That was so good. She closed her eyes to concentrate on it.
When she swallowed, a thumb touched her lower lip gently, and then another slice of peach nudged her lips. She parted them, her eyes still closed, sucking the peach inside her mouth, savoring it. Sweet and sunshine and a promise of happiness.
He still loved her then. Loved her, the woman who didn’t always do what he wanted, who sometimes just needed fruit and a kiss. Opening her eyes, she made a little kissing motion with her lips, and he leaned forward. When his lips touched hers, the scents on him swirled around her and her stomach swirled with them. Uh-oh.
Oh, crap. If she couldn’t even handle the scents on him from the restaurant, that was going to be bad.
He leaned back, and she drew a quick breath of jasmine and stone. Scents she could handle.
“Summer.” Black eyes watched her with that utter intensity of his. “What are you doing here?”
“I just started feeling a little sick,” she said hastily. I haven’t been sitting here for an hour just so I can almost hear you talk or anything.
His voice was so perfectly suited to the darkness of her closed lids. “Why didn’t you come inside?”
“I tried.” There was no good way to tell him this. “The scents got to be a bit much for me.” She peeked at him.
Shock ran across his face. “You can’t come into the restaurant? That’s—” Panic flashed in his eyes, and then he ran a hand through his hair and gave his head a shake, tightening control back over his face. “That’s just a fluke, right? Just today?”
“I don’t know.” She gazed at the peach slices still in his hand. Did she dare eat another one? Those two had been so good. But the scents on him had kicked her stomach up again, and so far, that never seemed to end well for her. “It seems to be getting worse.”
“How long does morning sickness last?”
“On the web, it said a little bit past the first trimester. But in the forums, a lot of women said theirs had lasted much longer than that, sometimes even the whole pregnancy.”
“In the forums?”
She took another peach and drew it into her mouth, concentrating on its sweet sunshine rather than the words it stopped her from saying: I don’t have anyone else to ask, Luc.
Yes, I’m terrible at making friends. You’re the only person on this continent who likes me. You have a place, but my only place is through you.
And I’m losing even that. Because I can’t control my damned body.
Because I want to cling.
Maybe she was just weak. Maybe a stronger woman would master morning sickness. If she knew any strong women here, she could ask them.
“The guys really miss you when you don’t come.” Luc’s darkest, quietest voice. The one she always felt she could curl up safe in. The one that always made her feel as if she, everything about her, was entirely okay. Loved by him.
She looked up, blinking, almost in tears.
“My staff.” He gestured back to the back door of the restaurant. “Especially the apprentices. They love showing off for you when you come in. You know they love you.”
Her face softened. They did seem to, yes. But if she walked into that restaurant, she would have to eat whatever they offered her to make them happy, just as she had to do with Luc. Her stomach roiled just at the thought.
“They’ve never met anyone as patient and gentle and giving in their whole lives.” Dark eyes watched her intently. “That’s not common, Summer, to take a brain as bright as yours and be willing to sit down and patiently coach people how to read, while you smile, and praise, and make them feel as if they’re the ones doing something special for you.”
“They are,” Summer said, surprised. How to explain? “They make me feel—whole.” Right. A good, happy person. A person who could be a good mother, who could just be a good part of this world. “I’ll meet them at the playground by the pétanque courts.” A flat area at the top of the town, where old men played boules and the wind swept the air clean of all scents but pine and stone and a hint of sea. “We can work on their lessons there.”
He nodded and looked down a moment. The slant of sun that made its way into the alley gleamed off his black hair, filling it paradoxically with light. “I miss you, too,” he told the cobblestones. He caught himself immediately. “But don’t worry about that. I can manage for a few weeks. I’m not a—baby.” His eyes flicked to her stomach and then lingered there. He stretched out a hand to caress her flat belly just lightly.
Summer rested her head against the wall and watched him, while all his focus was on her belly.
Aww. Hey. Just for a second there, his controlled face was so wondering and exposed. His long, thick lashes were so black against his gold cheeks, his hand so warm against her belly. Cup more firmly, Luc. Take possession. Say, This baby is mine. “Are you happy about the baby, Luc?” she asked softly.
His gaze flicked back to hers, as if she had caught him in some kind of criminal act. “Of course,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.
She drew a breath, pulling her knees up higher until his hand was locked between her thighs and her belly. Now the pressure of his hand was firm, but only because she had trapped it. He’s lying!
Oh, God.
She didn’t even have him with her for this pregnancy. She was making a baby, and she was all alone.
All alone. Her worst nightmare.
That loneliness she had risked for him. Because his love was supposed to be enough to keep her safe from it.
“Have you eaten anything else today?” he asked.
She shrugged uncomfortably, still focused on that lie. He’s not happy? He’s not happy.
“You can’t spend the next six weeks or more eating only peaches!” he snapped, his face hardening.
Peaches sounded like a lot more nourishment than she’d managed so far today. God, she hated it when people tried to tell her what she could or couldn’t eat. Her whole being revolted.
Fuck you for not being happy, Luc. You begged me for this. And now it’s happening in my body.
“If I can even keep this down,” she managed.
