Текст книги "The Coincidence of Coconut Cake"

Автор книги: Amy E. Reichert

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

• • • • •

Lou woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something delicious baking. She reached over to find Al’s side of the bed cool and empty. She could hear him knocking about in the kitchen, a room she’d never look at quite the same.

Lou rolled onto her back and spread her limbs wide to take up most of the bed, enjoying the sensation of lazing about fully awake. Warm sheets gave way to cool ones as she reached onto Al’s side of the bed. Hmmm, Al’s side. She now thought of them as having sides, having a future.

A loud crash echoed down the hall.

Before Lou could get enough momentum to swing her pleasantly tired body out of bed, Al’s voice said, “Don’t get up. Nothing’s broken. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Good enough for her. Lou settled back into the pillows, enjoying the smell of breakfast prepared by someone else. She loved to cook, but she still liked having other people cook for her. When you’re a chef, most nonprofessionals are too intimidated to cook for you. You get used to preparing all the meals when you have dinner parties with friends. The long hours, late nights, and weekends whittled away at any non-restaurant– based friendships. Eventually, most of your friends came from the industry. Al cooking for her was a special treat.

And here she was, lying in bed with a handsome man making her breakfast. When she heard his footsteps coming down the hall, she sat up in anticipation. Al walked in carrying a full tray including a plate piled with scones. He settled it between them on the bed.

“You can bake?” Lou asked.

“Any proper Englishman can make a scone.”

Lou rolled her eyes at him.

“Okay, that’s not true. My grandma taught me. It’s saved me more than once. It’s difficult to find a proper scone here—Harley’s excluded, of course.” Lou grabbed one and took a bite.

“These are wonderful. And coffee. I don’t deserve you.”

Al concentrated on fixing his tea, then said, “I don’t think that’s true.”

They munched scones and drank their hot drinks in comfortable silence. Finally, Al looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table and said, “Would you mind if we turned on the telly? I feel like I’ve been out of touch with the world.”

“It’s been less than twelve hours. Are you implying time with me seems like forever?”

Al was struggling to find the words to get himself out of this quandary when Lou laughed.

“Don’t worry. I’m just teasing. Here’s the remote.”

Lou started on her second scone as Al flipped on the TV. The local morning news had just begun. The young weatherman promised an Indian summer for the next week, then temperatures would drop below forty. Given the time of year, they would probably not see forty again until March. Where would her life be by then? Would she have a job? Money for rent? Would she and Al still spend lazy mornings in bed together? She looked over at him, admiring his scruffy jaw, thinking about setting aside her scone to nibble on his neck instead. He was a wonderful distraction. Over her daydream, she heard, “Restaurant critic A. W. Wodyski died this weekend of a heart attack. His tenure in Milwaukee, while short, was full of controversial and popular reviews.”

Lou’s coffee cup hovered inches from her mouth. Her emotions swirled. She wanted to be happy with the news, but even after his crap criticism, she couldn’t muster enough energy to truly care. Because of Al’s presence in her life, she’d found an unlikely path out of that pit. Now on the other side, she was okay. Better than okay at the moment. She looked over at Al, who was watching her from the corner of his eye.

“What?” Lou asked.

“Nothing, I guess. You looked upset for a moment.”

“Just gauging how I felt about the news.” Al looked confused, as if he needed more information. “Did I never tell you? His review of my restaurant destroyed any chance of growing my customer base. Since his negative review, only our most loyal clients still come. I wish they had posted a picture. I would love to know what he looked like. Not that I’d remember. The night he ate at Luella’s was the same day I found Devlin with Megan. The day we met, actually. I don’t remember much except doing a lot of dishes. I’m surprised my hands aren’t still wrinkly.”

She wiggled her fingers in front of her face.

“Lou.” Al looked uncomfortable. “You should know—”

“I’m sorry,” Lou interrupted. “I shouldn’t be talking about him. That’s not fair to you.”

“That’s not it. You—”

Lou interrupted him again.

“Seriously. It feels like ancient history to me, so I didn’t think how mentioning Devlin might bug you. Let’s not talk about it.”

Al sighed.

