I huffed. Jesus, I was pathetic. I pulled out my phone. No text from Meg yet today. That was good, right? At least, it wasn’t bad. I started taking pictures at random, finding spots of color in the winter-brown landscape. A spray of red berries against the wall. A clump of seed heads—coneflowers—that reminded me of home. Nothing I could use. I wasn’t writing a nature blog.
A big man in a green knit cap and navy Windbreaker was practicing tai chi in the wide space created from an old train platform. Not a class. Just this one guy, moving with fluid strength against a backdrop of sky and water. I stopped to catch my breath, watching him.
He looked so . . . centered. Calm. His powerful body flowed from one pose to the next, relaxed and graceful. Grounded. On impulse, I lifted my phone to capture his picture. He turned, revealing his face.
Oh. It was Chef. I sucked in my breath.
His gaze met mine. Oh.
For a second, he looked . . . I don’t know how he looked in that moment before his expression shuttered, became benign, impersonal and familiar.
He nodded. “March.”
My face went as hot as if I’d been dipped in boiling water. I was dizzied, disoriented with embarrassment and heat. Well, I’d been running. I could blame it on that.
“Chef.” I lowered my phone. “I didn’t recognize you.”
One corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “You take pictures of strangers.”
Was that a question?
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Well, people. Places. Food.”
Because I was an idiot hipster food blogger. I winced.
It felt weird to see him away from the kitchen, out of context and his white chef’s jacket. Like the time I’d seen Mr. Clark, my tenth-grade chemistry teacher, at the beach without his shirt. Not that Chef was shirtless. Nope. Arms, covered. Tattoos, covered. But the soft layers clung to his broad shoulders, stuck to his heavy chest. A line of sweat darkened the T-shirt at his neck.
I realized I was staring, and flushed. “We had a late night last night. I was just, um, going for a run.”
“Clearing your head?” His deep voice sounded amused. Almost sympathetic.
“Yeah.” No. He didn’t go out drinking after service with the rest of us. I didn’t want him to think I was hungover. “I just needed the . . .” The escape. “The exercise.”
He nodded. “You make yourself strong.”
It was nice that he saw it like that. Not running away. Not a coping strategy, a sign of weakness, but a kind of strength. It was nice that he said it, as if we were friends.
My throat felt thick. I swallowed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
He moved his big hand—a chef’s hand, burned, scarred, and tattooed—in a dismissive gesture. “Passt schon. How is your mother?”
His interest wasn’t personal, I reminded myself. He asked after all the staff, inquired about Constanza’s daughter and Frank’s parole meetings and Julio’s sciatica all the time. It was one of the ways he made everybody feel better about showing up for work. The way he made us want to do our best.
But somehow his attention felt different, special, outside the kitchen, away from other ears.
“She’s okay. Thanks,” I added.
“Out of the hospital, then.”
“Yeah. Well, she’s in rehab.”
“You have talked to her.”
My eyes prickled. Shit. Oh shit. I was not going to cry. “Not today,” I admitted.
He didn’t say anything.
Which was all the encouragement I needed to start babbling. “She fell,” I said. “Apparently she needed to use the bathroom, and when the staff didn’t come right away, she tried to go by herself.” Our mother had always liked to do for herself. The image of her waiting for assistance, alone and helpless, anxious not to soil her hospital bed, tore at my heart.
“I tried calling yesterday,” I said. “But Meg says not to bother her at breakfast, because she needs to eat and the food is terrible even when it’s hot, and she doesn’t have any appetite as it is. And then the doctor does rounds, and after that they try to get her out of bed, and at that point she’s usually too exhausted to talk to anybody. In the afternoon, I’m at work. I call her on break, but if she’s sleeping, they don’t put the call through. Or she’s not sleeping, which means she’s in this awful pain, so I want her to sleep. Only I can’t . . . I don’t . . .” I swiped at my face with the heels of my hands. Well, crap. Evidently I was crying after all. “Sorry.”
Chef pulled a black chef’s bandanna from his pocket and held it out.
I looked from the folded square to his face.
“Take it.” His eyes did that attractive crinkle thing at the corners. “It’s clean.”
“Thanks.” I blotted my eyes. “We didn’t even talk that much before,” I said, my voice muffled by the comforting folds of cloth. Dad was the one I talked to, whose interest and approval I craved. I’m sure Mom would have loved to chat with me about raising children and sewing curtains the way she did with Meg. Except I didn’t have children. I barely had a window. “It’s just . . . She’s always been there, you know?”
In the background. Safe and sound and boring enough that I could live my life without ever having to think about home.
“How long will she be in rehab?” Chef asked.
“A month. Maybe two?” I blew my nose. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m bothering you with this.”
“Because you have no one else to talk to.”
“That’s not . . .” I stopped. Okay, maybe, since Ashmeeta moved out, it was a little true. Rachel had followed her boyfriend to Portland. My college friends had gone on with their lives, finishing law school or internships at Ernst & Young, buying furniture at Ikea. My colleagues from the paper no longer called.
“We have totally different schedules now,” I told Meg when she asked.
