by Beth Vogt
“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.”
Seated across from Mrs. Hartnett, Sadie set her mug of coffee—black for the moment—in front of her, positioning her hands beneath the table, clenching and unclenching them. Older than her by ten years or more, Mrs. Hartnett wore her hair in a sophisticated page-boy cut that she’d let go gray. The muted silver color set off her blue eyes in a striking manner.
“So, would you like to talk about meals? Suggest something?”
“I’d like to talk about your job.” She held up her hand, a smile stretched across her coral-colored lips. “Don’t worry. I’m not firing you. Remember, I said nothing is wrong. But I am getting promoted, which involves a transfer to Oregon. And I’d like to know if you’d go with us—as our family’s private chef.”
Sadie choked on her first sip of coffee, and not because of the unsweetened bitterness. “I . . . beg your pardon?”
“I know it would be a huge change, asking you to move. But you do such a wonderful job cooking for our family. And I’ll be working longer hours, at least at first. Ron will be telecommuting, as well as traveling back here each month. We don’t want him worrying about meals.”
“Where in Oregon?” She had to ask something, just to have time to unravel her thoughts. Move? Cook for one family?
“Portland.”
“When do you leave?”
“I’m expected there after the first of the year.”
“That soon?”
“They’d like to have me sooner, but I told them I didn’t want to disrupt the children’s school and holidays.”
Sadie risked taking another small sip of her coffee. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll consider it.” Mrs. Hartnett slid a brown folder across the table. “Here’s some information about Portland. And Ron did some research about salaries for private chefs, as well as cost of living.”
“Okay.”
“We could do this one of two ways: look for a house with a separate living space for you or you could find your own apartment. And of course, we would pay for your moving expenses. We’re ready to negotiate a good salary. Why don’t we plan on talking in a week or ten days?” She waited for Sadie to nod. “Oh, and I forgot to mention that I have a good friend in Portland who is connected with a cooking school there. She’s interested in talking with you about possible teaching opportunities.”
Sadie nodded again, uncertain what to say.
Mrs. Hartnett rose to her feet. “Now, it’s time for me to get to work. They’re announcing my promotion today and I don’t want to miss the champagne toast.”
Only after her employer left did Sadie remember she was still wearing her coat. She hung it in the foyer closet and slipped into her chef’s jacket. Then she went to the bathroom, switching on the light, checking her makeup and hair while she washed her hands. Mrs. Hartnett’s maid had switched out the pine-scented hand soap for something scented with lemon. Sadie’s so-carefully lined eyes stared back at her.
“Don’t look at me. I don’t know what you should do.”
This is what Phillip had in mind when he called to see if I wanted to hang out?
Erik adjusted his pace to match his best friend’s, which was slowed down by a stroller the size of a mini-Mack truck and the multicolor, flowered diaper bag slung on his shoulder. If he’d known they’d be babysitting, he would have stayed at home, walked on his tread-desk, and brainstormed ideas for the race account.
“You sure you don’t want to push?” Phillip angled the stroller toward Erik as they walked through the neighborhood, slowing his steps even further, as if expecting him to switch places.
“No, thanks. You’re the dad. You steer that thing.”
Phillip didn’t even bother holding back his laughter. “There’s a baby in here, buddy—not a bomb.”
“I’d rather handle a load of dynamite.” Erik shoved his hands in the pockets of his Windbreaker, ducking under a tree branch covered in brilliant yellow leaves. “You push and talk. I’ll walk and talk.”
“I didn’t realize we’d be babysitting.” Phillip stopped the stroller long enough to stow the diaper bag underneath and then eased it off the sidewalk into the street. “That’s better. I hate dodging mailboxes and trash cans. And I apologize. Ashley mentioned her hair appointment after I’d called you.”
“No problem.” Erik rounded a parked SUV and came alongside Phillip. “I read somewhere that walking is considered a form of exercise too.”
“I could try a jog.”
“Isn’t the goal to keep Annalisa asleep?”
“You’ll enjoy our time together more if she does.”
“Keep walking.”
This was one of the last days of Indian summer. Soon cool weather would lay claim to the days. Silence fell between them. That was one of the things Erik appreciated about Phillip. He was a pastor, comfortable in a church pulpit, but didn’t feel the need to talk all the time—about God or anything else.
Even so, Phillip spoke first. “So, how are you doing being self-employed? Feeling settled?”
Erik stared ahead at the gradual incline of the neighborhood street. “You ask me that every time we get together. It’s only been eight months. Can’t you wait until I hit my first anniversary?”
“Is it going as well as you hoped?”
“That wasn’t even eight seconds.” Erik scratched his beard. “I enjoy being my own boss. I’m paying the bills—no need to wait tables or be a telemarketer. And I just got hired by the Raging Inferno Race Company—the one that does those insane obstacle races. Javelin throws. Mud crawls. Rope climbs. It’s my best gig yet.”
“Congratulations. So, no regrets, then?”
“No regrets—yet. I don’t miss my old job. And I have time to work on my Great American Novel—although it’s more like the world’s worst first draft.”
