Wedding At the Riverview Inn

by Molly O'Keefe

  Alice sat there, slack jawed.

  Thirty years ago, the woman had left all three men high and dry. Alice couldn’t believe Patrick would be offended by her words, though clearly he was.

  I should apologize, she thought and drained the last of her whiskey. He’s a good man, been nothing but kind to me despite the divorce. I need allies in this place and Patrick has always been a good ally.

  “Patrick, I’m sorry,” she said, but only the creak of the stairs as he climbed them answered her.

  The firelight played over the amber liquid in the bottle, the reflection cast waves of light across the floor. The fire was warm, the room empty, there was another four ounces in the bottle…

  This was supposed to be a fresh start. She’d planned to wake up early tomorrow, prove to Gabe that she took this seriously. That she was the same old Alice, perfectionist and workaholic.

  She was excited about all of that.

  “One more drink,” she sighed. Alice grabbed the bottle, stretched out her feet and settled in.

  The next morning Gabe stood in an empty cold kitchen and felt the past wash over him. When would he learn? He shook his head and put his hand on the cold coffeepot. Expecting more from the women in his life had only led to this moment. This…disappointment.

  First his mom and now Alice.

  Again.

  He should have known by the way she watched the bottle of whiskey last night, her eyes gleaming like a starving dog, chained just out of reach of food.

  She’d gotten drunk. She’d gotten drunk and now it was 9:00 a.m., well past the time any chef would be up and working, considering the amount of prep she had to do. Instead she would be hungover and it was only the second day.

  Grabbing the keys from the hook he hung them on, he hit the door hard and left the inn.

  He tried to be reasonable, to understand her position, how awkward it must be for her to come here surrounded by the Mitchell men. He tried. But failed.

  I’m such an idiot! he thought, slamming the door on his old BMW. I should have listened to my gut and walked away from her when I saw her drinking at her house. He yanked the wheel and spun out of the parking area, spitting gravel and pulling up grass.

  She’s too damaged. Too locked in the past. No wonder she lost Zinnia. No wonder we could never work it out, the woman is so absorbed in her own pain she can never see what she’s doing to other people.

  Like him.

  She never saw what she did to him. She hadn’t when she was screaming at him during their marriage, and she didn’t now. He needed her and she didn’t care.

  She’s gone, he decided, speeding down the turnpike toward Daphne. When I get back I’ll tell her to pack up and hit the road. I can’t take this. I don’t have to. I’ll figure something else out.

  Gabe rolled down the window, hoping the cool morning air would chill him out a little. It didn’t work. Resolving to fire her didn’t work. Alice, when he was mad at her, lived in his brain and under his skin.

  This was his fault. Totally his fault.

  To even think of bringing her here had been asking for this.

  He pulled a hand through his hair and tried to force her out of his head. He was going on a date after all, no matter how unorthodox. Meeting Daphne with Alice stuck in his head wasn’t fair to Daphne or him.

  He wondered briefly if it was fair to Alice to fire her when she so clearly needed help. He pushed that thought away. He’d spent too many years trying to help her.

  He was done saving Alice from herself.

  He turned up the radio, found “Baba O’Reiley” and sang along with The Who tune. He’d managed to push Alice out of his head once, he could do it again.

  Starting now.

  Twenty minutes later, with her only running circles in the back of his brain, he pulled up in front of the pretty, white-and-yellow farmhouse and climbed out of his car. A black-and-brown dog charged him, but Daphne, standing in the doorway, called the beast off.

  “Hi, Gabe,” she said, her smile sweet and girlish in a way that called up masculine things in himself. He wanted to hug her.

  “Daphne,” he said with a grin.

  “Come on in, I’ve got a pot on.” She led the way into her kitchen. His mood recovered, spreading a warm glow around him. Her house was perfect, looking messy and well lived in. The pine floors were worn smooth, the curtains in the window faded by the sun, boots and shoes piled up at the door.

  It was exactly what he wanted for his inn. Someday he wanted his great-grandkids leading their respective lovers and friends through the front door that he’d built with his brother and dad.

  Just thinking about it gave him chills.

  “My meeting with your chef went very well yesterday,” Daphne said, looking at him over her shoulder.

  There went his good mood, his warm glow dimmed. He couldn’t even go on a date to get away from her.

  “I gave her some herb samples, all of the lettuce and basil she ordered and the purple potatoes, broccoli and carrots.” Daphne pulled two mugs from the whitewashed cupboard, and grabbed the coffee carafe and set it all on the table.

  Her smile was effervescent, huge, bright and warm enough to heat cold rooms. Not at all like Alice’s, which seemed broken. Sick.

  Stop it! he ordered himself. Stop thinking about her. There are no comparisons between Alice and Daphne.

  “Cream?” Daphne asked, heading for the fridge.

  “No, thanks,” he said and she stopped and sat down at the table.

  “Me, neither.” She glanced at him sideways with a look that seemed young and flirtatious, despite the slight gray in her blond hair, and the wrinkles around her eyes.

  Wrinkles and gray hair that he liked, considering he had some of it himself.

  “Gets in the way of the caffeine,” he said, taking a sip of the brew she’d poured.