That slashing, beautiful frown. He used to frown a lot at her. Look her over with cool dismissive eyes as if she was nothing. “Summer, how can you not keep a peach down? It’s light and fresh and—“
She rolled over onto her knees suddenly, gagging. It wrenched her body, and she hated it. God, she hated it. She hated most that it had to happen in front of Luc, and she sagged afterward, with her forehead pressed against the stone, not looking at him. “Like that, I guess,” she muttered, trying again not to cry.
A heavy, warm hand stroked her back. “Summer. This is insane.”
“I asked the doctor.” Scheduled an appointment, sat there in the waiting room, explained her problem while the doctor looked at her as if she was an idiot. You’re pregnant. That’s what pregnancy is like. You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t last six months, like it did me. “She said it was normal.”
His eyes crinkled. “You went to see the doctor again?”
Well, yes. At least it was someone to talk to.
“You didn’t even tell me you’d gone.” Luc stared at her.
She shrugged. When would I? Either you’re working or I’m throwing up. Yeah, it’s not exactly the cozy picture of family life I imagined.
Well…to be truthful, it was the one she had imagined in her dark moments, when all she could see was herself repeating the cycle her parents had started in her. But it wasn’t the one she imagined when she believed in herself and Luc and had hope.
Luc watched her for a moment, frowning. “Did she say anything that would help?”
Summer shrugged again. His hand rode her shoulder muscles with the movement, and her loneliness eased. “She said different women had different little tricks, but there wasn’t any magic cure. She can give me medicine if it gets really impossible, but I’m not sure I know what impossible is. I think most women just get throu
gh this.” Longing rose in her again for female voices swapping stories, so that she would know. Know what it was like, know how they did it, know when she was supposed to see a doctor or just tough it up.
Luc made a face. “Could medicine hurt the baby?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m not taking it.”
Heavy petting, up and down her back, easing the nausea more than any other thing could. “Do you think you would like to come sit on the restaurant terrace? We could take you through the front where the smells aren’t so strong. Or do you want me to walk you home?”
She did want to sit on the restaurant terrace. Even if it wouldn’t be anywhere near him really, while he worked, it seemed more a part of things. So much better than being in their home by herself, looking at internet forums on pregnancy and trying to get through the day’s nausea. But getting to that terrace seemed so hard. She rolled back over into a sitting position, slumping. “I kind of like it right here,” she whispered.
“Summer.” Luc’s face twisted in frustrated distress.
“I just wish you’d talk more loudly,” she muttered. “When you’re working in there.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He stared at her a moment, black eyes trying to see into her soul. She offered him a weak smile, not her best effort, but the bouts of nausea didn’t leave her with much inside her, not even smiles. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m not the first woman to survive pregnancy, you know. I’ll manage.”
“Right.” He crouched, frowning at her. “Right.”
“I will, Luc. I’ll manage on my own.” You’re the only person this baby can count on, Summer. You’ve got to be strong.
And her baby needed a swing.
***
Or he would manage for her, Luc thought, as he went back to the kitchens. Just to be on the safe side. At least he knew he could always count on himself.
Limes, he noted on a sheet of paper pinned to the corkboard near his work station. Peaches. Raspberries. Mangoes?? On the computer in his office, which was set to favor American sites because Summer was its primary user these days, he searched tips for controlling nausea. Crackers, all right. Ice pops, well, he was doing that. The mother-to-be could try forcing herself to swallow small bites of protein at regular intervals all morning, for which they recommended…peanut butter?
Surely not. He was trying to avoid foods that made someone feel sick. That was what he got for checking an American site.
Although…Summer was American. And she’d wanted those American pickles.
Peanut butter, though. He took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling before he closed his eyes very tightly and then called Sylvain.
“I need Cade.”
A pause on the other end of the phone. Then that amused, chocolate voice: “Well, that’s unfortunate for you, because you can’t have her.”
“I just need her to get me some peanut butter from that American store of hers. In case there’s some kind they like from their childhood. Probably some Corey subsidiary produces some, right?”
“Luc.” Sylvain sounded horrified. “You can’t do that to your wife. She probably left that benighted country just so she could escape peanut butter. I mean, why else would she have come?” Teasing glowed rich and dark under his words, as if even Sylvain’s humor had this base of melted, gleaming chocolate.
“For me,” Luc said tensely.
Sylvain sighed. “You know, Luc, sometimes your sense of humor—“
Yes, he had caught the fact that Sylvain was joking, he just didn’t find it that funny. It would have been far less responsibility on his shoulders, when he found his wife sitting alone and sick in a damn alley behind his restaurant, if Summer had come to France for any other reason besides or even in addition to him. It would have given him something to fall back on if he failed. Look, I know things seem bad right now, but at least you’ve escaped peanut butter!
Yeah, that was going to work, all right.
A flashing vision of his old sous-chef Patrick getting hold of that peanut butter hope and wickedly twitting Luc with it until Luc had to laugh, until it became genuinely funny, reducing all his gut-deep panic into something silly and manageable. But Patrick was taking courses in math and physics to prepare for engineering while he simultaneously helped cover the transition at the Leucé, a schedule even more insane than Luc’s, so it wasn’t as if Luc could call on him. And after that he would be going to California. So Luc really couldn’t call on him. Couldn’t let himself need a friend at all. The best things in my life always leave me.