“I assure you, it doesn’t bother me. We can talk about anything you like.” Al touched her face, cupping her cheek in one hand. She tilted toward it and closed her eyes to really enjoy the sensation of his touch.

“I love you,” he said.

Al whispered it. But a whisper with the power of a spring thunderstorm—the power to cleanse, to excite, and to calm. And the power to destroy. Lou felt safe and vulnerable, whole and scattered. With open eyes, the last bastion of resistance in her heart disintegrated in his shower of affection.

Saying “I love you” changed everything.

Lou managed a breathy “Me, too.”

• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •

How long do you think I need to wait before I tell her?” Al asked.

He tapped his fingers on the bar, waiting for John’s reply.

“Tell her what? . . . Oh, you mean tell her you’re taking the job of the man who destroyed her livelihood who was really you but you’ve created a fictional death and obit because you would never hurt her ’cause you love her so much.”

“That’s about right, but I probably won’t add in all the extra bits. What’s up your bum?” Al prodded John with his elbow. When Al wasn’t dining out—he sometimes took John now, who had a surprising eye for detail and refined palate—they often went for drinks while he waited for Lou to finish at the restaurant.

John turned toward him and chewed his lip. Al had never seen him so rattled. John always acted sure of himself and his surroundings.

“The paper wants to send me to Paris.”

“That’s fantastic. Why so crabby?”

“Hannah wants me to meet with different fashion houses. They want to actually have coverage rather than relying on Associated Press for the details. Hannah seems to think I have a good eye and they want to make it more prominent in the paper.”

“Mate, that’s brilliant. I’m not understanding your bad mood.”

“I can’t go looking like this.” He gestured to himself. “They’d never let me in. No one would take me seriously.”

“You’ve done all right thus far. Maybe you don’t need to change.”

“Ha—I may be a boy from ’Stallis, but I’m not an idiot. I get away with this here because I do most of my shopping online. Any local shopping I do I act like I’m an errand boy. They accept that and I get what I need.”

“You name-drop yourself?”

John gave Al a stony look.

“No one in fashion would respect me if they knew what I looked like.”

“Then cut your hair and shave the beard. It’s not like you don’t know how to dress well.”

“I haven’t been beardless since my freshman year in high school.”

“You could grow a full beard in high school?”

“My family’s hairy.” John shrugged his shoulders. “I shaved in sixth grade.”

“Oh.” Al looked around the bar. “I still don’t think I’m grasping the entire issue.”

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand; I was just hoping you’d listen.”

“Mate, I’m listening. But I can’t offer any advice if I don’t get it.”

“I know it doesn’t make sense, but I like this look for me. People avoid me. In high school, that was a benefit. Now I’m used to it. People don’t talk to me, they don’t stare at me.”

“What do you mean they don’t stare? Half this room can’t keep their eyes off you.”

“But they’re gawking because I look homeless.”

“As someone who doesn’t look homeless, may I suggest people would probably stare less if you were shaven and had clean clothes.”

“People used to stare—that’s why I grew the beard and hair out. They still look, but at least now they see what I want them to.”

What was he hiding? Birthmarks, scars from a rabid squirrel attack? Al wanted to know, but the politeness his mother had drilled into him had finally taken effect.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I have to get a shave and haircut. I don’t see any way around it.”

“What if you just trimmed it up a little neater? You still wouldn’t see a ton of skin, but it would give a little definition to your face.”

“Nah. If I’m doing it, I’ll do it right.” John sighed in submission. “I can’t believe we’re sitting in a bar full of lovely ladies and we’re talking about my beard.”

“Pathetic, really. And I’ve got your back should you need it.” Al put his hand on John’s shoulder. “At least I have a lovely lady to go home to. Which brings us full circle. Thoughts?”

“It’s all about you, isn’t it?” John’s smile told Al he teased. “Okay, it’s been two weeks since the obit. I’d say in the next week or so tell her you got the job. That works out. A week for the paper to mourn, a week accepting résumés, a week for interviews. Heck, you could even push it back more with the holidays. If Hannah really was hiring you, she’d tell you the week of Thanksgiving so you’d have the long weekend to get ready. Plus, you’d be hired in time for all the holiday food columns.”

