by Grace Palmer
But that warmth vanished in one split second as soon as they rounded the corner and Holly saw what awaited them in there. Or rather, who awaited them.
Billy said, “Holly, Pete, I’d like you to meet my wife.”
That was when Cecilia Payne stepped forward to shake Holly’s hand.
43
Sara
The evening was going well, all things considered. All but one table had shown up for their reservations, so she was pleased with that. Sara was scribbling down lists of things to improve on some sticky notes at the host’s stand—how different dishes were presented, some general tweaks to the flow and movement of her employees and guests throughout the restaurant’s space. But the essentials were in place. The food was good, the atmosphere was pleasant, the staff was diligent.
Sara had even stood up and given a short little speech, thanking everyone for coming to opening night. As she stepped down, she was buzzing with energy and good vibes.
All of which came to a screeching halt when the front doors swung open …
And Gavin Crawford walked in.
Sara’s heart jumped into her throat. First Russell, then Gavin. Were all the men she’d ever dated lining up outside and coming in one by one just to try and ruin her evening?
She went right up to him and met him at the front. “Gavin. What are you doing here?”
He smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to show up—here of all places, tonight of all nights. He was wearing his Gavin Outfit, she noticed. Leather desert boots, dark, slim-fitting jeans, a crisp white button-down shirt.
“I had to come support you on your big night, didn’t I?” He looked around, marveling at the place. “Look at what you did! My little protégé.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Sara snapped.
He ignored her as he turned and introduced the man he’d come in with. Sara hadn’t even noticed a second person enter at Gavin’s side, but as she looked over to him, she saw that he had an air of self-importance about him. He was a short, older man, chubby bordering on fat, wearing a suit vest and round glasses perched on his nose. “Martin Hogan,” he said in a voice that was almost like a cat’s purr.
Sara gasped. Everyone in fine dining knew who Martin Hogan was. He’d won every food critic award there was to win. He had a weekly column in the New York Times, was a contributing editor to half a dozen national food magazines, and regularly flew around the country dining at the best restaurants America had to offer.
He could make or break Little Bull with a single stroke of his pen, if he so chose.
“Mr. H-Hogan,” Sara stammered. “It is an honor to have you here with us this evening. I … I didn’t know you were in town.”
“He’s my guest,” Gavin explained with a wink.
Sara was still flummoxed. This was like having the president walk into your Model UN club meeting. It made the stakes feel so much more real. Before he’d entered, she was just feeding some friends and family in a new location. It was basically Friday Night Feasts with a little extra pizzazz. Now, this could be anything. This could be the beginning of something truly special.
Or terrible.
“Cassandra!” Sara called over her shoulder. The head hostess, Cassandra, came bustling over with a welcoming smile. “Would you please show Mr. Crawford and Mr. Hogan to their table?”
“Of course. This way, if you please, gentlemen,” Cassandra said, gesturing towards the final two seats at the bar top.
“I’ll catch up with you in one sec, Marty,” Gavin said. “Gonna chat with our chef here for a moment.”
Martin shrugged and waddled after Cassandra. Sara watched him go, silently pleading for him—or anyone, really—to come back so she didn’t have to face Gavin alone.
But when he was gone, it was just the two of them, alone at the front of the restaurant.
“What are you doing here, Gavin?” she asked for the second time.
“You were playing awful hard to get,” he said with a shrug. “I figured I’d swing by your neck of the woods.”
“With the most famous restaurant critic in the world in tow.”
“I thought you’d appreciate the gesture.” He frowned. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“The gesture?!” Sara wanted to scream. “Why are you here, Gavin? What do you want from me?”
He put a hand on her shoulder. She wanted to pull away in utter revulsion, but she took a deep breath and steadied her nerves.
How had she ever found this man attractive? He seemed so wildly repulsive to her now. His cologne was overwhelming; he needed to shave that ragged beard; he sounded so slimy when he talked, like a used car salesman trying to coax her into buying a jalopy off the lot. She didn’t want him even to look at her, much less touch her.
“You should go,” she said. “You should never have come at all.”
Gavin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “This could be good for you, you know.”
Her blood ran cold. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, if everything goes well, I’ll put in a good word for you with Marty. Maybe he gives you a little mention in his column …” He shrugged again. “Could be good for you.”
“That’s it. I serve good food and you tell him to write me up. No quid pro quo.”
He spread his hands wide. “What’s the harm in that?”
“There’s no way you flew all the way to Nantucket just to do me a favor like that, Gavin. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m not asking for much, you know …”
She held her breath and said nothing. The other shoe was going to drop any second now. She could have set a timer to it. God, he was so predictable. So transparently selfish. Why did he even want her anymore? Just because she was “the one that got away”? Not in anything even close to a romantic way, though. She was just a little pet that had escaped his collection before he was done playing with her. How many other women like her were floating around in Gavin’s orbit? He was a manipulator, a con man, a sleazeball extraordinaire … She was done with his games.
But he wasn’t done with her.
“… All I want is a chance to talk,” he finished.