A deep breath. “This website I found says sometimes it helps with morning sickness. It’s something about the protein.”
A moment’s blank silence. “Well, couldn’t you give her something better? Grind up some hazelnuts, or some almonds, make a nice little praliné base—do you need me to come down there and show you how to do this stuff?” Again the humor.
But Luc stopped, standing still on the restaurant terrace looking out to sea. Because—no, obviously. And yet, for some reason, he didn’t want to say that no. And he had no idea why he should want Sylvain coming down to interfere in his kitchens with that arrogance of his, acting as if he’d invented chocolate personally and was the only person in the world who could properly handle anything to do with it.
“I’m going to try some other things, too. The peanut butter is extra. In case she only likes a certain brand from her childhood or—look, can you just ask Cade?”
“Sure,” Sylvain said, amused. “You know, all joking aside, you could actually call her directly. I’m a tiny bit more secure than certain people to whom I might be speaking.”
Luc looked at his phone rather blankly. Calling another chef’s wife directly had never occurred to him as a possible means of communication before. How would he feel if Sylvain called Summer?
Fairly indifferent, he realized on a blink of surprise. For all her past filled with boyfriends, he couldn’t even imagine Summer leaving him for another man.
That wouldn’t be why she left him.
Tension recoiled, tight and deep. Why had his own mother left him? Life just too tough, and she’d preferred to ditch him and his father for the warmth and happiness she found back in her island home? She’d certainly found maternity too much to handle.
Insane Me, please, please, please leave me alone.
I need to be sane for this. I’ve got to be. I’m going to be a father.
And I’m still trying to figure out how to be a husband.
“So when are you coming to visit?” he asked Sylvain abruptly. “June in Provence. It’s a nice time to be down here.”
A tiny silence on the other end. They’d been on teams for contests representing France, they’d met in professional associations and worked on charity benefits together. But chefs rarely had time to hang out with other chefs over drinks, and they hadn’t ever even had dinner at one another’s homes until Cade had dragged Luc and Summer over there in her initial matchmaking attempts. So from there to acting as if a visit to Provence to see them was normal and expected was a bit of a leap.
“Lonely?” Sylvain asked, voice still chocolate-easy but sympathetic. “It’s a switch from Paris, isn’t it?”
Luc rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s for Summer. I think she needs, you know, female friends, right now.”
Another little silence, impossible to interpret. “Well, let’s see—lavender in bloom, the Mediterranean right there at your doorstep, and a pregnant cousin. I’m pretty sure Cade would be happy for us to take a trip. You’re not inviting Dom and Jaime, too, I hope?”
For some reason, out of the blue, Luc started to smile, and that one gesture made all the tension in him ease. “You know you love him.”
“I do not, merde.” A thumping noise on the other end of the connection, possibly Sylvain’s head against something.
Luc’s smile grew until it almost felt—relaxed. Enjoying himself. “It will be fun.�
�
Sylvain’s groan as he hung up was so expressive that Luc was actually grinning as he left his office. Things were starting to heat up a little as they got closer to lunch hour, Nico’s side swinging into full battle mode first, Luc’s in a half hour delay after. He poked his head in on Nico. “Good peach,” he murmured.
In under half an hour, standing at this spot between the main and pastry kitchens would be like standing between two battle zones, the insane clash of pans and flash of knives and flame on Nico’s side, and the more delicate, more intense, equally brutal work on Luc’s side, with its own clashes of pans and plenty of flaming torches, smoking liquid nitrogen, boiling caramel and oil. Right now, things were practically calm in comparison. Of course, it was all calm in comparison to a luxury hotel kitchen with a hundred cooks on staff. Over all, Luc liked this smaller kingdom, but sometimes his leftover adrenaline didn’t know what to do with itself.
Nico, his knife blurring through potatoes as fast as a hummingbird’s wing, gave him a quick, pleased smile, without even coming close to cutting his own fingers off or slowing his rhythm. “Yeah?”
“Summer liked it.”
“Aww.” Nico beamed. “Did I help feed the little baby? Damn. Makes a man feel good about himself, doesn’t it?”
It would, yes. If Luc ever managed it. “I don’t suppose you have any peanuts over here?”
Nico looked at him blankly. “I thought you said West African dishes didn’t go with our style.”
Maybe Sylvain was right, and he should make a hazelnut butter instead. Surely hazelnuts would be a much better flavor, even to a pregnant woman.
“We can order some,” Nico said. “Especially if you’ll quit being so damn unadventurous about the West African stuff. But it will probably take a few days. They’re not exactly common.”
Or an almond butter. That would definitely be better than peanut butter. “Those peaches…where did you get them?”
Wait, unadventurous? Him? There was a huge difference between being too elegant for peanuts and being unadventurous. He gave Nico one of his cooler looks, the kind that made pretty nearly everybody feel for their necks in this weird gesture, as if a mere look had cut off their heads.
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