Early one November morning, I head to work. It’s still dark, and the clear sky is peppered with stars. Natalie isn’t in the café when I get there. That’s unusual. The crowds have thinned out even on weekends, but she’s still usually here before me, baking the day’s batch of muffins. Instead, the whole place is empty. It’s a Thursday, so I know it won’t be too busy, but we always have fresh baked goods.
I text Natalie to see if everything is okay, and wait about five minutes for her to answer. I don’t get a response. I stand near the front counter, eyeing the kitchen. I don’t have a lot of time before I have to turn on the open sign, but it’s enough to get a batch of muffins in the oven. I’ve never baked for the café before—and for all I know Natalie is bringing something from her kitchen at home—but I decide not to take a chance.
I find all the ingredients in the back, and whip up the muffin batter. I get the first batch in the oven and have to open the café. My early morning customers wander in and I get them coffee, chit-chatting with them like I always do.
The muffins come out, and I stock the case. Still no word from Natalie. There aren’t many customers, so I’m doing fine on my own, but I’m worried that something is wrong. I duck into the kitchen for a moment and call her.
“Clover, I’m so sorry,” she says as soon as she answers. “My father had to go to the hospital in the middle of the night and I’m still here. I lost track of time. Are you at the café?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I say. “I baked some muffins. I hope that’s okay.”
Natalie makes a little noise. I think she might be crying. “Thank you so much. Yes, that’s more than okay. I’m so sorry you’re there on your own. Harold can’t be there until ten. Can you handle everything until then?”
To be honest, I’m not sure if I can handle everything for three hours, but Natalie sounds like she’s falling apart. I’ll just have to deal. “Yes,” I say, trying to sound confident. “I can handle it until Harold gets here.”
“Clover, I owe you for this,” Natalie says. “You can tell people we don’t have breakfast today because there’s no cook. It’s just one day, and it shouldn’t be too busy.”
“Don’t worry, Natalie,” I say. “I’ve got this.”
I hang up, blow out a breath … and realize I feel the tingle. Fate. It’s trying to tell me something, but I’m not sure what.
I don’t have time to ponder. A few more customers come in, wanting coffee, and I sell some of the muffins. They’re still warm, and I even get a nice compliment. It’s slow enough that I prep some things for breakfasts, in case anyone orders something. My hands are a little jittery, but luckily I don’t drop anything.
Just after nine, a man comes up to the counter. I’ve seen him before, but he’s not one of my regulars. He’s tall and quite nice-looking, probably in his early thirties, with short, dark blond hair and clear blue eyes.
“Morning,” I say.
He takes a menu and glances at the choices. “What do you recommend for breakfast?”
“Well, we’re a little short on staff this morning,” I say. “But it’s slow right now, so I can whip something up for you.”
“Yeah?” he says. “What’s your specialty?”
“To be honest, I’m better at dinners than breakfasts, but I do make a pretty mean omelet.”
“All right, an omelet, then,” he says.
“What kind?”
He shrugs his shoulders and puts down the menu. “Surprise me.”
I smile and ring him up, then head back to the kitchen.
It isn’t on our menu, but I immediately grab some smoked salmon. We get it locally, and it has such great flavor, I just know it will make a wonderful omelet. I bustle around the kitchen, checking a few times to make sure I don’t have any customers at the counter. I add the salmon to the eggs with a few bits of cream cheese. I sprinkle green onions over the top and garnish the plate. It smells heavenly. Hoping I haven’t made a huge mistake, I bring it out and serve it to the customer.
He thanks me, and a few more people come in. I have to run back to the kitchen to make a couple breakfast sandwiches, and we’re almost out of muffins but I don’t think I have time to make more. I put on a fresh pot of coffee and Mr. Nice Looking Omelet Guy comes back to the counter.
“Hey,” I say, brushing a curl back from my forehead. “I’m sorry, do you need more coffee?”
“No, I’m fine,” he says. “Is that omelet on your menu?”
Uh oh. “No, it’s not. You said surprise me, and I just had this feeling I should use the smoked salmon. I’m so sorry. Was it awful? I can make you another one.”
“No,” he says. “No, it was amazing. How often do you make those? Is it a special of the day or something?”
“Well … never, actually,” I say. “I’m not a cook. I’m just trying to keep us afloat until the real cook gets here. I’ve never made that before.”
“So you made that up, just now?” he asks. “Where did you go to culinary school?”
I probably shouldn’t laugh, but I do. “Nowhere.”
“Then where did you learn to cook like that?”
“Honestly?” I say. “Food Network. And YouTube.”
He looks at me for a moment, a half-smile on his face. “That’s impressive. What’s your name?”
“Clover,” I say. “Clover Fields. And yes, it’s my real name.”
“I’m Gabriel Parker,” he says, and I take his hand to shake it. “That was one of the best things I’ve eaten in a long time. If you threw that together just now, your instincts are very good.”
“Wow, thank you.”
“I don’t know if you’d be interested, but I’m the head chef up at the Ocean Mark. I’ve been looking for a new sous chef. Maybe you could stop by and we could chat?”
