“Will you build a sand castle with me?” she asks as I stop pushing and she slows to a stop.
“Nope, but I want to jump on the jumping pillow.”
“You do?” she squeals.
“Yep, come on. Let’s go jump.”
The sun has started to lower over the hills. It’s late afternoon, maybe around five, and the park is quickly becoming deserted. Only a few kids are left here, and I suspect soon they’ll all be heading off to their homes for dinner.
Emma and I jump on the pillow until our hearts are content. Emma collapses on the jumping pillow, and looks up at the fading sun. Her brown hair is an absolute mess, and her big brown eyes are darting around the sky looking everywhere.
“Mummy, do you think when I die I’ll see Daddy in heaven?”
“I think Daddy will make sure he’s there waiting with his arms open.” I lie beside her, and reach for her hand.
“I think Nanna is sad. I hear her crying sometimes. Not all the time, but I heard her one night when I got up to go to the toilet,” she says as she continues to look up at the changing hues of the sky.
“Sometimes we need to cry, and it’s okay if we do.”
“I cry when I’m sad too.” She moves her body so she snuggles into my side, her head in the crook of my arm. A rock is settling deep in the pit of my stomach, a lump in my throat and all I want to do is wrap Emma in a blanket and protect her against any harm that might threaten her. “It’s okay, Mummy. You can cry too, if you need it.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” I say, choking on my own tears. What do I say, what can I say to a seven-year-old girl, whose innocence is my strength? “I don’t need to cry, I have you in my arms and that’s all I can ask for. As long as you’re safe, happy and healthy, that’s all I need to be happy.”
A few moments of quiet pass between us. Emma becomes fidgety and stands rubbing her stomach.
“My tummy just told me it needs something to eat.” Her young mind so easily moves from one subject to the next, without dwelling on what’s been said moments before.
I smile at her, and sit up. “Did it? Did it ask for anything in particular?”
“Oh yes, it said it wants chocolate.”
“It did? Did it ask for anything else?”
“Hang on.” She bends at the waist and tries to put her ear to her belly button, but fails. “It’s saying, hot chips, a hamburger and a caramel milkshake.” She straightens and looks at me with the biggest, toothiest smile.
“Well you can tell your tummy we have wraps, fruit and juice.”
She looks down at her tummy, “Did you hear that, tummy? It’s not what you want but it’s better than stir-fry. Yuck.”
I try to hold in the laugh, but it escapes as I stand and shake off anything that may have stuck to my butt from lying on the jumping pillow.
“Come on, miss. Let’s go have some dinner, then we’ll get going.”
“Okay,” Emma says happily and runs toward our blanket, now shadowed by the huge eucalyptus tree. “Mummy, your phone’s ringing,” Emma yells as I approach her.
When I get to the blanket, the phone’s stopped ringing, but begins again as soon as I sit and start rummaging around the picnic basket for it.
Again I miss the call, but the moment I slide my finger across the screen I see there are six missed calls from Angus.
Crap, what’s happened?!
I start taking the wraps out of the basket, followed by the containers with the fruit when my phone rings again.
“Hello,” I say, answering it while multi-tasking, giving Emma her dinner.
“I’m sorry to bother you on your day off, Holly. But I’ve had three of the staff cancel out tonight. We’ve got two parties of ten coming in at seven-thirty and I’m severely short staffed. Is there any way you can come in tonight?”
I look over at Emma and she’s happily eating her wrap.
“What time is it now?”
“It’s just before six,” Angus says.
“I wouldn’t be able to get there by seven, even if I was home. I’m out at the moment and probably won’t be back home for another half hour. I won’t be able to come in until closer to eight.”
“I really wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so short-staffed and if I didn’t have these two big bookings.”
“Who’s on?”
“Only Andrew and Justine. Pierre’s on in the kitchen, and two of his kitchen assistants quit on him tonight, too, leaving him short-staffed as well.”
I couldn’t help but let the laugh rip through me as I rolled my eyes. Unfortunately I also spoke, “Figures.”
“Sorry?”
Oh shit, I didn’t mean to actually say that aloud. I only meant to think it.
“Nothing.” I take a huge breath and let it out slowly. Emma’s smiling at me and I wink at her. “I’ll be there when I can, but it won’t be ‘til around eight.”
“Thank you so much, you’ve saved me so much heartache. Park around the back in one of the reserved spots.”
“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”
When I hang up, I grab a wrap, and start eating it.
“Emma,” I start saying, but Emma cuts me off before I can continue.
“I know, you have to go to work. It’s okay, Mummy. Nanna’s home, she’ll look after me.” Emma takes her last bite of her wrap then reaches for a juice box. “We can go now if you like,” she innocently offers.
“Nope, not gonna happen, Peanut. You and I can finish our dinner first, then head off home.”
“Okay, can I have some more to eat please?”
I relax while eating dinner, because this is time I’ll never get back again with my daughter. These are flashes I wish could last a lifetime, but they only seem to last a millisecond.
It’s days like today, ones where love flows so freely, without conditions or prejudice, that are what memories are made of.
We need to savour and capture these rare and breathtaking moments, because we never know when they’ll be ripped away.