But that was an excuse. Newspapers everywhere were closing, merging, downsizing. Being with me reminded them that their own jobs were at risk. And the truth was, I flinched from seeing myself through their eyes. Poor, expendable Jo.
“I talk to my sister,” I said. “Every day.”
But Meg had her hands full dealing with things back home. It wasn’t fair to dump my feelings on her, even if she had time to listen.
“Your sister with the twins,” Chef said. “In North Carolina.”
He remembered.
I nodded. “Everybody’s in North Carolina.” Including his ex-wife. Oops. I bumbled on. “I mean, Meg and her family, obviously. My parents. Aunt Phee. Oh, and Trey.”
Who hadn’t called since I got back to New York. Probably a good thing. The truth was, I was lonely and at loose ends. Trey’s familiar comfort was a temptation to be avoided.
He’d been so glad to see me at Thanksgiving. Why hadn’t he called?
“Trey is your brother?”
For some reason, my face got hot. I shook my head. “A friend.”
Chef looked at me, his hazel eyes unreadable. “Ah.”
“My sister Beth goes to school in Greensboro. Well, not now. She’s in Branson now. Missouri? She got a part in a Christmas show there.” Like he cared. Stop talking. “And Amy—she’s the baby—is in Paris.” Dear God, I sounded like a travelogue. “Not that it makes any difference. It’s always been me and Meg, really. We’re the oldest.”
“You protect them.”
“Yeah. Kind of. Beth feels guilty enough already. And any conversation with Amy always revolves around Amy.”
You’re too hard on her, Meg said in my head.
“Amy is the pretty one,” I said. “Very talented. She’s doing an internship with Louis Vuitton.”
Not that I was jealous. I could have gone to Europe. I’d come to New York to become a writer instead.
But Amy had never had to make that choice. It s
eemed my baby sister had it all, the glamorous travel and the fabulous career.
Fine. Maybe I was a little jealous.
“Your sister is the pretty one,” Chef said in an odd voice.
“Well, yeah.”
The eyebrows rose. “And what are you?”
My brain froze. Was he implying . . . Did he think I was pretty? I reached up and tightened my ponytail. “I’m the . . .” Smart one, I almost said, out of habit. Except, look at me. I wasn’t anywhere close to the five-year plan I’d made my senior year of college. My time was running out, and all I had to show for it was a half-baked collection of random reviews, recipes, and rejection letters. My graduate school project—“consisting of a substantial piece of writing,” a collection of coming-of-age stories set in Bunyan—had been judged adequate to receive my degree but ultimately too “immature” to merit special praise or attention. I’d been let go from my newspaper job. Did New York need another food blog? No. Everything was happening on Instagram now anyway. Pictures, rather than words. But writing was all I knew how to do. Writing and cooking. And I wasn’t that great a cook.
“I’m the one who talks too much,” I said.
He put back his head and laughed. He had a great laugh. Against the darkness of his heavy stubble, his teeth looked very white. His throat was smooth and strong.
Yep. I was definitely feeling some feelings. Me. For my at-least-a-decade-older-than-me divorced boss. Not smart at all.
He held my gaze, that little smile tugging his mouth. My heart beat faster. Maybe . . . Was it possible that he felt something, too? Maybe with a little encouragement, he would ask me . . . What? To breakfast. For a drink after work. For sex.
His lips were moving, forming actual words, but my blood was pounding so hard I didn’t hear them.
“What?” I asked.
“Why did you move to New York?” he repeated patiently.
I got a fellowship at NYU, I almost blurted. And then I was a lifestyle reporter. It wasn’t exactly a secret. I’d listed my former employment on my job application. But Chef had probably never called my editor for a reference, maybe never even read my résumé. In the kitchen hierarchy, I wasn’t that important. I shrugged. “You know what they say. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.”
“There are other places for a chef to get training.”
There were other places to be a writer, too. But after I was downsized, moving away felt like giving up. Felt like failure.
“You’re here,” I pointed out.
“For now.”
Something inside me sank. “Does that mean you would move? Sell the restaurant?” But what about the people who worked there? What about me?
“If I found a better opportunity, sure.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have to sell to start somewhere else. Ray is itching to take over the kitchen.”
I fought an unexpected sense of loss. Of panic, almost. “But Gusto is yours. What about your dedication? Your, um . . .”
“Passion?”
I regarded him uncertainly, that curl still teasing the corner of his mouth, his eyes serious. Were we still talking about the restaurant?
Just for a moment I wished I had Amy’s ease with men, her ability to make the perfect, light, flirty comeback. “That’s what you said. Before,” I reminded him. “You live to cook, you told me.”
“I love to cook,” he said promptly. “But this business isn’t static. You are always on your way up or your way down.”
Right. No question where he thought I was headed.
“Thank you for those words of encouragement,” I grumbled.
His smile spread. “You should be encouraged. You think I hire every English major who walks through my door?”
As if I were special. As if he wanted me training under him. As if—maybe—he’d read my job application after all.
“Why did you hire me?” I asked.
