by Kim Barnouin
“Well, honestly, no.” She sipped her drink. “My father was a tyrant.”
Oh. The personal comment threw me. Until now she’d always kept our conversations so superficial. “Where did you get married?”
“The Beverly Hills Hotel. Both times. God, I love that place. Since the marriage didn’t exactly work out the first time, I figured I’d reclaim the hotel for myself by having my second wedding there. Now I have lunch there at least once a week.”
Okay, I had to know. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Perhaps.”
“Did you like living on the Jeffries ranch?”
She burst out laughing. “What do you think?”
“I think probably not.”
“I felt like I was in exile up there. There was absolutely nothing to do but stare out the window and talk on the phone. Nowhere to shop, nowhere to eat. It was awful. But I lived there for fourteen long years. If it wasn’t for our weekend place in LA, I might have gone stark raving mad.”
I smiled. “I guess compromise is the name of the game.”
“I don’t know about that. What did compromise get me? Fourteen years of living in a place I hated and a divorce to follow. Maybe if I’d put my foot down after the wedding, insisted we live in LA and spend weekends at the ranch, maybe the marriage would have lasted. Who knows?”
“I wonder what you would have done if Aunt Jocelyn had sent you her marriage list.” I sipped my herbal tea.
I was about to explain when she rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t tell me she sent you that thing? Do yourself a favor and rip it to shreds.”
Interesting. “You know about the list?”
“That meddling old lady sent me a copy when Zach’s father and I got engaged. Make sure of this, do that, know this. It’s nonsense.”
“How is it nonsense? The questions and checklist seem full of wisdom.”
Dominique stared at me. “Clementine, do you know what happens when you start digging under rocks? Nice, solid rocks? You find dirt and worms. Why disturb a rock?”
But hadn’t she done just that to her own daughter? Disturbed the rock? Made Avery look under it and see all the gook?
She took a sip of her drink and seemed to be thinking about something. “When a relationship is solid, it’s solid. You and Zach, for example—solid. I can see that. I knew it before I even met you, just based on what Zach told me about you, the way he spoke about you. You can hear conviction in someone’s voice.”
I hated the way I leaned in. Maybe Avery had been unsure about her boyfriend, the starving artist, about moving three thousand miles away to New York City to support him. Maybe Dominique had just helped her to see how she really felt?
“But asking questions can’t be a bad thing,” I said.
“Only if you don’t already know the answers. ‘Are you sure you love him?’ or whatever utter nonsense is on that list? Yes, of course you do. Are you telling me you really need to question that?”
“Well, no, not that.” Ugh, how had Dominique managed to be right about this? “But there are some good things to think about on that list. A friend of mine is engaged to someone I’m not sure is so right for her, and—”
“Let me save you the trouble of losing your friend. Back off. I assume she’s an adult and knows her own mind.”
So was Avery, I wanted to shout.
“I’ll tell you this, Clementine. Had I spent one minute of time going through that stupid list of hers, I might not have married Zach’s father. Sure, things weren’t perfect. But a lot was. In the end, I have three amazing children who would not exist had I not married Cornelius Jeffries. That’s right—there’d be no Zach Jeffries. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be so happy.”
She sort of had me there. What could I say to all that? I held up my tea in a toast and she clinked with her iced coffee. But our solidarity sure felt shaky.
I tossed and turned in my bed in my makeshift bedroom in my apartment, checking my phone to make sure I hadn’t shut off the ringer. I hadn’t heard from Zach once today. I glanced at the clock: 2:00 a.m. Make that yesterday. Which would be a first since I’d met him.
Cold feet?
Fell in love with some CEO at the boardroom table on his business trip?
Realized he couldn’t look into a refrigerator full of tofu and spinach smoothies for the rest of his life?
What the hell is going on with you? I said silently to the ceiling.
And how weird was it that I felt closer to my future mother-in-law-zilla lately than I did to him?