“Thanksgiving. That might be perfect. Once again, John, you’ve saved my pasty white arse.”

• • • • •

Al twitched as he watched the clock and listened for Lou’s arrival. Today was his first Thanksgiving. Lou planned to cook the two of them her family’s traditional meal. The turkey sat in a cooler of salted ice water, happily brining since last night. So far, it didn’t differ much from Christmas dinner back home, except Lou hadn’t mentioned anything about pigs in a blanket. But any holiday centered around food was his kind of holiday. The only possible negative was that he’d planned to tell Lou about his fake new job today.

Since waking, he had changed his mind four times. He didn’t want to ruin a perfect day with Lou, but he couldn’t bear not sharing this part of his life with her. He didn’t want to lie or evade anymore when she asked about his writing. He had his freelance articles to show her, but Hannah planned to use his real byline next week so he had to tell Lou now. With all the grief A. W. Wodyski had brought her, Al fretted that Lou couldn’t accept his new job, that she’d be crushed he wanted to work for the paper that ruined her restaurant. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

Lou had said she’d arrive at eight in the morning to start cooking. She’d given him strict instructions to have coffee waiting, the bird brining, and something for breakfast. He made scones again, this time with pumpkin pie spices to fit the occasion. They had the entire day ahead of them to fill with cooking, talking, and making love. He wouldn’t get a better opportunity.

Buzzzz! Finally. He pushed the button to let her in but thought better of it. He ran to open the door in person. Thank God he did. She had two large bags full of food and supplies stacked on top of a rolling cooler. When he opened the door, her face split into a glowing smile.

“You saved me. I didn’t know how I would carry this up. I’ve got the bags if you can grab the cooler.”

With a peck on the cheek she scooted past him to prop the door open while he carried the cooler. Back in the kitchen, she unpacked using one hand while the other held a disappearing scone.

Between bites she said, “Happy Thanksgiving, handsome.”

“You, too. But it feels a little wrong to celebrate people having to leave England.”

“It’s the perfect holiday for you, too. You left England looking for something better, just like the pilgrims did.”

Al hugged her from behind and kissed her neck.

“But I found so much more than Native Americans and pumpkins.” Lou turned and kissed him. When he tried to continue, she briskly broke it off. “Not today, love. This is serious cooking. No time for messing about. We have a bird requiring stuffing, rolls to start, and pies to bake.”

“You are a cruel mistress.”

Lou winked.

“Trust me—it will all be worth it. This is the best holiday! It’s like a chef created it. Thanksgiving is the only holiday we have contingent on the food. That’s all you have to do—eat. Best. Holiday. Ever.”

“What can I do to help?” Al said with a dramatic sigh, which Lou chose to ignore with a smile.

“Rinse the brine off the bird, dry it off, then rub it with this.” Lou handed him two sticks of soft butter. “Salt and pepper it, too. Don’t forget the inside.”

Lou started browning sausage and ground beef, adding the mirepoix, and tossing it all with seasoned croutons made from the restaurant’s bread scraps. In minutes the kitchen felt like home. Now was his time to tell her, while she was busy but not chopping anything.

“So, I have a new job. A full-time one.”

Lou turned to look at him.

“That’s amazing. Where is it? What are you writing about?”

“Well, you know how I love food, right? I applied for the job to replace the food critic who just died, and I got it. I’m the new food critic for the paper.” While Al spoke, his fingers continued to rub butter into the same spot on the turkey. Lou stopped stirring the meat; her shoulders dipped, and a line grew between her eyebrows.

“You applied for the critic job? Why would you do that?”

“It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I just never had an opportunity before now.” He hated the lies. Get through today and I’ll be done, he thought. All honesty from now on.

“You didn’t mention you wanted to apply.” Lou’s eyes shone a little more, her face scrunched as if she were sucking on a lemon.

“I didn’t know how you’d react. And what if they didn’t hire me? I didn’t want to have this conversation if I wasn’t getting the job.”

“I see. Why upset the apple cart if the cow isn’t going to hit it?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have.” Al waited for a response.

Lou stood still for a moment.

