Recipe for Love

by Aurora Rey

  He eyed her, as though weighing whether or not to say anything about how bedraggled she must look or what a bad liar she was. Eventually, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  There were few people in her life she could count on more than Jeremiah. He’d been at the farm almost since it opened. Hannah always appreciated his work ethic and the sixth sense he seemed to have when it came to plants and the land. She didn’t always appreciate what a calm, consistent force he was in her life. He was one of the few men that got her—more than Nick, and certainly more than her brothers or her father.

  She started to cry in earnest, the ugly sort of crying that sent most guys running for the hills. Jeremiah came closer, pulling her into a hug. He rubbed her back as she sobbed. “It’s okay. I don’t know what it is, but it’s going to be okay.”

  It took a few minutes for her to calm down. The tears stopped and embarrassment set in. She sniffed and pulled away. “Sorry.”

  He looked at her with nothing but kindness. “Don’t apologize. I’d like to think we could fall apart in front of each other at this point.”

  Hannah chuckled. “I’d rather not fall apart in the first place.”

  “Well, sure.” He nodded affably. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” A shadow of something resembling hurt passed through his eyes, making her reconsider. “Drew is leaving.”

  “Oh.”

  “She got some big, fancy job offer in the city.”

  Jeremiah frowned. “Did you ask her to stay?”

  “God, no. This is her dream. I told her she should take it.”

  “Ah.” He might get her, but he remained a man of few words.

  “I guess I was more upset than I cared to admit. I’m fine.” She squared her shoulders. “Let’s not stand out here in the rain. Can I ride back to the barn with you?”

  “Of course. But I don’t mind the rain if you want to get more picking done.”

  Hannah looked at the bin. It was close to half full. “No, I think we’re fine. I’m ready to call it a day.”

  They rode the short distance in silence. When they pulled up behind the barn, she took a deep breath. “I won’t apologize again, but I’ll say thank you. And ask if we could keep that between us.”

  “Absolutely. And, hey, anytime. That’s what friends are for.”

  Hannah nodded. “Right. Thanks. And same goes. If you need to fall apart, I’m your girl.”

  And that was that. Jeremiah went to finish his tasks and Hannah went to the locker room to leave her jacket and change her shoes. She sat there for a minute, hunched over the laces and staring at the floor, and let the truth settle around her.

  She had feelings for Drew. Way more feelings than she wanted to have or admit, but there was no point in telling herself otherwise. Even if she couldn’t change the way things ended or change what Drew wanted and make her come back. There was something cathartic in admitting it. Admitting it meant she could move on. That was the saying, right?

  Hannah avoided the farm stand. No way could she deal with Clare’s questions, no matter how well intentioned. She went home and took a shower, letting the heat sink into her cold and cramping muscles. It was barely dark out, but she crawled into bed anyway. She didn’t expect to sleep, but there was something to be said for burrowing under the covers and pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Nick took the news of her leaving hard, but he was such a nice guy, he was offering her congratulations and well wishes by the end of the conversation. He took her advice about Poppy to heart and Drew spent a week training her to take over the kitchen. Boxes of produce appeared at the restaurant every morning. She took that as a sign Hannah didn’t want to see her. So much for no hard feelings.

  She slept terribly, had a hard time staying focused. She told herself it was nerves over the new position. The prestige was one thing, but the visibility of being head chef at one of Javier’s restaurants was another. The job at Fig might have helped her get to this point, but it would be working for Javier that would make or break her career.

  She reminded herself of that each time her thoughts drifted to Hannah. Each time she caught herself staring into space, thinking about Hannah’s voice or smile or body. Each time she started kicking herself for thinking there’d been something real between them.

  Drew packed up most of her clothes and personal things, but she left enough behind that she’d need to make another trip. She told herself it was easier than having to Tetris it all into her car, unloading it at a storage unit while she figured out a place of her own. The truth of the matter, though, was that she wasn’t quite ready to close the door. Not on her little house or the restaurant or Hannah. Even if all evidence pointed to the door already being firmly shut.

  She’d give herself to the end of the month. That’s when she’d need to give her landlord notice anyway. It would be easier once she had the reality of her new job to focus on, once the weird emptiness in her chest went away. Not seeing Hannah for a few weeks would help. It had to help.

  But as she drove south, through Ithaca and down to Owego, over the river toward Binghamton and onto I-81, she felt less and less convinced that would be the case. After stopping for gas, she cued up the Hamilton soundtrack extra loud to drown out her own thoughts with the political machinations and exploits of Hamilton and Burr. On top of that, it made her think of Baker and the fact they’d go back to seeing each other every few days instead of every few months.

  She’d just finished vowing not to throw away her shot when it hit her that she wouldn’t see Baker every few days. Even if her new place on Long Island wasn’t that far away, she would be sharing it with her girlfriend. Hell, it probably wouldn’t be long before Lucy became Baker’s fiancée. As happy as she was for them, the reality of Baker’s domestic bliss hit her like a bucket of cold water. Drew turned the music off altogether and drove in silence.

