by Meg Tilly
“You gave her up,” her mom said. Eve had never heard her mom sound like that before. Her voice, an impenetrable ice wall. “You didn’t want her. Remember? She was ‘an inconvenience.’ You were unmarried, ‘too old.’ You wanted your fancy life, the ability to travel unhindered and your high-flying career. I don’t blame you. There have been times when I was so sleep-deprived and tired that I would’ve given anything to run out the door and never come back. But the difference is. I. Didn’t.”
“We should ask Bill. He might feel differently, raising a child that is not his—”
“I know one hundred percent that my husband would agree with me on this. You will not swan in after all these years and break up our family.”
“Why don’t we tell Maggie? Let her choose—”
“No!” Her mother’s voice was harsh with emotion. “You made us promise not to tell anyone. I didn’t want to keep it secret. Remember? You insisted. Said if we didn’t agree to your terms, you would put her up for adoption.”
“I never—”
“Don’t lie. It doesn’t become you.”
There was a momentary silence.
Her mom started talking again, gentler but firm. “And as difficult as it was to lie by omission, we kept our promise to you. How do you think the girls would feel to find out the family has been lying to them all this time?”
“I’m sorry. It was a mistake. Listen . . . Please listen, Peggy. Don’t turn away. I’ve sold my portion of the company.”
Eve stood rooted in the doorway, unable to move. Trying to make sense of what she was hearing.
“I’m retired now. I’ve traveled the world. I don’t feel the need to anymore. I can stay home and give her a good life—”
“She has a good life,” Eve’s mom cut in. “Clare, I understand that you are lonely and you want someone to take care of you now that your health is failing. Yes. I know all about that, and I’m sorry. Truly I am, but the solution is not my Maggie. You have plenty of money. Hire a nurse.”
A door opened down the hall. “Eve, honey,” Eve heard her grandmother say softly. “You should be in bed.”
Eve turned her head. Her grandmother was standing in a pool of light spilling out of her bedroom. “Oh, sweetheart,” her grandmother had said, moving swiftly down the hall and wrapping Eve in her arms. “Don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Eve had slept in her grandmother’s room that night. They’d talked for a long time. Like grown-ups. About grown-up things. Her grandmother answered Eve’s questions, calmed her worries, acknowledged her fears. Then her grandmother had fallen asleep, and while Eve had listened to the rise and fall of her grandmother’s breath, she’d made a decision. Maggie was her sister. The sister of her heart. And if Maggie didn’t know the truth about her birth, it wasn’t Eve’s place to tell her.
When they’d woken up in the morning Great-Aunt Clare was gone. “She’s been called away,” Eve’s mom said, pouring half-and-half into her coffee. “She said she was sorry she wasn’t able to say good-bye personally and to give you both her love.”
Maggie had popped a bite of syrup-drenched French toast in her mouth, her legs swinging happily under the table, her feet not yet able to reach the floor. “I’m going to make a big sandcastle today,” she’d declared. “The biggest one in the whole wide world, and I’m going to decorate it with clamshells and sand dollars. Wanna help?”
“I’d love to,” Eve had said, even though she was much too big for childish things like sandcastles.
The next day, when they were loading the car for the long drive home, Grandmother pressed a blue velvet pouch into Eve’s palm and closed her fingers around it. “I want you to have this,” she’d murmured. Eve had looked up at her in surprise, and her grandmother had tapped a finger to her lips. Our secret, she’d mouthed, her eyes twinkling as she motioned for Eve to tuck the pouch into the front pocket of her jean shorts.
It had burned a hole in Eve’s pocket while she’d sat in the front seat next to her mom, Maggie in the back. Resisting the urge to take the pouch out and see what was inside was one of the hardest things she had ever done in her short life. But she knew how to keep a secret. Two secrets she now had: Maggie’s real mom and the mystery present in her pocket. Five and a half hours on the road. Another hour while they greeted their dad, unloaded the car, and had a quick snack. She and Maggie kissed their parents good night, brushed their teeth, and went to bed. Minutes ticked slowly by as she waited for the house to settle. She could hear the low murmur of her parents in their bedroom behind closed doors. Then they, too, got quiet.
