by Beth Vogt
“But weren’t you going out tonight?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it.” It sounded as if Sadie turned on a hand mixer. “If you want to celebrate with Lydia Saturday—or even bring her—”
“No. No, Saturday’s for celebrating with my best friend.”
“I’ll have a sixteen-ounce New York strip—grilled just the way you like it, topped with caramelized onions. Baked potato. Fresh baked focaccia bread. And for dessert—”
“Surprise me.”
“Six o’clock?”
“See you then, Sadie J.”
“It’s a date. And, Erik?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you.”
Erik tossed the phone on the dash, leaning back in the driver’s seat. So, this was what success felt like. Part independence, part self-satisfaction, mixed all together with the challenge of accomplishing the tasks ahead of him. Heady stuff.
He could do this. Stand on his own two feet. Build a stable life for himself—and feel like he was worth celebrating. Prove to his father he was somebody—even if his dad wasn’t around to see it.
Sadie preferred to cook alone. But today her employer, the usually-at-work-by-now Felicia Cooper, trailed her from refrigerator to stove to sink to countertop and back again, snitching tastes of every dish Sadie had prepared for Felicia and her husband.
She no longer wondered why the Coopers employed a personal chef for just the two of them. The couple could spend their accountant-dentist double income however they wanted—she enjoyed cooking for two adults just as much as she enjoyed cooking for the Hartnetts.
“I’m not really working from home today, you know.”
Sadie rearranged the slices of green and red peppers sautéing in the skillet with thin circles of onion, inhaling the distinctive aroma. “Hmm.”
“We’ve been seeing an infertility specialist.”
Okay. Sadie hadn’t expected her employer to divulge something quite that intimate. Mrs. Cooper was stretching the definition of a personal chef. Sadie lowered the heat and added the strips of seasoned skirt steak. Was she supposed to respond? And say what? I’m sorry? Congratulations?
“The doctor harvested my eggs a month ago. Tomorrow she’s going to implant the embryos.” Felicia paced the kitchen, nibbling on a sliver of green pepper. “Who knows? We could have triplets! How could I go to work today and crunch numbers with the possibility of triplets in my future?”
“Understandable.”
“We’ve been trying to have a baby for four years.” Felicia completed another rapid circuit around the island, causing Sadie to sidestep her on the way to the sink. “I had no idea putting off having a baby until I was thirty-nine was going to complicate my life so much. You’re married, right?”
Sadie stilled. Why, oh why, hadn’t Mrs. Cooper just gone to work today? “No. Still single.”
“But you’re not even in your thirties yet.” The woman took another slice of pepper from the pile Sadie had set aside for her. “Pete and I didn’t even get married until I was thirty-two. And then we wanted to have ‘our’ time, you know? Now I wish we’d had children right away. Maybe we’d have avoided all this infertility angst.”
The mostly one-sided conversation finally ended when Mrs. Cooper gathered up her leather purse and her car keys and decided to go to Starbucks, declaring, “I’ll be off caffeine for months if I get pregnant.”
Sadie exhaled, taking in the tasks still needing to be completed. How was she supposed to prepare the couple’s meals when her attempts to concentrate on the recipes were interrupted by Mrs. Cooper? Of course, now all she had to deal with were echoes of her employer’s voice.
Was infertility in her future—if she even managed to fall in love and get married before old age arrived? Would she be forced to listen to the ticking of her biological clock while waiting for some man to find her and propose? He was probably lost and wouldn’t even bother to text and ask for directions to her home.
She wanted kids. She’d be a good mom. Available. One who made three nutritious and delicious home-cooked meals each day. Who showed up for their kids’ school performances and parent-teacher conferences.
She could always adopt as a single mom. That was an option. Look at all the celebrities who did that nowadays.
Was solo motherhood her dream?
No.
Maybe she needed to face reality. Maybe she needed to stop dreaming . . . stop waiting for Mr. Right to text her and say, “I’m here! Want to get married and have a couple of kids?”
