Joshua

by Beatrice Sand

  A strange man who never bothered taking care of you…

  If he’s ever seen a picture of you, seen your eyes, he should know…

  “Fuck,” I curse through my tears, not able to hold them back any longer. Furiously, I wipe my eyes dry with the back of my hand, but it’s a futile exercise. At the next opportunity, I exit the turnpike, and steer onto the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts as my vision blurs.

  And have an uncontrollable burst of emotion; so powerful, even snot streams from my nostrils.

  “Damn,” I mutter, when the loud sobs and the endless stream of tears finally stops. Last time I was on jag, I was about fourteen years old. I swore I’d never have another one, refusing to let emotions – the lack of parents – run my life from then on.

  I succeeded.

  Until now.

  I’m in dire need to hear a soothing voice, so take my phone and call Stockbridge.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Aunt Louise. Josh here.”

  “Oh my, Josh... How lovely to hear your voice. Is something wrong?”

  “Why? Can’t a nephew just call one of his favorite aunts spontaneously?”

  She laughs aloud. “Yes, but he almost never does! Hence the bemusement.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, honey. How are you?”

  “Fine,” I say, still sniffling.

  “You have a cold?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Damn germs.”

  “You work too hard. Cooking all the time for others. Take vitamins, okay?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I joke. “I have supplements, don’t worry. Listen, about Christmas, I was thinking of coming to Stockbridge this year.”

  “And you should! And take Teresa and her brother with you, okay? They’re very welcome.”

  What the fuck? “I’m sorry?”

  “Eloise and Hannah told me you have a girlfriend.”

  “For real?” I shake my head. “I don’t have–”

  “Ask her, Josh! They told me the poor woman doesn’t have any relatives here. Our family is big enough, and so is our dining table.”

  “I– Thank you, Aunt Louise, but she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “You still have some time left to take care of that.”

  We talk for another short while and then hang up. I turn on the ignition and continue my way, feeling slightly better, knowing there’s always a warm welcome waiting for me.

  ***

  The restaurant is dark and closed by the time I arrive in Portsmouth. I unlock the outside door that leads me into the kitchen, and set the alarm again. I detour through the bar and take a bottle of vodka before climbing the narrow staircase to my apartment.

  “Donna, what are you doing here?” I ask as I find my sous-chef sitting on my couch and going through a magazine.

  “You forgot to lock your front door.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t remember hanging up a sign saying ‘make yourself at home,’” I counter, ill-tempered as I saunter into my pantry kitchen. It’s not the most exciting space in the house, but it’s useful enough. I place the bottle and my keys on the countertop and shrug out of my jacket.

  Sighing, Donna pushes herself up, then walks my way. “I’m sorry if I invaded your privacy, but I tried to call you, send you texts, but you didn’t get them, did you?”

  “No, I say as I take a glass out of the cabinet. “My phone was turned off. I had some personal stuff to handle.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, whassup?”

  “I’m sorry, Josh, but you didn’t get shortlisted for the award of Rising Star Chef of the Year. I didn’t want to tell you in a text.”

  My head whips up. “You’re shitting me!”

  She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “Someone from the editorial team called this afternoon to inform us.”

  “They give a reason?”

  “Just that they thought you were very talented, but there was a lot of exceptional talent this year.”

  “Sure, like every other year. You want one?” I ask, gesturing toward the vodka.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Thanks for staying this late and telling me in person.” I pick up my glass. “To gastronomical geniuses who got shortlisted.” I toss my head back and swallow the liquor in one gulp, then slam the empty glass back on the counter.

  “You’re well under forty. You’ll win it some other time.”

  I blow out my breath as I pour myself another glass. “You’re right. I just wanted it so badly for the team.”

  “Don’t forget we already have two stars.”

  “I know. Thanks, Donna,” I say, smiling at her.

  She walks around the counter and starts giving me a spontaneous back rub. Normally, that would be hot as hell, giving me an instant boner, but not tonight, and certainly not by her. “Stop that shit, Donna!” I say, jerking away.

  “Your shoulders feel tight and knotted.”

  “If I want a massage, I’ll go see a professional,” I say, irritated.

  “You weren’t with her today.”

  “Her?”

  “Teresa.”

  I roll my eyes. “Come on, go home. I want to be alone.”

  “Don’t you have needs, Josh? I do.”

  I eye her from the other side of the counter. “We’ve been through this, Donna. I’m not interested in you that way.”

  “It’s just sex, Josh. I promise, no strings attached. I don’t know what personal stuff you have been handling today, but it’s clear it took a heavy toll on you. You look like you’ve been dragged to hell and back. Let me give you some solace.”

  I walk out of the kitchen and grab her coat from the couch, then hold it open for her. “Put it on. It’s freezing out there.”

  “In here too,” she says, sounding pissed as she slides her arms into the sleeves. She grabs her bag while giving me an icy glare. “You shouldn’t have kissed me.”

  Her comment rubs me the wrong way. “Don’t get it twisted, Donna!” I say in a dark voice. “That being said, it was just a kiss. It wasn’t romantic, and it never implied I wanted sex from you. Just chalk it up to being human.” I walk toward the door and open it. “Now, I want you to go home and think long and hard about your future at Suite 63.”

