by S. M. West
“Paige?” he whispers. I nod, taking a deep breath of my own.
“Coming,” I call out and quickly descend, hastily straightening my hair and double-checking that my clothes aren’t askew.
I round the corner, and both Paige and Pete stand close to the doorway, talking. They stop and look to me, then at Sam as he comes down behind me. Great, this doesn’t look fishy at all.
Taking a step toward them and deliberately away from Sam, I rack my brain for a plausible reason for why we would have been upstairs that doesn’t involve what we were actually doing. A transient and stupid thought runs through my mind—I could introduce him as a client. My office is upstairs, it would make sense, but just as quickly I dismiss the absurdity of the lie because they both know I don’t have clients to my home. That’s why I rent office space on Bloor Street, so my clients can meet me there.
“Hey,” I say, hoping I sound natural and relaxed, rather than as freaked out as I feel.
With a quick smile, I prepare to introduce Sam, but Paige beats me to the punch. “You’re that chef,” she claims excitedly.
Pete and I glance at Sam, confused. How does my teenage daughter know who Sam is? Sam nods, smiling sheepishly.
“What?” I ask, hands on my hips, looking expectantly at Sam, then Paige, impatient for someone to tell me what the hell they’re talking about.
“He’s on the Chef’s Network, the show about the restaurant he owns, something to do with cabbage—what’s it called again?” Paige asks. Before Sam can speak, she answers her own question. “Mon Petit Chou, that’s it. My little cabbage, right?”
“Yup, that’s it,” Sam offers no further explanation.
Cabbage? I should know what that means, but I’m too focused on not knowing something so big about him. “You have a TV show?”
“Had. I decided not to renew for a fourth season.”
“You had a TV show? Why didn’t I know that?”
Pete’s eyes on us are hot and uncomfortable as he watches our odd and enlightening exchange.
“I thought you knew.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You mentioned Googling me so I figured you knew about the show.”
“Well, I didn’t. I was joking about your flock of women. I figured there’d be a page or three thousand dedicated to Chef Beaulieu.”
Sam emits a hearty laugh and Paige snickers like she knows what’s going on when she has no clue. Pete still stares, his face impassive but interested.
“My flock of women?”
“Have you looked in the mirror?” I lob at him, my tone clipped, now feeling irritated more than anything else.
I’m not sure if it’s the knowledge that he is a celebrity that bothers me or the fact that my daughter knew and I didn’t—or maybe it’s none of that and it’s because I’m not only old and out of it, but also stupid, and now I have my ex-husband and temperamental daughter watching us like we’re the hottest show on HBO.
Sam’s grin disappears, his face still mellow and now tender as he stands taller. With two short strides, he’s at my side. His arm slips around my waist, drawing me into his side.
Leaning down, he whispers so low that I’m the only one able to hear, “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re alone. You’re the only woman I want flocking to me.” His lips kiss behind my ear, feather light, fleeting.
Cabbage.
His tattoo.
I so want to know what it all means.
“Ewww,” Paige squawks, stomping past us into the house. Pete growls.
Sam instantly steps back, muttering an apology as both Pete and I call to Paige, but she’s gone, thumping up the stairs. Damn teenage daughters—everything is drama.
“Liv.” Pete’s tone is stern. “May I have a word with you?” He flicks his hand over his shoulder toward the front yard. It’s not a question, even though he phrases it as one.
Shit, I am so not in the mood for this, for Pete and his lecture—not now. Nodding, I briefly peer at Sam, who looks gravely contrite as he mouths sorry.
Outside on my walkway, Pete unexpectedly pivots to face me. His hands clamp down on my shoulders, halting my potential crash into him.
“Liv, what the hell?”
“Excuse me?” I rear back, shaking off his embrace.
“Who is that kid?” he spits out, obviously having already come to his own conclusion.
“Pete, it’s none of your business. I don’t owe you an explanation, but Sam is a friend.”
“A friend? Since when do your friends make inappropriate PDA in front of your husband and daughter?” His anger is evident in his furious eyes, clenched hands, and impenetrable posture.
