by Tawna Fenske
“Holy shit.”
Meg nodded. Her face had gone from flushed to pasty white, and she looked like she might throw up. If he’d thought there was any chance they’d get naked again as soon as his mom retreated, Meg’s expression assured him it was more likely she’d sprout wings and fly around his studio.
“I suppose that could have been worse,” he said cautiously.
Meg nodded, looking at the ground. “Not much worse.”
“She never stops by the studio like that. She’s probably lonely or something.”
“Isn’t your dad with her?”
“A little more these last few weeks, but you know how he is.”
She nodded again, not saying anything. It was something they’d always had in common, the absentee father who wasn’t really there even when he was.
But right now, Meg didn’t seem inclined to bond over family similarities. She bit her lip. “I think I should go.”
The energy between them had changed, he could feel that. What he didn’t know is whether his mom’s appearance had done it, or if Meg would have rolled off the cot with regrets no matter what.
Kyle swallowed. Hell, he didn’t regret it. He’d do it again right now if he could, which probably made him the biggest asshole on the planet.
He spotted his keys on the workbench and put his hand over them. “You sure you don’t want to talk for a minute? Maybe grab a cup of coffee or something?”
She hesitated, and her eyes dropped to the floor. They both seemed to notice the condom wrapper at the same time, fluttering like an injured butterfly in the heater vent beside the cot. He wondered if his mom had seen it, but decided he had bigger things to worry about.
“Come on,” he said, and Meg looked up at him. He held out his hand and Meg took it, bridging the gap he could already feel widening between them. “I’ll drive you home.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Meg was elbow-deep in five dozen cream puffs when her phone rang Monday afternoon. She felt it vibrating in her back pocket, and hustled to wipe the lemon cream filling from her fingers onto the edge of the bowl.
The phone buzzed again as she ran one hand under warm water, and Meg jerked her hand out of the water to wipe it on her apron. She fumbled the phone out of her pocket and swiped at the screen with a greasy finger.
Straight Shot Literary Agency.
A fleck of pastry cream made it look more like snot than shot and Meg wiped it off with her sleeve and tried again, her butter-slick finger slipping ineffectively off the iPhone screen.
She had to admit she felt a twinge of disappointment knowing it was her agent and not Kyle, or maybe that was relief. She’d dodged two calls from him yesterday, unsure what to say now that they’d taken things to such an intimate level.
She was spared from figuring it out as she swiped at the screen a third time, finally connecting the call for real.
“Hello?”
“Meg! How’s my favorite new client?”
She smiled and wondered if Nancy Neel said that to all the authors she represented, or just the ones who’d spent the last two weeks on The New York Times Best Sellers list.
“Assuming you mean me, I’m good.” Meg lifted the hem of her apron and wiped her forehead, belatedly remembering she’d cleaned her pastry bag on the hem of the garment earlier. She glanced in the mirror over her sink, admiring the giant blob of lemon cream in the center of her forehead, speared by a big strip of lemon peel that made her look like a pitiful unicorn. She used her sleeve to wipe it away, grateful this wasn’t a video call. “I’m busy, but good,” she added.
“Excellent. Did you get those documents I sent over about German translation rights?”
“Yes. I haven’t had time to look at them yet, but as soon as I finish up this catering job, I’ll—”
“That’s right, I forget you still have a job.” Nancy sounded almost amused by that. “Well, as soon as I start sending you royalty checks, it’ll be up to you whether you want to keep that up.”
Meg picked up a cream puff and pried the top off, thinking about whether she’d ever want to give up catering entirely. “I love cooking,” she said. “And baking. And coming up with new recipes.”
“Of course you do. But now’s the time to dream big. More book deals, maybe a regular magazine column or even your own television show.”
Those last words echoed in Meg’s ears, and she set down the cream puff to grip the edge of the counter. “Sure. That sounds good. All of it.”
God, she sounded like an idiot. Nancy had to know Meg was in way over her head when it came to dreams of fame and fortune, but at least she was polite enough to treat her like a real professional instead of a clueless kid.
“The sky’s the limit, Meg.” Nancy cleared her throat. “We just have one tiny issue to deal with.”
“Right,” Meg said, and felt herself crash back down to reality. “You mean the lawsuit?”
“I mean the lawsuit. You’ve spoken with the attorney I asked you to meet with?”
Meg nodded, which was dumb, since Nancy couldn’t see her. “Yes. Franklin. He seemed very nice.”
“We don’t want him to be nice. We want him to be an animal in the courtroom.” She seemed to pause then, probably recognizing a court battle was the last thing Meg wanted. “If it comes to that, of course.”
“Right,” Meg said. “I talked with him quite a bit about verbal agreements and collaborative work and what might hold up in court and—”
The words got hung up in her throat, and Meg felt her hands start to shake at the thought of this whole thing blowing up in such a dramatically legal fashion. Maybe it wouldn’t need to escalate that far.
“The Midland family’s not backing down, Meg.”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “I know.”