  “Exactly.”

  She sat back and suddenly the silence seemed to have an awkward weight and heft. I don’t have time for this, he thought again, suddenly anxious to get going. I have those press releases to send out and the Web site to update. I have to fire Alice and find—

  “We’re supposed to be relaxing,” Daphne said, brushing her braid over her shoulder. “And I think both of us are making lists.”

  He nodded. “Guilty. The curse of owning your own business.”

  “The plus side is we can make up for whatever work we’re not doing right now later. So—” she took a deep breath “—let’s stop making lists and act like normal people.”

  “Normal people…” He narrowed his eyes. “I can’t quite remember how they act.”

  She laughed, the sound husky and deep, and it made him smile. He did have time for this, because if he didn’t make time to date, to meet nice women over coffee, he’d end up like his dad and brother. He’d end up living with them forever.

  “Your chef, Alice? She’s an intense woman,” Daphne said. “Striking. She seems very sad.”

  Well, talking about his ex-wife wasn’t really what he had in mind.

  “She’s complicated,” he said and took a sip of coffee. Telling Daphne that Alice was his ex-wife seemed a bit precipitous since she wouldn’t be around much longer.

  “Hey, Mom—” A miniature version of Daphne—complete with the long white-blond braid and bright green galoshes—came running up the stairs from the basement.

  “Hey, Helen.” Daphne opened her arm and the young girl hugged her mother’s side. “What’s up?”

  “Matt’s coming over. His mom has to go to the store.”

  “Okay. You guys can help me in the greenhouse.”

  Helen turned up her nose and Daphne kissed it. “You might have a day off kindergarten, but I still have to work,” she said. “You two help me out in the greenhouse and I’ll take you for ice cream in town.”

  Helen nodded, the deal struck, then ran back downstairs.

  Gabe felt his heart expand, fill like a balloon until it threatened to lift him off his chair.<
br />
  Family. His pulse seemed to chant it for him.

  “My daughter,” Daphne said needlessly. “Her father and I divorced about three years ago.”

  Gabe nodded and looked around, noticing the things he’d missed before. The drawings on the fridge. The kids’ cereal on the counter. The Barbie book bag set up by the door.

  A family. Right here.

  He looked at Daphne with new eyes. His heart so full in his chest he could barely breathe.

  “Do you like kids?” she asked.

  Gabe nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve always wanted kids.”

  The headache from her too-short night and too much whiskey had been muted to a dull throb. The coffee helped. The cooking helped more. Alice’s kitchen was warm—a chicken, three lemons, a bay leaf, onion, carrots and celery boiled away in a huge pot on the stove, creating stock she would freeze for later use. The crisp sweet smell of mint wafted from her food processor as she added a little more sugar to her mint and walnut pesto.

  The dairy farm she’d visited at dawn had already delivered the cream and milk and some of the owner’s early attempts at cheese. The ricotta was good. Not great, but okay.

  She took another sip of coffee, and tried to encourage that small fire of happiness that was back in her belly. If she could just stay in this kitchen all day and never talk to Gabe or—

  “Pack your bags.”

  She whirled to find him in the doorway, angry and bristling as if he’d heard her thoughts.

  “I want you gone,” he said.

  7

  If Alice was surprised, she hid it well. Her face was empty, composed. Her eyebrows slightly arched as if to say “excuse me?” The cup of coffee in her hand steady.

  “I’m not kidding,” Gabe said as coldly as possible. He bit his tongue against what he really wanted to say: I need to be free of you. I can’t get on with my life with you here. “I want you out.”

  “Why?” she finally asked, setting down her cup as though it might break in her hand. “What’s happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t going to work.”

  “I think I deserve an explanation,” she said. Her anger fueled his, especially since she didn’t have any right to hers.

  “What time did you finally get out of bed today?” he asked. She opened her mouth but he didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He knew the truth. He’d always known it and he was a fool to try to convince himself this situation could go a different way. “How late did you stay up drinking last night? It was Monday for crying out loud. Your first day and you decide to get drunk?”

  “Gabe—”

  He shook his head, feeling oddly emotional. As if a great boulder of pain and anger was bearing down on him. “I was an idiot to think this was going to work.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here.” The white flesh of her neck flushed slightly pink and he nearly relished that small sign of her involvement. Her caring. Her goddamn interest in what was happening. “You’re firing me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Because you’re a drunk. You’re unstable. “Because this is my home,” he said instead, surprising himself with the honesty. His body was hot and he couldn’t control it, couldn’t calm himself. His throat hurt from not yelling. “Mine. I made it. You can’t have this one. You can’t take this one from me. Or ruin it.”

  They both blinked while his words rocked the very foundation of the building.

  “You think that’s what I want to do?” she asked, so composed, except for her hands, which trembled before she pressed them against her apron. Her lips were white.

  “I don’t think you want to, but you will.”

  She looked away for a moment, blinking, and he wondered if he’d gone too far. Compassion for this woman he used to love with an all-consuming force welled up in him, slow like black tar.

  But he refused to give in to it. The Riverview, his sanity, his home—it was all at stake now.

