by Tracy Ewens
“Logan,” Kara said as he approached the table, “you’ve already met Jake, my best friend in the world, and this is his husband Cotton.” All three waited for the usual puzzled look over Cotton’s name, but Logan just came right out with it.
“Cotton, is that a family name?” Logan asked.
Cotton, who was a very tall, slender Southern man, laughed and gave his standard answer.
“According to my parents, I was named after Cotton Mather, who was a minister involved in the Salem witch trials. It’s beautifully ironic that their son grew up to be a gay man, don’t you think?”
Logan laughed and Kara swore it filled the space around them. Maybe her draw to him was rooted in Paris or that kiss or the fact that he was so damn sexy with his disheveled hair and glasses. Maybe it was because of how fun it was to watch him in his element. He seemed tired, but tired was working for him. Kara must have been staring at him while he and Cotton talked farmers markets because Jake cleared his throat. Kara turned to him and he wiggled his eyebrows. She shook her head while Logan and Cotton continued in animated conversation. Jake nodded his “watch this” nod.
“So, Logan”—Jake put his hand on Cotton’s shoulder—“sorry to interrupt, but Kara tells me you two met in Paris?”
Logan hesitated and deferred to Kara for direction, but she gave him nothing. She wanted to see him handle this one.
“Y—yes we did. We were both part of a food and culture exchange program through UCLA.” Logan was polite and probably hoping that would be the extent of the curiosity. If so, he was so very wrong.
“Really, so tell us, is our girl here a good cook? She never cooks for us.”
Kara chewed a bite of her salad that had been delivered amid the conversation and knew exactly where Jake was going.
Logan smiled.
“I like your friends, Kara.” He dropped into a squat so he was level with, and resting his arms on, the table. “Yes,” he answered, this time catching Kara’s eyes. “She was a great cook. She was a natural, especially with the spices. She was always great with spices.”
Kara held his look in a dare.
“Is that so? Spices always seem like the sexy part of cooking. Am I right?” shameless Jake asked.
“Yes, very sexy.” Logan smiled, playing along. “Kara always was pretty sexy.”
Kara should have probably warned him that he was heading into Jake’s trap, but she was looking forward to watching him squirm. Besides, the way he said sexy, the way he looked at her, brought back delicious memories of his mouth kissing hers, his hands on her. There were worse images. Kara sat back and enjoyed her salad.
“So what happened with you two? I mean, I know about Kara’s charade, but why didn’t you call her up?”
And BOOM, just like that Logan needed to check something in the kitchen.
“Maybe you should take it easy on him. Seems like a nice fella,” Cotton said.
“Damn, did you see him run? Kara, what did you do to the poor man?”
Kara laughed as she watched Logan sort through orders or pretend to at least. He glanced over at her, his face unreadable.
What had I done to him? She’d actually never thought about it. She was too wrapped up in her own mess, and then he never did call and she merely chalked it up to a fling. Granted he was her very first fling at the age of twenty-one, but she’d always believed she was the only one who had blossomed and loved their time in Paris. For Logan, it had just been . . . what had it been for him? How had she not thought about his side of things? Kara wasn’t sure what that made her: either dumb or self-absorbed. Or a bitch.
Logan eventually came back to the table to face the music. He met Jake’s eyes, clearly ready with his response. “What happens in Paris, stays in Paris.”
Jake laughed and Cotton clapped. Logan had survived the interrogation and the rest of the evening was spent enjoying roasted vegetables, incredible salt-and-pepper shrimp, and a flatbread pizza with a mushroom medley none of them had ever had before. They shared and loved everything. Logan eventually had to return to the kitchen, but Kara peeked in to say goodnight as they were leaving.
“How’d I do?” he asked, pulling plastic wrap over a huge metal bowl.
Kara laughed. “You were great. Very nice navigation.”
“Christ, I had to step away to figure that one out.” He shook his head. “But they’re both great guys, I can see why they’re your friends.”
“They are the best.” She hesitated, feeling a little foolish. “Well, I won’t keep you. Thanks for the great dinner. The article comes out tomorrow, so I’ll e-mail you a copy.”
“Okay, great.” He wiped his hands on a towel and walked toward her. “Goodnight.” He leaned in like he might kiss her, but then didn’t. Kara turned to leave and found her courage.
“Logan.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever wonder about me after I left? How I dealt with leaving you or Paris?”
His brow furrowed. “I think, well, I meant what I said to Jake. It stayed in Paris. I’m sure you didn’t think of me and I didn’t think of you—it was just over.”
“Right. Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” Kara turned to leave again, not sure why she was so hurt. She should have felt better hearing he never thought about them again. But she could practically feel her heart break a little, right along the same familiar scar tissue. “Goodnight, Logan.”