“You know I signed you as a client with the understanding that this work was yours alone,” Nancy said, and Meg braced herself for a lecture on how she’d misrepresented herself.
But instead, Nancy just laughed. “And as far as I’m concerned, The Food You Love cookbook is yours alone. We just need to find a way to prove that.”
“Okay,” Meg said, opening her eyes and feeling like she’d dodged a bullet somehow.
“Look, it would be helpful if you could dig through your records from that period when your ex-fiancé agreed to take those photos,” she said. “Anything that shows his state of mind at the time or the kinds of things you discussed before he started clicking away.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“The more detail, the better. Old emails, maybe love notes he might have left you—anything that talks about his intention to take those photos as a favor to you as your fiancé and not as a collaborator who expected a portion of the proceeds.”
“Right.” Meg heard a glum note in her own voice. There were no love notes. There never had been, which hadn’t bothered her before. Meg cleared her throat. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“It’ll all work out,” Nancy said. “Try not to lose too much sleep over it.”
“All right,” Meg said, wanting desperately to believe her.
“In the meantime, you keep thinking about what your next book proposal might look like.”
“I’ve been giving it some thought,” Meg said. “I have a few ideas, and I can email you some things I’m kicking around.”
“Perfect!” A blare of car horns sounded in the background, and Meg pictured her agent walking down some New York City street, maybe catching a subway or staring at a billboard in Times Square or doing something equally exotic instead of standing in her kitchen with a smear of pastry filling on her forehead.
“Okay, I have to run,” Nancy said. “We can talk about this more when I’m in town later this week.”
“This week?” Meg frowned. “Wait, you mean you’re coming to Portland?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I’m flying to LA for a conference, and I changed my flights so I can stop off and meet you. I’ll be there Thursda
y. Here, I’ll send you the flight information now.”
“Oh,” Meg said, dazzled by the idea of meeting her literary agent in person. Hell, she was still dazzled that she even had a literary agent.
“All right, I sent it. Check your inbox and tell me when you’re free to meet. Oh, and Meg?”
“Yes?”
“Try not to worry too much about the lawsuit.”
“Okay,” Meg said, then clicked off the phone, wishing like hell it were that easy.
Kyle had half expected his mother to be annoyed that he’d chosen to bring his dog as his lunch date.
But as he watched his mom slip a piece of bacon under the table, it occurred to him he might not have given his mother enough credit.
“Is that good?” Sylvia murmured, patting the little black and brown dog on the head as Bindi took a gentle bite of the proffered treat.
A bespectacled waiter strolled out to their table and refilled their water glasses from a tall pitcher, then stooped down to replenish Bindi’s water dish. With a quick adjustment to the umbrella shielding them from the unseasonable burst of fall sunshine, the waiter turned and retreated back inside.
“The service here is always so nice,” Kyle’s mother said as she broke off another piece of bacon from her BLT and slipped it under the table. Bindi perked up her ears and cocked her head to one side, then licked Sylvia’s fingers.
“Good girl, Bin,” his mother cooed while Kyle took a bite of his club sandwich. He was still chewing when Sylvia looked back up at him. “So how are you holding up?” she asked.
Kyle finished chewing and swallowed, the bread making a thick lump in his throat. “Okay, I guess. How about you?”
He watched his mother’s eyes grow misty, and she looked away, wiping her hands on a napkin. “I’m still just in shock.” Sylvia pulled a bottle of hand sanitizer from her purse and dumped some into her hand, while Kyle took a gulp of his water and tried to force the bread lump down. “It’ll be three weeks tomorrow. Did you know that?”
He nodded and took another sip of water. “It doesn’t seem real. Friends keep sending me sympathy emails and Facebook messages and I keep thinking there has to be some mistake. He can’t really be gone.”
His mother nodded and wiped one eye with the edge of her wrist. “I know. I find myself getting irrationally angry at people who’ve sent sympathy cards or called to express their condolences. Like maybe if they didn’t do those things, he might still be here.”
Kyle set down his water glass and reached for his mother’s hand. It felt small and bony and he wondered how he’d missed the fact that his mom was old enough to be a grandmother.
“Kyle?”
He looked up at the sound of a familiar voice and saw Cara walking toward their table. She wore a pale blue dress and an expression of mild shock. As she approached the table, she laid one hand over her heart and the other on Kyle’s shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I heard about Matt. I honestly don’t know what to say.” She turned and looked at Kyle’s mom. “Sylvia. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”
“Thank you, dear.” Sylvia attempted a smile, but the gesture fell flat. She lifted her hand out from under Kyle’s and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin even though she hadn’t eaten anything at all.
Cara took her hand off his shoulder and glanced from mother to son, probably at a loss for what to say next. Kyle could relate. He had no earthly idea what to say to people anymore, especially the well-wishers with tears in their eyes and carefully rehearsed words of condolence.
That’s what he loved about being with Meg. He could just be himself without worrying he’d say the wrong thing or deviate from the script on how the brother of the deceased was supposed to behave.