Finally.
Eve took the pouch and a mini flashlight out from under her pillow. She loosened the drawstring and turned the soft velvet pouch upside down. A beautiful bejeweled dragonfly brooch fell out into her hand. Magic, she thought, having to close her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by its delicate beauty and the magnitude of the gift.
After that summer they didn’t see much of Great-Aunt Clare.
Once Eve thought she saw her standing against the back wall by the door during their school’s winter concert. But Great-Aunt Clare must have slipped out the moment the concert was finished, since she wasn’t by the refreshment tables with everyone, eating holiday cookies and drinking juice.
The second brooch had arrived in a bubble-wrapped pouch addressed to Eve from the offices of Jenkins, Bunting, and Co. It was the end of January. The world was blanketed in dirty, stale snow, sludge, and ice, and fifteen-year-old Eve was beside herself with grief. Her grandmother had been battling a cough through the Christmas holidays. “It’s just a little cold,” her grandmother had said. But by December 28 she was gone, and Eve missed her desperately.
The second brooch was also in a small blue velvet pouch, and when Eve opened it, a beautiful deep blue flower brooch dropped into her hands.
“Oh my goodness,” her mom had breathed. “Her forget-me-not brooch.”
Eve started to pin the brooch onto her shirt above her heart.
“Oh no, sweetie,” her mom said. “That’s not to wear. These leaves and the stem are made from high-quality diamonds. And here”—her mother slid her finger over the flower’s petals—“these are large sapphires. Do you see how strong and vivid the color saturation is? This brooch is very valuable and needs to be kept in Daddy’s safe.”
“No,” Eve said, anger rising in her belly, even as tears blurred her vision. “Grandmother gave it to me to remember her by. I am not putting it in the safe. I’m going to wear it whenever I want so I can feel her close to me.”
It was the first time she had gone directly against one of her mother’s decrees. In hindsight, her mother had probably been right. A fifteen-year-old probably shouldn’t have been running around wearing an expensive diamond and sapphire brooch, but it had given her great comfort and had helped ease the grief.
If anyone glanced at her brooch for longer than a second or two, she would say, “Costume jewelry made out of paste.” Eve helped the assumption along by frequenting vintage shops and purchasing a couple of rhinestone brooches, which she wore as well. Gradually, over the years, the dragonfly brooch with its ruby head and emerald eyes joined the forget-me-not adorning her shoulder. After she graduated from Yale, the rhinestone companions fell by the wayside, and it was just the two brooches from her grandmother keeping Eve company.
And today, Eve thought, after my grand torn-pajamas-wild-hair-poker-wielding entrance, I need the feeling of my grandmother’s support and wisdom with me.
Eve’s hand rose to rest on the sparkling dragonfly and blue forget-me-not, and she let the memory of her grandmother surround her. She could almost smell the gentle scent of her lilac perfume. Feel the coolness of her fingers as she had pressed that first pouch into Eve’s hand. Could almost see the translucent, papery quality of her grandmother’s skin with the network of blue veins that had gotten more and mor
e pronounced as the years slipped by.
“It’s time to beard the lion,” Eve said, straightening her spine, setting her shoulders back, and then, as calmly and regally as she could, she exited the safety of the bedroom.
Sixteen
EVE TOOK ANOTHER sip of her coffee, drawing comfort from the full-bodied creamy flavor and lingering caramel aftertaste. Her hands cradled the mug, enjoying the heat emanating from it.
“Here you go.” Rhys placed a plate laden with piping-hot scrambled eggs, thick slices of perfectly cooked bacon, and buttered toast on the table in front of her.
Eve’s stomach rumbled loudly. It was a massive amount of food, and boy did it smell good. The only thing she had eaten since the peanut butter sandwich she’d slapped together for yesterday’s lunch was the handful of jelly beans she’d found rolling around the bottom of her purse. She could’ve heated up something from Maggie’s fridge, but she’d have had to clean the pan. Seemed like a lot of effort for one person.
