Honey poured her a glass, winked, then turned her attention to the guys at the other end of the bar. Savannah watched their eyes slide over Honey’s body, lingering at the swell of her breasts. Half the men who came in here probably fell in love with her.
Savannah had never been short of male attention, but she’d never truly connected with any of the guys in the South. They always felt too familiar or too shallow. Sexless, like a big brother or a best friend. New York had already presented one worldly lover. It was sure to present another. Someone confident and hardworking, with a cheeky glint in their eye. Maybe that was the reason why she uprooted her life and moved to a new city where she knew no one and was unequivocally the tiniest fish in the world’s biggest pond. Because if love wasn’t in New York City—where was it?
Savannah lingered over her drink, not wanting the evening to end. But when the servers started putting chairs onto tables, she knew it was time to face reality. As she slipped off her stool, Honey came out from behind the bar and handed her a folded napkin.
“Here.”
For a disorientating moment, Savannah thought Honey was handing over her own number. But the name Sam Woods and a cell number were printed on the napkin.
“Catering recommendation,” Honey said. “We used to work together. Tell him Honey Calhoun sent you.”
A wave of warm tingles prickled Savannah’s skin. The restaurant, the recommendation, even Honey herself felt like the first glimpse of that New York magic she’d heard so much about. “Thank you.”
She couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to squeeze Honey’s arm. To her delight, Honey pulled her in for a hug. A real hug: warm and sincere.
“All right, Kentucky.” Honey let her go. “Even though you’re not a real Southerner, I like you. So come back soon, okay?”
Savannah nodded. “And I’m Savannah.” Not Kentucky. Not anymore.
Honey tilted her head, impressed or maybe just amused. She flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. “Good night, Savannah.”
Savannah stepped out onto the chilly street, zipped up her jacket, and dared to feel hopeful.
5
Sam Woods didn’t typically cook test meals in potential clients’ homes. But Savannah Shipley had been both insistent and charming, and so, here he was on a Wednesday afternoon, outside a lovely old brownstone. A family home. Sam felt an unfamiliar pang of envy as he pressed the doorbell.
The door was answered by a woman in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt. Unsmiling, but not unattractive. Liv Goldenhorn, presumably. She was about the same age he was, maybe a pinch younger, which was a relief: clients in their twenties and thirties tended to be too demanding or too indecisive. Her gaze flicked to the bags of groceries at his feet.
“Kitchen’s straight through, do you mind?”
He went to explain he wasn’t a delivery man, he was the chef she’d been expecting, but Liv had already disappeared up the stairs. So Sam picked up his grocery bags and did as he was told. He walked down a hallway lined with art, past a wooden staircase curling up, and into an open-plan kitchen and dining room. Certainly, the brownstone was a cozy home, exuding a familial, artsy charm; a fridge papered with school artwork, a dining room table scattered with books and unopened bills, a fruit basket piled with overripe apples and bananas. But it was also a mess. The sink was heaped with dishes. The recycling bin was overflowing. Marie Kondo would have a fit.
“H-hello? Liv?” Silence but for the faint patter of a shower. Savannah Shipley promised she’d be there. He set down the bags and moved toward the patio doors to send her a text. The overgrown backyard was dominated by a fifty-foot weeping willow. It was, sadly, dying. Several of its beefy limbs were already deadwood. The whole thing needed to be chopped down.
The text to Savannah didn’t deliver.
Unsure what else to do, Sam started unpacking the groceries. There was barely enough room on the countertops, so he tossed the oil-slick take-out containers in the trash, wiped down the bench, emptied the dishwasher, and filled it up again. After locating an apron (brand-new and floral), he began chopping onions.
Ah, the noble onion. As reliable and ubiquitous as the faithful hound. Cooking onions actually diminished their bold taste but increased the flavor of the food around them, which Sam felt was generous. With deft, methodical fingers, he peeled his first onion, sliced it lengthwise, and placed it in the center of the chopping board. Then, angling the knife, which he noted was a little blunt, he made five even slices horizontally, cutting back toward the end, then sliced vertically. The result was a small white mound of perfectly diced onion. Cooking relaxed Sam, sending his body and brain into a meditative state. When things got bad, and they had gotten bad, the kitchen was where he felt safe.