Chef Pierre: Chapter 8
Holly
Driving into work, I notice the size of the moon. It’s full and engaging, though the stars don’t shine as brightly as they normally do. The strength of the moonlight overpowers the gentle twinkling of the stars.
A flutter settles deep in my stomach, almost like a wave of emotions stirring and trying to break through. A rogue, roaming tremble that’s been awoken from a dormant state.
“Stephen, I need you to look after me. I have to know what I’m doing is the right thing. I know I’ll stumble. I know I’ll fall, but I need you to give me a sign. Something to tell me you’re proud of me. Anything.” I allow my eyes to look at the moon smiling down at me, before I return my attention to the road.
As I drive to work, I wait. And I wait. I need that sign, some gentle affirmation from Stephen.
But it doesn’t come.
Nothing. Not a word, a whisper, a song.
Nothing.
As I park behind the restaurant, I sit in my car and feel the heaviness in my body. The restraint and melancholy strangle my mind, and a wet blanket cocoons my heart.
I’m not sure how long I sit out here, staring at nothing, feeling nothing, but an immense gloom.
Rap….rap….rap.
Startled I look to my right and see Angus is tapping on driver’s side window.
I put a hand to my chest, take a deep, slow breath and get out of the car.
“You okay, Holly?” he asks, taking a couple of steps back while I swing the door closed and lock my car.
“Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking,” I answer, truthfully.
“Anything I can help you with?”
“No, I’m good. What time is it?” I try and change the subject.
“It’s just before eight. You made great time.” I step past Angus, and start going through the back of the restaurant. I feel Angus’s hand at the small of my back as he guides me inside.
I look at it over my shoulder, and my ey
es go directly to his, silently telling him to move his hand before I rip it off.
Angus opens the door and allows me to step through first before he closes and locks the back, and puts his hands in his pockets.
Once I put my handbag in the staff room, I go out to the floor and find Justine taking care of the front of house. Angus takes her place at the maître d’s podium.
“Hey, what’s happening?” I ask her as she moves behind the bar and pours a drink.
“We’re getting hammered is what’s happening. I’m really glad you’re here though. But hey, word of warning…Pierre is in a foul mood. He’s been biting everyone’s head off tonight. Seeing as you two have quite an explosive dynamic, I’d say to stay away.”
I notice the drink orders are crazy, and the restaurant is being slammed tonight. I hate to think of how it is in the kitchen.
“Look I’ll take care of drinks. You go to the pass-through and see what’s happening in the kitchen,” I tell Justine, not really paying attention to her warning.
“Yeah, that may be best. We don’t need another person walking out ‘cause of Chef.” She looks me over, turns on her heels and leaves.
What the hell was that?
Can she pass any more judgement on me?
I stand behind the bar and catch the drinks up, then walk over to the pass-through to see what dishes need to go out and to which tables.
It’s all hands on deck tonight, so I don’t mind helping serve. The tables with the two large groups are rowdy, and Justine and Andrew are being run off their feet. Though we still appear to be a professional and a tightly-run crew, I can tell by the smallest of grimaces on Angus’s face he’s struggling being out here.
As I walk to the pass-through, there are eight dishes lined up and no one else free to serve them. “Pierre, what table are these going to?”
Pierre’s back straightens, he turns slowly and his upper lip lifts in a snarl toward me. “Justine’s table, now go away.”
Pierre is the definition of a stuck-up, arrogant snob. His head is so far up his own arse, he has no idea if it’s bright out or night.
“Pierre, could you please tell me the table number so I can take them out?” I try and keep my tone low and calm, though underneath I’m fuming and about to rip him a new one right here.
“Table eight,” he finally says, as he shoots me a sideways glance.
Picking up two of the dishes, I head toward the table and start placing them in front of the respective diners.
By the time table eight’s been served, the other large table’s entrees are ready. I start serving their food, and on the last trip out, one of the diner’s hands become too adventurous and finds its way to my bottom.
I scoot to the side and try to remain as professional as I can. “Do you mind keeping your hands to yourself?” I ask it politely, but I’m clear that it’s not really a question, more a rhetorical ‘don’t touch me’ statement.
This table is filled with men, all in suits, all guzzling too much alcohol, and all too loud.
“She shot you down,” the guy sitting next to Mr. Handsy says.
When I turn to leave the table and he smacks me on the bottom. I still my movement, and consider my options. Do I turn around, deck him and walk away laughing? Do I tell Angus and create a scene? Or do I let it go, and not come back to the table, sending Andrew or Angus to deal with them?
I can handle him, and any other dick who thinks they can put their hands on me.
I walk into the kitchen, frustrated and irritated with how the night’s turning out to be.
“Get out, go back to your workstation,” I hear a deep, rumbly French accent almost bellowing at me.
Taking a step back, I find my back is against the wall, and all I want to do is sink to the floor, hug my legs and cry.
Instead, I pull my shoulders back, lift my chin higher and take two deliberately slow breaths.
“Go away,” he says again as he mixes something in a huge stock pot.
