Kale to the Queen

by Nell Hampton

  “I didn’t tell you I was coming because it was going to be a surprise,” he said. His brown eyes were troubled. “We were together for six years.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “And you had this opportunity of a lifetime . . .”

  “And you told me to follow my dream,” I reminded him. “But you also said you wouldn’t move to London and you wouldn’t try a long-distance relationship.”

  “My work is in the states. I love it. I don’t want to give it up.”

  “And now you have this new opportunity in San Francisco.” I blew out a long breath. “That’s even farther away.”

  “I know. That’s why I decided to surprise you. You see, based on how the next couple of days went, I was going to talk to you about getting married.”

  The spit in my mouth dried up. “You want to marry me?”

  “I realized how crazy it was to be halfway around the world from the woman I want to be my wife.”

  “You could always come here and work,” I pointed out. “There are a lot of restaurants that could use your skills in London. Having a Michelin star here is a great marketing tool when you go back and open your own place in the states.”

  “I don’t know if the venture capitalist will wait a year. He wants me now. You should come to San Francisco with me,” he said. “Everyone will want to hire the duke and duchess of Cambridge’s personal cook. It would be great publicity for my restaurant.”

  “I have to be that cook for the duke and duchess first,” I said. “I signed a one-year contract. You can’t just pack me up and take me home with you.” I covered his hand with mine. “I told you this before I signed the contract.”

  “That was before the review. Before I had this opportunity,” he grumbled and pulled his hand away. “Besides, I didn’t expect you to be in London kissing gardeners. I expected you to be here missing me.”

  “I was missing you,” I said. “Our phone conversations aren’t enough, and you can’t have expected me to just sit here and pine for you while I was away after you told me we should take a break. I wanted to try long-distance and you didn’t.”

  “So you kissed another man. Do you want to date other people?”

  “I don’t know what I want. I didn’t expect to kiss him. It wasn’t planned. I told you. He ruined my kitchen and took me to dinner to make up for the bad week I had. That was all.”

  “But I saw you kissing him,” John said and ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t unsee that. Now I’ll always wonder who else you’ll be kissing while I’m working in Chicago or San Fran.”

  “Ugh, this is a bad time for this conversation,” I said and closed my eyes. “I’m not completely sober, and I feel like I should be for this talk.”

  “I agree you should be sober,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s much to talk about. It’s pretty clear we’re in two different places.”

  “London and Chicago?”

  “No, I’m ready to commit and you’re still playing the field.”

  “I’m not playing anything,” I said. “I committed to you years ago, and I was committed to you until you decided you couldn’t commit to me. I can’t have this argument. I’m sorry I kissed Jasper. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Are you sorry you kissed him or are you sorry I saw you kiss him?”

  My head pounded. My stomach roiled. I put my hand on my forehead. “Both, I think.”

  He just shook his head angrily. “You look bad. Go to bed. I’ll bunk on the couch. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  “Fine,” I said and climbed off the stool, leaving the tea on the counter. “I wish you had told me you were coming.”

  “So do I,” he said and sighed. “Go to bed, Carrie Ann.”

  There was nothing left to do but climb into bed and hope and pray things would work themselves out in the morning.

  Chapter 21

  Monday was my first day off. I woke up with a pounding headache and stumbled to the bathroom to get some water and aspirin. I saw my reflection and winced. I didn’t want to see myself looking like this. How could I let John see me like this?

  Right, John was here. Surprise! The sick feeling that had finally gone away came back with a vengeance. I pulled on my robe and went out to the living room to make coffee.

  John was gone. There was no evidence that he’d slept on the couch, and his duffle wasn’t lying around. He’d cleaned up last night’s tea and left a note that read,

  Carrie Ann, I got a return flight this afternoon. If you want to meet me before I go, text me a time and place. ~John

  Not even “Love, John.” I glanced at the time. It was nearly noon. I don’t know if I had any chance at all of meeting him before he left, but I had to try. I grabbed my phone and texted him.

  Can we talk? I wrote.

  I waited what seemed like forever before I got a text back. Meet me in Kensington Park in fifteen minutes. I’ll be waiting by Peter Pan.

  Fifteen minutes was barely enough time to get dressed and make it there in time. I dropped the coffee-making and rushed to the bathroom where I brushed my teeth, washed my face, pulled my hair up into a messy bun, and put on enough makeup to look alive.

  Then I ran to my closet, pulled out a sun dress, tossed it on, jammed my feet into some ballet flats, grabbed my purse, and was out the door with five minutes to spare. Luckily the palace sat at one end of Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. The two parks together were quite stately. There were plenty of sidewalks and manicured grounds, flowers, band stands, and twisted trees.

  I hurried past security to the area of the park with the Peter Pan statue. I saw John sitting on a bench there. He had his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. His duffle rested at his feet.

  “John,” I said as I approached. My heart pounded in my chest.

  He glanced up and stood.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I said and stood awkwardly next to the bench.

  “Sit down,” he said and pointed to the bench.

  I sat and clenched my hands together.