He diced the rest of the onions and had all but forgotten about the earlier misunderstanding when Liv hurried back in, tightening a dressing gown. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. Her post-shower skin was pink and moist. She had a lovely complexion, alabaster and luminous.
Liv saw him. Stopped dead. Choked in a panicked, guttural gasp.
Shit. “Oh,” he rushed, “I’m not actually—”
Her gaze flashed to his hand.
He was holding the knife he was using for the onions. “No, I’m not—”
Liv rocketed to the dining room table, scrambling for a weapon, which turned out to be… a banana. “Stay back or I’ll scream.”
He flung the knife in the sink. “No, I’m Sam, I’m Sam—”
“I don’t care who you are! I’ll put you in jail, motherfucker!”
“Liv, Liv, Liv, I’m Sam, Sam Woods—”
“How do you know my name?” Liv brandished the banana again, but the gesture had become a distracted inquiry, as if trying to pinpoint why he was wearing a flowery apron.
Sam spoke slowly and clearly. “Savannah Shipley, who I believe runs a wedding-planning business with you, organized for me to come do a test meal. I’m Sam. I’m a caterer.”
The banana thumped onto the table. “You’re Sam.”
“Yes! Yes, I’m Sam.” He gestured at the front door. “I think you thought I was from the grocery store, but then you went upstairs and—”
“Right, right. That explains the apron. God almighty, I almost lost my mind.”
“Me too,” said Sam.
Their fright went out of them in a huff of laughter.
Liv twisted the towel off her damp hair and dropped it over the back of a dining room chair. “Look, I appreciate you coming over and Jamie Oliver–ing my kitchen. But I don’t think this will work out.”
It felt like cutting open a perfectly ripe avocado to find it brown and smelly inside. “That’s a shame.”
The front door opened. “Mom?”
Liv’s entire face lit up. “In here!”
Oh, Sam realized. She’s really pretty.
Footsteps sounded down the hallway. A young boy ran in and threw himself on Liv in a hug.
She hugged him back in the way only a mom did. “Hey, baby. How was school?”
“Good,” replied the boy. He looked to be about seven or eight.
Liv asked him something about how a carpool went: he must’ve been dropped off by one of the other parents. It didn’t feel like there was a father in the picture. The house, the boy, the woman, were all absent of a spouse, somehow. Divorce? Divorcing? Or maybe something worse. That would explain the kitchen.
The kid went on. “We did an experiment with eggshells to see how soda stains teeth and wears down enamel.”
“Whoa!” Liv poked him in the side. “Did it make you want to drink less soda?”
“Nope,” he said, before noticing Sam, and becoming shy.
“Ben, honey, this is Sam. A… friend.”
“Hey Ben.” Sam bent down to Ben’s level. “I like your backpack. Is that Spider-Man?”
Ben nodded, his eyes on the ground.
“I have a question,” Sam said. “Who would win in a battle between Superman and Spider-Man?”
“Really?” Sam was intrigued. “Then why isn’t he on your backpack?”
“Well, Superman is stronger but Spider-Man’s funnier and more, um, relatable.” Now Ben was looking at Sam. “He was just a regular kid.”
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about,” Sam said.
“I’m intellectually curious,” replied Ben.
Sam grinned. Liv was smiling too, proud and pretending not to be.
Ben wandered into the kitchen, taking in the groceries. “What are you doing?”
Sam rose to his feet. “Well, you know how your mom plans weddings?”
Ben nodded.
“I’m a cook. I make food for weddings. And I’m here to audition for your mom. You know what an audition is?”
Ben shook his head. A small smile edged his mouth.
One of those kids who loved learning. Like Dottie. Dottie loved learning new things, too. “It’s like a test. A trial. If your mom likes what I cook, she might hire me.” Sam and Liv traded smiles, easy as an underarm lob.