“Ex-husband. You keep forgetting that part. Pete, I need you to leave. Now.”
With one step toward me, his eyes narrow and drop to my lips. Familiar lust clouds his gaze and his breath quickens. So help me, if he tries to kiss me, he’ll lose his balls. What the hell is it with men feeling the need to go all Neanderthal and stake a claim on a woman even if she is no longer theirs? Fisting my hands, I widen my stance.
“Liv, don’t do this. Forget this nonsense, I don’t fucking care what a piece of paper says, you’ll always be my wife. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t care what’s happened or who’ve you’ve been with, I want you back.” His tone is heavy and exacting.
“Pete, stop. We’ve been through this before. We’re over,” I declare harshly.
“I’m not giving up. I will get you back,” he vows.
Twirling on my heels, I hurry to the front door, wanting to get as far away as possible. We’ve done this dance way too many times for my liking. No movement of retreat sounds from behind me, but I’m not scared of Pete. He won’t hurt me—at least not physically. I only wish he’d leave.
If I weren’t focused on getting back to Paige, I’d laugh at Pete being ticked about Sam, like he has a right to give a damn. He never gave a rat’s ass when we were married. He never spent time with me, just us. When the kids were young, during the rare moments when we had time to ourselves, he’d be elsewhere. I never felt considered or important then, so it’s hilarious the way he’s going on now.
“Liv,” he calls. I halt in my tracks, but refuse to turn around. “What about Paige?” At the mention of her name, I do twist to face him. Pete is a caring and loving parent, his concern for his children genuine.
“I’ll talk to her.” It’s all I have, all I can do, but it’s not much. Pete knows what Paige and I have been going through and he’s been nothing but supportive. Other men may have used this rough patch with Paige to drive a bigger wedge between us or to tear me down, but he’s been my biggest advocate.
With a jagged exhale, he nods in understanding. His lips stretch into a weak, strained smile and he thrusts his hands into his pockets. With defeat clearly defined on his face, he turns his back to me and leaves.
Sam
“Hey, I like it.” Paige laughs, popping another artichoke in her mouth. Olivia silently observes us from the kitchen doorway, pleasantly amazed, a small smile on her face.
“Hey, what are you guys doing?” She saunters in and perches beside Paige, playfully hip-checking her in the process. Paige smiles, continuing to chop the black olives.
“We’re preparing the toppings for the pizza,” I say, handing her a small cutting board and a bulb of garlic. “Would you please chop this? Or we could pop them in the oven whole and add them after.”
“Pizza?” she asks. “I don’t have any pizza crust.”
“Mom,” Paige whines, rolling her eyes. “We have Sam—he made it,” she says with exasperation, stating the no-brainer her mother clearly missed.
Olivia’s eyes widen, searching my face for confirmation. Nodding, I point to the bowl with the dough in it and the damp tea towel over it. Paige kindly took out the flour and other ingredients for me to make the dough.
While Olivia was outside with her ex, I ventured to Paige’s room and coaxed her out of seclusion and her
indignant mood. I was prepared to explain and answer her questions if she asked, but she didn’t. Instead, she openly talked to me about my show and how she likes to cook with her mom, then we headed down to start dinner.
The front door slams with a loud bang that vibrates right through to the kitchen. It’s followed by a murmured curse. “Drew?” Olivia calls.
Drew steps into the kitchen, scanning the domestic scene before him. Even barely knowing him, I can tell he’s pissed—his knitted brow, tight lips, and one hand gripping his hair are dead giveaways.
“Hey Drew, is everything okay?” Olivia asks.
“Why didn’t you tell me Dad was going to be here?” His tone is sharp, each word released like he’s spitting nails.
“He dropped Paige off. She wanted to see you,” Olivia responds in a pointed yet calm tone.
“Next time tell me so I can be sure to not be here.”
“He’s your father.” It’s all she says, her gaze holding disappointment at his manner.
They silently observe each other. Paige stops grating the cheese, now keenly interested in the deadly silence brewing between her mother and brother. After a few beats, Drew’s shoulder’s sag.