14
In the kitchen the next day, I had so much on my mind that I mistook the sun-dried tomatoes for sweet peppers. Me. The Vegan Culinary Institute graduate and executive chef. Who caught me in the nick of time before I totally messed up the mushroom stew? Keira, of all people. Annoyingly, she wasn’t even smug about it. My gaffe got a raised eyebrow from Gunnar and a “Would you like me to make you a double espresso?” from Alanna.
Screw this distracted crap. It was time to corner Zach Jeffries and ask him what was going on with him until I got a straight answer.
So, despite his text to say he was back from his business trip and exhausted and planning to turn in early and he’d “check in” tomorrow, I showed up at his house at midnight.
He wasn’t asleep. I could tell by the laptop and papers spread out on the coffee table in his living room that he’d been working. He also looked like hell, as much as Zach Jeffries could look like hell. His hair was mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. His tie was still on, but loosened and crooked.
The look on his face when I arrived freaked me out. Half relief to see me, half “Oh, it’s you.” Something was obviously wrong.
I slipped the tie from around his neck and tossed it on the coffee table. “Zach, something is clearly bothering you. You’ve been distant, you didn’t call or text much when you were away. And you didn’t want me to come over tonight. What’s wrong?”
His shoulder stiffened and instead of pulling me into his arms, he dropped down on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing’s wrong, Clem. I’m just very busy at work. Busier than usual.”
My heart clenched. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Not buying it.”
He glanced at me, then closed his laptop and stacked the papers on top of it. “We’re acquiring a coffee bar in San Francisco that’s been going downhill for a decade, and the logistics and numbers are taking a lot of my time. That’s all. It’s my new baby aside from the Silver Steer.”
“Zach. You can talk to me.”
He looked up at me, then stood and walked over and pulled me against him. His arms felt so good. But I knew this guy. He was holding back. I’d been with him through the opening of the Silver Steer, and he’d managed to be very present. Maybe because our relationship had been so new then. “I know I can. It’s just a complicated deal. That’s all.”
His arms tightened around me and I felt him relax. He lifted up my chin and kissed me. “God, I’ve missed you. You have no idea.”
My heart unclenched a bit. “So everything’s okay between us? I mistook a sun-dried tomato for a sweet pepper today because of you.”
He smiled and kissed me again. “Sorry. Everything is fine between us. Always will be, Clem, no matter how busy I get or distant I seem. I love you.” He held my gaze. “More than anything.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah, tell me why.”
He took my hand in his. “I love you because you’re you. You’re smart as hell, focused, driven, and you fight for what you want, what you believe in. I love you because you’re passionate about everything you do, everything you are. I love you because you love your parents and siblings, and your devotion to your dad and what he’s going through makes me love you even more. I love what a good friend you are. How kindly you treat your staff. How ethically you run your business. I love how beautiful you are, inside and o
ut. I love your hair.” He ran his hand through it. “I love the way you challenge me to care about stuff I don’t give two thoughts to. I love how you make me feel. I love everything you are, Clementine Cooper.”
“I’m glad I asked.” I straddled him and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Because I love you too. So much. Let’s go upstairs.”
He smiled and took my hand and we headed up to his bedroom. In record time, I had his shirt and pants on the floor and Zach in bed. He slowly undressed me, kissing his way down button by button. Within a half hour, every bit of tension, of worry, of distraction, had left my body. His too.
I lay with my head on his chest, his arm wrapped around me, staring at the moon high above the Pacific. “Oh, hey, want to see what your aunt Jocelyn sent me for our wedding?” I grabbed my bag from the bedside table. I took out the little maroon jewelry box and opened it. “She sent these a couple of days ago with a card that said her grandmother gave them to her for her wedding. Something borrowed, something old. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“They are. You made quite an impression on her. She really adores you.”
“She totally rocks. She added something else in the package. An old list she made back when she first got engaged. A marriage bucket list. Your mom told me yesterday that I should rip it up, that’s it’s crap. But you just answered number seven—why you love me—and see all the good it did you?”