  “Is that a threat?” she asks, jerking up her pointy chin.

  “Consider it a warning,” I say calmly but vigorously. “We can’t work together if you keep bringing up a kiss that meant jack. And I’m not leaving.”

  “Screw you, Josh!” She turns on her combat boots and stomps down the staircase.

  I slam the door closed and stride back toward the kitchen for another drink. I pick up my tumbler, and before I can get a grip on myself, smash it against the brick wall.

  “Fuck!” I swear as I stare at the glittering fragments lying on the floor, cursing the day my mother decided to go all flower power, and my grandfather for not letting her.

  I take the vodka with me into the living room, and start drinking straight from the bottle.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  teresa

  I scan through the ingredients splayed across the work surface for the last time, making sure I didn’t forget anything for the upcoming cooking session. Almonds, eggs, chocolate, butter, cinnamon… Josh never mentioned ingredients, just the three recipes, but I’m already confiscating hours of his precious time, so can’t just up and plunder his pantry too.

  I glance at the clock. A few minutes more and it’s game on.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I cast a look over my shoulder at my brother, surprised to see him out of bed at a respectable time on the weekend, even wearing sweats and a t-shirt. “Bon día!” I say, full of pep in Mallorquín. “What are you doing here? Fell out of bed?”

  Felipe opens the door of the fridge, and I roll my eyes. “Looking for a soda or something. Anything.”

  “I made you a proper breakfast last night. It’s in the fridge upstairs. You only need t
o add fresh fruit.”

  He takes out a can of Coke and pulls the tab. “You couldn’t even pay me to eat that overnight oatmeal shit.”

  “It’s healthy for you.”

  “If it was healthy, then why the heck does it taste like shit?”

  “I’m feeling sorry for your future wife.”

  The sides of his mouth twitch upward. “Por qué?”

  “Because all those energy drinks will destroy your teeth. It’s disturbing how much sugar you chug away every day.”

  Unconcerned, he swigs his soda. “I’ll start flossing.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “Then I won’t marry,” he says with a weak shrug. “Case closed.”

  “Of course you will. You’re too good looking to stay single.” Carefully, I collect the ingredients, and place them in a woven shopping basket.

  Felipe leans against the countertop. “You’re in high spirits this morning.”

  “Yep. Even you and your unbalanced diet can’t ruin this day.”

  “How come?”

  I cringe when he swigs again from his can, anticipating another attack on his still beautiful teeth. “Josh is going to help me try out new recipes for my dessert menu. I need another selection after that horrible review.”

  Felipe cocks his brow, and I can’t believe I’m actually having a fairly normal conversation with him. “Josh, as in the tattooed chef from across? I thought you hated tattoos?”

  “Well, it turns out they apparently don’t get in the way of creating brilliant recipes. And there’s more to him than just his tattoos.” I chuckle. “Who would have thought?”

  “So you admit you were wrong about people wearing tats?”

  “I’m willing to admit that some of them seem decent enough to hang around with, smartass.” I raise my finger when he opens his mouth to speak. “No, you’re not getting one. Basta!”

  He grins. “Am too.”

  “When you turn eighteen, not a day sooner.”

  “You’re wearing makeup. You never wear makeup on your free day.” He grins. “Should I wait up for you?”

  I grab an almond that fell out of its package, aim at Felipe, and give it my best shot, but he’s faster and simply leans to the side. “It’s ten in the morning, of course you’re gonna wait up for me! We’ll have dinner together.”

  “I have plans.”

  “Yes, with your study books. Don’t make me regret leaving, Felipe!”

  “Oh, go all right. Don’t leave the big chef waiting. Holler if he tries to make a pass at you. I’ll beat him up.”

  That makes me smile. “I think I’ll be fine. Thanks anyway; I appreciate the fact my brother has my back.” I grab my keys and bag, then leave through the kitchen door. “And stay away from the soda! Your future wife will be grateful.”

  “Don’t start designing a wedding cake just yet!” he yells back before the door locks behind me.

  Grinning, I cross the street. I love it when he’s good-humored like this, teasing me, because God knows how long it’ll last.

  I walk past Suite 63, which is closed today, round the corner, and find another entrance into the brick building. No name or sign on the black door indicates Josh lives here, but I notice a door entry system allowing access.

  I push the button and wait nervously as I scan my outfit; black knee-high boots, black stockings, and an oversized white knitted sweater extending well below my buttocks. I struggled to dress for the occasion. I mean, which occasion? The cooking part, or the part where he’ll be taking me upstairs for a taste of afternoon delight?

  I press the button another time.

  As I linger on the snow-covered street, I seriously start to wonder if I have the right date. I gaze at my watch and it’s a few minutes past ten on Sunday. It’s our only day off, so I couldn’t have misinterpreted. Just as I want to head back to the restaurant to see if it’s open, I hear stumbling behind the door, followed by profanity, and finally the sound of a door unlocking. A moment later, I stare open mouthed at Josh, who’s looking jaded and shadowy beneath his eyes. My gaze trails over his wrinkled clothes and naked feet, which would be awfully sexy under different circumstances.