  She got to her mother’s just before six and found Grann puttering around the kitchen. “Your mother is at some union meeting. She won’t be home for a while yet.”

  “That’s okay. What can I do to help?”

  Grann waved her off. “You get yourself settled. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  Drew couldn’t argue there. She unloaded her car, making several trips down to the basement where she’d lived all four years of culinary school. It felt equal parts comforting and stifling. She unpacked the essentials. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be there more than a few weeks.

  She heard movement upstairs and abandoned her suitcases to greet her mother. When she entered the kitchen, Manman and Grann were waiting. Grann held a bottle of champagne and Manman had a large bouquet of flowers and a big Mylar balloon. Grann beamed. “Congratulations, child.”

  “We’re so proud of you.” Manman handed her the flowers and gave her a hug.

  For the first time since accepting Javier’s offer, the warmth of genuine happiness spread through her. It might be more complicated than she’d planned or hoped, but she’d made it. Even more importantly, she’d not made it alone. She shoved aside her hesitation and her self-pity and did what she was supposed to do. She celebrated.

  * * *

  A small part of Hannah regretted not seeing Drew before she left. But as much as she would have liked to be the bigger person, she wasn’t sure she had it in her. Self-preservation beat moral high ground any day of the week.

  Even knowing she’d made the right call, she’d been moody and short-tempered. Without saying a word, Jeremiah acted as a buffer, assigning tasks and beginning the preparations for putting parts of the farm to sleep for winter. Daisy stuck by her side, as if sensing she needed a friend who wouldn’t ask questions or care if she smiled. She hated herself for being so affected by Drew’s departure. She hated herself even more for oscillating between being angry with Drew for leaving and angry with herself for getting invested when she should have known better.

  She shook her head. Beratin
g herself was even more a waste of time than pining. And she needed to finish paying bills if she hoped to make it out to the orchard before sunset.

  She worked her way through the usual suspects—utilities, mortgage, insurance. Then she picked up the pile of other mail and began to sort. Most of it was junk, but she opened everything to make sure. When she got to a letter from an attorney’s office based in Ithaca, she hesitated. Letters from lawyers rarely brought good news. She took a deep breath and opened it. Not like her mood could get much worse.

  Hannah read the letter. What started as a general sinking feeling became a lead weight, dragging her down and sucking all the air from her lungs. Just when she thought she knew what it was like to feel low. Ha.

  Her farm was being sold out from under her.

  She read the letter a second time, hoping perhaps the words or their meaning might magically change. They didn’t.

  This had always been a possibility. She’d known it going in. But with each passing year, the farm felt more solid, more permanent. She’d succeeded in pushing it from her mind almost completely. Which, clearly, had been a mistake.

  She owned about a third of her land outright. Well, owned with a mortgage, but close enough. The rest she leased from her next-door neighbor. The family had stopped farming decades ago but hadn’t wanted to break up the property. As Hannah’s operations and her need for land grew, it had felt like the perfect solution. She went from leasing ten acres to twenty, from twenty to fifty.

  But now they were selling.

  The good news, she supposed, was that they no longer cared about keeping the eighty acres intact. Hannah was welcome to buy the land she currently used at a very reasonable price. They were even giving her the right of first refusal, which hadn’t been one of the conditions of her lease. It was quite generous, really.

  There was only one problem. She didn’t have the money.

  Three Willows Farm was profitable, perhaps even more so than she’d dared to hope more than a couple of years ago. But she did not have three hundred grand in reserves. She didn’t even have a tenth of that. And while she could probably swing a bigger mortgage, she didn’t have the equity or collateral that would be required for a bigger loan. Not that she wouldn’t try. But if her initial efforts at getting financed were anything to go on, things didn’t look good.

  She sat down at her desk and, since no one was there to see, rested her head on it. She wasn’t ready to curl up and admit defeat. She just wasn’t ready to tackle it quite yet. Or put on a brave face for her staff. Or listen to her father’s disapproval.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She’d not heard Jeremiah approach. She sat up, folded the letter quickly, and stuffed it in a drawer. “Nothing. I just dropped something.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t look convinced, but he wasn’t the kind of person who’d press. She liked that about him. Respected it. Or maybe he was afraid she’d start crying on him again. “I’m going to take Guy to start picking delicatas. Is that cool with you?”

  It was hard to believe they were already harvesting winter squash. But her wishing it not to be so didn’t mean they weren’t ready for harvest. She nodded. “That sounds great. Thanks.”

  He left and she pulled the letter out, read it again. The words hadn’t changed.

  Was there a way for her to scrape together a down payment? And even if she did, would she qualify for another mortgage?

  The obvious solution would be to ask her parents to cosign for her. Three Willows was established enough that it would be virtually no risk to them. And the payment would probably be on par with the rent she paid. She shook her head. Just as obvious as the solution was, she knew she’d never take it. Even if her father agreed, it would be admitting to him that she couldn’t make it on her own.

  There had to be another way. She was pretty good at finding other ways. No chance of that happening right now, though. Right now, what she needed was someone who’d listen and then pour her a stiff drink. She called Jenn.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The kitchen at George was bright, modern, and well equipped. A little smaller than her kitchen at Fig, but not by much. It felt impersonal, but it had to be because it was still new to her. She’d yet to make it hers.

