Reserved for You

by Brenda Margriet

She closed her eyes. “We can’t do this,” she whispered. “You’re going to get me fired.”

  Yesterday, when Paul asked her to bring over Fenella’s omelette, she’d almost had a heart attack. She was certain she’d been found out, that Fenella would accuse her of sabotaging the dish. She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid as to jeopardize everything over something so unimportant as a reality show.

  And now this.

  She opened her eyes, made herself meet Paul’s. “Leave me alone.” She enunciated each word deliberately, painfully. And ignored the clenching of her heart. “Just leave me alone.”

  Miriam was all that mattered right now. She couldn’t put anything ahead of caring for Miriam.

  Including her own happiness.

  Beatriz locked the door after the last lunch customer and turned to Paul. “You want bread?”

  “No, thanks, Mom. This is fine.”

  He scooped up a rigatoni noodle from the steaming bowl of soup. Chunks of chicken, dark green couve leaves, and spicy chunks of salsicha completed his mother’s special comfort meal.

  The hands on the red rooster clock above the door to the kitchen pointed at 2:30 p.m.. He had an hour before he had to head to the sound stage for the elimination show. Good news for Fenella, bad news for Magdalene. A chance to at least see Jemma even if he couldn’t talk to her.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  He put down his spoon and leaned back, the red vinyl of the booth squeaking. Beatriz sat opposite him. He could hear the banging of pots and pans as his father scrubbed up in the kitchen. Their workday was nearly done, but it was never a bad time for family to stop by for a meal.

  “Tell me again how you and Dad met.”

  Roses bloomed on his mother’s round cheeks. “Oh, Paul.” She rubbed a dishtowel over the shiny, varnished wood table. “You don’t want to hear that story.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  A smile curved her lips, brightened her eyes. “We grew up in the same village. Everyone knew everyone else. No one new came to live there, but many, many left.” Her eyes drifted over his shoulder, and he knew she didn’t see the worn floor, the starched curtains, or the empty tables. She saw low roofed cottages with walls of white plaster and green doors, heard the crash of surf on black, volcanic beaches, smelled flowers vivid with colour. “Your father was so handsome, so strong! He could carry anything, work all day without getting tired. I would walk past his family field, though it was out of my way, so I could see him.”

  Paul didn’t know if every son had as much difficulty as he did picturing his father as young, vibrant, desirable. He caught flashes of that man on the rare occasions João smiled. Most of the time he was so dour, so stern, it was an impossible flight of fancy.

  “How did you know you loved him?”

  She smoothed the towel, folded it precisely in half, in half again. “He came to me. Told me he was leaving our village, was going to Canada, a country so rich, so big, we could not imagine it.” Her blue eyes met Paul’s, alight with memories. “I said I would wait. And I did, for three years. We wrote each other every week. When he asked me to come to him, to come to his new country, I said yes.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I would have waited for him forever. I would be waiting yet, even if he had never asked.”

  He leaned forward, spooned up another mouthful of soup. Beatriz sat quietly, waiting. For him, this time.

  He wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “Her name is Jemma. Jemma Hedge.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Shannon met Jemma at the door. “She’s had a rough day,” she said without preamble. “She’s settled now, but she’s been very confused, the worst I’ve seen her.”

  Jemma kicked off her shoes in the narrow hall and sidled by Shannon. “Okay.”

  She shrugged into her coat. “There’s casserole in the oven. Try and get her to eat. She barely picked at it earlier.”

  “I will.”

  Jemma found Miriam in her bedroom, folding clothes from a laundry load Jemma had done before leaving for work that morning. She could see the wrinkles from their extended stay in the basket from across the room.

  “Hey.”

  Miriam looked up from the blouse in her hands and smiled. “Hey, yourself. How was your day?”

  “Good.” Despite the fact damn Fenella was still on the show, because Paul had kicked off Magdalene. Not that Jemma could blame him—the woman was teeth-grindingly annoying.

  “We watched, of course. I like that Paul. You can tell he doesn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

  “He’s a nice guy.”