My mouth drops open and it takes me a second to recover. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not in the least,” Gabriel says. “You don’t have formal training, so we’d have to talk about what you know how to do, but you were spot-on with this. I’d love to see what else you can do.”
I stare at him. He must be kidding. A sous chef? But I feel the tingle. “I—um—” I stammer, not sure what to say. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting this. But yes, I’d love to.”
“Great,” he says. He slides a business card across the counter. “Give me a call and we’ll set something up.”
I take the card, ready to jump out of my skin. This is huge. I like working at the café, but a sous chef is, like, a career. I’ve never had that before. I’ve always worked to pay my bills, because that’s what you do. But I’ve never worked toward something bigger.
I’ve never stayed in one place long enough.
I get through the rest of my shift, torn between excitement and fear. I can’t wait to tell Cody, but thinking about a career brings up all sorts of feelings I’m not sure about. It sounds permanent. Like staying.
That’s what I want, isn’t it? What I’ve been searching for? I’ve been following fate, listening to the signs the universe sends me. I wound up here, and for all I can tell it was totally meant to be.
Then why does that scare the shit out of me?
My hands are jittery as I drive home. I planned to make dinner for Cody and me tonight, so I change clothes and get some groceries at the store. Cody’s kitchen is bigger than mine, so I send him a quick text to let him know I’ll meet him at his place after he gets off work. He doesn’t reply, but I don’t worry about that. He’s probably busy with patients.
Cooking usually relaxes me, but I find myself getting more tense as I work. A phone call from Cody’s mom doesn’t help. She asks if he and I can make it to dinner on Sunday, and I realize we’ve been having dinner there almost every Sunday for months.
I sauté some chicken in white wine sauce and make butternut squash with a butter cinnamon glaze. It smells like fall. That should make me happy—I love fall—but I’m tempted to throw it all away. What am I doing in Cody’s house
, cooking him dinner in his kitchen, like I’m some kind of housewife?
When was the last time I went a day without seeing him? Weeks ago? And then it was only a day. This isn’t like me. I’m always on my own. Even when I’ve dated men in the past, I never spent this much time with them.
I knew Cody for all of a week and a half before I had a key to his house. I come and go like I live here. I sleep here more than I sleep at my own place. I go to his parent’s house for family dinners every week, and now I have the opportunity for a job that’s so much more than a job.
I cover the food to keep it warm and sit down on the couch. Cody’s late, but that’s not unusual. He’s a doctor; he has important work to do.
How did I end up with a freaking doctor?
I look around his house. It looks more lived-in than it did when we first met. A piece of art that we found at a gallery hangs above the fireplace, and I got him set of striped curtains. There’s a container of stainless steel cooking utensils next to the stove, and a bowl of produce beside the sink. His mom gave him some framed pictures for his birthday last month, and he has them sitting out on the mantle. His brother Ryan took them. One is the two of us on the beach. I’m smiling really big, my arms around Cody’s neck. He’s looking at me, rather than at the camera. Another is Cody with his parents, and the third is the whole Jacobsen clan—plus me. Ed and Maureen, Ryan and Nicole, Hunter, Cody, and me on the end.
I get up and take the photo down off the mantle. What am I doing in this family picture?
The door opens and I jump, almost dropping the photo. I set it on the mantle and swallow back the traitorous tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks.
“Hey, sunshine,” Cody says. He sets his keys down. “It smells amazing in here.”
“Thanks,” I say. I head for the kitchen and uncover the food. The squash needs a quick stir, but the chicken looks okay.
Cody stands behind me and rubs my arms, leaning down to kiss my head. The way he touches me is so familiar and safe. Like we’ve always done this. Like maybe we always will.
But there’s no such thing as always.
“I wish you would have told me you’d be so late,” I say.
He steps back, and I take the chicken to the table.
“Sorry,” he says. He sounds surprised. “I was doing some research for a patient.”
“Would it kill you to text me?” I ask. “I told you I’d be here and you never even answered.”
“I’m sorry; I was busy,” he says. “I didn’t check my phone until right before I left, and then I figured I was going to see you in five minutes anyway, so I just came home.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Let’s just have dinner. The chicken probably got too dry, though.”
Cody’s brow furrows, like he knows what it means when a woman uses the word “fine.” But he helps me bring the rest of dinner to the table, and opens a bottle of wine.
My hands tremble as I get two wine glasses out of the cupboard. I feel out of control, like the world is spinning too fast. How much longer can this last? Me, playing house with a doctor. It’s kind of ridiculous when I think about it.
I hear the tinkle of glass and gasp. One of the wine glasses is in pieces on the floor at my feet. “Damn it,” I say. “I knew I was going to drop it.”
I look at the shards of glass, and it hits me: the tingle I felt at the café wasn’t about the job. It was about my life.
This isn’t me. The nice house with pretty family pictures, the career that’s more than a job, the responsible man in a tie. I don’t belong here, and it’s only a matter of time before it all goes away.
“I have to go,” I say. I put the other glass down on the counter and dash out the front door.