Maybe it was time to go after what she wanted . . . or find another dream.
With “Take My Breath Away” playing in the background, Erik settled into one corner of Sadie’s charcoal-gray sectional couch. Only a true best friend would humor his love for eighties music. Stretching his arms over his head, he tried to find some room for dessert . . . somewhere. “That was, as always, a perfect steak.”
“How hard is it to walk a prime cut of beef past my stove? You won’t even let me warm it up to rare.” Sadie set a plate loaded with a slice of three-layer coconut cake next to two frothy mugs of Irish coffee on the one-of-a-kind shadowbox coffee table. The design showcased an eclectic assortment of antique items: an eggbeater, a tin star-shaped cookie cutter, a silver-handled carving set—even a couple of faded recipe cards. “Such a waste of my indoor gas grill.”
“Best decision you ever made—installing a grill in your kitchen. Most women want the party bathroom with the supersize sunken bathtub.” Erik picked up a fork and dug into the cake. He ate a quarter of the slice, eyes closed as he savored the blend of moist cake and shredded coconut sprinkled over the thick creamy icing. “Now this . . . we could have skipped dinner and gone straight to dessert.”
“You’re worth celebrating.” Sadie had curled into the opposite corner of the couch and pushed up the sleeves of her white cardigan.
“Thanks to your cooking, I’ll be doubling my time on the tread-desk tomorrow.”
“You and that crazy tread-desk.” She cradled a mug of coffee in her hands, tucking her feet underneath her. “I still don’t understand how you work on your computer and run on your treadmill at the same time.”
“I don’t. I work and walk at the same time. It’s multitasking at its best.” Erik raised his mug of coffee, knowing the fragrance of cream and Irish whisky only hinted at the delicious taste. “Cheers. So, how are you doing about Matt?”
“It’s not as if this hasn’t happened before. My wedding ceremony will probably be done by text.”
“That would be original.” Erik paused with his fork over the half eaten slice of cake. “Don’t worry about it, Sadie. He wasn’t the one.”
“Easy for you to say—you won’t be an old woman birthing babies once you decide to get married—if you ever do.” Sadie brushed her bangs to the side of her forehead. “Look at me, Erik. I’m thirty. And as single as a girl can get.”
“So what? I’m thirty—and am I worried about it?”
“It’s not the same thing. You’re a guy—and a commitment-phobe at that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, come on. You date a woman, what? Three, maybe four months? And then you’re done. Your relationships have an expiration date on them that sets off some sort of internal alarm. Warning, warning. This relationship is about to be terminated . . .” Sadie hid a giggle by taking another sip of her coffee. “I do give you credit for remaining friends with all your exes.”
“I’ve never met a woman that I wanted to commit matrimony with.” Erik wasn’t being completely honest with Sadie, but she didn’t need to know that. “And thirty is not old.”
“Thirty isn’t old for you because, while you do have that commitment alert, you do not have a biological clock.”
“Excuse me?” Erik brushed a few crumbs from his close-cropped beard.
Sadie tossed him a napkin. “You heard me: biological clock. I admit it. I want to get married. I want to have kids. A
nd the older I get, the harder that gets.”
“Who have you been talking to?” Maybe he needed to move to a chair—let Sadie stretch out like this was an analyst’s couch. “Some woman who wants to get pregnant, right?”
“Yes, if you must know. One of my employers is having infertility treatments.”
“A lot of older couples deal with that.”
“She’s in her late thirties.”
“And you’re thirty, Sadie. Three-oh. Relax.” Erik didn’t see a single muscle slacken in his uptight friend. “And what about you and me?”
“What about you and me . . . what?”
“You said I only date a woman three or four months. You and I didn’t date for three or four months.”
Sadie waved off his comment. “We never dated, Erik.”
She was doing it again. So what if he rarely mentioned their barely-begun-before-it-ended summer romance—they had been a couple. Sort of. “Yes, we did. The summer before I left for college. We held hands when we went hiking and at Elitch Gardens. And don’t you remember I kissed you on the roller coaster?”