Ben rocked back and forth on his toes. “What are you going to make?”
Sam looked to Liv. She shrugged, then nodded. Permission granted.
“Zucchini lasagna, fresh pea risotto, and a few appetizers,” Sam said. “Vegetarian, gluten-free, one hundred percent organic, and yummy. Wanna help me?”
“Can I, Mom?”
A micro expression of surprise flashed over her face before Liv replaced it with something more neutral. “As long as you don’t chop your fingers off.”
“Don’t worry, I am an expert in not chopping off fingers.” It’d been a while since Sam had met someone he found interesting. Liv was interesting. Her gaze brought a little flush to the back of his neck. Maybe she was in the same sort of situation he was in. “All right Big Ben, I am going to show you how to shuck peas.”
6
An hour or so later, Liv was tasting the best pea risotto of her life. One bite and she saw delicate young shoots and careening swallows and the gorgeous vermilion roses that burst forth along the back fence every May, unbidden and relentlessly alive. God, this winter had been long. Soon it’d be warm enough to eat dinner in the backyard under the old willow tree. If she could bring herself to pull out the one thousand weeds.
“Do you like it, Mom?” Ben was bouncing with excitement. “I shucked hundreds of peas.”
Ben’s interest in food prep was a surprise. His grief counselor said this would be a marathon, not a sprint. In some ways, Ben would never get over losing his father. The disruption to the family unit would play out his entire life: his attachment style, his choice of partners, maybe even the way he parented himself. The last three months had been fraught; Ben couldn’t sleep alone or with the lights off. He was prone to anxiety and tantrums. Pay attention to difference, said the counselor. To change.
Cooking wasn’t a Goldenhorn tradition. But it wasn’t exactly an unpleasant sight, the handsome caterer helping Ben stir a pot of simmering risotto.
“It’s delicious,” Liv told her son, accidentally looking at Sam instead of Ben as she added, “Well done, sweetie.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Sam replied, deadpan.
Liv laughed out loud. She honestly could not remember the last time she’d done that. She’d find out later that Savannah was currently stuck on a stalled L train with no reception, panicking. At that moment, Liv didn’t care where she was.
Sam put the last of the bowls in the dishwasher. There were some strands of silver in an otherwise full head of dark hair. He was over six feet tall, but his posture was as relaxed as the old T-shirt he was wearing. If height was power, Sam didn’t feel the need to dominate. Eliot, at five seven, had always carried himself with the straightest spine possible and wore shoes with risers.
“Right, the lasagna needs another thirty minutes in the oven. Apps are here”—Sam gestured to a platter of brightly colored dips and finger foods—“and you’ve got enough risotto for a week.”
“Can’t we shuck more peas?” Ben whined, trailing him to the front door.
“Can’t, champ,” Sam said, “got to get home to my own family.”
Hot, hard disappointment punched Liv in the belly. The reaction was deeply embarrassing. She was too old to have a crush, or be the subject of one, and besides: he was married. Of course he was. Sam was gentle and funny, and his warm brown eyes crinkled nicely when he smiled.
“Your partner’s lucky,” Liv said, as they reached the door. “My, um, ex was a pretty bad cook. I’m not much better.” It felt odd calling Eliot her “ex”: she wanted Sam to know she was single but not the reason why.
“Oh, my ex-wife is a great cook. It was monogamy she sucked at.”
She surprised herself with a girlish giggle. Get a grip, lady. You’re a middle-aged widow with saggy tits and a mild drinking problem.
“Yeah, it’s just me and Dottie.” Sam slipped a tan leather jacket over broad shoulders. “My daughter. Little younger than Ben. Not as into Spider-Man.”
“Ha!” Liv’s heart was pattering. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Well, thanks for the food, and the cooking lesson, and for not being a home invader.”
“No worries.”
She rubbed at her forehead, pulling the wrinkles with her fingertips. “Look, I should mention… Things fell apart a bit workwise last year.”
“Yeah, I know. Think I read something about pigeons and bees?”
Screw the internet, seriously.
