by Tawna Fenske
“Actually, would you mind throwing together some garlic bread? I forgot to get that started.”
I eye the loaf of deli French bread and ponder the best way to tackle the task. “Here’s where I confess I’m not kidding about having no domestic skills. Do I just cover it in garlic salt or what?”
Griffin laughs, a warm, melodic sound that swirls with all the good kitchen smells. “Nah, we’re into fresh garlic around here. I already crushed up a couple cloves and mixed it with melted butter. Right there.” He aims his big wooden spoon at a little crockery bowl as I wash my hands at the sink. “Just slice open the loaf and spread the garlic butter.”
“I think I can figure it out from here.” At least, I hope I can. I’ve used a bread knife before, but never in this exact way.
I settle for slicing the loaf lengthwise, flopping it open to reveal the soft, pillowy insides. There’s plenty of garlic butter, so I slather it generously as Griffin talks.
“So what do you eat if you can’t cook?” he asks.
I focus on spreading butter so he doesn’t see my self-consciousness. “I used to have a personal chef.”
“No kidding?”
“It’s more common than you’d think in Hollywood.” I shrug and keep slathering. “He came three times a week and prepped healthy, nutritious meals I could heat up whenever I wanted.”
“Sounds like a nice gig.” His voice holds a faint stiffness, and I wonder if it has something to do with his ex-wife.
Griffin looks up like he heard my thoughts. Flicking a glance at the powder room where Soph’s washing her hands, he lowers his voice. “Sorry, I’m being a dick again.”
“What?” I’m so startled I drop the knife. Hurrying to grab it, I crouch at his feet. “Your dick never crossed my mind.”
Oh, God. That’s not what he said, is it?
It doesn’t help that I’m kneeling with my face at crotch level, so I leap to my feet with cheeks flaming. “I mean, you didn’t seem dicklike at all.”
Jesus, Mari. Stop saying dick.
I scrub the knife at the sink, keeping my back to him. “Anyway, you’re right—a personal chef does sound rather pretentious.”
“No, it’s not that.” There’s a hint of humor in his voice, and I wonder if he realizes how flustered I am. “It’s just—the idea that everyone in Hollywood has their own chef and yoga coach and personal car waxer. That’s something Soph’s mom used to talk about. She had this thing she called her ‘dream board’ with all the stuff she wanted to have when she got famous.”
I turn back to face him, confident I have myself under control. “Your ex-wife has a connection to Hollywood?”
“You might say that.” He glances up as Soph comes back into the room, and I sense he’s ready to change the subject. “So you’re not a big fan of cooking, huh?”
“I’m hoping to learn,” I tell him. “Colleen and Patti at the café have been teaching me to bake muffins, so I’m not a complete lost cause.”
He raps the spoon on the side of the pot and grins. “I never said you were a lost cause. If it makes you feel better, I can’t change the oil in my car.”
I cock my head and study him. “Why would that make me feel better?”
“Because it’s one of those byproducts of misogyny or toxic masculinity or whatever the hell it is.” He glances over his shoulder where Soph is pretending not to listen while she sets the table. “This idea that women are supposed to know how to cook and men are supposed to know how to fix cars. It’s bullshit, and I’m not buying it.”
Soph looks up from arranging a placemat. “Daddy, my delicate ears.” She says it in a sing-song voice that makes me laugh. “How dare you curse before me.”
“Sorry, baby.” Griffin flashes a dimpled grin. “You wanted to go first?”
Soph busts up laughing, and I’m struck by the sweetness of their schtick. My brothers and sisters have bits they’ve performed since we were kids, and I’ve always loved watching the ritual.
“Blimey!” She shouts the word with an impressive British accent as she yanks open a drawer filled with silverware. “Some bloody blighter forgot to unload the dishwasher.”
“I wonder who that would be?” Griff gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Perhaps the same young lady who’s only allowed to use British curse words.”
“Bollocks,” Soph says, and carries the utensils to the table.