  “I’ve done a lot of soul-searching,” he said. “I need you as my sous chef, as my partner. It’s why I agreed that you should follow your dream and come to London, because it’s important for you to expand your cooking experience.” He paced in front of me.

  “I thought I was making this noble gesture—letting you go to do your thing. I don’t know.” He tugged on his hair until it stood up.

  “You said you were fine with it.” I suddenly realized that ever since I’d met John, I had put my dreams on hold. Instead of actively pursuing my career as a personal chef to the stars, I had let myself drift into supporting his dream of becoming star chef. When he said we needed to take a break in our relationship if I wanted to pursue my own goals, I had thought he would come around to my way of thinking. Now I realized he didn’t miss me as a person—he missed me as a supporter of his dreams. But I needed someone who would value my dreams as much as their own.

  “I somehow thought you wouldn’t go through with it. Or that you would get here and miss me and realize that I was more important than some job you’ve contracted for only a year,” he was saying. “But now I don’t know what to think.”

  “You’re going to San Francisco,” I said.

  “And you aren’t.”

  “I can’t.” If he wasn’t going to support my dreams, that meant I had to take care of myself. And I suddenly realized I could do it.

  “Even if I got down on one knee and asked you to marry me?” he asked and pulled out a ring box. “Would you choose this job where people are suspicious of you and you find your assistant dead? Would you choose to stay even if we were engaged? Would you choose your job over me?”

  “I signed a contract,” I said. Fear shot through me. This was it. This was the moment I’d waited six years for, and I couldn’t give John what he wanted, not without sacrificing myself.

  “Unsign it,” he said. “If you love me, if you want to marry me, go to
Mrs. Worth or whoever and give them your notice. Come to San Fran with me.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes. “John, that’s not fair.”

  He got up and shoved the ring box in his pocket. “Yeah,” he sneered, “I figured. Maybe I should have asked you when you got offered the job.” He paused and looked at me. “What would your answer have been then, Carrie Ann?”

  “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” I tried to explain.

  “So is marrying me.”

  “I know. I don’t think I am ready to marry you, not anymore. I think I really need to figure what I want from a relationship, not just what you want.”

  “What I want is to get married.”

  “So that I will support your career my entire lifetime.”

  “Yes, isn’t that what marriage is for?”

  “No, it’s a two-way street. My dreams deserve as much support as yours.”

  “Being a personal chef is not the same as being a star chef,” he pointed out.

  “But it’s my dream,” I said. “Don’t you see? I can’t give up my dream for you.”

  “Fine. I’ve got a plane to catch,” he scoffed. “You packed up most of your stuff when you left. Send one of your friends to come put it all in storage. I’m not renewing the rental contract. I’ve given them thirty days’ notice.”

  “John, I’m sorry it had to end like this.”

  He gave me an insincere half smile. “Good-bye, Carrie Ann. I hope this life makes you happy.”

  I swallowed hard. “Good-bye, John. I’ll always love you.” But I had to follow my heart, and my heart was telling me I belonged in London.

  He gave a derisive snort and walked away. I let him go, watching him cross the park to catch a cab.

  I sat down on the bench and put my head in my hands. I had made the right decision, but I was still heartbroken. Tears fell. My head hurt from the drinks the night before.

  And I was suddenly very mad at Ian Gordon. How dare he arrange for John to visit me in secret? What right did he have to let John into my rooms without telling me?

  Anger pushed me to my feet. I stormed toward the palace with one goal in mind: to tell Head of Security Gordon to stay the heck out of my private life.

  * * *

  Perhaps now was not the best time to run into the big man from the kitchen who had threatened Michael for money. Funny how things work out in the weirdest way.

  Here I was—angry, heartbroken, and a touch hungover—storming the halls of the palace looking for Ian when . . . bam! There he was. The guy who had answers about Mr. Deems and the money he owed.

  I had stopped in one of the servants’ hallways around the corner from the bank of elevators. He really was quite large. The hallways were small because the palace was old and people had been smaller when it was built. This meant there was little room to get around him. Did I run? Did I hide? Did I say nothing and move on to Ian?

  Nope.

  “Excuse me,” I said and tapped him on his brawny shoulder. He turned to me. He had small brown eyes and a bulbous nose that looked as if it had been broken a time or two. “You work in the main kitchen, right?”

  “Yeah, what of it?” he said in the voice I remembered so well.

  “I’m Chef Cole. What’s your name?”

  “Neville.” He eyed me suspiciously. I suddenly realized I might be talking to a murderer. Or, at the very least, someone connected to the person who killed Mr. Deems.

  “Well, Neville,” I said as bravely as I could, “have you seen Chef Butterbottom?”

  “Of course. I work for him.”

  “Right, let me restate the question: do you happen to know where he is at the moment? I need to speak to him.”

  “Last I knew he was in his office,” Neville said. “Are you that American working in the test kitchen?”

  “I am.”

  “I heard you found Mr. Deems’s body.”

  “I did,” I said. “Did you know him well?”

  “Well enough, I imagine,” Neville said. “He liked to play the ponies and such. The man would bet on anything. Got himself twisted up in something is my guess.”