  “Teresa…” His voice is low and scratchy, as if it’s hurt by a cold or bad cough, and his glazy eyes stare at me as if I’m the last person he expected to find on his doorstep. “This isn’t the best time to come knocking on my door.”

  I cock a brow. “You picked the time.”

  He cocks his head. “What?”

  “Sunday. Ten o’clock. Three recipes.”

  He raises his hand and massages the back of his neck, twisting his face as if he has a strain injury. “Shit,” he mumbles.

  “Are you okay, Josh?” I ask, wondering whether I should be worried at his shabby appearance.

  His bright emerald green bloodshot eyes pierce me. What the hell happened to him?

  “I assume you meant that question rhetorically.”

  “Yes, because honestly, you look like shit.” There!

  He winces. “Whoa, do all Spanish women shoot from the hip?”

  “Returning the favor from the first time we met. Just deal.”

  He laughs aloud and almost loses his balance. My God, he’s three sheets to the wind… “Are you drunk?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  His brow curls upward. “Why? So you can take advantage of me?”

  Without thinking twice, I step inside the tiny hall and put my bag on the floor. “I’ll make you coffee.”

  “No, you won’t,” he says with a look of terror on his groggy but still handsome face.

  “You have nothing to worry about; your virtue’s safe with me. Boozed-up men usually aren’t my thing.”

  “Probably wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyway,” he says with a roguish grin, struggling to enunciate. “Now that would be a crying shame. I wanna remember how you feel, how I feel, when I’m balls deep inside of you.”

  I choose not to respond to his detailed illustration of us together. I’m just as eager to find out as he is, but I don’t see it happening any time soon.

  With a great deal of difficulty, his thick muscled arm resting heavy on my shoulders, we climb the stairs, and I manage to lead him back into his apartment. “Careful,” I warn as I drop him with elaborate care on a worn leather couch. He just manages to keep himself upright, then falls back against the back of the couch like a rag doll.

  My eye catches sight of a big trunk serving as a coffee table. On it sit different kinds and shapes of bottles, together with stacks of cooking books and magazines. I bend to pick up an empty bottle lying on its side on a beautiful cowhide rug beneath the trunk. “Did you drink all those bottles by yourself?” I inquire, astounded.

  With effort, he raises his head and gazes at the table. “Hell no!” he says as though it shocks him too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw a double amount of bottles. “Some were only half-full,” he says in a slurry drunken voice. “I mean half-empty.” He gives me a satisfied look.

  “When did this start?”

  “Yesterday,” he mumbles, lying back again, burying his hands in his hair, and closing his eyes.

  I carry some of the bottles to a little bar with two industrial bar stools on either side. It’s standing against an old brick wall, alongside a neglected houseplant that, judging by the drooping leaves, hasn’t seen water in a decade. The apartment is messy, but cozy. The man has taste, that’s for sure. It’s a shame the place smells like a bourbon distillery.

  The room is covered in darkness, so I search for the lights, and turn on the spotlights hanging from the ceiling. Since Josh probably has a headache from hell, I refrain from opening the blinds.

  “Did you eat anything at all since yesterday?”

  He shakes his head without replying.

  I walk into his kitchen and search the cabinets for bread and coffee filters. I find a package of bagels.

  “Don’t bother, Tess. I haven’t been nice to you, and I let you down, a
nd–”

  “It’s okay, Josh,” I say softly. “It wouldn’t feel right to leave you by yourself like this.”

  “You’re quite the motherly type, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve taken care of my brother for almost ten years now, so yeah, you develop certain habits. Does it bother you I’m trying to take care of you now?”

  “No,” he answers softly. “It’s actually nice. I would have asked you to marry me if it weren’t for the fact you make a lousy tiramisu.”

  I refrain from laughing aloud. “Well, I might have said yes if you hadn’t been drunk,” I counter.

  He bellows out a laugh, falls quiet for a time, and then whispers, “I’m not always like this, you know.”

  “You wouldn’t be able to run a fine dining restaurant if you were,” I say as I turn on the coffee machine. I want to keep the conversation light. It’s none of my business.

  “I had a rough day yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry, Josh. You don’t have a friend to talk to?”

  “The bottle is my friend,” he says, then suddenly staggers to his feet. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

  “I’ll have breakfast and coffee ready when you get out. Call me if you need help.”

  A smile crosses his lips. “You wanna scrub my back?”

  “If need be,” I respond, holding his gaze.

  “I’ll try to remember that, Tess,” he says sincerely, before he wavers out of the living room in an unsteady gait.

  Smiling, I stick my head into the fridge, dying to find out what a professional chef keeps in his own fridge. I find beautifully aged Reypenaer cheese, tomatoes, and herbs. Perfect! Making Josh a bagel will keep my indecent thoughts from the fact he’s undressing himself somewhere close. Call me if you need help… Laughing, I shake my head. “Seriously?”

  I cut the bagel, slice up the red tomato, and chop up chives while I listen to the sound of falling water. Okay, so he is in the shower… naked as a jay. So what? He’s also very much liquored-up. I’m not even thinking of scrubbing his back before he sobers up.