“Anytime you want me to read it . . .”
“I know, I know. You’re game. I’ll remember.”
Erik’s phone played the first notes of “It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me,” and he pulled it from his pocket. “One sec. Let me just make certain this isn’t a work call.” He scanned the text. Pocketed his phone again. “Huh.”
“Huh what?”
“That was Sadie.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. She usually doesn’t text during a workday. But she said she didn’t want to wait to tell me some news—and we’d talk later.”
Phillip stopped. “What’s the news—don’t keep me waiting.”
“Her employer got a promotion—and is moving to Oregon. They want Sadie to move with them as their private chef.”
“Wow, that’s an amazing opportunity.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
“Anything else?”
“She’s thinking about it.” The phrase had looked wrong on Erik’s cell, now it sounded wrong. Why was Sadie even thinking about the job offer?
Sadie had lived in Colorado all her life. She’d bought her first house two years ago and fixed it up room by room. Her friends were here.
“Erik?”
He was rubbing his hand across his jaw when Phillip’s voice pulled him back to the moment. “What?”
“What are you thinking about?”
“I don’t think Sadie will take that job.”
“You don’t think she’ll take that job—or you don’t want her to take that job?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer the question. Do you want Sadie to take the job?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Erik shrugged. “I don’t tell her what to do. Sadie and I are just friends.”
“So you’ve said ever since I’ve known you. But let me ask you this. Are you being honest with yourself?” Phillip’s voice remained level
, but it felt as if his words carried the weight of a lawyer cross-examining a witness. “I’ve watched you date other women. You like them for a couple of months, and then you’re done. The only woman you’ve ever been loyal to is Sadie.”
“Excuse me?”
“Could it be that you’re in love with her?”
“You’re a pastor, Phillip, not a relationship guru.”
“I do couples counseling, you know.”
“Sadie and I are not a couple.” Erik kicked a rock so that it skittered across the street. “The one time I ever tried to change our relationship to something romantic, she backed away so fast I was left holding thin air.”
“Oh-ho! And when was this?”
“Go ahead, laugh. It doesn’t matter anyway—it happened so long ago she doesn’t even remember that I kissed her.”
“But you do?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Erik.” Phillip settled one hand on Erik’s shoulder. “We aren’t in high school anymore. And I’m asking you a question, man to man. Are you in love with Sadie?”
“I never thought she’d move away. I never thought I wouldn’t see her every week. Sadie’s my best friend.”
“The more important question, my friend? Is that all you want her to be?”
Erik pressed the Stop button on the treadmill’s control panel, his steps slowing. He’d spent several hours working on the race project, as well as a few other deadlines. Then he’d set aside his laptop and worked up a decent sweat while he ran, praying the entire time. The last ten minutes, his intercessions fell into a rhythm matching the pounding of his feet on the treadmill.
Help me do this, God.
I want to do this.
I can do this. I can be the kind of man Sadie deserves.
He grabbed the bottle of water from his dresser and gulped down half of it. And now he was going to do it. But first he’d shower and pray a little more.
“Hey, Sadie, this is Erik.”
“I know who this is, Erik. If you remember, I was there when you went through puberty and your voice changed.”
Erik pressed his fist against the bedroom wall. Really? He’d put in a full morning brainstorming ideas for his new account. He’d spent an hour running on the treadmill. He was hungry. Tired. And now he was calling to ask Sadie out—because Phillip had put him up to it—and she had to knock him all the way back to puberty?
“You still there?”
“Yes.” Erik hummed a few bars of “Born in the U.S.A.” Some people counted to ten when they felt as if they were losing their grip on their patience. He hummed. And this was no time to get testy. He would treat Sadie like, well, like a woman. Not like his best friend.
“Are you humming?”
“What? No.” Erik stepped up on the treadmill again. Hit Start—keeping the pace low and slow.
“You sure? Because you only do that when you’re trying not to lose your temper.”
If this conversation didn’t improve soon, he was going to sing the entire song at the top of his lungs.
“Sadie, would you go out with me?”
Silence—and then she laughed. Not her off-tune giggle that always made him smile, but a laugh that probably had her doubled over. When she spoke again, her words were punctuated with gasps for air. “Erik . . . first you asked me if I wanted to kiss you . . . and I said no. You . . . you turned down . . . my marriage proposal . . . Why are you asking me out?”
Of course she was going to make this difficult. Keep walking, Davis. Charm her.
“Hey, you refused to kiss me. And that wasn’t a real proposal.”
Charming. Now they sounded like two grade schoolers.
“You didn’t really want me to kiss you. What was that line you used? ‘I’ve become a much better kisser. Want to try again?’ ” Sadie’s imitation of him was not even close. “Is that how you set a romantic mood for every woman you date?”
Was he supposed to take Sadie’s verbal slicing and dicing without even flinching? If he continued his pursuit of a date, she’d leave him in little pieces, just like the ingredients for the Cobb salad she’d served him last month. Was he a man or an avocado?
“Okay, so I don’t want to marry you and you don’t want to kiss me.” Erik stiffened his spine and asked again. “But you didn’t answer my question: Will you go out on a date with me?”
