by Shirley Jump
In the end, she wanted things he didn’t. When they’d been younger, he’d been consumed by wanderlust. He’d thought only of leaving the small, confining boundaries of Riverbend and traveling the world, thinking— Well, hell, thinking he’d find more. Find the relationship with his father that he’d always craved. Find the secret to success. After two years of traveling, he’d realized one thing. That being home was the key to all of that. For him, Riverbend was home. For Jenna, it was anything but.
It wasn’t about the town. He could understand why Jenna might not want to settle here, of all places. It was that they were two weathervanes, pointing in opposite directions. What he craved now—community, purpose, home—had never interested her. At least he’d found that out years ago, before he could make a foolish mistake that would have hurt them both in the end.
He turned back to making soup, a far safer proposition—and with far more predictable results.
He rolled up several basil leaves and danced the knife down the green bundle, creating a quick chiffonade. Then he turned and dumped the freshly cut herb into a minestrone simmering on the stove. Across the kitchen, Jenna was peeling potatoes and dropping them into a pot of cold water. The prep chefs pretended not to eavesdrop, but Stockton was no fool. The kitchen was small, and nearly every conversation became a public event.
“So, what’s your plan for the anniversary party?” Jenna asked.
“I’ve ordered some balloons. Put the customer favorites on the menu and I hired a DJ.” He stirred and tasted the soup. He sprinkled in a little more salt, gave the pepper mill a few turns, then tasted again. Perfect. He moved on to starting the vinaigrette that dressed all the house salads at Rustica.
“That’s it?”
“Sounds like enough to me. It’s a party, not a White House dinner.”
Jenna arched a brow, the kind that said the man didn’t have a clue. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you could take it up a notch…or ten.”
He whisked oil into vinegar, his movements fast, creating a smooth emulsion of flavors. As he did, he couldn’t help but think about the oil and vinegar of him and Jenna. “Do you like New York?” he asked.
The change of subject took her by surprise. She stopped peeling for a moment and looked at him. “I like it well enough. Why?”
Because I want to know if it was worth it. Because I want to know if you found there what you could never seem to find here.
Even as the thoughts danced in his mind, a part of him questioned whether he had done the same. Had he found what he’d been looking for? What he’d wandered the world to find, and come back here, thinking everything he ever wanted was here.
“Just wondering.” He sprinkled in some minced fresh herbs, and whisked some more. “Must be pretty different from Riverbend.”
She laughed. “Most definitely.” Then she paused, the peeler poised over a fat white potato. “But in some ways, it’s very much like Riverbend.”
“How’s that?”
“New York isn’t so much a city as a collection of little neighborhoods. It’s like having dozens of small towns, all butted up against each other. When you move into an apartment in SoHo or Greenwich Village or the Lower East Side, that little pocket of the city has its own flavor.”
“And its own quirky residents.”
A smile danced across her features. “Oh, there are plenty of those.”
“Just like here.”
“Yeah.” The word exhaled on a breath.
He knew what she was leaving unsaid. He let the subject alone. Jenna’s years in Riverbend had been tough. First with the loss of her parents, then with the whispers that had followed her around for years, a persistent shadow to her personal tragedy.
“I’m surprised you had time to come down here and do Eunice’s party,” he said, shifting the subject again. “Your company must be really busy in a city like New York.”
Jenna flipped the half-peeled potato over and over in her palm. “My business has been struggling for a while.”
He blinked, then took a moment to absorb what she’d said. “Your business is struggling? But I thought—”
“Well, you thought wrong. Things always look different from half a country away.” She bent her head and went back to peeling potatoes. Long strips of dark skins flipped away from the furious movements of her hands.
In other words, he’d been too far away from her to have a clear picture of what was going on in her life. To be expected, considering how little contact they’d had after the breakup. A Christmas card or two, a mailed-back forgotten CD, a couple of phone calls. They’d dropped off the face of each other’s worlds. And though it had been painful, because he couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t had Jenna in his life, it had been the best decision all around.
Except now Stockton wondered what he had been missing. When he’d gotten on the plane to Italy, he’d had one last conversation with Jenna. She’d been breezy on the phone, her plate piled high with looking for new business, catering to the clients she’d just signed. She’d landed a couple of corporate accounts right off the bat, then her first wedding, pushing her up the hill of success quickly. He’d tried to call her twice more after that, but got only her answering machine. She’d been gone, lost to the consuming power of entrepreneurship. Gone to him, if she ever was his to begin with.
Now, after owning his own business, he could understand that single-minded focus, but at the time, he’d been seriously hurt. If anything had cemented their breakup, it had been that. Jenna off in New York, moved on to a new life.
One that no longer included him.
He’d gone to Italy, staying for a while with his father and Hank’s second wife, then wandered the countryside, working for pay and sometimes for free for other chefs, honing his culinary skills. It had been an adventure unlike any other, one filled with tastes and smells and good Italian hospitality. By the time he’d returned to Riverbend, he’d found his center again, and decided leaving Jenna to her life was the best decision all around.