“Kiss? What kiss?” Sadie broke eye contact, setting down her coffee and then shifting back into the corner of the couch.
“Well, I remember kissing you—even if it was twelve years ago.” Erik moved down the couch and leaned toward her, not surprised that she smelled of the kitchen: garlic and onions sautéed in butter—some of his favorite things. “But given that I was an inexperienced eighteen-year-old back then, kissing you now might be more memorable for both of us. Want to give it a try?”
Sadie placed a hand against his chest, her fingers splayed against the red-and-black striped flannel shirt, preventing him from moving any closer. “Don’t be ridiculous. Friends don’t kiss each other.”
He winked at her, covering her hand with his. If he kept it light, maybe she wouldn’t notice how fast his heart was beating. “Why not? You’re single. I’m single—just hit three months with Lydia, which means, according to you, she’s as good as gone. How about it?”
Erik scanned Sadie’s face. She never once blinked her brown eyes, the way she outlined them with a soft shade of forest green accentuating their almond shape. She caught the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. He hadn’t kissed Sadie since he was eighteen. If she said yes to his seemingly flippant, “How about it?” he would make sure she didn’t forget this kiss. And he wouldn’t stop at one, either.
“No, thank you. I want a man who’s looking for a long-term relationship—as in I do.” She gave him a slow once-over, almost as if she was seeing his deepest secrets. “Will you marry me?”
Her words were a cold splash of water. She’d made it clear that she had no romantic feelings toward him. Erik sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I offered to kiss you, not marry you, Sadie.”
“According to you, we’ve already kissed.” Sadie maintained a teasing tone. “Let’s move our relationship to the next level and get married. They always say you should marry your best friend.”
“Who are these all-wise, all-knowing they, anyway?” Erik needed to find a way to regain control of the conversation.
“We’re not characters in a When Harry Met Sally remake who have to sabotage a friendship by getting married.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Sadie eased away from Erik, sliding off the couch to collect the empty coffee mugs. He wished he could figure out a way to continue the banter and pull her back close to him. “And we don’t have to confuse our friendship by kissing. Now that we’ve got that all sorted out, I’ll pack up the leftover cake for you to take home.”
After Erik left, Sadie took control of her Bose music system, switching the eighties music Erik preferred back to the rich, full notes of Pavane Op. 50. The soft echo of his chuckle returned as she ran her hand across the back of the couch, where he’d tossed his jean jacket—knowing she couldn’t leave it lying around for more than a minute. She rearranged the trio of brass candlesticks—shortest to tallest—and restacked the antique classic books on the mantel that Erik had disordered. He’d started the tradition back when she rented her first apartment after she’d started the Broadmoor culinary apprenticeship program. Every visit, he’d rearrange something—switching pictures on the wall or even the condiments on the shelves in her fridge—and then see how long it took her to find what he’d disordered.
Violins played in the background as Sadie hit speed dial on her smartphone. Then she started a final wipe down of her kitchen counters, the faint aroma of sautéed onions mixing with the astringent scent of kitchen cleanser. “The candlesticks and books on the mantel.”
“Man! What was that? Thirty seconds?”
“Yep. Try harder next time.”
“Thanks for celebrating with me. Sorry you didn’t kiss me?”
Sadie forced a laugh past the burn in her throat. “Not in the least. Sorry you didn’t accept my marriage proposal?”
“Not in the least. Goodnight, Sadie Jupiter.”
“Wrong again.”
“I’ll guess your middle name one of these days.”
“Uh-huh. You haven’t yet, and there are only so many words that begin with the letter J. Goodnight.”
“I’ll call you.”
“Sure you will—when you get hungry for a home-cooked meal.”
His laughter couldn’t quite tug a smile onto her lips as she disconnected the call.
Don’t you remember our kiss?