“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled at her. Sam’s eyes were the color of butterscotch pudding, of brandy, of warm, delicious things. “Guess I’m willing to take the risk.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
“Sounds great.” The only caterer in New York willing to work with her ambled down her front steps. “Night, Liv.”
The early evening was unseasonably balmy. The air almost felt silky on her bare arms. A handful of stars twinkled in the lavender sky, delicate as fine jewelry.
“Night, Sam.”
Liv closed the door after him, letting the lock click into place with deliberate slowness. Her house was redolent of butter and onions. It smelled like a home. Enjoying the way the smooth wooden floorboards creaked under her footfalls, Liv wandered back into the kitchen. It was, impossibly, completely clean.
7
The next morning, Savannah was shaken awake by Arj, one of her new roommates. The skinny bartender did not look pleased. “There’s a crazy bitch downstairs who says she knows you. Also, I work nights. I was in the middle of my REM.”
Confused, Savannah pulled up her blind and peered down at the street. Liv was standing on the pavement, leaning on the horn of a beat-up Subaru. Savannah heaved the window up, bracing against the rush of cold morning air. “Mrs. Goldenhorn?”
Liv was wearing oversize sunglasses and a hot-pink pussyhat, the one made famous by the first Women’s March. “Hurry up, Shipley. We’ve got things to do.” She got back in the car, calling through the window. “And for God’s sake, call me Liv!”
An unseen neighbor yelled, “Shut the hell up, Liv!”
Liv almost smiled.
It took a long moment to land. Then Savannah bolted out of bed, threw on some clothes, and flew down the stairs. She’d never been less put together when she climbed in next to Mrs. Golden—Liv. But her business partner didn’t seem to notice.
After missing Sam Woods’s test meal thanks to a subway drama, Savannah figured she’d blown it and was planning on spending the morning booking a flight home. But now, she was in Liv’s inner sanctum. Faded stickers on the glove box. A blue evil eye charm hung from the rearview mirror.
“Here’s how it’s going to go down.” Liv clicked in her seat belt. “Rule one: I’m in charge. Rule two: I’m in charge. Rule three?”
“You’re in charge.”
“Exactly.” Liv was wearing lipstick. It made her look pretty, softening her edges. She started the car, and Alanis Mor
issette’s snarl blasted: “A slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced, and are you thinking of me when you fu—” Liv hit the eject button, mumbling something about breakup music. She reached into the back seat and groped for another CD from the dozen sliding around. Savannah had never once purchased a CD.
Savannah got her license at sixteen, eager to have the freedom and responsibility of a car. She’d only ever driven in Kentucky, never in New York. And at this moment, as Liv careened between lanes, riding the brakes and the horn, all while fiddling with the CD player and gulping coffee from a thermos, Savannah didn’t think she’d ever have the chance. It’d be a miracle if they got wherever they were going alive.
“The thing about wedding planning,” Liv shouted over the nervy jangle of vintage-sounding rock, “is it’s less about what they say they want and more about what they can—out of my lane, prick!—afford. Everyone comes in with big dreams—the cake, the dress, the destination wedding, but—what the hell are you doing?—all that adds up. So do they want to double their budget, or do they want some creative solutions? Because even though people hire a wedding planner because they’d rather spend their money than their time, you have to—learn to drive, ya dildo!”
On the three-hour drive north to the Catskills, Savannah tried to scratch the surface of twenty-odd years of wedding-planning wisdom while Liv blasted bands Savannah had never heard of. Despite the terrible first meeting the week before, Kamile was still open to working with In Love in New York. No other wedding planners were interested in exchanging two months of unpaid work for social posts, and Kamile was not prepared to fork out ten grand for a planner, or do it all herself.
In the Catskills, the rustic red barn was huge and completely empty, surrounded by apple trees. Twenty feet away, a pond glinted. The first thing Savannah said to the owner was “Adorable! What a perfect place for a romantic spring wedding!”
The first thing Liv said was, “I need to know about parking, power, liability insurance, sound restrictions, your preferred vendors, and the wet-weather plan.”
It Had to Be You Page 4
