldn’t say the same about the sous-chef.
“Jace, grab these rangoons when they’re done, will you?” Reuben asked. “And get on that tuna for three; the sword is almost done. I’ve got to see to the prime.” Reuben wiped his hands on a bleach-water towel, called out, “Seven,” and moved to the ovens. “Georgie, more bread.”
Georgie glanced behind her as Jace stepped past her. She stiffened as his arm grazed her elbow, and in her haste to back away, her other elbow knocked one of the salad plates off-kilter. Her hand shot out to grab it, and she returned the plate to safety.
“Careful.” Jace continued at the fryer.
She grabbed a tray and hurried to the large walk-in refrigerator where they kept the small loaves of bread waiting to rise in the bread ovens. As she reached for the loaves, the door shut, blocking all noise but the hum of the fridge. Georgie closed her eyes and took a deep, cool breath, then let her fingers rest on the shelf in front of her.
Pull yourself together, girl.
The door handle turned, and the sudden sound of the kitchen made her jump as the door opened. She shook off her nerves and pulled down six loaves for the bread oven.
“Here you are. Jace says two key limes and a torte, quick.”
“But—” Georgie looked between Mai, a waitress just coming on shift, and the loaves of bread piled on her tray.
“Here, let me.” Mai finished tying her apron, took the loaves, and turned, holding the heavy door with her foot, and Georgie pulled the desserts from their shelf. Joanie, the pastry chef, came in early and made the desserts for the day. Georgie was continually amazed that the guessed amount was always so close.
She followed Mai out, watching Mai’s spiky black hair with blue highlights. The small tattoo on the back of her neck read “alis volat propiis,” each word underlined by stacks of small square Chinese characters. The tips of a pair of small wings peeked out just above the neckline of her black T-shirt. Time and again, Georgie’s eyes had been drawn to the tattoo, and she’d had to bite her tongue so she wouldn’t ask about it because she wasn’t sure if she should. It perplexed her, as she wasn’t one to stare at things like tattoos, and fascinated her, because the simple Latin phrase was a beacon to her.
She flies with her own wings.
She’d helped her brother Deacon study Latin for a college class. It had become a game to them, using what they’d learned whenever an opportunity presented itself. This phrase she knew.
Caleb, a station cook, brushed past her carrying a black iron pan. “Watch it.”
She lifted the desserts up high to avoid the pan of sizzling sauce—some sort of reduction. Was that the right word? She knew more about Latin than she did about cooking,
despite watching hours of Food Network during her recovery.
She caught up to Mai, who was shoving loaves of already rising bread dough in the oven.
“You need to keep this going, or Reuben’ll blow a gasket.”
Georgie turned to prep the desserts. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Looks like I’ve got the upper room. See ya.”
Mai left the kitchen, her wings following her. Plates of seared tuna, grilled swordfish, and battered prawns arranged next to steamed asparagus, red potatoes, and basmati were slid in Georgie’s direction. The reduction spilled over the edge of a plate, and she reached for a bleach towel. “Three,” she called and wiped the spill just as the redhead swept the order onto a tray and disappeared again. Everything was so fast here. Before she could move, the desserts were pushed toward her and someone held the whipped cream in front of her in a piping bag.
“Keep up.”
She quickly turned her head toward Jace and took the cream. She avoided him in general, but he wasn’t usually this impatient. “I’m trying,” she said, though it was really more of a whisper, and she silently chided herself for not being more resolute.
He shook his head, scowling. “You’re fine.”
Georgie pressed her lips together and garnished the desserts, then reached for the next order. Jace was about her age, she guessed. Maybe older. Maybe his dark, curly hair made him look younger than he actually was. His intense hazel eyes and full mouth might have made him attractive in that scruffy, unshaven sort of way, but he was sullen, his eyes shadowed, and everyone around him gave him space. She couldn’t help but be reminded of Ian’s temper.
As he turned from the fryers to make his way back to the gas range, Jace nearly growled. “The bread.”
Inside, she recoiled from his tone, but she wouldn’t shrink. “The timer hasn’t gone off,” she said.
Reuben had just returned to the front. “Take it easy, Jace. I remember your first week.” He turned to Georgie. “After you take out the bread, call that next order to the back and start the salads.”
She nodded, knowing the heat she felt in her face probably registered as bright splotches from her cheeks down. But Reuben’s firm, gentle voice had worked, and she calmed. The timer on the bread buzzed. She grabbed the plate-size spatula and moved to the bread oven.
“There’s a timer,” she murmured, “so I’m going to wait for the timer.” She peeked over her shoulder at Jace, and when she found him watching her, she turned back to the bread.
By the time she’d sliced several loaves, arranged them in baskets, and returned to the salads, Jace had temporarily removed himself to the office. Georgie called the next order.
“Hey, seventeen up yet?” Mai smiled, her black-framed glasses accentuating her dark eyes.
Georgie placed a small cup of butter next to a baked potato. “Nearly.”
“Hey, you okay? You’re all splotchy.”
Reuben added a plate between them. “Good to go.” He knocked on the counter and took the next order back. “A bowl of the bisque, Georgie, for fourteen.”
“It happens”—Georgie lowered her voice and fingered the ladle in the soup—“when I get flustered.” And she remembered something, like tiny particles gathering from the outer edges of her mind and becoming a solid thing. Ian had referred to them as her hot spots. She’d hated that term. It had been funny at first. A flirtation that had made her flush even more. After a while, though, it was laced with his disapproval.
“Hey,” Mai leaned over the counter and touched Georgie’s arm. “You’re doing great. Reuben wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you could handle it.”