Stifling a grin, I wrap the bread loaf in foil and hand it off to Griffin. His fingers brush mine, and an arc of electricity shoots up my arm. “I’ve heard some creative solutions to discourage kids from cursing, but that’s adorable.”
He shoves the bread in the oven and hits some buttons. “It seemed like a good compromise, plus it’s a nice vocab lesson. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Oh! I almost forgot.” I run back to the entry table where I abandoned a bottle of 2018 estate pinot noir from Kristin Hill Winery. I bought it a few weeks ago when the whole Judson family went wine tasting in the Willamette Valley, all six of us piled into a company van like the Brady Bunch. “I wasn’t sure what you were making, but pinot goes with everything.”
He gets a funny look on his face, and for a moment I panic. He’s not in recovery, is he? But no, that wouldn’t make sense for a brewmaster, and besides—
“Thank you.” He sets the bottle on the counter and gives a smile that almost meets his eyes. “Can I pour you a glass?”
“Actually, I wanted to sample your beer.”
“Oh?”
I shrug, and skim a hand over the counter, trying to pretend it’s not a big deal. “I’ve never been a beer drinker, and I can’t promise I’ll like it, but I want to give it a try.”
With a curious smile, he reaches out to touch me. No, not touch me. He’s reaching past me to get to the fridge, and I jump out of the way.
“You’re in luck.” He drags a giant glass jug from the fridge. “I’ve got a growler of radler.”
“I understood ‘I’ve got a.’” I watch as he pours a few ounces into a small glass. “The rest of that was Greek to me.”
Griffin grins and hands me the glass, and I try to ignore the fresh zing of lightning shooting up my arm as our fingers touch. “A growler is a 64-ounce jug for beer. And radler’s sort of like a cross between beer and citrus soda. Tends to be more palatable for non-beer drinkers.”
“Beer with training wheels?” Cautiously, I lift the glass to my lips. “Smells fruity.”
“I use a combination of lemon and grapefruit for this one,” he says. “It’s a German-style radler, but with an American twist.”
I take a taste, reminding myself to keep an open mind. It’s fruitier than I expected, without the skunky smell that usually turns me off with beer. The first sip goes down easy, like a fountain drink on a hot day.
“What do you think?” He watches me with his own glass cupped in one large hand. “I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t like it. I’ve got lots of other stuff you can drink.”
“I like it,” I say as I lower the glass. “I think.”
Griffin laughs. “You think?”
“I do. This is really beer?”
“Technically, it’s more of a hybrid between beer and citrus soda or even juice. Pretty popular in Europe. It’s similar to a shandy.” He must see my eyes glazing over because he taps a finger to the glass. “There’s low alcohol content in that one. If you enjoy that, you might also like sour beers or even a nice gose.”
“Gose? How did I never know there were so many kinds of beer?”
“That’s another German varietal. There’s usually a lemony, herbal quality to them, but they’re most known for having a touch of salt. I make a kefir lime and cucumber gose that’ll knock your socks off.”
My mouth is watering, and it’s not entirely from all the culinary descriptions. It’s seeing Griffin so at ease, so passionate about something he knows well.
“This.” I breathe the word without meaning to, flushing as I fumble to
explain. “This must be why my family was so eager to have you here. The way you light up from the inside when you’re talking about something you love.”
His eyes lock with mine, the gaslight blue aglow. He’s not blinking, and I’m not sure he’s breathing. He looks like he wants to say something but isn’t sure he should. I watch his throat move as he swallows. “Guess I get pretty fired up when something excites me.”
All the breath leaves my lungs. I feel my lips part, like they’re aching to be kissed. This is crazy. It’s insane. Both words I swear I’ll never use because they smack of ableism, but I can’t think of a better way to describe how Griffin makes me feel in this moment.
I thought maybe I imagined our near-miss kiss the other day, but there’s no question now.
Griffin wants to kiss me.
Griffin’s going to kiss me.
I want that more than anything.
He takes a step toward me. “Mar.” He breathes the syllable, hand lifting to touch my face.