“So talk.” Her voice was icy. She felt like she had aged years, decades even, since he first walked into her restaurant. She checked her watch. It had been four minutes.
“Well, maybe not here.” He rubbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. Another Gavin habit—once attractive, now anything but that.
“Where, then?” She noticed his other hand was playing with something in his pocket. When she asked where he wanted to talk, he withdrew it and she saw what it was: A hotel room key.
So that was it. He was dangling Martin Hogan in front of her—whether as an incentive or a threat, she still wasn’t sure—in exchange for quite literally the most demeaning thing anyone had ever tried to coax out of her.
Gavin offered the room key to her. “Let’s talk tonight after you’re all done here,” he said. “Once Marty and I get a chance to taste what you’ve whipped up.” He winked. Again, Sara was amazed at how calm and natural he acted like all this was. As if he wasn’t trying to twist her into the shape he liked her best in—subservient and loyal.
But the truth of the matter was that he had her over a barrel. She could refuse, and he would bring down the hammer that was Martin Hogan on her head like an executioner. Little Bull would be done for almost immediately. It wasn’t a threat, even—it was a cold-blooded fact. She’d come so far, worked so hard, built so much. And it could all disappear virtually overnight.
Or she could say yes. She could go to his hotel room after closing. She could give in to his coercion. Then Gavin would tip Hogan’s hand, and Little Bull could very well explode into something spectacular. That was within his power, too.
It seemed like an easy decision. Say no, spit in his face, kick him out of the restaurant. She was about to do just that, when something caught her eye.
It was the sign over
the door. The one that said Little Bull – A Family Business. When she saw that, she thought of her family, and her heart stopped in place. She wasn’t the only one with something to lose her. If it was up to her, she’d burn it all down just to spite Gavin’s offer. But Mom’s money—Dad’s money, really—had built this place. Brent’s hands had built it. Eliza and Holly’s encouragement had spurred her along on dark nights when she needed it most. The Bensons were tied up in the very walls here, like this restaurant was part and parcel of their family.
Say no to Gavin, and all that would be lost, too.
It was lose-lose. There was no way out.
Gavin saw her hesitation and his grin fell. “Decide by the end of the night,” he said. “Let me know.”
Then he pressed the room key into her hand and walked away, leaving Sara alone at the front of her restaurant with no idea what she was going to do.
44
Brent
Brent was having an awfully hard time keeping up his end of the conversation. He and Mom had been the first ones to arrive at Little Bull. The place looked great, as he knew it would. Lord knew he’d put enough sweat and labor into making this place fabulous. But he had to admit, Sara’s vision brought to life was really something else. She had a talent for this thing. Who woulda known? “Good for her,” he kept saying every time Mom pointed out some new marvel she noticed in the details and the satisfied expressions of the diners around her. Not in a sarcastic way or anything—he genuinely meant it. He was proud of Sara. She had done something special.
But he didn’t have much else to say because his mind wasn’t at Little Bull. It was in the trunk of his car.
Right next to the duffel bag he’d packed this morning.
It was almost everything he owned—clothes, toiletries, shoes—along with enough cash saved up to travel for a few months at the very least.
He checked the time on his cell phone. It was 8:43 p.m. Ally’s flight left in three hours. There were still empty seats on the plane; he’d checked obsessively over and over all day long. If he wanted to, he could get up from here, drive to the airport, and take off on an adventure.
He’d already squared everything away—if he left, Marshall would take care of Henrietta and his apartment. He’d paid three months’ rent up front and cleaned out the perishables from the refrigerator.
It was possible. If he chose, he could leave Nantucket with Ally. Go explore. See the world he’d never seen.
But he just didn’t know.
Because leaving Nantucket meant leaving Rose.
Why was that proving to be so hard? They weren’t together. He hadn’t so much as seen or spoken a word to her in over a week, not since their unexpected dinner at her house. Nothing had happened at dinner that would make him think they had a future together.
But he had that thought anyway. There was just something there. Something that tied them together. It was powerful and inexplicable and honestly sounded a little stupid every time he said it out loud. He’d never really believed in fate. If fate was real, then why did a good man like his father die? No, forget fate. He didn’t need it.
And yet, he couldn’t ignore the urge to run out of this restaurant and find her. He wanted to find Rose, hold her, kiss her. It was a stupid, illogical urge. An urge he could not ignore.
Dinner wore on and his brain ran in the same ceaseless circuit: Ally, adventure. Rose, home. Ally, adventure. Rose, home. He wanted to take a fork and jab himself in the thigh just to bring his thoughts back to the present. But he was swept up in a riptide too powerful to resist.
He had to make a decision.
The rain outside was still pouring down on the roof of the restaurant. It was kind of nice, in a strange way. It filled the gaps between conversations, made everything feel closer and cozier and more intimate. Under other circumstances, he might have relaxed and enjoyed his mother’s company and the food that Sara had spent so many weeks and months carefully concocting. Under these circumstances, though, he was seconds away from standing on the table and screaming like a Viking.
