by Rosanna Leo
A lot of people had been saying the same thing. One mistake in the kitchen and now no one in the cooking world wanted to hire him.
Of course, it had been a big mistake.
He’d been in charge of an important formal dinner at the Imperial, one which would be attended by a visiting diplomat. The man’s wife had a severe peanut allergy. Trent hadn’t been fazed. He’d cooked for many VIPs and had handled numerous dietary restrictions. However, something had gone wrong this time. Trent had grown frustrated with a sous-chef who wasn’t performing up to par and they’d had words in the kitchen. Somehow, the diplomat’s wife had received a sprinkling of chopped peanuts mixed in with her dinner. The woman’s throat had closed and she’d landed in the emergency room.
Trent was convinced the sous-chef had put the peanuts on her plate when he wasn’t looking. Of course, no one had been able to prove it and Trent had been fired. The Toronto cooking world, being a relatively small one, had shut its doors on him.
“I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this, not any of it.”
He changed TV channels a few more times but couldn’t seem to figure out what he wanted to watch. After a minute or two, the incessant click click click made Emily want to grab the remote and hurl it from the balcony.
“Listen,” she said, trying to brighten him up. “Chris invited us for drinks tonight. Let’s go and grab dinner while we’re there.”
“I can’t afford to buy my fiancée a dinner out, never mind cocktails.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
Trent stood and threw up his hands. “Of course I do, Emily. I’m tired of you paying my way. It’s supposed to be the other way around.”
Although tempted to shrink from his outburst, she stood instead and reached for his hands. He was the one who pulled away. “Don’t be so old-fashioned. Those sorts of things don’t matter anymore. We’re engaged. At some point, we’ll be taking vows. For better or for worse, right?”
For better or for worse. Keep saying it and maybe you’ll believe it.
“Easy for you to say. I’m pretty sure the nasty burger joint on the corner won’t even hire me.”
“Trent, you have to stay positive. My grandmother always used to say, ‘We are where we need to be.’ There’s something to be learned from this experience and it will make us stronger.”
“Fuck, Em.” His voice was soft, pleading. “Could you spare me your grandmother’s platitudes just this once?”
His comment struck her, making her recoil as if from a slap. “If I annoy you, maybe you should just come right out and say so.”
“You don’t annoy me.”
“I don’t know what to say to you anymore. Everything I say seems wrong.” She bit back an outburst. “Look, let’s go out tonight and just forget about everything for a while. Things have to get better. Besides, we do have something to celebrate.”
“What on earth could I possibly want to celebrate right now?”
“The Handymen appearance. Remember? My meeting with Michael Zorn. He said he’s going to give me the store of my dreams.”
“At least someone is capable of fulfilling your dreams.”
“Don’t talk like that. I missed you at the appointment.” Liar. She’d barely thought of him and had had too much fun talking to Michael.
Trent was silent.
“I know you’d rather not appear on TV, but this could be good for both of us. A fresh start for you. This appearance could be your opportunity to stick it to the people who snubbed you.”
“It’s your soup business, Em. Not mine.”
“I realize that, but this is a chance to sell yourself on a grander scale. Think of the appearance as a job interview, an audition. You always said you were interested in those cooking shows. What if some producer sees you and decides to give you a chance? It could happen.”
“There’s a greater chance of Gordon Ramsay asking me to open a new restaurant with him. No one from the culinary world is going to be watching your little TV appearance.”
“I wish you’d stop calling my dreams little. It makes you sound pompous.”
“And I wish you’d stop talking about the goddamn TV show. It makes you sound selfish.”
“You’re calling me selfish?”
Trent passed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s a bad time for me. I don’t mean half the things I say. You must know that.”
“Then don’t say them.”
“Em, I know you’ve offered to include me in your business and I appreciate it, but I’m not meant to be selling jars of soup. I’m a chef, for God’s sake. I belong in a kitchen.”
“Fine, but until you find your way back to the kitchen, it might help for you to open yourself up to new experiences. It seems all you want to do is criticize me. Sometimes I think you blame me for what happened.”
“Oh, thanks.” He didn’t deny it.
“I’ll rephrase that. Sometimes I think you forget I’ve been here for you the whole time.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better? You used to be an open book, but now I have to pry information out of you, and you make me feel like an idiot for wanting to help.”
He stared at the wall over her shoulder. Was she boring him now? He used to find her engaging. Clearly she now irritated him, so much so that he couldn’t even manage a response.
Emily swallowed the bitter tang of disappointment in her mouth. He still hadn’t bothered to ask about her day. When was the last time he had? She couldn’t remember. Defeated, she gave up her pursuit of a meaningful conversation. “So, about those drinks. I know I could use one.”
“I don’t want to go out with Chris. He hates me. He doesn’t think I’m good enough for you.”
“That’s not true, but he’s my brother and he’s concerned.”
“He can keep his concern.”
“But you’ve made me cancel the last couple of times he’s asked.”
“God, Em. When you say it like that, it sounds as if I held a gun to your head. I didn’t tell you to cancel a thing.”
Again with the flat-out denials. When he got like this, she couldn’t even argue with him. Although her pulse began to race in anger, she choked back her rebuttal.