“Come on, Erik, I need to—”
“You need to answer my question. When a man asks you out, you need to tell him yes or no.”
“You’re asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Couldn’t the woman just say yes and let it be? “Because I want to go out with you.”
“As friends?”
“As a man and a woman. On a date.”
“But you and I—together—we’re not a man and a woman. We’re best friends.”
Erik fought back the urge to start humming again. “Now that’s absurd.”
“You know what I mean.”
Why had he ever thought asking Sadie out was a good idea? Oh, yeah, because Phillip had gotten into his head and convinced him he might be in love with Sadie. Right now, he wasn’t even sure he liked her.
But he wasn’t quitting—not yet, anyway. “Sadie, will you go out with me, please?”
“No.”
No? “What do you mean, no?”
“You asked. I answered. No, I will not go out with you. I don’t believe in mercy dates or practical joke dates or whatever this is. If you ever want another late-night meal—any meal at all—cooked by me, end this conversation now. Good-bye, Erik.”
The last Thursday of the month—and Sadie was about to be surrounded by a horde of men and their sons. Again.
“I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t agreed to help me with this class.” Sadie stood side by side with her friend Mel, setting up cooking stations around the counters in the church kitchen. “When the men’s ministry director asked if I wanted to teach a series of cooking classes to dads and sons, I should have said no. N-O. How hard is it to say that two-letter word?”
“You go through this every month, Sadie.” Mel wore an apron emblazoned with the logo of her upscale catering company, Trifles. “Relax. We’ll have fun.”
“You’re only saying that because you think Keegan Fletcher is hot.”
“I do not.”
“Then I’ll help him and his son tonight.”
“Oh no you won’t.”
“My point exactly.”
Sadie glanced at the clock. In fifteen minutes, twenty-two dads and sons would fill the church’s kitchen, ready for a third cooking lesson.
“This will be a unique way for the dads to bond with their sons, Sadie.”
An echo of the director’s voice persuading her to teach the class broke through her concentration. Weeks ago he’d stood there, shaking her hand and nodding up and down like a bobblehead doll, and Sadie found herself bobbling a yes back.
“I’m a personal chef. When you and I graduated from the Broadmoor’s culinary apprenticeship, I never imagined teaching a bunch of guys how to cook.”
“The classes have been an absolute hit, Sadie. Didn’t you tell me they already asked you to teach it again?”
“Well, the one thing I know is that men like bacon. And they wanted the dads and sons to bond during the classes, so it was easy to come up with Bonding with Bacon.”
“You’ve already done the hard work and made a lesson plan. You can just use it again.” Mel pulled her black hair into a short ponytail. “Week one: the basics of knife sharpening and an appetizer of Man Candy.”
“Those guys couldn’t get enough of maple syrup caramelized over thick cut bacon. And since I sharpened the knives myself, no one ended up in the emergency room.” Sadie set out several large containers of gel sanitizer. “They weren’t too happy the next week when I mentioned we were making a wedge salad with bacon—until I showed them all the extra bacon I’d brought along so they would have eno
ugh to snack on.”
“That was a bit of brilliance—bacon and more bacon.” At the sound of the doors swinging open and boyish laughter intermingling with the rumble of men’s voices, Mel snapped her fingers. “And now it’s time to handle the motley crew . . . I mean class, one more month.”
Sadie positioned herself at the front of the kitchen, knowing Mel would finish the prep. “All right, guys, remember to put on your aprons and don’t forget to wash your hands with soap and water and then use the sanitizer. Then choose a work station.”
Toby, an eleven-year-old with Down syndrome, ran over and engulfed her in a hug. “Hey, Miss Sadie.”
“Hey, Toby.”
“What are we making tonight?”
“I hope you’re hungry. Tonight we’re making 50-50 burgers and sweet potato fries.”
Toby tightened his arms around her again, his grin lopsided, his brown eyes shining behind his glasses. “My favorite.”
Sadie exchanged smiles with Toby’s father, a tall, lean man, whose hair was the same sandy color as his son’s. Everything they’d made was Toby’s favorite. “Great. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”
There was no such thing as making too much food when it came to this class. Leftovers were rare. Tonight her plan was to demonstrate the proper technique for cutting julienne fries and forming a hamburger patty. Then she’d cook the sweet potato fries while Mel assisted the dads and sons in prepping and cooking their hamburgers.
Justin Boyle, one of the several single dads in the class, interrupted her as she piled scrubbed sweet potatoes on the counter. “I was wondering if you could recommend a good basic cookbook? These classes have inspired me to be a bit more creative. Branch out beyond chicken nuggets and hot dogs.”
“Glad to hear that.” Sadie laid her knives on the counter. “I’d be glad to give you some suggestions.”
“Great.” Justin cleared his throat. “Maybe . . . maybe we could meet for coffee at The Tattered Cover and browse the cookbook section?”
Sadie bit her lip, warmth heating her face. “Maybe we could.”
They were interrupted by Toby returning to ask what he could do next to help.
Justin backed up. “I’ll call you.”