Unable to stand the silence and not knowing what she thought, Al asked, “Lou?”

“Give me a moment, please; I need to think about this.” Lou turned back to the stove, finished the stuffing, and shoved it into the turkey. She set it in the roasting pan and added some turkey stock. The entire pan went in the oven. She washed her hands, set the timer, and turned to face Al. He never wanted to hurt her. That was the whole point of the plan.

“Lou—” Al stepped toward her and she put up a hand to stop him.

“I’m not thrilled you’ll be the new critic. I have some unresolved feelings I need to work through on that. Like how can they criticize a restaurant after one visit and not give a chef the chance to, I don’t know, try again.” Lou’s shoulders slumped and she dropped her chin to her chest. “Oh God, it still hurts so much.”

Al pulled her into his arms as her body quivered with each sob and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Lou quieted after a few moments and stepped out of Al’s arms, wiping tears away from her red eyes with the edge of her apron.

With a sniff she said, “Clearly, I still have some wounds left to heal, but I would never ask you to not take a job you wanted. I’ve been on the other end of that and it sucks. I’m happy you have a job you want. Not many people can say that. I am a bit disappointed you didn’t tell me about it sooner, but I guess I understand why you didn’t.”

Lou stepped closer to Al so she could hold his hands and look closely in his eyes.

“I love you. You say you love me. Spending time with you brought me back from a really ugly place. In hindsight, I believe I’m better off now. I lost my restaurant, but I’m also rid of Devlin and I found you. I want a future with you. Don’t ever be afraid to tell me about your life. If you want to share it, I want to know it. Can you do that? Tell me things even if you think I’ll be upset and end up a mess like I am right now?” She gave him a little smile as she finished.

Al soaked in her words, let them seep into his worry lines. She didn’t care about the new job. She only wanted to know him more. He could do that. Al smiled in relief. He really didn’t deserve her.

“Lou, full disclosure from this moment on.” He lifted one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it. He could see Lou take a quick breath, just like she did when they first met at the pub so many months ago.

“One last thing,” Lou said. “Promise you won’t be anything like the last guy.”

“I can absolutely promise that.”

He pulled Lou in tight, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, the vanilla smell always right behind her ears, her soft hair against his cheek. He didn’t realize how terrified he was of losing her until just now. He took a deep breath.

“Feel better?” Lou asked.

“Quite, you?”

“Much better. Now, back to work. We have a feast to prepare.”

“Lou, who is going to eat all this?”

“Silly man, Thanksgiving isn’t about the meal. It’s about the leftovers. Turkey-and-cranberry sandwiches, stuffing on toast, and gravy fries. Thanksgiving is great, but the day after is even better.”

Yes, Thanksgiving was his holiday. Today was good, but tomorrow would be better.

• • • • •

“Isn’t it pretty? An entire day’s accomplishments spread out for consumption,” Lou said.

“Like a fat man’s fantasy.”

Al and Lou sat at the table with the feast in front of them. Lou’s arteries congealed as she recalled the pounds of butter that went into the meal and the two pies cooling in the kitchen. But you couldn’t skimp on butter on a holiday, and any substitute would feel wrong to a girl born and raised in the Dairy State. At least she’d resisted putting cheese in half the dishes.

“Do you want to carve the bird? Or should I?”

“I’d love to, if you trust me.”

“Butcher away—it all goes to the same place. Use these.”

Lou handed him the carving knife and fork. Al tilted his head. The blade was typical, long and thin, not particularly sturdy. The fork had two tines attached to the handle. What caused Al to pause and what endeared them to Lou were the handles, covered in haphazard paint splotches of every hue. No sign of the original wood appeared under the rainbow handles.

Noticing his pause, Lou explained, “My family has used these since I can remember. One year, when I was about five, my dad explained how they were special utensils for holidays. I decided the plain wood wasn’t good enough. I took the box when my parents didn’t notice and hid it in my room. I spent months painting it just so. When I completed my masterpiece, I put it back in the hutch with the fancy plates and silver. At the next Thanksgiving, my father took them out to carve the turkey. He knew immediately what had happened.”

“What did he do?”