“Come on. Let’s stay in. We could probably use some quality time.”
“At the expense of me seeing my family?”
“Don’t be melodramatic.” His lip curled, the same look he might reserve for a sous-chef who dared to suggest that one of Trent’s dishes might need a bit more salt. “You see them all the time.”
“It’s been weeks, Trent. You probably don’t remember because you’ve been too busy wallowing—”
“Wallowing?”
“You’ve allowed yourself to get bogged down instead of planning for the future. We need to get through this.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re the one planning a future, Em, and from what I can see, it doesn’t involve me.”
“How dare you? I’ve tried to involve you every step of the way. You’ve made it clear my dreams aren’t grandiose enough for you. They’re little. Boring. Completely uninteresting.”
He paled and his jaw clenched. “Care to add a few more adjectives while you’re at it? It’s all about melodrama with you. It’s all about you, period.” He turned and headed for the bedroom. “I’m going to take a shower, then I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“Another inquisition.”
“It’s an innocent question. A second ago, you wanted quality time at home. With me.”
“Yeah, well, it turns out I don’t want that right now after all. So feel free to see your brother. Go out with your girlfriends. Tell the world what a loser I am.”
“Trent, don’t. We need to talk. We can’t leave things like this.”
He didn’t respond and walked down the hallway, disappearing into the bathroom. Within seconds, he’d turned on the taps.
&nb
sp; Emily stared after him, dumbstruck. As she listened to the water, convinced it was the sound of her relationship going down the drain, she realized she’d have to tread carefully. She could almost envision it, two full years swirling and disappearing down the drainpipe.
He’s not the same man. I didn’t sign up for this.
Discouraged, she retrieved her cell phone from her purse so she could text Chris, but she left out the part about her latest argument with Trent. No sooner had she scribbled a note to her brother than a text popped up from Michael Zorn.
Hi Emily. It was great meeting you today. I look forward to working with you. Any concerns along the way, please let me know. I realize this is TV, but every guest is a customer to me. I want to ensure you’re happy. Oh, and please put in a good word with Nonna Olivia for me.
Emily smiled, wanting to cry. She’d forgotten what it was like for a man to show consideration. And a man like Michael Zorn…
She knew he was just being professional. After all, he’d been a respected contractor before he was a TV star. To someone like him, the words ‘customer service’ meant something.
Although, a couple of times today, she swore she’d caught him checking her out.
Don’t be silly. She was simply starved for attention. She loved Trent, she did. It was wrong for her to entertain fantasies of Michael seducing her. She and Trent were just experiencing a bad patch. They’d get over it. They were stronger than this.
She owed it to their history to give their relationship another chance. One day, they’d wonder what all the grief was about.
Wouldn’t they?
After a few minutes, Trent turned off the water. Her spine stiffened and she held her breath. She heard a bump from the bathroom and a muffled curse. Maybe he’d stubbed his toe. At least the curse wasn’t directed at her.
She quickly texted a note back to Michael.
Thank you, Michael. I look forward to working with you too. Have a good evening.
There. Short, succinct and professional. Not sexy or flirty or encouraging in any way.
Worried her message might appear unnecessarily cold, she added another line.
And Nonna Olivia says ‘Ciao.’
Feeling silly, Emily tucked her phone into her pocket. She waited near the entrance to the hallway, hoping that when Trent emerged, he’d see sense and apologize.
However, he strode out of the bathroom wearing fresh clothes, surrounded by the scent of cologne. He walked past her toward the door. He didn’t look at her or offer her a conciliatory kiss, opting instead to walk out of the door, shutting it behind him.
Emily stood alone, a ghost. Disregarded, if not forgotten.
Chapter Five
“Welcome to another episode of Handymen. I’m Michael Zorn. My brothers and I help families turn their renovation dreams into reality.” Michael walked up the steps to the Beatrice Street house, keeping his eye on the camera. “Today, we’re here with Emily and Trent, a great couple who hope to transform Emily’s grandmother’s former home into the setting for a thriving business. Come on in. Soup’s on.”
“Cut.” Lacey made a slashing gesture at her throat.
“What was wrong with it this time?”
“I’m sorry, Michael. It sounds forced when you say ‘Soup’s on.’”
“That’s because never, in a million years, would I say ‘Soup’s on.’”
From behind his camera, Louie laughed. “Sounds like you should be standing on a porch, clanging a triangle for some hungry cowboys.”
“Who asked you?” said Lacey. “Listen, Michael. I write the script. You stick to reading it, okay?”
“Okay. Want me to do it again?”
“No. Maybe later if we have time. I’ll take what we’ve got to editing for now. I might be able to work some magic. Let’s take it from the meet-and-greet with Emily and Trent inside.”
Michael had already met Emily, of course, and had met the elusive Trent earlier that morning. He hadn’t been impressed.
Trent hadn’t been rude to Michael. In fact, he’d barely said anything to him at all. However, an air of entitlement wafted about him and his upturned nose, like fog clinging to a Victorian London lamppost in a cheesy film about Jack the Ripper. Maybe it was Trent’s ever-present smirk. Then again, maybe it was the fact that he wore his flashy red jeans a little too tight. Either way, Andrews struck him as the sort of man who seemed to feel life owed him something. As someone who’d had to work hard to get where he was, Michael resented people who expected the universe to magically provide whatever they needed.