“Sorry,” he says on a resigned breath. Striding to his mom, he hugs and kisses her, then ruffles his sister’s hair. “Paiges.” He smiles with a chin tip to me before going to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. “So what are we having and how can I help?”
“We’re making pizzas, although I’m asking Sam to choose my toppings,” Paige informs him, handing him an onion and a knife.
Quirking his eyebrow, Drew studies his sister. “And why can’t you pick your own?”
“Yes, why can’t you choose your own?” Olivia echoes. They’re both curiously assessing Paige.
With a flip of her hair and an eye roll—which I’ve quickly learned, in all of two hours, is quintessential Paige—she answers like they’re developmentally challenged, “Because he’s a chef. His choices are killin’ it. I just tried an artichoke and I loved it.”
My smile grows at her praise. Coming from the youngest in the crowd and the toughest critic, I’m going to take the compliment and bask in it. Olivia also smiles and chuckles, nodding in agreement with her daughter’s logic.
“You’re a chef?” Drew asks, wiping the tears on his cheeks, which are there thanks to the onion.
“Yeah,” I reply, lifting the towel to check the dough.
“Cool.” Drew scrapes the onion into a small glass bowl, then picks up the roll of goat cheese to begin his next task.
The four of us finish the prep while chatting about music, TV, and movies, each of us jokingly taking pot shots whenever someone claims a lame or just plain embarrassing song, musician, or show. Occasionally, Olivia will stop her chore to focus on the three of us, her children and me, laughing and trading stories. She’s obviously in awe of the whole thing.
Once the dough’s ready, we make our pizzas. It’s funny when both Paige and Drew choose the exact toppings as me; Paige can’t resist calling her brother out on it. Then another round of trash talk ensues.
While eating, Drew’s phone, perched on the table between Paige and himself, buzzes with an incoming text. His sister glances down. “Laura’s texting you? Is that a thing?” Drew snatches the phone, glaring at his sister. “I’m only asking because I thought you weren’t interested.”
“We’re just friends. I can’t help it if she wants some of this hotness. The ladies love me.”
“Stop. I’m trying to eat. Hashtag get over yourself.” Paige snorts with an eye roll.
Olivia and I laugh. Her kids are funny and easygoing, both willing to make fun of not only each other, but themselves. After we’ve cleaned up our meal, we head out to lounge in the backyard with tiki torch citronella candles burning. The night is cool and quiet.
Gathering around the small makeshift fire pit, we roast marshmallows and continue to get to know each other. Not long after, Paige bails when her best friend, Marci, arrives, then Drew begs off for bed.
Now that we are alone, I take the first opportunity I’ve had all night to say something. I start, “About earlier tonight, I totally goofed and I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It seems to have worked out. I have no clue what you said to Paige, but you seem to be her new BFF. We need to be careful.” Across the flickering flames, Olivia gazes at me, her expression shifting from neutral to a cute grin on her pretty face.
“What’s got you smiling?”
“You,” she says with a smile to her voice. “You’re good with them.”
“Nah, they’re easy to get along with.” She nods with a shiver, wrapping her arms around herself. Joining her on the small sofa, I drape my arm around her, bringing her into my side, finally holding her, something I’ve wanted to do all night.
She visibly stiffens and her hands push lightly against my chest, preventing us from getting closer. “Sam, the kids.”
Trying to not take it personally, I inhale deeply. This is a whole new side to Olivia that I’ve never seen before. She’s a protective mama bear and I understand the need to watch what we do around her kids. But I can’t fight the feeling that this is more than concern for her kids, like perhaps she’s using her kids as an excuse to keep me at a distance.
“They’re inside. It’s fine,” I assure her, deliberately pushing at my concern.
“Sam, we can’t. I haven’t said anything to either of them about you and I’m sure they have questions.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they do, but they seem fine with us. They’re cool kids and if they had any pressing questions, don’t you think they’d have asked?”
Sighing, she pulls out of my embrace and stands. With her arms tucked around her middle, she peers down into the fire, silhouetting her side profile. “Maybe, but I owe it to them to say something before anything happens in their house,” she says in a monotone voice. “I think you should leave.”