Except…occasionally those nagging doubts returned to whisper in his ear. He’d found the perfect place for his restaurant, yes. Found success. But there was something…something intangible…lacking still. The old itch to wander returned, but Stockton shrugged it off. Running would do him no good. Especially with his business about to celebrate its anniversary.
“Italy was like that, too,” he said, changing gears once again, trying to avoid the tense bumps in the conversational road. “The towns are small and cozy, and every neighborhood had its own special touch. Even its own food. The lasagna I tasted in one part of Italy was just a tiny bit different in another place.”
Jenna picked up her last potato and started peeling it. “Did you spend a lot of time with your father there?”
“No.”
“I thought when you left—”
“You thought wrong.” He scowled. He didn’t like unrest in his kitchen, and now here he was, causing plenty of it. Regret flooded him. “I’m sorry. It’s just my father has never been what I’d call supportive.”
“I heard he owns a restaurant in Italy now.”
Stockton nodded. “He thinks the only place you can have a truly successful restaurant is in either a big city or a country dedicated to culinary excellence. Indiana doesn’t fit the bill in either of those categories.”
“He’s never been to Rustica?”
Stockton shook his head. “I suppose he doesn’t want me to prove him wrong.”
“If you ask me, he’s the one who’s missing out. It’s a great restaurant, Stockton. The food is amazing. I want to eat everything that leaves this kitchen.” She paused, and her gaze met his. “You’ve really done it.”
“Thank you.”
She fiddled with the potato peeler. Behind him, Stockton heard the bustle of the kitchen as the staff readied the restaurant for the night’s onslaught. “Why did you choose Riverbend, though? You could have opened a restaurant anywhere. Even…New York.�
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Where she had been. He could hear the underlying question—why hadn’t he followed her to the big city and embarked on his dream there? He, the one who had all that urge to travel, and had ultimately ended up back at where they’d both started? “Because I didn’t have any ties to New York.”
The truth sat there between them, cold and stark. He wanted to take it back, make up something else, but he didn’t.
“Of course,” Jenna said, and went back to the potatoes.
“It was more than that,” Stockton went on, and wondered why it was suddenly so important to him that Jenna understood. “I love this town. I used to think my father was right, that the only place to have a truly successful restaurant was in the heart of a city or a renowned culinary country. But the more I traveled, the more I realized one thing.”
She paused in her work. “What’s that?”
“That what makes a restaurant successful isn’t just the food or the location. It’s the people who patronize it. A good chef learns to listen to his customers, and in turn, they shape the menu, the décor, but more, the mood. I always wanted a restaurant where everyone could feel at home.”
“A neighborhood destination?”
He nodded. “Exactly.” He thought of his father again and how Hank would never understand Stockton’s approach to business. Hank was a man who couldn’t even invite his own family into his kitchen. He’d never see the joy of letting the customers shape the restaurant.
“But there are a lot bigger markets out there than Riverbend, Indiana,” Jenna said.
“There are. I’ve visited many of them, worked in a few. The more I did that, though, the more I realized this is exactly the size success I wanted, Jenna. Not everyone wants to be the biggest.” He waved to indicate the restaurant beyond the double doors of the kitchen, with its intimate tables, soft lighting, amber tones. “This is exactly what I always dreamed of having. Not too big, and just busy enough to pay the bills but still let me have a life. Someday, I’ll be able to settle down, have a family.”
Then why had he avoided that so far? Why had he shied away from serious relationships?
Jenna fiddled with the peeler, spinning it round and round in her fingers. “So, you have everything you want now?”
“Pretty much.” He dismissed the questions in his mind, then met her gaze. “The question is whether you do.”
“Whether I what?”
“Have everything you want.” A breath passed between them. “Do you, Jenna?”
She glanced away, quickly. “Uh, the last potato is done. I better get these on the stove for you.” She dropped the peeler to the counter and went to lift the heavy pot onto the counter. Stockton crossed to her, his hands going to the handles. They touched, and he lifted his gaze to hers. Damn, she was still beautiful. Still had that way of looking at him that seemed to peer into his soul. Their fingers held the contact a moment longer, then Jenna broke away. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing.” Who was he trying to convince? Himself? Or her?
“Please cater Eunice’s party,” Jenna said. “I need you to do this for me, Stockton, regardless of everything between us.”
Here they were, back to business again. In the comfort zone both of them liked to maintain.
He wanted to say no. He’d already spent an hour in the kitchen with her, and the whole time, a simmering tension had hung in the air. All those tangled threads that came with sharing a past with someone. If they spent enough time together, eventually one of them would be tempted to pick up a thread.
But as he looked at her, standing a few feet away, he noticed a tension in her shoulders, a worried line across her brow. He suspected she’d understated the trouble her business was in, especially if she’d taken a job here, of all places.
She needed him, she’d said. He’d never thought he’d hear those words from her again. And this week, he’d heard it twice.