I lean in, already feeling the callused palm on my cheek, feeling the heat of his chest as he—
“Dad!”
Soph bounds into the room, and Griffin and I spring apart like we’ve been caught in a full-on lip lock. Which we haven’t, I swear.
But if Soph picks up on any tension between us, she’s not letting on. She’s too excited about what she’s clutching with both hands, holding it tight against her chest. It’s a picture frame, and as she lowers it, my eyes lock on the image behind the glass.
Oh.
My.
God.
All the blood leaves my head, and I start to sway. Grabbing the counter, I fight to stay upright, to wrap my head around what I’m seeing in the photograph.
“Check it out.” Blessedly oblivious, Soph taps a baby-pink nail on the face of my former patient, Gabrielle Julia.
Gabrielle…Walsh?
No. This can’t be happening. We did background checks. We interviewed family members. We were so cautious with our prospective community members.
How did this slip through the cracks?
“Mom’s got a hat kinda like the one Mari made,” Soph continues, unaware I’m on the brink of passing out. “You think you could teach me to do this?”
I can’t find my voice. Can’t look at Griffin.
And I can’t ignore the slow, sinking ball of lead in my gut.
The realization that things are about to get really, really complicated.
Chapter 4
CONFESSIONAL 661
Walsh, Griffin (Head Brewer: Juniper Ridge)
I mean, yeah. I get that this TV thing is just the moneymaking arm of a big social experiment. We signed on to be guinea pigs so you can toss us in a cage together and study how things play out. I’m cool with that, mostly.
It’s the tradeoff for getting to start over with a roof over my kid’s head in a stable community far away from…well, stuff I don’t like thinking about.
I just—look, I don’t love the idea of someone digging around in my brain, okay?
Or doing it in front of a million TV viewers.
“Mari?” Guilt gut-punches me at the stricken look on her face. She’s clearly not thrilled that my kid caught us kissing.
Almost kissing.
But yeah, I’m rattled, too. If an almost-kiss with Mari has my brain bubbling like a shaken can of Kolsch, what would a real kiss do?
Mari’s staring at Soph in stunned silence, so it’s up to me to save us. “Was that a really tough pattern to crochet or something?” I point to the photo, ignoring the irritation I feel anytime I see my ex-wife’s face. “I don’t remember where Gabby got that hat, but she loved the damn thing.”
“G—Gabby.” Mari finds her voice again, though her eyes still look lost. They’re darting from Soph to me like she’s still trying to find her bearings. “Your ex-wife. Soph’s mom. You’re right, that’s a great hat.”
Soph smiles, not picking up on Mari’s distress. “So you think I could learn to make one like that?”
Mari licks her lips and pastes on a stiff smile. “Um, sure. I mean, eventually. It’s a really difficult pattern that’s not great for a beginner, but maybe we could start you off with simpler stuff and go from there.”
Mari takes a step back like I might try to grab her, and I feel like hell again. My own fault for thinking we were on the same page with the kissing. I could have sworn she felt the same heat crackling between us, but maybe I read it wrong.
Or maybe seeing my kid wave a photo of my ex-wife isn’t a big turn-on for Mari. Can’t say I blame her.
“Cool.” Soph studies the photo, tracing a finger over the bright blue and yellow hat. “I like the colors and stuff, but maybe we do an easy project first. A whale or a hedgehog or something.”
I’m not sure where Soph got the idea that a whale or a hedgehog is easier than a hat, but Mari isn’t arguing. She’s not saying much of anything. Just staring as Soph lays the frame on the counter and turns back to the table.
I call after her. “Does that belong there, Sophie?”
She does a dramatic pirouette as she pivots back to face me. “It’s Soph, Dad. Soph.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I stare her down. “Does that belong there, Soph?”
“Noooooo.” With an exaggerated flounce, she grabs the frame off the counter. “Is dinner almost ready?”
“Just a couple minutes.” I glance at Mari, who’s staring at the spot where the photo used to be. “What would you like to drink with dinner?”