  “Is he coming over again?” she asked wistfully as she tucked a nightgown into a drawer. “We had a lovely evening when he was here last time.”

  “I don’t think so.” Jemma tugged a long-sleeved t-shirt from the basket and snapped it out, pinching the hem under her chin as she matched seams.

  “He likes you.” Miriam sat on the edge of the bed and began sorting socks into pairs.

  Hope bubbled in Jemma’s throat. She swallowed it ruthlessly. “He’s a nice guy,” she repeated. “He likes everyone.”

  Miriam efficiently rolled socks and piled them up. Jemma wanted to tell her about Paul’s kiss, about his kindnesses. Instead she said, “Shannon said you didn’t eat much supper tonight.”

  Furrows settled between Miriam’s eyebrows. “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Well, I am,” Jemma said brightly. “Come sit with me.”

  The basket was empty. Jemma picked it up and stored it in the hall closet. Miriam trailed after her into the kitchen. Jemma was lifting the casserole out of the oven when a knock sounded.

  “I’ll get it,” Miriam chirped.

  She heard the click of the door opening and Miriam’s cheerful, “Can I help you?”

  Jemma placed the hot dish on a trivet and hurried to the door. With the apartment’s security entrance few strangers made it inside, but you never knew.

  Mr. Chan stood in the hall. “Hello, Miriam, Jemma.” He made a slight bow. “I thought I would stop by, see how you were doing.”

  Miriam cocked her head to one side. “Do we know you?”

  Jemma’s stomach hollowed out. “Gramma, this is Mr. Chan.”

  Miriam held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Have you just moved in?”

  Jemma looked at Mr. Chan helplessly. He smiled and answered, “No, I’ve been here for a while.”

  Miriam glanced at Jemma. “Have you met our new neighbour, Mr. Chan? We should invite him in for coffee.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jemma met Mr. Chan’s kindhearted gaze.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” He turned to Miriam. “I’ll come for coffee another time, shall I?”

  Miriam shut the door as he headed down the hall. “What a nice man. I do hope we see him again soon.”

  “I’m sure we will.” Jemma led her to her chair at the dinette table and began coaxing Miriam into eating dinner.

  Jemma hesitated on the threshold of Lainie’s office, then knocked on the door frame. “Got a minute?”

  Lainie held up one hand, finished tapping on her computer, then waved her in. “Of course. What’s up?” Jemma closed the door behind her and Lainie raised an eyebrow. “Something serious?”

  She slouched into the beat up visitor’s chair and scanned the room. Still not sure if she was doing the right thing, she filled the silence with babble. “We’re going into, what, the eighth week of the show? I haven’t been in here yet.”

  “So, you decided it was time to check out my view?”

  “You don’t have any windows.”

  “I know.”

  Jemma shifted on her seat. She straightened up, brushed her hair out of her eyes.

  Lainie pursed her lips. “All right. What’s wrong? I know you too well. When you can’t sit still something is definitely up.”

  “It’s nothing. Well, maybe something.” She scrubbed a hand on the
back of her neck. “Dammit, this is harder than I thought.”

  Lainie bolted upright. “Are you quitting? You’re quitting.”

  “No!” Jemma shook her head. “No, nothing like that. It’s just...it’s about...” She jumped out of the chair, took two quick steps to the door, and spun back to Lainie. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

  Lainie stood, too, but stayed behind her desk. “You have to, now. You can’t come in here muttering and then leave without telling me what’s going on.”

  Jemma hunched her shoulders, hands deep in the front pockets of her black jeans.

  “Out with it,” Lainie commanded.

  Ripping off the Band-Aid, Jemma blurted, “Lawrence Larrey and Fenella are cheating.”

  Lainie stared. “Huh?”

  Jemma started talking. Halfway through, Lainie dropped into her chair as if her legs could no longer hold her, but she never took her increasingly horrified gaze from Jemma’s face.

  “I think Larrey is telling Fenella what the Kitchen Challenges are going to be,” Jemma concluded. “Then she practices, perfects it. That’s why she’s won the last two weeks.”