  Alice didn’t know why she didn’t open her mouth and tell him the truth. Why she, in fact, didn’t scream the truth from the rooftops and rub his face in his wrong conclusions and allegations.

  Because he’s right. Part of her agreed with him.

  I am a failure. Everything I touch turns to mud.

  She brushed her hands of mint and turned to leave. She’d have her bags packed and be back in Albany with a glass of wine before the real pain set in.

  “We went to the dairy farm outside of Coxsackie,” Max said from the door to the dining room, where he’d been standing for God knows how long. The blush and emotion she’d been able to barely control flooded her and she put her hand on the chopping block for balance because her head felt light. Her body too awkward. “She wanted to go early to see the first milking.”

  “Max,” she started to stay, ready to tell him she didn’t need defending.

  “You were going to let him think the worst,” he said, not looking at her.

  He sauntered to the coffeepot and smirked at Gabe, practically egging him into a fight. Max loved to catch Gabe flat-footed and from her ex-husband’s openmouthed, slack-jawed look of surprise, she had to guess Max won this round.

  She’d been defended. The truth was out and all it took was one look at Gabe’s face to realize it didn’t matter.

  He wanted her gone, drunk or not, working or not.

  Gabe shut his mouth, shook his head and seemed to gather himself. She could read him like a book. He still didn’t want her here, but now he had no reason to fire her.

  She fumbled with the ties on her apron.

  He was right—this was a mistake. For both of them. If this failed, if she screwed this up…it would hurt. More than what she felt right now. If she cared more…if she worked longer with these beautiful foods, in this beautiful room and then had to leave…the pain would magnify. Double and triple over.

  Max poured himself a coffee. “Stop being an ass,” he told his brother and slapped Gabe on the back before heading outside. Alice wished fervently she could join him.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Gabe asked.

  “I thought I was supposed to be running the kitchen. You weren’t going to interfere,” she managed to say, when what she wanted to say was, “You’re right. What’s the point of defending myself against the truth.”

  “But I accused you—”

  “Of what? Drinking too much?” She shrugged. “I did. I do.”

  He licked his lips, his gaze so steady, so rock solid that she ached from the pressure. Nothing about her was rock solid. Nothing was steady. She was a house of cards and there was a fire beneath her.

  “But you could have told me what your plans were. I don’t think it’s—”

  She let out some of the steam building in her, vented it on him. “Considering—” her voice dripped with sarcasm “—your date this morning with the young mother, I didn’t want to bother you with details like milk.”

  He rocked back on his heels. “Young mother?” His incredulous laughter felt like acid against her skin and heart. “You have got to get over this. It all happened years ago.”

  It’s right now, she wanted to howl. It’s every minute I’m not a mother.

  They both took deep breaths until the tension in the air dissipated, something they’d learned to do the hard way in the last few months they were together.

  “This isn’t about Daphne,” Gabe said, his voice soft. “And it’s not about our marriage.”

  “And it’s not about me drinking. So what is it, Gabe? What do you really need from me right now that I’m not giving you?”

  “I need a commitment,” he said plainly. “You’re my chef, you’re a cornerstone for my business, and you’ve got me so nervous right now that I’m ready to do it myself.”

  “Tomato soup from a can and grilled-cheese sandwiches? The bride will love that.” She mocked him, mocked the meal he used to make for her that once brought her such joy.

  He
winced, then rubbed his hands through his hair, putting the blond waves on end. The mask he wore—the I-can-do-it-all Gabe Mitchell mask—fell away for just a moment and she could see him. The real him—small and nervous and sleepless inside the suit of professionalism he wore—behind the smoke and mirrors.

  The great and powerful Oz was at the end of his rope.

  She trembled on the edge of something, on the edge of her solitary existence, on the edge of her combined failures that she wore like armor to prevent herself from risking too much again.

  She tried to remember how she’d once been, when she’d taken risks, when she’d loved her life and her work, when collabo-rating with Gabe had been as exhilarating as making love to him.

  Give a little, Alice. Give a tiny bit. Offer something that he doesn’t have to fight for.

  “Look, I can handle prep and cook for your guests. But I need some help for that wedding by the end of this month.” Her voice was gruff, her compromise hidden and buried beneath her begrudging tone.

  Gabe blinked, then blinked again. “I can find you help before then. I’ve got feelers—”

  “I’m telling you, you don’t need to. I can handle it—just not the wedding.”

  “That’s a lot of work,” he said. “I’m expecting twenty guests in May and I’m still taking reservations.”

  She shot him a puh-leeze look. She’d handled more than that as a sous chef with laryngitis and a broken oven.

  “All that work? Really?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It’s not like there is anything else to do,” she said. And work would keep her mind off other things. Like booze. Like Zinnia. Like failed marriages and her ex-husband dating.

  “Okay,” Gabe said. “I can hire—”

  “I’ll hire someone,” she interrupted, “from my salary for a larger percentage of ownership.” The words toppled out of her mouth willy-nilly and awkward. She had very little experience with compromise.

  She managed a quick look at Gabe to see if his response was favorable.

  “Oh, shut your mouth,” she said, exasperated by his shocked expression. “Let’s both be reasonable.”