“Are you kidding me?” I throw my hands up, annoyance finally ripping through me and aimed directly at its source. “Tell me how you’ve become such an arrogant jerk? What the hell is your problem, Pierre?”
“You are my problem,” he says snidely, as he looks down his nose at me. His intense grey gaze pins me to the wall, momentarily knocking the breath out of my body.
My eyes rakes over his face, slowly down to his chest, and I catch a sudden deep intake of his own breath.
For that split second, the single heartbeat, he’s not Pierre the sour monster, he’s something else. A vessel harbouring raw pain, a shadow embedded so deeply in his soul he can barely breathe.
His severe gaze stays glued to mine.
And as his solid stance minutely softens, something happens to me too. A small fire begins to burn, a snapshot of warmth travels the length of my spine.
We stand looking at each other, for only a moment. Maybe not even a moment, maybe only a few seconds.
I clear my throat and drag my eyes away from his broad shoulders and look down at the pot he’s cooking with.
“Well, what do you want?” he asks, his tone still harsh but slightly mellowed.
“I just want to see if I can do anything to help in here.”
“Are you chef? No, you are not. Leave – please.” He adds the ‘please’ in a softer tone.
“Look, the guys out at table ten are giving me a hard time. Can you just back off, even if it’s only for tonight?”
Pierre’s eyes shoot up at me. He puts the spoon down on the side of the bench and he stretches to his full height, maybe six foot two, if not taller. He folds his arms in front of his taut chest, and lifts his own chin in almost a protective way. His eyebrows knit together and his jaw tightens.
“What do you mean?” he asks. His accent is heavy now, almost like he’s a new immigrant who’s only just learning the English language.
“It doesn’t matter. I just need you to give me a break.”
“Oui, it matters. What do you mean about that table?”
“Pierre…” I try and warn, but he doesn’t listen. I see the muscles in his neck stiffen and his top lip twitches in response.
“You will tell me now what has happened.”
“Just leave it.”
“Eric!” he yells over his shoulder.
“Yes, Chef,” his sous-chef answers as he comes over to Pierre.
“You look after my sauce, I need to step out for one moment.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Pierre steps around from behind his station and in four large strides has me by my upper arm, dragging me out of the kitchen toward the break room.
“Pierre, you need to stop this; it’s fine.”
He remains quiet, though his grip on my upper arm tightens.
“What the hell are you doing?” I say, rapidly trying to gasp for air.
He opens Angus’s door and pushes me in, before he steps in behind me, slamming it shut and flicking the lock.
“What are you doing?” I ask again as I back away from him.
There’s an intense anger coursing through him, I can see his grey eyes have glassed over and his pupils have turned black. His hands are balled into fists, and his breathing has accelerated, now erratic.
“Pierre.” I watch as he takes a step closer to me. His mouth opens, and there’s a small angry vein protruding from his temple. His eyes though, they’re wild. An explosive violence lurks behind them.
He takes another step toward me, and I back up. My bottom hits Angus’s desk and before I even know what’s happened, Pierre’s mouth has greedily captured mine.
His hands weave into my hair, his thumbs gently stroking the side of my face. My body betrays me, a heated flash of want tears through me. It sparks my libido awake, desperate for him to touch me, frantically scrambling to get more of his heat around me.
“Pierre,” I sigh into his mouth.
But Pierre doesn’t let up; he consumes every inch of me. His mo
uth plays with mine, his tongue expertly licks, his teeth graze. I can feel the heat emanating off him, dissolving the blanket that earlier cocooned my heart.
Pierre’s ravenous mouth is lapping at me like a man starved of a human touch. A growl rumbles from deep within his chest, and with just that carnal sound my skin prickles in anticipation of his next fevered stroke.
“I’ve missed you so much, Eva. I love you,” he whimpers against my lips as I feel wetness touch my cheek and roll away.
The name he murmurs jolts me out of the spell of lust, and I pull away from his scorching kiss.
Pierre has a few tears sliding down his cheeks, but he looks totally broken. Realisation of what’s just happened rolls off him. He clasps his hands behind his head and he steps back, looking at me, more like silently begging me to not say a word.
“Pierre,” I say as I take a step toward him.
“Please do not.” He flings the door open and leaves the room.
I’m left breathless in Angus’s office, not knowing what the hell just happened.
Chef Pierre: Chapter 9
Holly
I lean back on the desk and gently trail my fingertip along my lips.
What happened?
Pierre let his wall of arrogance crumble for no more than a few seconds, letting go of the hurt so deeply engrained in him.
Or maybe, just possibly, it’s not hurt which is trapped inside him. I think it could be something else. He’s lost.
He’s lost his way and is so starved of any human emotion that when he felt something, he latched onto it and held it with all his might, even though it only lasted for a few seconds.
I stay in Angus’s office, rooted to the same spot, just looking at the door which is open a few inches.
There’s a wall clock near, and I can hear the syncopated click of the second hand as it makes a ticking sound.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The ticking irritates me, reminding me every second of how long I’ve been holed up in Angus’s office. I refuse to go out and talk to Pierre, refuse to admit what I never thought was possible. As its taunting gets louder, the walls begin to close in, mirroring a tightness in my chest that restricts my heart’s beating.
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