Zach smiled and entwined our fingers. “What’s number one on the list?”
“To be sure you love your fiancé.”
He held up our hands and kissed the knuckles of my left hand. “I think I just covered that. I’ve never been so sure of anything as I am of that.”
Could you hear the relief whooshing out of me? No cold feet. No getting back together with the French magazine editor. No “you can’t be serious about that holier-than-thou farm girl” from Momzilla. Just a busy streak I hadn’t encountered with him before.
“Me too,” I told him. “So maybe we can both cross off number two.” I hoped he’d take the bait and talk about the infamous ex-girlfriend—something he never did.
“What’s number two?”
“Something about closing all doors to the past by revisiting—mentally or really—any exes you’ve never been able to forget to say good-bye once and for all.”
He nodded, eyes on the moon.
I turned on my side to face him, running my finger down his chest. “I think I mentioned a bunch of months ago that I ran into my ex—Ben. I felt absolutely nothing.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I waited, but he just kept his eyes on the moon. Well, shit. “So, all your doors closed on that front?”
“I’m marrying you, aren’t I?” he said, giving the end of my hair a little tug. As if to say, Now shut it.
So just say yes, Zach. “Yes, all the doors are slammed shut. I’ve easily forgotten the French magazine editor who eloped with someone else after I proposed to her.”
Instead he started telling me about the coffee house and its history.
Okay, he wanted off the subject of his ex? Fine. “Speaking of new business ventures, I had a great idea when I was up at my parents’ farm. A farm-to-table restaurant in the barn. Clementine’s No Crap Outpost. With my dad at the helm as executive chef.”
He was silent for a minute. “I’ve read a lot about farm-to-table, and I know it’s trendy, but a restaurant in Bluff Valley? It’s not exactly LA, Clem. Which means no traffic, including foot. How into the whole movement are the people in Bluff Valley?”
I turned onto my side, propped up an elbow. “Who doesn’t want to eat an entire meal that was grown and harvested two feet from the table? Ever notice how much produce in supermarkets comes from other countries? Do you know how long it takes to transport tomatoes from Peru? What happens to the freshness? How are local businesses and communities supported?”
“A lot of people don’t care about that, Clem. And the large groups that do are here in LA. Not the country. I read a study about how often the average suburban and rural family goes out to dinner. Once every two weeks. Here in LA I eat out four nights a week. And my fiancée is a chef.”
“Well, my father already has a customer base who’ll flock to the restaurant. He operates a CSA and has over thirty members. Plus, he sells to supermarkets, health-food stores, and my mom runs his weekly table at the local farmers’ market. He has a customer base. Between the buzz Clementine’s has been getting in newspapers and morning TV and my dad’s reputation, the Outpost has a great shot at success.”
“Sorry, Clem, but I disagree. First of all, you’d be spreading yourself too thin. Your place has been open only two months and your focus should be there. You’re just beginning to learn how to manage a restaurant, manage staff, juggle so many different responsibilities. How are you going to split your time, your focus, between two restaurants. It’s a nice idea. But it’s not a good idea.”
Okay, I wasn’t going all la, la, la, hands over the ears. Zach was a rock star as a business guy and knew what he was talking about. Except everything in me believed the Outpost was a good idea.
I dropped down on my back, hands behind my head, staring out at the Pacific through the sliding glass doors to the deck. A good idea, period. But a really great idea for my dad.
Who mistook a pepper for a tomato the other day? the little devil, popping on my left shoulder, asked with a stab of his pitchfork. You’ve got to be kidding me. Managing Keira is taking all your time. You’re gonna open another restaurant? Ha.
Shut it, the angel said, strumming her tiny harp. It is a good idea. Once Clem works out the logistics and presents hard numbers to Zach, he’ll see it can work.
And what if he didn’t? I thought about Jocelyn’s list, number four. Make sure that you are the captain of your own ship—even though you and your husband will be steering together. He’ll be captain of his too.