  Dead silence filled the room. Lainie blinked, shook her head as if clearing water out of her ears, and came out of her daze.

  “Maybe you misunderstood what you heard,” she said, hopefully. “So she’s won two weeks in a row. She’s a good cook. If they were fixing the show, wouldn’t she win every week?”

  “She’s won four out of the seven weeks, and three out of the four since I heard them talking.” And would have won all of those weeks if Jemma hadn’t spike the omelette. She still felt queasy when she thought of that night. “I know they’re cheating. It’s not fair. To Paul, or the other contestants.”

  Lainie picked up a pencil, rolled it through her fingers, put it back down again, her agitation evident. “I don’t believe this. Why would he do it? He’s risking so much.”

  “I didn’t make it up,” Jemma snapped. “I know what I saw, what I heard.”

  Lainie looked up in surprise. “Oh, I believe you. I just can’t believe it of Larrey. I honestly thought he was smarter than this.”

  “I debated for weeks whether to tell you. I kept hoping something would prove me wrong. In the end, I had to. I had to tell someone.”

  “This could ruin everything. If NationWide finds out...” Lainie’s voice trailed away as a new thought hit her. “The additional seasons. They could cancel them. If they find out our executive producer is screwing one of the contestants...”

  “I didn’t say that!” Jemma’s voice scratched, edging on panic.

  Lainie gave her a disgusted look. “What else could it be? Trust me, Lawrence is getting something from Fenella in return. I don’t imagine it’s a pat on the head.” She tapped her index finger against her bottom lip. “Are you positive it was him you heard?”

  “I figured it out afterwards.” Jemma gripped the hard wooden back of the chair in front of her. “I couldn’t hear him well enough that night. But they went into his office, I know that.”

  “I need more proof, before I take this anywhere.” Lainie swiveled her chair rapidly. “I can’t go higher than Larrey without substantial evidence. All we have are suspicions.”

  “Isn’t it enough that Fenella keeps winning the Challenges?”

  Lainie waved that off before Jemma finished speaking. “No. That could be coincidence. Or great cooking.”

  “It’s only a reality show,” Jemma said, wary Lainie might jump to the defence of her chosen profession. “Could we, I don’t know, ignore it? No one is going to be forced to do anything they don’t want to. Like marry someone, simply because they won.”

  Lainie shook her head. “It’s wrong. It’s cheating, and it’s wrong. We have to have a solid case before we start flinging accusations.”

  “What do I do? What do we do, for now?”

  “Nothing.” She held up her hand, cutting off Jemma’s automatic protest. “You waited weeks to tell me. One more won’t make it any worse. Now that I know, I’ll keep an eye open, too, see what I can see.”

  “You can’t let Paul know.” Jemma was determined to keep the scandal as far away from Paul as possible.

  “Shouldn’t we warn him? What if he’s falling in love with Fenella?”

  “He’s not falling in love with that cow.” Jemma scowled, the thought circling gloomily. “How many people do you want to know about it before we have proof, anyway?”

  “The less the better.” Lainie eyed her, worry lines creased between her brows. “You do remember you are not allowed to get involved with the cast, don’t you? You could lose your job.”

  “I remember,” she said heavily. “I remember.”

  Jemma left the office with no clearer idea of what to do next than when she’d entered.

  At least Lainie believed her. That was one advantage to working with a person who’d known you since kindergarten. She knew when you were telling the truth. It was a relief, declaring her suspicions. Lately, the knowledge had weighed heavier and heavier. Sharing with Lainie eased that albatross.

  If only she could share the burden of Miriam’s deterioration.

  It was a Tuesday, the eighth Kitchen Challenge of the season. Worry about Miriam simmered, constantly hovering just under her thoughts, as Jemma prepared for the taping.

  Every day, Miriam slipped further and further away, deeper and deeper into her dementia. Shannon was already gently suggesting she come for the whole time Jemma was at work, not for a few hours as she did now.

  Miriam could still be bright and bold and funny, as she’d always been. But those good moments were happening less and less frequently, and made the bad episodes harder to take.