“Night, princess.”
Chapter Thirteen
Logan couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed, staring up at the exposed ceiling, counting the beams of wood in an effort to distract his thoughts. It was definitely not working. He had volunteered earlier in the week to help switch pastures for the chickens at the farm. Even though he enjoyed working with his family and being around the animals now and then, he was dead tired. The comfort of his childhood bed was doing nothing to lull him to sleep. He kept replaying that damn question over and over again.
“Did you think of me after Paris?” What the hell kind of question was that? One minute it was a fight, the next minute he was kissing her, and now this. Those eyes when she’d asked him were still killing him. What was he supposed to say, “Oh, yeah, I thought about you all the time, Kara and how you dropped me without even a glance back”? No way that was happening. It was bad enough he’d kissed her, but up until tonight it had still been a game—a sparring, flirtatious game. There was no point in discussing things you couldn’t change.
In hindsight, the kiss was probably a bad idea, especially because it was at the Fall Festival at the farm, so now even the smell of hay reminded him of her. Logan closed his eyes and then opened them again. He yanked the wool blanket under his chin because just like when he was a kid, the damn house was drafty. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her, tasted her. He wanted her all over again. Two or three years it took to get his shit together and suddenly he was worse off than he was the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Spending time with her had only made the want worse. Logan threw the covers off, pulled on his jeans, and went into the kitchen.
It was three o’clock in the morning and he needed to do something, so he made coffee. An hour later his family woke to biscuits and gravy and Logan felt better. Kara Malendar was now put back behind everything else in his life, where she belonged. She was some girl he met in Paris. Not some irresistible woman he needed more than the first time.
“Holy shit, you should get all stupid for a woman more often.” Garrett walked into the kitchen pulling on a long-sleeve shirt.
How the hell did he know? Garrett’s big brother radar annoyed the crap out of him.
“This looks great, sad little lovesick man. Thanks for breakfast.”
“It’s four in the morning. Doesn’t your mouth need to warm up?” Logan set the bacon on the table.
“Nope.” He poured some coffee and took a seat at the large scarred wooden table. “’Course, I actually slept for a few hours. You should try it sometime. Makes a guy much more agreeable.”
“You’re agreeable?” Logan raised his eyebrow.
“I’m usually pretty agreeable until someone pisses me off.”
“Which happens when? Right after you brush your teeth?”
Garrett laughed and snatched a piece of bacon. There was enough food to feed everyone, twice.
Makenna shuffled in next, boots on but not yet laced, and her hair was pulled through the back of a Dodgers cap.
“Mornin’,” Garrett said, helping himself now to the full breakfast.
Kenna waved on her way to the refrigerator. She cracked open a Coke, poured it over ice, and kissed Logan on the cheek. He thought he heard her mumble something about breakfast, but it was best not to engage her before her first full glass of caffeine. She’d always been that way. In high school, Logan would have it already poured on the days she usually burst into the kitchen yelling about how she hated having brothers and how they’d better stop touching her stuff. On those days, her hormones joined her at the breakfast table; that’s what their father used to say, which only pissed her off more. Logan learned early from his sister that the last thing women wanted to hear when they were hormonal, was that they were hormonal. It was a piece of information that helped him as he went out into the dating world.
Makenna cupped her glass as if it was a favorite stuffed animal and Garrett was almost through his first round of breakfast when their dad came into the kitchen. He was in his “uniform” as they liked to call it. Dark Levis, white T-shirt under a plaid flannel shirt—which became a plaid cotton shirt during the warmer months—all tucked in with a belt. His father’s belt buckle was brass with wheat stalks and a tractor. Logan remembered as a kid he and Garrett would sneak into his bedroom after they thought he was asleep and try his belt on. Holding it up and sticking out their bellies as far as they could, only to have the whole thing fall to the floor with a pretty loud clank. That usually woke their father who gathered them both up and threw them on the bed for “tickle torture.”
Logan smiled now at his father. Herbert Rye placed his cowboy hat on the seat next to him. Even at four in the morning he was freshly shaven. Always freshly shaven.
“Where’s the only cute member of the Rye family?” Garrett asked.
Makenna pointed up as she spooned some eggs on her plate indicating that Paige, who had her Uncle Garrett wrapped around all of her fingers, was still sleeping.
“That’s where sweet angels belong.” Garrett’s pillowy voice had them all looking at him.
“Pretty sure I was feeding the chickens when I was six.” Makenna shook her head at her brother.
“Yeah, but that was just you.” Garrett leaned over and hit the brim of Kenna’s cap. “Paige the Magnificent is different.”