Looking up at his ex-girlfriend now, he tried to think of something to say. Bindi thumped her tail against his shoe, but didn’t come out from under the table. It wasn’t like her to be shy with new people—especially of the female variety—but it seemed everyone was a little out of sorts.
“I was actually thinking of you the other day, Kyle,” Cara said.
“Oh?”
“I was cleaning out the office and found a box of your things. Nothing important—mostly junk—but I didn’t want to throw it away without you seeing it first.”
“That’s nice of you,” he said. He felt his mother nudge him under the table, and he looked over to see her giving him a meaningful look. He knew she was trying to telegraph some message of instruction, but he had no idea what it might be. Maybe he was supposed to offer to pick up the box, or perhaps she wanted him to invite Cara to join them.
But Kyle didn’t feel like doing either. His heart wasn’t in it. Truth be told, his heart was in a commercial kitchen over on Oak Street.
He looked up at Cara again and she gave him a small smile. Her eyes were kind, and her dark hair was shorter, just a little below her ears now. She was still beautiful, but nothing about her made his heart roll over in his chest the way Meg did.
Kyle cleared his throat. “It’s great to see you again, Cara. You’re looking good.”
“So are you. Really good.” She smiled again and took a step back from the table. “Well, I won’t keep you. It was nice running into you.”
“Nice to see you, too, dear,” Sylvia said. “Say hello to your mother.”
“I will,” she answered. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“We will,” Kyle said, wondering why that was one of the things people said to grieving family members. He’d heard it at least a dozen times these last three weeks, along with “My heart aches for you,” and “He’s in a better place.” Phrases Kyle knew were well intentioned, but which had started to grate on him lately.
Cara gave him one last long look, then turned and walked away. Kyle’s mother watched her go, twisting her hands in her napkin. When Cara turned the corner at the end of the sidewalk, Sylvia turned back to Kyle.
“I always liked her,” she said, setting the napkin down.
“She’s a nice girl.”
“But not the girl for you?”
There was a note of hope in her voice, and Kyle hated to be the one to dash it. But he couldn’t lie to his mom, either.
“I’m afraid not.”
Sylvia nodded, resigned. “You know, with every woman you brought home, I always wondered, ‘Could that be my future daughter-in-law?’ Cara was the only one that made me think ‘Maybe.’”
“What about Meg?”
The question seemed to startle them both, and he watched his mother’s eyes widen, then narrow.
“I meant when Matt first brought her home,” Kyle added, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. Or the right one. “Didn’t you say you thought from the very beginning that she was like the daughter you always wished for?”
His mother’s mouth tightened, but then she gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes. I did say that. She was like part of the family for a long time.”
“That’s true,” Kyle said carefully, not wanting to say too much, but also not wanting to drop the subject of Meg. Just saying her name made something glow warm inside his chest. “I always thought it was odd how quickly we erased her from our lives after everything fell apart.”
Sylvia pressed her lips together. “Meg Delaney made her choices. When she did what she did two years ago, and when she did what she did with the cookbook—those choices made it clear how little regard she had for Matt. For this family.”
Kyle opened his mouth to argue, to say Meg’s choices might have had nothing to do with the family and everything to do with Meg’s need for self-preservation. “Matt wasn’t completely innocent in that, you know,” Kyle said softly. “In the fact that Meg called off the wedding.”
“I know that,” his mother said, closing her eyes for an instant. “Matt was no saint. But he tried to do the right thing. He tried to come clean so they could start their new life together.”
“That’s true.�
� Kyle looked down at his water glass, not wanting to say too much.
“I’ll never forget the look on Matt’s face when she stood up there at the front of that church and said those words. ‘I can’t.’ He looked like she’d reached into his chest and pulled his heart out. He loved her so much, and for her to humiliate him like that in front of all his friends and family—”
She broke off there, her eyes filling with tears. Kyle said nothing, not sure what he could say. His mother didn’t know the half of it. She had no idea how awful it really had been. Kyle’s chest ached with regret, and his limbs felt liquid and useless. He reached for his mother’s hand again and gave it a small squeeze. “Let’s talk about something else.”
His mother dabbed at her eyes with the napkin, then gave a tight nod. “Yes. Let’s. Something a little more uplifting than that woman.”
Kyle nodded, biting back the words he could never say. That woman had been the most uplifting part of these last three weeks.
Or maybe the last ten years.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Jess asked as she huffed along beside Meg on Wednesday afternoon, her neon-pink running shorts hitching up on one leg as Jess reached down to scratch a bug bite.
Meg wiped her brow and kept going, wishing her stride was half as long and elegant as her best friend’s. She pressed on anyway. “I just feel like I need to get in better shape,” she said. “I’ve been feeling a little squishy lately.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with bumping uglies with Kyle on Saturday night, would it?”
Meg felt the heat creep into her cheeks, but she chalked it up to the exertion of the run. “Not at all.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. Maybe a little. You try having a man hoist you up and grope you against a wall and not feel—”
“Hell, yes! Where do I sign up for that?”
“My point is that having a guy try to lift me up off the ground is a good wakeup call that I could stand to lose a pound or two.”