She lifts her gaze to mine like she’s pulling herself from a trance. “Water. Water would be great, thanks.” The smile she flashes is her normal Mari smile, so maybe I imagined how much the kiss shook her.
Almost kiss.
I can’t help wishing it really happened. That I’d pulled her into my arms, feeling the crush of her breasts against my chest. As Soph bounds off toward the den with the photo she and Gabby took a few Christmases ago, I step closer to Mari.
“Sorry about that,” I tell her. “Life with kids is basically one interruption after another.”
“That’s okay.” She pushes her hair off her face and smiles even brighter. “Can I finish setting the table?”
We glance at the table to see Soph did her job perfectly, right down to the neatly folded napkins and the perfect row of butter knives, forks, and spoons lined up at each place. “I think we’re good. You sure you don’t want wine or beer or anything?”
“I’m great, thanks.” She pushes off the counter and snatches the breadbasket I’ve lined with a clean dish towel, holding it between us like a shield. “Let me just get the garlic bread…”
Before I can stop her, she yanks open the oven door and reaches in with a bare hand. I leap forward, but I’m too late.
“Yoooow!” She shrieks and drops the foil-wrapped loaf. Tears spring to her eyes as the bread bounces on the wood floor and lands beside my shoe.
Mari makes a sound like a trapped animal wanting help or maybe the courage to chew off its own foot. I grab her by the wrist and kick the oven door closed.
“Stick your hand under here.” I knock the breadbasket to the floor beside the steaming foil bundle as I grab the sink handle and crank it to ice-cold water. Mari’s gone stiff again, so I slip a hand around her waist to pull her in front of the basin. “You okay?”
She nods, eyes glittering with tears as water sluices over her burned hand. Scrunching her eyes closed, she shakes her head slowly. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Hey, we’re even now.” I flash a smile she can’t see because her eyes are still closed. Leaning in close, I breathe the words quietly so Soph can’t hear. “I practically burned down the brewery the first time we nearly kissed. At least you only burned your hand.”
She stiffens and opens her eyes. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“You’re the shrink.” I turn her hand over beneath the water, cradling her against my body as she winces. “You’ve got the reassura
nce skills. I just make beer.”
Her laugh sounds more like she’s choking. “God, what an idiot.”
I don’t know if she means her or me, but she’s right if it’s the latter. What was I thinking trying to kiss her with my kid in the next room?
And what am I thinking holding on to her like this? I’ve got my fingers cradling her forearm, my arm around her waist like I can’t figure out how to let go. That’s true, but it’s not helping.
“Thank you.” Her voice is practically a whisper as she looks up into my eyes. “I feel so silly.”
“Don’t. Seriously. If you don’t cook much, you might not have thought to grab oven mitts.”
Her laugh is half sob. “Any idiot who knows how an oven works should understand the need for mitts, but thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” I turn her hand over in the water, glad to see no sign of blisters. “How does it feel?”
“Okay.” She flexes her fingers. “I let go quickly enough. I mostly responded out of shock.”
I don’t like how red her hand is, though maybe it’s the cold water. “Let me grab some aloe.”
“No, don’t.” She draws her hand back, wincing. “I’m okay. Really.”
“You’re sure?”
She nods, though she doesn’t look certain at all. Her eyes lock with mine, and I’m certain she’s about to say something. Maybe, “Kiss me for real, Griff,” or even “Let’s have a sleepover when Soph goes to bed.”
But that’s not what I’m seeing on her face. There’s an odd mix of embarrassment and remorse and something else I can’t read. She drops her gaze like she’s afraid I’ll see too much in her eyes. “The bread. I’m so sorry.”
I glance down and see the foil is sealed up tight. No bulging bread slices or burst seams leaking steam.
“It’s fine.” I stoop down and pick it up, relieved to discover it’s still warm. “Five-second rule and all that.”
Her laugh sounds strained. “That was a lot longer than five seconds.”
“I suppose so.” But not long enough with Mari’s body pressed against mine. I meet her eyes again and see heat there. I swear that’s what’s happening, so maybe I’m not alone in wanting something more.