That was true. She knew it. She’d headed up the National Honor Society’s annual Habitat for Humanity service project two years in a row because she could handle it. She’d won all-state in speech her senior year in high school because she could handle it. She’d been asked to TA a humanities class last semester at the Y because she could handle it. She’d mustered up as much of that part of her as she could for the job interview, and Reuben had seen it.
She just wished she felt like a part of those memories. The accident had given her two things: a second chance and a fractured identity. For a long time, she’d molded herself to be who Ian had wanted, and after breaking that mold, and her head, and dealing with Ian’s death, she desperately needed to find herself again.
“Rib eye and king for two, table ten,” Jace said, appearing suddenly and reading from the next order he’d pulled off the cable. He gave her an impatient look and left.
Georgie held her breath as he turned away. No, she didn’t like him.
“Cheer up, Jace,” Mai called after him. “You’re bringin’ the place down.” She shook her head, gathering up her order. “Poor guy got dumped last week.” She picked up her tray and turned to go but stepped back again. “I’ll take that soup to fourteen.”
“Thanks.” Georgie placed the soup on the tray with a basket of bread.
“And don’t be flustered. You’ll get the hang of it. This is as busy as it ever gets.” She smiled again and left.
Georgie reached for the next order, then quickly readied six salad plates as she called it out. “Fried oysters, two prime, medium, one fettuccine with scallops, one tuna, one mahimahi, and one fish-n-chips.” She held the ticket out to Reuben, who caught her eye and gave her the slightest of smiles.
“And get that bread out.” He put his hand up to stop her puzzled protest and pointed at the bread ovens just as the timer buzzed.
She folded her arms. “How do you do that?”
He grinned and went to work.
Georgie turned from the salads with the spatula and caught sight of Jace. A slight scowl turned the corners of his mouth down, and he seemed to be turning the steaks with excessive force. She turned away, not a doubt in her mind as to why someone would break up with him.
And, of course, he rides a motorcycle.
She shook her head but sighed. That wasn’t fair. Was it? Lots of people rode motorcycles.
As she placed the bread in baskets, Georgie glanced again at Jace’s scowl. So he didn’t smile. Maior risus, acrior ensis. The bigger the smile, the sharper the knife. Deacon had said that after meeting Ian, who was all smiles when it served him.
Jace paused and ran a heavy hand over his face, revealing fatigue and, for a brief moment, what looked like pain. He straightened his shoulders, wiped his hands clean, and continued working. Georgie turned back to the salads.
Chapter 2
Down on the beach, Jace watched a break in the clouds. The wind gusted off the water, and he breathed in deeply, smelling salt and sea algae and the tang of a dead fish somewhere. He’d walked down to the rocky stretch with Kit, thinking it would bring some clarity. On the way home from work a few nights ago, the idea had struck him that maybe his dad was right. He wasn’t sure he was going anywhere either. Sure, he had a place on Camano. An old rental in need of new paint, floors, and appliances, to start. The carport leaned from years of exposure to sea air and rain. Moss grew in the split beams supporting the metal roof. His car was a bike.
His job was—No, he loved his job. Reuben was rolling around the idea of retirement, which was why he’d hired the expediter to give Jace a bigger role in the kitchen. Jace wouldn’t wish Reuben out, by any means, but he was in a good position if retirement should come. Reuben would still own the place, but Jace would run it as executive chef.
He lifted his face to the sky as the cloud break moved on.
Returning to Seattle after serving his mission here had seemed ideal. He’d loved being in an area filled with so many trees, mountains, and lakes, as well as the ocean. It had been so drastically different from Boulder City, Nevada, home of Hoover Dam and a lot of crickets. By transferring to Le Cordon Bleu culinary school in Seattle—a city teeming with interesting people—he was given a chance to return to a place with good memories and great experiences. During school he’d shared an okay apartment with some ok
ay roommates. Almost immediately, he’d met Brenna at the singles ward. He’d graduated, and after a good word from Jace’s adviser, Reuben had called Jace for an interview. Within a year he’d worked his way up to sous-chef. Things couldn’t have gone more perfectly.
Kit barked, and Jace looked down to find a small piece of driftwood at his feet and the dog watching him expectantly. He picked it up and tossed it down the beach. Kit ran after it, and Jace wondered briefly if the dog would return it this time. The cool breeze kicked up, making Jace shiver.
Last fall he’d grown tired of the commute from Seattle to Camano. He was making more income, so he’d hunted down the little duplex apartment on the island. It was significantly more than his rent in Seattle, and he’d ended up making the commute to the city three to four times a week anyway to see Brenna, plus attending church with her on Sundays, but he was finished with those trips. He’d called the bishop last week just to let him know he wouldn’t be attending there anymore. That had been awkward. But he was grateful he’d chosen to call instead of show up in person on Sunday.
“I hear congratulations are in order!” the bishop had cheerfully proclaimed over the phone.
No. They weren’t. He’d tried to keep his tone light when he’d told the bishop he was free to save his congratulations for Brenna because he wasn’t the man involved. He’d tried to laugh it off to save the bishop further embarrassment, but the man was terrible at hiding his confusion.
Jace tried not to think of the murmuring that must have run through the chapel as Brenna and Brad had walked into sacrament meeting together. At least he hadn’t had to be part of that humiliating scene in person.
But as Jace had driven home in the rain a few nights ago, he’d seen the island rental he’d been so proud of for what it really was—a run-down dump far from home, surrounded by strangers. Had he loved Brenna because she was company? Because she was part of a vision? He shook his head. Every memory with her was now tainted with the question: had it been real? He’d thought it was. But put him next to Brad and his Lexus and med school and was her choice any mystery?
Kisses in the Rain Page 2