  The same could be said of the staff. Well-trained, respectful, efficient. But not hers.

  Drew shook her head. She needed to snap out of it. She’d made it through a dozen dinner services without incident. But if she wasn’t careful, people would start to pick up on the fact that her head wasn’t in the game. She thought yet again about Javier’s advice when he offered her the job. Maybe her head wasn’t the problem.

  “Delivery, Chef.”

  Drew turned in the direction of the voice. It was one of the dishwashers. Mike? Matt. “Thanks, Matt.”

  She headed to the back door and found a short, dark-skinned man she’d never seen before. “Hi.”

  “Eastside Produce. I got your order.” His smile was friendly and his accent reminded her of her grandmother.

  “Thanks.” She signed his clipboard and followed him to the truck. She took the flats he handed her, led the way back into the kitchen. He followed with the rest, then was gone as quickly as he’d come. She didn’t want to make small talk, necessarily, but she hated not even having the option.

  She opened the first box and found exactly what she’d ordered—greens, butternut squash, eggplant, and peppers. By pretty much any standard, it was superior produce. Drew couldn’t help but find it ordinary, uninspired.

  Before she could mope about it, Bente, her sous chef, appeared. “Shall I have the prep cooks start on this as we discussed?”

  They’d set the weekend’s menu the day before, so there were no new instructions to worry about. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Bente took a box and moved over to the prep station. Drew appreciated her ability to give directions and keep an eye on things. In a lot of ways, she was exactly the kind of sous chef Drew had been—one who was perfectly capable of running the kitchen herself. She might have found it presumptuous, but it turned out to be a relief. She only hoped Bente didn’t start resenting her a month into their time together.

  With preparations under way, Drew turned her attention to sauces. She’d just added the milk and nutmeg to her béchamel when her phone vibrated in her pocket. The text was from Clare. Worried something might be wrong with Hannah, Drew unlocked her phone so she could read it. I’m glad you got your dream job, but not having you around sux. Just saying.

  Drew smiled. Leave it to a teenager to sum up the entirety of her emotions on the matter in a single text. Thanks, Clare. I miss you, too. All of you.

  That wasn’t too much, was it?

  You heard about the farm, right?

  Drew frowned at her phone. No. What about the farm?

  Before Clare’s reply came through, Javier swept into the kitchen for his pre-service visit. She grudgingly tucked her phone away so she could run down the specials and listen to his nightly pep talk. She listened, then wrapped up the impromptu gathering with her own words of encouragement for the staff. And then they were off.

  Between searing a porterhouse and plating it, she grabbed her phone. There were a trio of messages waiting for her. The first simply said, Shit. I’m probably not supposed to tell you. The second added, Or say shit. The third finally got to the heart of the matter. Half the land the farm is on is up for sale and Hannah doesn’t know what’ll happen.

  Drew returned her phone to her pocket and plated the steak resting in front of her. She did two more, then left her grill chef in charge while she made a loop around the kitchen. Satisfied things were under control, she ducked into the walk-in cooler and fired off a text to Nick. Her instinct was to reach out to Hannah, but she needed more information before she could even pretend to know what to say.

  The rest of dinner passed in a blur. Despite having a rock star sous chef, she had to hustle nonstop to keep up with everything. That was one thing
about New York. If the restaurant was hot, there was no such thing as a slow night.

  She’d promised to go out drinking with the staff, so it was close to two before Drew made it onto a Brooklyn-bound 9 train. Nick had sent a slew of texts confirming what Clare had said. He elaborated, though, adding Hannah’s desire to buy the land, her uncertainty of being able to make it happen, and the general damper the whole matter had put on things both at the farm and at the restaurant. He closed with a comment about the funk at the restaurant having more to do with missing her.

  Drew sat slumped in the mostly empty subway car. Her reflection in the opposite window looked gray and tired. The ghastly fluorescent light didn’t help, but she couldn’t blame it entirely.

  She shook her head in defeat. Not too old to be a chef, maybe, but too old to go out drinking like a twenty-three-year-old. Add to that the fact she was miserable. Not the miserable of having to settle into a new job and new people and new surroundings but the kind that comes with realizing she’d made a terrible mistake.

  And now it was compounded by the knowledge that Hannah was in trouble. Not only was she not there to help, but she’d screwed things up so royally, she had no idea if her help would even be welcome. Even as she sat with that knowledge, Drew started to formulate a plan.

  She got so caught up in formulating, she almost missed her stop. She just cleared the doors as they started to close. Like the train, the platform was almost empty. She dragged herself up the stairs and toward home. Drew let herself in quietly and headed to the finished basement where she still was crashing. She took a shower, pulled on boxers and an undershirt, and fell into bed.

  She lay on one side, then the other. Then her back. The mixture of physical exhaustion and a restless mind aggravated her. Her aggravation made her even more awake. It was after five when she finally fell asleep, only to find herself jarred awake by her phone ringing and vibrating on the nightstand.