21
Clover
I hear Cody calling for me, but I get in my car and drive away. Tears stream down my face. What was I thinking? Why would a man like Cody Jacobsen stay with me? No one stays with me.
Not even my own parents.
I park in front of my house, not quite sure how I got here. Cody’s car is right behind me.
He opens my passenger side door and gets in. “Clover, what’s going on? You’re not upset about the glass, are you?”
I grip the steering wheel. “No.”
“Listen, I’m really sorry about being late,” he says. “I think I’ve been taking you for granted. I know you’ll wait, so I don’t make myself leave work when I should.”
“No, that isn’t it,” I say. “I don’t mind that you were late. Not really.”
“Clover, I made this mistake before,” he says. “Jennifer and I weren’t good together anyway, but I did that to her too often. I don’t want to do the same thing to you.”
“It’s not about you being late,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. “Then what’s wrong?”
I don’t know how to explain it to him. What am I supposed to say? Your family is too nice to me? You’re going to realize I’m not enough for you, and it’s going to kill me when you leave?
I glance at my little house. It’s a nice place to live, but maybe I was wrong about Jetty Beach. Maybe this isn’t where I’m supposed to go. I came here on a whim. I thought I was following fate, but I don’t understand where fate is trying to take me.
“I met the head chef of the Ocean Mark today,” I say. “I made him an omelet.”
“That’s … good?”
“He asked me to come see him at the restaurant. He’s looking for a sous chef.”
“Clover, that’s amazing,” he says. He reaches out and puts his hand on mine. “Is that what upset you?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“Baby,” he says, “that’s exciting. You’re a fabulous cook. This could be a great opportunity.”
“I know.”
“Are you worried you won’t be good enough?” he asks, his voice soft.
Yes. In every way imaginable. “I guess. It just took me by surprise, and I wanted to tell you, but then it felt so scary.”
Cody puts a finger beneath my chin and turns my face toward him. “You’re a talented cook, and if this seems like something you want to pursue, I think you should. You’d be incredible. It’s like you were made for it.” His hand slides to my neck, his skin warm against mine.
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely,” he says.
“I’ll probably drop something.”
“How many times have you dropped something at Old Town?” he asks.
“I guess just once,” I say. “That must be some kind of a record for me.”
“See?” he says. “You’re not nearly as clumsy as you think you are.”
I give him a weak smile.
“Clover, you’re special,” he says. “You light up the world—especially my world. You don’t have to be afraid when good things happen to you.”
I lean across to kiss him. “You always know the right thing to say.”
“Will you come home?” he asks.
My breath catches. His home isn’t mine, but I know he doesn’t mean it that way. “Sure. I’m sorry.”
His lips feel exquisite as he kisses me again. “Let’s just go eat. We’ll both feel better.”
I nod. I know what else will make me feel better. Dinner can wait a little while.
I drive north up the highway, heading toward the Ocean Mark. It’s one of the nicest restaurants on the entire Washington coast. Cody took me once and the food was amazing. I still can’t quite believe I’m going there to talk to the head chef about a job.
I was up-front with Natalie, asking for a day off so I could meet with Gabriel. She was thrilled for me. I told her it might not come to anything—after all, I have no actual training. I only know what a sous chef does because I looked it up. I watched a ton of YouTube videos over the weekend, but I’m still jittery.
The restaurant is built into the side of the hill on the ocean side. It looks like a big lodge, with thick timbers and a tall totem pole outside. There’s only one
car in the small parking lot. It’s early, before their lunch service begins, so they aren’t open yet.
Wide double doors lead into the lobby. The lights are dim and there’s a big gas fireplace surrounded by river rock. Stairs go up to the lounge on one side and I can see through to the back, where floor-to-ceiling windows display the incredible view of the ocean.
I wait near the host station, not sure if I should go in and look for Gabriel.
It isn’t long before he comes out, wearing a white chef’s coat. He wipes his hands on a towel and smiles. “Clover,” he says, “I’m glad you could make it.”
“Thanks for having me,” I say.
“Let me show you around,” he says.
He leads me through the restaurant, showing me the seating areas and the upstairs lounge, then brings me back down to the kitchen. It’s like a stainless steel dream. Long countertops, gorgeous appliances, everything sparkling clean. He shows me around, pointing out where things are kept, and tells me a bit about how it works during a service.
“This is beautiful,” I say.
“Thanks,” he says. “I built it out myself, which was really exciting. I was finally able to create a kitchen that was everything I wanted.”
“I’ve never been in a kitchen like this before,” I say.
“So, you already told me you never went to culinary school,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about your job history.”
I try not to cringe as I tell him about the places I’ve worked. “I know how that makes me look, but I’ve moved around a lot.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, it sounds like you’ve had a lot of interesting experiences. There was a time in my life when I was pretty transient. But what about now? How long have you lived out here?”
“Almost six months,” I say. “But I really love it here.”
“Me too,” he says. “So, that omelet you made me was fantastic—showed a real knack for mixing flavors and textures. How would you feel about cooking something else, here?”
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