Her mouth was watering. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He rounded the table, plopped his plate down, and sat. “Dig in,” he said.
And so she did.
The scrambled eggs were cooked to perfection, not too wet, not too dry, lightly seasoned. The bacon had just the right amount of chew and crispness, and the buttered toast was sourdough, Eve’s personal favorite. “Wow,” she said, trying not to gobble the entire plate of food down in five seconds flat. “You’re a good cook.”
He shrugged, but she could tell he was pleased. “I enjoy it, which is lucky. It’s less work to eat in. More convenient.”
“Less work?” Eve laughed. “Are you kidding me? First you have to decide what you’re going to make. Then you have to shop—”
“Not necessarily. It is quite easy to go online and purchase groceries to be delivered.”
“Whether you go to an actual store,” she said, “or do your shopping on the World Wide Web, it’s still shopping. Once the groceries arrive, you have to cook and do a mountain of cleanup. Convenient-conshmenient. I’m telling you right now, if money were no object, I’d never cook again.”
“Wait a minute,” he said, shaking a finger at her. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? Because I’m pretty sure Luke mentioned something about a café you and your sister opened that has amazing food—”
“Amazing food? Yes. That is correct. Do I cook it?” Eve shook her head. “Nope.” She popped a piece of toast in her mouth. “I hate cooking, and I refuse to feel less than about it.” This had been a bone of contention between her and Levi. “Why is there this expectation that the only way a woman can keep a man is if she’s a whiz in the kitchen?”
“I can only speak from personal experience, but a woman being good in the kitchen isn’t a requirement of mine.” Rhys tilted his head, regarding her with that dark-eyed gaze of his. “Although,” he continued, “I certainly have no complaints if a woman wants to . . .”
He paused.
“What?” she asked, because even though his face hadn’t changed, she had the feeling that he was enjoying a private joke.
He shrugged, the internal smile she’d suspected blooming into a real one on his face. “If a woman I’m dating wants to be bad in the kitchen, I’ll make every effort to accommodate her.”
And just like that, she felt her body shift from combative to fuck-me-now. Don’t even! she told herself sternly. This guy is one hundred percent trouble, and you, my dear, are not going to touch him with a ten-foot pole.
“Why are you glaring at me?” he asked, voice bland, eyes twinkling.
“I’m not,” she snapped.
She was.
She pushed away from the table. Crossed the kitchen to the fancy coffee machine and added a shot of espresso to her coffee to top it up. Her mug hadn’t needed topping. She’d used it as an excuse to put some distance between her and Mr. Hunk-on-a-Stick, or she would likely jump him and screw him senseless.
The shot of espresso brought the contents up to the brim of her mug. She bent over and sipped some off the top so she could return to the table without it spilling. She took another sip, glancing out the window. The wolfhound was lifting his leg on various stones and bushes. “I wonder how long Samson’s going to need out there?” she said, her voice more breathless than she would like. Her body was thrumming. She could feel his gaze on her like a heat-seeking missile, like he knew what she was thinking.
“So, you opened a café but you hate to cook?” He looked amused, which made her want to kick him in the shins.
“My sister, Maggie, is a brilliant cook,” she said, taking another nonchalant sip of her coffee. “So she cooks, and I handle the rest.”
“The rest?”
“Decor, the bills, the orders, serving customers, dealing with the staff . . .”
“You have staff?”
“Are you being condescending? Because if you are—”
“Not at all,” he said. “Why so prickly?”
She felt a flush start to travel up her neck to her face. She wasn’t being fair. Just because he had a drop-dead-gorgeous hard body and a killer smile didn’t mean that he was a carbon copy of her ex. The actor dude hadn’t freaked out when she’d tackled and hog-tied him, not that she would have blamed him if he had. But it was kind of refreshing that he wasn’t a drama queen. Levi would have been supremely pissed off. Then, not only did this guy volunteer to make breakfast, but he’d turned out to be a damned good cook to boot.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “My bad. Woke up on the wrong side of bed.”