The first time she’d said she needed him, he thought it had been a ploy. But now, reading Jenna’s body language and the unspoken words in her tone, he realized she was telling the truth. It was more than to help out her struggling business, he suspected, but what more he couldn’t discern.
The spurned lover in him could easily say no, just because. But he thought of how hard she had worked to convince him to say yes, and how much it must have taken to come to him, of all people, for help. Once, they had been friends, and that long-held urge to help her returned. Even as his better sense screamed out a warning, Stockton put down the pot and crossed to Jenna. Her green eyes met his, filled with hope, the kind he couldn’t resist, no matter how hard he tried. “Seems you’ve just hired a caterer.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE DINNER RUSH WAS in full swing. Stockton allowed the work to become his sole focus. He bustled around the kitchen, calling out orders, sautéing steaks, grilling vegetables, boiling fresh pasta.
Avoiding Jenna.
For her part, she steered clear of him, too. They shared few words—only enough for him to give her direction and send her off to complete some small kitchen task. At some point, they would have to finish talking, not just about the plan for his anniversary party, but also the menu for Eunice’s birthday, and work on bringing those plans together. Until then, there was work.
Work had been his salvation, his distraction, his life, for so long that Stockton had forgotten what normalcy was like. He ate, slept and breathed the restaurant. Spent more hours here than he probably had to, and spent his free time whipping up new recipes. In the early months of the restaurant, he’d had no social life. To be honest, he still had no social life.
Everything had been about building the business, growing the clientele and creating a stand-out environment. There would be time later to have the life he had put on hold. For a long time, he hadn’t minded that delay. But lately—
He’d been wondering if maybe he was missing something. If maybe he should take more time off, consider making enough time to have a relationship with more than a knife and a cutting board.
For that reason alone, he’d decided having Jenna’s help on planning the anniversary party was a smart idea. It would free up some of Stockton’s time, and take a little of the pressure off his shoulders. After thinking about it, he’d realized his minimal plans could use a little wow factor, something Jenna specialized in creating. Surely, he could work on a couple of events with her and keep everything professional.
The acrid scent of something burning filled the air, and Stockton whirled toward the stove. He turned off the burner, removed the scorched pan, filled it with hot water and soap, and set it in the sink to soak, all in the fast, practiced moves of someone who had encountered that emergency a time or ten. “What happened?”
“Uh, a béchamel sauce gone awry?” Jenna offered him up an apologetic smile. “I said I could cook, not create a masterpiece. I guess I thought I had white sauces under control.”
“Well, at least we know you can burn,” he said, chuckling. “Maybe I should have you searing the steaks.”
She laughed, then ran the back of her hand over her forehead. “This is a lot harder than I expected.”
“You get used to it. Work here long enough and you develop a rhythm.” Stockton retrieved another pot from the shelf and set it on the stove.
She gave the pan a dubious glance. “Does that mean you don’t burn things anymore?”
He laughed. “I wish. Normally, when I do, it’s because I’m trying to do too many things at one time.”
“You always did,” she said softly, and for a moment, he could almost believe they were back to old times. To those high school days when his heart leapt at the sight of her, and his every thought centered around touching her.
For the first time, Stockton wondered if this older Jenna—a woman as dedicated to her own career and dreams as he was—would understand this older, more settled version of him.
Or maybe he and Jenna were too similar. Maybe there was something to that adage about opposites at
tracting. If that was so, then someone better tell his hormones because they weren’t paying attention to anything other than her.
“Multitasking is a necessity in this field. You need to be able to talk, listen and manage two or three dishes, all at the same time.” He gestured toward the pan. “Let’s try the sauce again.” Back to work. Always back to work.
“You are a harsh taskmaster.” She gathered the butter and flour, then stepped back. When Stockton didn’t move in to start the sauce, she gave him an uncertain glance. “You sure you want me to do this again? After I burned the last one? Isn’t it better for me to watch you?”
“You can do this.” He pushed the butter closer to her. “And when we get busy with customers in a little while, I won’t have time to show you. You have to do it for yourself to truly learn.”
And for him to be able to walk away, and bury himself in the kitchen instead of in whatever she was doing. Already, being this close to her had him distracted, and that was a bad sign.
She wrinkled her nose, but didn’t protest further. Instead, she crossed to the pan, slid the stick of butter into it, then stepped back to wait for it to melt before adding the flour and seasoning.
“Now, whisk,” he said.
She did as he said, picking up the stainless steel whisk, and stirring the roux before Stockton moved in beside her and began adding milk. As soon as he did, he realized he should have had her make that liquid addition. Not just because she needed the experience, but because the sheer act of pouring the liquid put him within inches of her. All evening, he’d done a good job of maintaining distance between them—a few feet, a countertop, a stand mixer. Something that he could use as a wall to tamp down his awareness of her every move, every breath.
A lone tendril of her black hair had escaped the clip she’d used, and it curled along her neck, sweet and tantalizing. He wanted to capture that lock in his fingers, feel it slide silkily through his grasp. His gaze drifted over her neck, swooping down the hollows of her throat. Desire curled tight in his gut.