“He asked my mother where she’d purchased such fine carving tools, because they were surely meant for royalty. My mom was so confused; then she saw my handiwork and played along. We pretended we were eating at a royal feast. I played princess and hostess. It was our best Thanksgiving.”

“Rest assured, the Queen would be green with envy if she knew such a fine carving set existed.”

Al set to carving the turkey, neatly removing the wings and legs, impressing Lou with his deftness. He removed the breasts and set them on a cutting board, then turned the bird to get at the thighs.

“This isn’t your first bird,” Lou said.

“We do eat turkey in England, just with slightly different trimmings.”

While Al finished cutting the turkey to manageable pieces, Lou filled their plates with a little of everything. She still struggled with Al’s new job. The hurt had surprised her. She had thought she was over Wodyski’s bad review.

While they chewed, Lou examined the hurt, turned it around in her mind to see it from every side. He’d known she wouldn’t like it—that was why he waited until he got the job. She could accept that as a thoughtful gesture. But why apply to begin with? He knew about the review; she was kidding herself if she thought he hadn’t looked it up online to read it. He also knew how wrong that smug son of a bitch was. She’d served Al the very same meal Wodyski received and he’d raved about the perfectly cooked fish, delicate sauce—said Julia Child would be proud.

Lou thought about what she’d told Al in the kitchen, verifying she meant every word. She did understand wanting a job your partner didn’t support. How long had Devlin begged her to quit the restaurant, never listening to her dreams? From what she knew about Al, he loved food as much as she did, but he also loved writing. Now he could marry the two—a perfect job. She could never deny him that. Yes, she did mean every word. She would support his job, be excited for him, and look forward to a few nice meals on the paper’s dime; it was the least they owed her.

“So how is this going to work?” Lou said, bringing Al back from his happy place with the food.

He chewed and swallowed.

“Funny you should mention that. I could start by reviewing Luella’s. Maybe that could help it out. Maybe even start a section in my column where I revisit Wodyski’s bad reviews and refute the ones he got wrong.”

Lou smiled at the gesture.

“No, you can’t do that. At least not with Luella’s. There would be too much bias, and it’s too late. The closing date is coming like a cheek-pinching great-aunt.”

Al nodded. “Okay then, so I won’t review any restaurant you work at or own. But at least I can still visit.”

“Aren’t you worried people will find out what you look like?”

“Not really. Frankly, I think it would take the pressure off.”

Lou’s head bobbed and her eyes narrowed in thought.

“So, will you need any dining companions? I’d like to volunteer my services. I’ll have some time opening up soon.”

Al smiled. “You must be reading my mind. I can’t think of anyone else more qualified. Plus, date nights on the paper sounds about right. Have you set a date?”

“Harley and Sue finally agreed to get new jobs, but I already know chefs who will hire them whenever they can start. I’m closing December twenty-second. We’ll have one last party on the twenty-third, and everything will be ready for the auctioneers after the New Year.” Lou took a few more bites and stared at her half-empty wineglass.

“I’m so sorry, Lou.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. I thought I accepted it months ago, but now that it’s less than one month away . . . it’s really hard.” The table clouded over as if she were looking at it through a fishbowl. Some of her face muscles started to cramp from holding in the tears.

“I don’t mean to cry again; it’s just . . . I worked so hard and I was so close. I keep wishing I could do it over, do it better. Now I just hope I don’t owe money after the auction. If I could do it again, I’d . . . do things different. But I don’t think I have the heart to try again.”

Al got up, knelt before her, and grabbed her hands. She couldn’t stop her heart from doing a little unexpected flip-flop.

“Don’t say that. I’ll help you do anything. Don’t give up on your dream. It’s not fair I get mine and you don’t.”

Lou took a shuddering breath and dried her eyes.

“Enough serious for today. Today is for giving thanks.” Lou looked into Al’s upturned face. “And I am so thankful you’ve finally started wearing jeans instead of khakis every day.”

Al laughed.

“And I’m thankful you introduced me to squeaky cheese and frozen custard.”

Al kissed the back of her hand, soothing her with his gentle touch. He still believed in her. Lou leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. She would find a new dream.