He nodded. “Been there,” he said. “You’re welcome to come back to the table and finish your breakfast. I won’t bite. Promise.” There was that smile again, the one that was slightly naughty and almost a dare, as if to say, Unless you want me to.
She shut her eyes briefly, trying to erase the flash she’d had of hot sex, entwined bodies, sinking her teeth into his shoulder. She could almost taste the salt of his sweat.
She exhaled, opened her eyes. “We have a dishwasher,” she said tartly. “A part-time waitress. On weekends and holidays we hire a couple of students from the local high school.” Samson gave a short woof at the kitchen door. She was glad for an excuse to look away. “Hey, boy.” She opened the door, gave the dog a scratch behind the ears as he leaned into her.
“Wasn’t intending to grill you. Was curious is all. Always had this fantasy if the acting work dried up, I’d open a restaurant.”
Eve laughed. “Well,” she said. “It’s a lot harder than it looks.” And then she got an idea. A gloriously inspired idea. “But if you’d like,” she said, ambling casually over to the table and sitting down, “I’d be willing to let you ride shotgun at the café for a few days.” She speared some eggs onto her fork, sneaking a glance at him through the curtain of her hair, which had fallen forward. “You know, as a test run, to see if it’s even a viable alternative for when gravity wreaks havoc on”—she gestured toward him as if presenting a plate of fish—“all of that.”
“You’d let me?” The poor sucker actually looked excited.
“Sure,” she said. “Don’t see why not. Maggie’s out of town. You’re a good cook. You can commandeer the kitchen. You might love it.” She could see him thinking it over. Reminded her of fly-fishing with her dad. Landing the fly just so, seeing the trout through the crystal-clear water, circling, contemplating. Come on, she thought. Take a nibble.
He shook his head, pushed his chair back from the table. “Nah,” he said. “Sounds fun, but it’s not practical.” He gazed out the window. Seemed wistful. “I’m kinda famous, and fans can be weird sometimes.”
“Fans? What fans?” Eve shrugged with her palms upward as if checking for rain. “No fans back there, just me and a morose, monosyllabic dishwasher. Our part-time waitress, Dorothy, mostly stays in the front of the house, but even if she strayed i
nto the kitchen, she’s a sixtysomething love child. If I didn’t know who you were, I am certain those two wouldn’t. You could cook with impunity. Totally safe from fans.”
He was looking seriously tempted now. “I’m not a professional cook.”
“But maybe you could be,” she said encouragingly. “You’ll never know ’til you try.”
He rubbed his palms on his jeans-clad thighs. “It’s a new business. I don’t want to mess you guys up.”
“Let me worry about that. Unless”—she paused, dabbed her lips with her napkin—“you’re too scared.”
“Wha—”
“No judgment. Totally understandable,” she said, giving a delicate shrug.
“I’m not scared. I just—”
“Perfect!” She catapulted from her seat and captured his hand in hers. Gave it a firm shake. “Welcome aboard. So glad you’ve decided to join the Intrepid team while you’re here. Can only pay you minimum wage, but luckily you aren’t doing it for the money.” She was talking fast so he couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “We are operating on a shortened schedule while Maggie’s gone, so that will make it easier as well. We’re open Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, eight a.m. to three p.m. Of course, we’ll need to arrive a little earlier to prep, but no need to get into all those pesky details now. This is fantastic! Thank you so much for volunteering to be the Intrepid’s cook for the next two weeks. I can see why Luke likes you so much.” She leapt to her feet. “All right, I’m off,” she said, dashing across the kitchen. “The muse is calling. You know how it is. Ta-ta!”
She ran through the kitchen, down the hall, into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her, and just in time because laughter had her collapsing on the floor.
The expression on his face when I railroaded him into cooking for the café? She hugged herself. Priceless.
Humming happily, she shucked out of her clothes and into her grubby painting ones, then gathered up her supplies. She stuffed her car key in her pocket—she’d need to get a canvas from the trunk—and headed for the door.