He started to say something. Gave a quick shake of his head instead. “You are smart,” he answered finally. “You work hard. You learn quickly. But I think maybe I made a mistake with you.”
My lips felt numb. Was he . . . Oh God, was he letting me go? “If you don’t want me . . .” I said stiffly.
“March.” Another shake of his head, as if he’d caught me using the wrong knife. “Every kitchen you go to, you get what you want and move on. Move up. Get out. You serve me well. But I do not serve you. I do not think you find what you want at Gusto.”
“But I do,” I said desperately. “Maybe I don’t belong in the kitchen for the rest of my life, but I don’t want to leave you.”
He gave me an intense look. “To leave Gusto.”
Weren’t they the same thing? I was using him. For inspiration, for a paycheck, for material for my blog. And I didn’t have the guts to tell him so. “Right.”
He regarded me for a long moment. “What do you want, then?”
I thought I knew, once. I wanted to be a writer. I’d followed my dream to New York City, to experience a bigger life on a larger stage than Bunyan. In the city, I was free to shine. Not with the reflected glow of a father, husband, children, but with the light of my own success.
Only now . . . I’d lost my job and my roommates. I worked in a restaurant like every other scrambling dreamer in New York, the actors, the dancers, the musicians, the writers. And for what? There was no book deal. There wasn’t even a book. Meanwhile, Amy was in Paris, Beth was in a show, Meg was hardly home anymore, and Momma was in rehab. Maybe I needed to reexamine my priorities.
“I don’t want to let everybody down.”
Another serious look. “That is about them. Not about you.”
“I guess . . .” I thought. “I don’t want to let myself down. I want to do the right thing.”
He nodded, once. “Then you will.”
I snorted. “You can’t know that.”
“I know. For three months, I have watched you. Once you decide on something, you don’t let anything stand in your way.”
Wow. A compliment.
“Thank you,” I said. A pause. “That’s a good thing, right?”
Laughter leaped in his eyes. “I have always found perseverance a very attractive quality,” he assured me.
Warmth flooded my chest. I grinned back. “Well, that’s a relief.”
More than a relief. It was reassurance, validation on a level I hadn’t known I sought or needed.
Our eyes held. My smile faded. I shivered a little, all over.
“You are cold,” he said, concerned.
My cheeks ignited. I was burning up. I wound my hair around my hand, resecuring my ponytail. “I’m fine.”
“You should keep moving.”
“Yeah.” Before I did something else, said something more, to make a bigger fool of myself. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.”
I started to go, aware of his eyes on my back.
“March.”
I turned hopefully. “Yes, Chef?”
“You are on the schedule tonight, yeah?”
I swallowed my disappointment. Of course he didn’t keep track of my hours. My comings and goings were of no interest to him. Unless . . . “For three months, I have watched you.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Good. You can do family meal.”
The meal before service, when the restaurant was closed. Responsibility for the staff meal rotated. It was an opportunity for Chef to try new recipes, for Ray to use up leftovers from the night before, for Constanza to make her killer asado de bodas and tortillas. Being asked to cook was an honor, an accolade, an assurance I had a place in the kitchen.
I belonged.
Here.
My smile started deep inside and grew and bloomed. “Yes, Chef.”
CHAPTER 8
Meg
/>
The sky was still dark outside our kitchen windows as I made my way downstairs. John was already up, making breakfast with the twins.
“Pancakes, Mommy!” Daisy announced with glee. “I help.”
“Frozen toaster waffles,” John said, before I could speak. “I figured they had enough fun with flour when Trey was here.”
I smiled. “It smells wonderful, whatever it is.”
Like butter and syrup, like the Saturday mornings of my childhood. DJ was coloring at the table, a purple crayon gripped in his stubby fingers, singing softly to himself. “Wish you a merry Kissmas . . .” My heart melted.
“Coffee.” John handed me a mug. “I figured you’d need it to face the farmers’ market.”
“Thanks.” I took a sip, hot liquid and guilt scalding my throat. He was being so nice.
“How long will you be gone?” he asked.
I swallowed. “The market’s open until two.” After that, I needed to drive to the farm, feed the goats, make the bank deposit . . . No, that had to wait until Monday. “I’ll be back before dinner. In time to get ready for Sallie’s party.”
He nodded.
“We haven’t had a night out in a long time.” I tried another smile, hoping for a response. “It will be like a date.”
“Don’t go, Mommy,” Daisy said. “Eat pancakes wiv us.”
I kissed her forehead. She smelled delicious. “I wish I could, sweetie. But Daddy will take good care of you. There are apple slices in the fridge,” I told John.
“I was going to feed them Tater Tots and ketchup,” John said. “That’s two food groups, right?”
A joke. I smiled, relieved. “At least. Thanks for watching the kids.”
“They’re my kids, too.”
“Sorry, honey. You’re a wonderful father.” He was. But being their mom was my job. This house was my surrogate work world. It was surprisingly hard to let it go. I offered him a weak smile. “I guess I’m just used to being in charge.”
John’s jaw tightened, the way DJ’s did when he was frustrated. “So tell me what you want me to do.”
Meg and Jo Page 13