He had to decide. He had to choose. He had to do it now, now, now.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, standing up. His chair scraped back across the floor. He hardly noticed, though. “I’ve gotta go take care of something. Will you be all right here?”
“Well, okay, yes, darling,” his mom said, completely confused. “I’ll be fine. Is everything okay? What’s going on?”
“I just gotta go take care of something,” he repeated. “I’ll make sure Holly can give you a ride home, okay?”
“Are you going somewhere?” Mom asked.
Brent thought about it. “Maybe.” He left before she could ask any more questions.
He got faster with every step. Dodging around waiters laden with trays of food, he pushed towards the front, through the doors, out into the raining night. The sound was just as thunderous out here, but all Brent could hear was the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, and the same circular pattern again and again.
Ally, adventure.
Rose, home.
He jumped into his car and fired up the engine. Tires squealed in the wet gravel as he peeled out of the parking lot. The speedometer crept up. Thirty, forty, fifty. He was going far too fast for Nantucket, far too fast for any car in the rain. But he had to go NOW. He was held captive by the most powerful urge he’d ever felt in his life.
Ally, adventure.
Rose, home.
He knew that he was going to come up to an intersection soon, and he was going to have to make his choice. One road led to the airport. Ally would be at the gate, he knew. Despite all her spontaneity, she had a horrific fear of missing flights, so she would be there well in advance of her departure time.
The other road went left, to Rose’s house. He didn’t even know if she was home or not. It didn’t matter. The choice wasn’t about right this second. It was about—well, it was about forever, in a way. Brent felt like he was in some respects making a choice about the kind of person he wanted to be. The kind of man he wanted to be.
He could run.
Or he could stay.
Ally, adventure.
Rose, home.
Brent was approaching the intersection fast, faster, faster. The tires were barely hanging onto the road now. It was slick with rainwater. He had to decide. Right was Ally. Left was Rose. Any second longer and he’d crash straight into the embankment directly ahead of him.
Life is meant to be enjoyed, isn’t it? That was his dad’s voice, whispering to him out of the ether like a ghost.
Brent wrenched the wheel to the left.
Time slowed for a moment. The nose of the truck went towards the left, but the wheels on the right lost their traction and separated from the road for a moment. He’d been going too fast and the conditions were too poor. The truck, old as it was, couldn’t handle the strain. It tipped, tipped, tipped …
And as it hung in the air, Brent had just enough time to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake.
45
Holly
Dinner was worse than she expected.
Frigid, awkward, full of sharp edges and sudden dead ends in the conversation. But even the uncomfortable silence was better than hearing Cecilia talk. She didn’t say much. Whether she sensed the awkwardness that Holly was feeling or she just thought she didn’t need to make much—if any—of a conversational effort, Holly wasn’t sure. When Cecilia did speak, though, it was invariably rude. The food was cold or the wine was warm or the server gave her a funny look. Holly held Pete’s hand under the table and every time this witch complained or criticized something new, she squeezed his fingers hard, bit her lip, and resolved not to say anything.
Billy was completely oblivious. That laugh of his was like sweet jelly on top of burnt toast, covering up all the charred bits underneath. He told stories, he drank whiskey. That was perfectly fine in Holly’s eyes. As long as he was talking, she didn’t have to listen to Cecilia, and she didn�
��t have to force herself to say anything, either. Whenever the conversation did come to her, she tossed it off to Pete like a hot potato. She’d apologize to him later. Right now, all she could think about was getting out of here.
The shock of the dual discovery was like a pair of stab wounds in the lungs. She was finding it hard to draw a breath. As beautiful as this evening should have been—her little sister had opened a fabulous new restaurant, after all!—Holly couldn’t focus on any of it. Not the food. Not the décor. Not the buzz of happy diners. The simple act of breathing in and out was demanding all of her attention.
Just get through this, woman, she gritted internally. Not much longer.
Until the absolute worst-case scenario unfolded. Pete squeezed Holly’s hand. “I gotta run to the restroom real quick, if you’ll excuse me.”
She tried to keep him pinned to the chair. But she knew she had to let him go. She forced a smile to her face and offered up a not-actually-kidding, “Hurry back, we’ll miss you!”
Holly watched him go. When he was gone, she turned back to Billy and Cecilia. She was poking at the food on her plate with distaste, the same face she’d use when plunging a toilet or investigating if an animal on the side of the road was dead or not yet. Fortunately, Billy set his whiskey tumbler down with emphasis and beamed out her.
“Got you all to ourselves now, Holly! So, tell me about life with Peter Piper! Dad of the year I bet, right?”
Holly smiled. This was an easy enough topic. She could talk about Pete all day. But just when she opened her mouth to answer, Billy frowned.
He patted his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, which was buzzing in his hand. “So sorry,” he told her, waggling it by way of explanation. “I’m gonna step out and take this one real quick. Work never stops when you run your own business, right?” He laughed, stood, and swept out of the restaurant. Holly heard a faint “Talk to me!” as he left.