Somehow he’d believed her when she’d said no. When she’d said his kiss wasn’t memorable.
After knowing her for seventeen years, Erik couldn’t tell when she was lying.
She’d replayed that awkward moment when they were caught somewhere between friendship and the possibility of falling in love over and over in her mind for weeks after it happened.
They were best friends who talked and went bowling together. Best friends who talked and watched movies together. Best friends who talked and hiked together.
And then one day as they walked Cottonwood Creek Trail, Erik had slung his arm oh so casually across her shoulders and then let his arm slide down around her waist. Being snugged up against his lean body, the scent of the Colorado summer—sunshine and fresh air all mixed up with wild-flowers and just-mowed grass—radiating off of him, caused all of Sadie’s senses to go on high alert. The warmth in his cobalt blue eyes sparked a response inside her—a sense of security she’d lacked for years. When he slipped his hand around hers, intertwining their fingers, and asked, “Okay?” she’d smiled and whispered, “Okay.”
It wasn’t until a week later, during a day trip to Elitch Gardens, that he kissed her.
“Having fun?”
“Sure.”
Erik tugged at her hands fisted around the roller coaster’s lock bar. “You’re scared.”
She stared straight ahead, the early evening breeze cool against her neck from her newly cut-short hair. “I always feel like the cars are going to careen off the track.”
Erik wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into the curve of his arm, his lips close to her ear. “Come here. I’ll hold onto you.”
She loosened her grip, realizing sweat slicked the bar. But her eyes watched their slow ascent up the side of the first hill of the roller coaster, her breathing keeping pace with the rattle of the cars.
“Sadie.” Erik’s whisper pulled her attention away from the hill, even as his fingers traced her jaw and tugged her face toward him.
“I’m—”
He pressed his lips against hers, silencing her protest. What should she do? Erik was her best friend . . . but things between them were changing—had changed. Sadie let go of the safety bar and dared to close her eyes, to slip her hand up to his shoulder just as the cars crested the hill.
One second Erik was kissing her, the pressure of his mouth an unexpected enticement.
The next, he threw his hands in the air, laughing and whooping, his yells blending with everyone else’s in the cars be
hind them as the roller coaster descended in a rush of speed and wind and noise past the other side of the hill and around a curve.
“Isn’t this great?”
The swerve of the car jostled them together again.
“Great.”
“Not scared anymore?”
“No. No, I’m not scared anymore.”
And that was enough of that.
Sadie folded the damp dishrag and laid it across the edge of her double sink. Left the light over the sink on low. Straightened the couch cushions. Turned off the tableside lamps.
Twelve years. Too long ago to still be affected by an adolescent kiss that hadn’t meant anything to Erik. She’d managed to restore their relationship to friends-only status with little resistance from him—and friends they remained.
And one trustworthy friend was worth more than becoming one of Erik’s too-many-to-count girlfriends. Oh, she could probably count them if she tried. Name them all too. And it didn’t bother her that her name wasn’t on the list.
Not at all.
She’d expected to find the Hartnetts’ kitchen empty. Solitude was part of her usual routine that began at nine o’clock sharp and included donning a freshly laundered chef’s coat and savoring one cup of black coffee with one spoonful of sugar and a swirl of milk that she preheated in the microwave.
But today, the last Monday of September, her routine stalled before it even started. Why was Mrs. Hartnett sitting in the breakfast nook, the morning’s newspaper spread out in front of her, a glass of orange juice in her hand?
“Mrs. Hartnett?”
Had she misread the calendar? Was today a holiday?
“Good morning, Sadie. Didn’t mean to surprise you. I’m going in late because I wanted to talk with you.”
Sadie swallowed back the sour taste that rose in her throat. Had she made a mistake with the previous week’s meals?
“Everything’s fine. The kids loved what you made last week. They even requested the Parmesan chicken again soon.” Mrs. Hartnett folded the newspaper. “Pour yourself some coffee and come sit down. I won’t keep you too long. I know you have a schedule.”