“Okay.” I abruptly stand and grab the marshmallows, needing some distance.
Without waiting for anything further from her, I head to the back door, disappointment and sadness seeping through my thoughts. I will respect her wishes; she’s a mom and knows what’s best for her kids. I’m not here to make things harder for her, but it also feels a lot like she’s keeping me at arm’s length, and I don’t understand why.
Sliding the glass door open, I turn to see her still staring, mesmerized, into the glowing pit. I don’t want to leave things like this. I’m here for almost the whole week and I’m not even sure if she’s going to want to see me again before I leave.
In a lame attempt at making sure I see her again, I say, “Ah, I’m judging a food competition this weekend at the Metro Convention Center. It’s a fundraiser and it’s being televised. Would you like tickets for you and the kids?”
“Hells yeah,” Paige exclaims from behind me. Standing in the doorway, her long brown curls are in a riotous topknot on her head. Her friend Marci stands beside her with a goofy grin on her face, looking at me like I hung the moon.
Chuckling, I nod. “Okay then, I’ll leave the tickets with your mom.”
“Thanks Sam.” Paige beams, swinging one arm loosely around my shoulder in a sort of hug. “Mom, is it okay if I sleep at Marci’s tonight? Her dad will come get us in about an hour.”
“Sure sweetie.”
The two girls disappear into the house, gabbing and giggling. A light laughter sounds at my back as Olivia says, “Thank you.”
Peering over my shoulder, she’s coming up the stairs with the corners of her mouth turned up. “It was nothing. Are you going to come too?”
I gaze into the dark depths of her eyes. At her nod, I release my pent-up breath and respond with a small smile of my own.
Leading the way inside, I place the food on the counter and twirl to pull her into my arms. I want her close and am willing to risk it for one more quick embrace. “Sam,” she says, articulating my name like it’s a bad word. A frown mars her p
retty face.
Stepping back, she puts herself out of my reach. Her sudden shuttered move jars me. I made it worse. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I curtly nod. My cell phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket; it’s Alec.
“Hello. What’s wrong?” I ask, forgetting all pleasantries, the awkward moment with Olivia no longer my primary concern. My heart beats a mile a minute as my chest tightens, thinking the worst.
“Sam, I’m really sorry to ask this, but I’m in a bind. Bas, the dumb fool, didn’t tell me his chemo appointment got rescheduled. It’s tomorrow. I just found out and I can’t take him. Tomorrow is the completion of the Mount Royal project. If it were anything else I’d drop it, but if I don’t do this, they could screw me. I’d ask Marie-Claire, but she’s not back ‘til Monday.”
“Of course, I’ll be there. I want to be there. What time?” My voice is stronger, more reassuring now that it’s not bad news. It’s not great, but it’s better than what I first thought. My heart rate slows and my mind clears.
“At noon.”
“Okay, I’ll catch the first flight out.”
“Thank you, Sam. If he’d only told me, I could have moved things around. I’m so angry with him right now. He wants to be brave and do this on his own, thinks he’s sparing us the heartache, but he’s not. I wish he wouldn’t fight me on this. If I hadn’t heard the hospital’s reminder message, I wouldn’t have even known. I asked him how he thought he’d be able to leave on his own, against hospital policy. He said he was going to take a cab, and would like to see them stop him. Ha! I would have liked to have seen that.” His voice is angry, but also small and dejected.
I know how he feels. It’s one thing to fight alongside Bas, to say fuck cancer, and even that’s hell because there’s only so much you can do. It’s another kind of hell entirely, a kind that’s a whole lot deeper and darker when the one you love and so desperately want to be there for won’t let you in. Try as you might, you don’t want to make this about you, but you’ve never felt more helpless in your life.
I think he’s being stubborn and shutting us out because of his own fear of dying and showing weakness. He’s a strong, proud man, and while he’s never been one to shy away from admitting his faults and showing his feelings, I think he wants to be remembered for who he was, not how he died. I respect that, but also wish he’d let us be there for him.