His good opinion might have been salvaged if it hadn’t been for the fact Andrews had been condescending to Emily in the presence of others. That no-no, now a cardinal sin in Michael’s book, meant all bets were off.
‘It’s so nice of you all to support my fiancée as she works toward fulfilling her little dream,’ Andrews had said that morning.
Little dream?
Michael had ground his teeth, counting to three before responding. ‘I think Emily’s doing a great thing. She’s promoting a healthy lifestyle, good nutrition, and she’s rescuing her grandmother’s house. We’re all eager to help her build a home for her business.’
Andrews had pretended not to hear him and had looked away, but his was not the opinion Michael sought. He’d looked to Emily in that moment instead.
She might like to pretend her fiancé’s comment hadn’t hit home, but the dark circles under her eyes spoke volumes. All the concealer in the world hadn’t disguised them.
In spite of the excitement surrounding the shoot, Emily wasn’t happy. The knowledge made his gut roil.
As he walked inside the house now, followed by the cameraman, he reminded himself not to clench his fists. This shoot had him on edge. As another headache swarmed his frontal lobe, he checked the time. He’d taken his headache pills only an hour ago. Why hadn’t they started working?
Emily stood inside the living area, next to Trent. Nick and Eli flanked them. Emily looked at Michael and her mouth spread in a wide grin. He fought the sucker punch to his gut. Her smile deadened the throb in his head. She made him feel good. He wanted to make her smile too. Call him a fool, but he hadn’t seen her look at Trent like that. Granted, he’d only seen them together for part of the morning, but anyone could tell the relationship was strained.
It must be the camera. It made some people nervous.
Maybe it makes other people assholes.
Dark circles notwithstanding, Emily looked as adorable today as she had the last time Michael had seen her. She wore another figure-hugging pair of jeans. Her slim T-shirt had a decal that said Acme Trucking. The logo amused him, because she looked nothing like a trucker. Her cropped blonde hair was slicked back away from her forehead and her green eyes sparkled. Most of the women Michael knew wore their hair long. He liked Emily’s short hair and could imagine himself running his fingers through it, playing with the shaved bits at the nape of her neck.
Whoa. This is not good. Get a hold of yourself. Those pills are making you delusional.
Schooling his features, Michael tried to remember his lines but forgot what Lacey had penned. He improvised. “So, Emily. Tell us about your neck. Excuse me, your business.”
Thanks to her obvious nerves, she didn’t seem to catch his slip of the tongue. “Well, Michael. When I was a little girl, my grandmother taught me how to make her famous minestrone. She and I experimented a lot in the kitchen for many years. I guess you could say I got hooked on cooking a long time ago. Although I didn’t study as a chef, it’s always been a big hobby of mine.”
Was it Michael’s imagination, or did Trent grunt when she said the word hobby?
“A couple of years ago,” Emily continued, “I decided I wanted to launch my business with an emphasis on healthy eating. I began compiling the recipes I created with my grandmother.”
Michael held up a mason jar labeled From Scratch. Filled with layers of colorful spices and lentils and tied off with a ri
bbon on the lid, it looked like a great gift. It also made him hungry. “So this is a labor of love?”
“Very much so.” Emily grabbed Trent’s hand. “And I’m lucky my fiancé is a talented professional chef. Trent has lots of helpful tips and tricks.” Her voice cracked. “He shares them with me all the time.”
Michael was about to invite Trent to say something about his work, but the man leaned in and monopolized the camera. “I can’t take any credit for Emily’s recipes, as much as I’d like to share some of my artistry. She prefers the rustic approach. Personally, I’m not a fan of peasant food. I prefer using gourmet ingredients and methods. My little firecracker won’t let me polish her rough diamonds, though.”
Lacey called “cut” while she dealt with a camera malfunction issue. The makeup woman brought Emily and Trent over to the side of the set so she could touch up their faces.
Eli pulled Michael aside. “Did that guy just call his girlfriend’s recipes peasant food?”
Michael tapped his foot repeatedly. “I don’t like him. I don’t like his hipster hair, I don’t like his tight jeans and I don’t like the way he talks about Emily.”
Nick approached, a tease in his lowered voice. “But you do like Emily?”
“Shut up, Nick.” Michael walked over to where Lacey worked. “Lacey, I want those comments about peasant food and rough diamonds edited out.”
“What’s wrong with peasant food? It’s a movement in the culinary industry.”
“Yeah, well, when Trent says it, he makes it sound like an insult.”
“With all due respect, Michael, why should you care?”
“I care because, if he comes off sounding like a douchebag, our show will come off the same way. You said important people are watching us. Do you want them to get the wrong idea about Handymen?”
Lacey batted her eyelashes. “Of course not. We wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. We’re all about clarity, aren’t we?”
“Don’t make this about something else.”
“Don’t worry, Michael. When we’ve changed the battery on this camera, we’ll do another take. Perhaps Trent will sound less insulting on the second try.”