Being captain of my own ship meant doing what I thought was right. What felt right to me. Even if Zach had the MBA and the business background. On one hand, we were even: we both owned restaurants. Yeah, maybe Clementine’s had been open only two months, but the place was a success. And the Outpost would be too.
Maybe you couldn’t always steer the ship together.
I stared out at the ocean, watching as the waves crashed against the shore. Were you always supposed to steer together? I mean, what if you disagreed on something and one of you went ahead with it anyway without the support of your fiancé/husband. Then what?
No idea.
Sara had an appointment at California Bride and said I had to come or else, so at nine o’clock on a Monday, when I should have been up in Bluff Valley, crunching numbers with the chamber-of-commerce lady who told me over the phone she could provide me with all kinds of interesting data on local restaurants, I was staring at so much white lace and taffeta and satin that my eyes started getting blurry. Sara’s plan was to find the dress of her dreams and model it for Joe, who’d be so overtaken by the sight of her, he’d agree to a big, traditional wedding.
I could barely get my mind around the fact that she was going to marry Joe. That she wanted to marry Joe. But Sara in a conventional bridal shop with pouf and bows on every gown?
Something was off here that I couldn’t figure out. But I would. Eventually.
“I hate that, and that, and that, and that,” Sara said, sliding gowns on the rack and restoring my faith. “And this. Although the bow would cover my booty quite well. Still, no. And no. And no.” She kept sliding until I heard an “Ooh, now this is gorgeous.” She pulled out a white, strapless princess ball gown with beaded lace and tulle. “In a million years, I wouldn’t have thought this would be my dress. I thought I’d want something modern or rock-star-ish, and this is so princess for a day I could barf. But I love it!”
I still remembered the day my sister, nine or ten years old, had to go to school dressed as her favorite monster for a Where the Wild Things Are celebration, and she borrowed our cousin
’s Cinderella dress and a tiara and called her costume complete. Half the class moms had been in an uproar.
I smiled. “Try it on.”
“Joe will hate it. He’ll totally make fun of it. He’d want something vampish.”
“It’s not his dress.”
She grinned and brought it over to the saleswoman. They disappeared into the dressing area, complete with settees for friends and relatives and grooms and four private dressing rooms for the bride-to-be to change in. Along one antique sideboard were several veils and headpieces.
The saleswoman picked up a pair of peau de soie heels in Sara’s size, and brought her, the dress, and the shoes into one of the rooms. A few minutes later, Sara, absolutely beaming, came out and stood in front of the three-way, floor-to-ceiling mirror.
“This is my dress. Everyone told me you know it when you see it. I know it. I want to sleep in this dress. I’m never taking it off. I’m still twenty pounds overweight and the dress makes my waist look tiny!”
I stared at her reflection in the floor mirror, my best friend of five years with her crazy Botticelli curls in that princess dress and something kind of unexpected happened: I got all verklempt.
“You look amazing in it, Sara. Gorgeous.”
“Want to try a veil?” the saleswoman asked.
“That one.” Sara pointed to a tulle veil that went perfectly with the dress. “I’ll have to do something with my crazy hair.”
“I love your crazy hair,” I told her. Sara’s long, thick, curly brown hair was her trademark. I put the headpiece on and fluffed her hair out.
“Oh my God, I’m going to stand here and bawl like an idiot. But I fucking love this!” She looked at herself in the mirror in every possible direction. She looked so happy. “Oh, wait. I don’t even know how much it costs. I’ll bet the veil alone costs more than a month’s rent.”
I found the gown’s price tag. “It’s three thousand, four hundred.”
“Okay, what can I sell to pay for it? My car isn’t even worth half that. Maybe I should just go with Joe’s idea of eloping. He thinks we should wear regular clothes—our absolute favorites. Like the jeans he wears for a month before washing them. ‘The real us,’ he keeps saying. I’m not getting married in the gray yoga pants I wear all the time.”