  Jemma headed down the hall to the dressing room to make sure the five remaining contestants were ready. As she passed the door to Paul’s dressing room, it opened, and before she knew it she’d been yanked inside by a strong hand wrapped around her bicep.

  The door slammed and she staggered as the hand let go.

  Paul stood in front of the door, feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed, daring her to try and get past him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” She wanted to shout, but kept her voice low. It rasped out, urgent and angry. “I shouldn’t be in here alone with you.”

  “No one knows. And even if they did, I’ll tell them I needed you to run me an errand. So keep your pants on.”

  The thought of being with Paul without her pants on tightened parts of her low in her belly. That flutter of sensuality didn’t stop panic and fury churning in her gut. “I told you to leave me alone.”

  “I have. For nineteen—no, twenty—days.” His voice softened, and a pleading smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I don’t want to wait any longer. Don’t make me wait.”

  She paced away from him, around the couch stuck in the middle of the room, toward the vanity in the corner. When she was near him, she yearned—for his strength, his warmth, his caring. But when she was with Miriam, she knew she had to resist. Resist him, resist it all.

  It was too, too cruel, that the one person she wanted to trust, the one person she wanted to rely on, was the one person who threatened everything.

  “I can’t.” She pressed her palms against the cool of the countertop.

  “Can’t what?” He stood at her shoulder. She raised her eyes and met his in the reflection of the mirror. “I can’t risk my job. Miriam...” She swallowed. “Miriam is afraid to be left alone, because she’s afraid of herself. Yet the thought of placing her in a home makes me want to throw up. She’s not ready for that. I’m not ready for that. But I can barely afford the few hours a week the home care worker is coming now. I can’t lose my job. No matter how much...” She couldn’t go on.

  “No matter how much—what? Jemma?”

  The kindness in his voice killed her. “No matter how much I like you.” It was the best she could do.

  “There’s only five weeks left in the show.”
r />   She wanted to lean into him, let the strength in his body seep into hers, bolster her faltering courage. “So what?”

  “I won’t be a contestant. You won’t be a crew member.”

  Her thoughts were clouded, distracted. She put distance between them. “Didn’t you hear? NationWide has picked up the show for at least two more seasons. I’ve been asked to stay on.”

  “That’s great!” His smile lit his whole face and he reached for her.

  She eased away. “I can’t take any chances with an opportunity like that. Even after your part of the show is done, how would it look if you and I got together? You’ll be proposing in the finale, remember.” Her stomach flopped over and lay dead.

  “I don’t love any of them.”

  Her pulse stuttered. Had she heard the slightest of emphasis on the last word? What did it mean if she had? It didn’t change anything.

  “I have to go.” She pushed past him.

  “It’s only a job. You can get another one.”

  She stopped with her hand on the knob and stared at the grainy wood of the door. “I have no skills, no training. This is the best job I’ve ever had, and I won’t do anything to risk it.”

  He let her retreat without further protest. In the hall, she leaned against the wall, pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.

  “Something the matter?”

  She lowered her arms to her sides. Dammit. Fenella stood there, one hand on her hip, primped and perfect and ready for the camera.

  “No, nothing’s wrong.” She smiled. She hoped it looked friendly. “Just tired eyes.”

  “Uh-huh.” Fenella’s gaze flicked between Jemma and the door she’d come out of. “See you on set.”

  “Yeah. See you.” Shit. Shit, shit, shit!

  For the third week in a row, Paul picked Fenella’s dish as the best in the blind taste tests. She was aceing the challenges. It didn’t matter what was thrown at her, she conquered it with flair and imagination. He could offer her a job after this was over. It might make up for the fact he wasn’t going to marry her—or anyone else on the show.

  Calynn stood with Fenella on one side of her, and Sappho, a dark-haired, olive-complexioned woman who’d created the lowest ranked chili, on the other. “Once again, our Chef d’Amour has chosen Fenella’s dish as the best. In past weeks, this meant she would go on a date with Paul. But this week, we’re spicing it up. The rules—they are a-changing.” She smiled brilliantly at the camera.