  I grew brave. “Do you think that’s why he was killed?”

  “I don’t know why he was killed,” Neville said. “But you can’t squeeze money out of a dead man, now can ya?”

  “No,” I said as we got onto the elevator together and he pushed the button to the kitchen floor. “I suppose if he did owe anyone money, his death must have left them quite angry.”

  “I’d say,” Neville said and then looked from the number at the top of the elevator to me. “Not that I would know anything about that, though.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But if you died and owed a man money, what would he do? Would he hurt your family?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” Neville said and sucked on his front teeth. “I imagine if I had life insurance, he might go to my widow and ask nicely to be repaid.”

  “And if she didn’t repay you?”

  He eyed me again. “A debt’s a debt,” he said. “In the end, everyone has to pay.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened. He held them open for me to exit.

  “Thanks. Nice talking to you, Neville,” I said.

  “Same to you, Chef,” he said and opened the door to the main kitchen. The hustle and bustle of prepping for tonight’s event filled the air. Neville went off to the meat prep station. I figured he was a butcher, just like Mr. Deems.

  I went into my kitchen without saying a word to Chef Butterbottom, who glared at me. The test kitchen was quiet. Monday was my day off and that meant it was my staff’s day off. The duchess liked to cook for her family, and Mondays and Wednesdays were her favorite days to do so.

  I sat down at the counter as the adrenaline of breaking up with John and confronting Neville ran out. I put my forehead on the counter and closed my eyes, waiting for the shaking to stop.

  Talking to Ian about my private life would have to be postponed. After I could muster enough energy to make coffee and eat something, I needed to go see Meriam and warn her that she and her boys might be in for a visit from her dead husband’s bookie.

  All I could do was hope that Mr. Deems had enough insurance to cover his debts and leave his wife and children able to pay the bills.

  Chapter 22

  It was tea time when I rang the bell at Meriam Deems’s home. One of the boys answered. “Hello,” I said. “Is your mother home?”

  “Ma!” he shouted over his shoulder. “It’s the lady with food.”

  I felt the heat of a blush rush over my cheeks. I did indeed have a box in my hands that contained oxtail barley soup and homemade bread.

  Meriam came to the door. “Chef Cole, please come inside.” She wore a blonde wig that was cut in an asymmetrical bob and had on a T-shirt and flowy yoga pants. She wore makeup to cover her missing eyebrows and eye lashes.

  I stepped into her hallway and handed her the box of food. “I brought oxtail barley soup and bread. Your mother told me it was your favorite. I understand that eating is important when you are going through chemo. It’s all organic, and I took care to wash everything well before I cooked it.”

  She took the box from me. “You did research on cancer recovery.”

  “I did a quick Google check,” I said. “The preferred palace grocer has a lot of organic vegetables.”

  “Please come inside the parlor while I put this in the refrigerator. I’m not terribly hungry today, but I know the boys will love it.”

  I watched her walk to the kitchen. “Can I help you get tea? I didn’t come to make extra work for you.”

  “It’s okay,” she said with a dismissive wave. “I had just made a pot to steep. I’ve got cancer. I’m not a cripple.”

  Embarrassed by her words, I stepped into the parlor. There were pictures of her and the boys and Frank on every surface. Someone had taken the time to frame each photo.

  I picked up one where Frank was holding Meriam and they were laughi
ng in the sunshine.

  “That was the day he asked me to marry him,” she said. I turned to see her entering with a tray that contained a teapot, two cups and cream and sugar.

  “You both look so happy,” I said and put the picture down. There were baby pictures of the boys and one where Frank held one boy in each arm and the boys were showing off their muscles. “These are great.”

  She set the tray down on the coffee table and sat down. I noticed a tinge of gray around her mouth. “I’ve been going through the photos,” she said. “I thought the boys should be surrounded by pictures of their dad.”

  “Have you seen the digital frames that scroll through pictures?” I sat down in the small chair across from her.

  “Yes, but I don’t like that you can only see one photo at a time. This feels better.” She waved to all the frames.

  “I understand that.” I tilted my head. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You look amazing,” I lied.

  She touched her wig self-consciously. “Frank liked me blonde.” Shaking her head, she poured the tea. “We both know that I’m looking a little hollow.”

  I leaned forward. “How are things with you? Are you feeling okay?”

  Her expression tightened. “Today was a bad day, but most of the days are good.”

  “Have you seen or heard from Michael?”

  “He’s free on bond, but not to leave his home,” Meriam said. “He has strict orders not to come near me or the boys. I didn’t ask for it but the prosecutor did. As if Michael would hurt us.”

  “I have to ask, and please forgive me if this is rude, but I overheard two men approach Michael about money. I understand he and your Frank used to bet on the ponies a bit.”

  “Frank used to have an addiction to gambling,” she said. “But he told me years ago that he’d quit cold turkey. He didn’t want to endanger me or the boys.”

  “I see. So it was just Michael placing bets?”

  “Yes. Frank said he was worried about Michael. Do you think he got in over his head?”