“It’s nice to have you home, Logan,” their father said, grabbing some breakfast.
“Hey, what about the rest of us?” Garrett asked.
“You don’t cook for me.” Herb smiled and placed a napkin in his lap.
Garrett feigned insult and huffed as he stood for more coffee, smacking the brim of Kenna’s cap again on his way to the coffeemaker. She flipped him off and so began morning breakfast at the Rye house. Logan leaned back on the counter to enjoy the moment. This was where his heart belonged, and he was so grateful for his life. He guessed that came with age, because there was a time when he resented practically everything. Not anymore though. Their mother hadn’t won when she’d left them, and that was all that mattered.
That morning Kara pulled up her article and read it as if she hadn’t read it over dozens of times before submitting it. She liked pretending she was the reader, with a fresh set of eyes, although that was virtually impossible. Even after an article was in print, she still hesitated at the spots that had given her a hard time while writing it. Those bumps never really went away, but when she finished reading her first of what would become three articles on Logan, she had to admit it was good. Front page good, which was thrilling. She’d managed to capture the feel of Logan’s place and a little bit about the man. There was a nice lead-in to the second part about The Yard, but she didn’t give too much away. The writing was tight, the pictures were great, and nowhere in there had she hinted that she had once climbed, and occasionally still wanted to climb, Logan Rye like a tree. Well done, Kara.
She e-mailed it to Makenna and Logan. He texted her about an hour later asking her to meet him for dinner. Kara hesitated. Sharing the article with him was one thing, but dinner? She was still a little uneven after the stupid question she’d asked him. She blamed it on Jake when she’d talked to him this morning. It was his fault for making her feel all warm and fuzzy and for bringing it up in the first place. He’d laughed at her and then suddenly had to go. Typical.
Sure, I’ll see you around 6.
That’s what she texted Logan. She thought it sounded casual, no mention of her “oh please tell me your deepest feelings” moment back in his kitchen. She was over it and he would need to get over it too, if he even cared. Damn it, she sounded ridiculous. Just drop it, Kara. Go back to being playful.
They did so well when things stayed playful. She had a busy day ahead of her and then she would stop by The Yard to celebrate her article. Light and easy, that was Kara’s new motto, she thought as she rearranged some photographs for her article on trussing a turkey.
The pastures were moved by noon. After lunch, Logan and Garrett chopped some more wood for their dad because his pile was getting low. At some point he remembered showering, but it was all a little fuzzy. Logan was back at the restaurant in time to help prep for dinner and meet Kara to talk about her article. Kenna loved the feature, but something about it was bugging him. They would be closed for Thanksgiving and the Friday that followed. He would sleep then. Right after he served turkey dinner to hundreds of people in Pasadena’s Central Park on Thanksgiving Day. He’d started working with Homeless Services last year, even before The Yard opened, and Ryeland Farms had been a sponsor since the event started. This year Logan had agreed to cook some of the meal and most of The Yard’s staff would serve. But that was tomorrow; right now he needed more eggplant. Travis was manning the stove, so Logan agreed to chop. Chopping could actually qualify as moving meditation in his book.
He took a break between the first dinner rush and what they all hoped would be the second wave to sit with Kara.
“Optimistic? You called me optimistic.” Logan set plates and napkins on their table.
He’d read the feature, and he wasn’t trying to be picky or cast out negative energy, but optimistic wasn’t exactly a badass word. Maybe his ego expected her to paint him as a badass, not . . . Peter Pan for Christ’s sake.
“I did. What is wrong with that?”
Logan served her a slice of the mushroom and goat cheese pizza and some of the salad he’d made for their meeting. He’d stopped asking her if she was hungry. He now knew she was. After grabbing a couple glasses of water from behind the bar, he sat across from her at the corner bar table where he’d tucked them so the entire place wouldn’t hear their conversation. Privacy was not easy in Logan’s life either these days, although his lack of it had more to do with snooping relatives and employees than reporters and photographers.
“It makes what I do sound . . . simple, childish. Children are optimistic. It’s hard enough getting people to see that growing their own food, knowing where their food comes from, is not some backwoods, hillbilly agenda. That good nourishing food, humane food, is basic. It’s a simple, basic right.”
“I said all of that. I used more quotes in this first piece than I’ve ever used. Partly because I’m not quite sure what you’re always talking about.”
He caught the joke but didn’t smile. Kara looked concerned, and it wasn’t that he disliked the article. It was well written, but as he continued to flip from the first page of her article to the second page, back and forth, back and forth. The words “optimistic” and “hometown” popped out at him like too much balsamic vinegar. Too syrupy and sort of like a no
velty; here today and gone tomorrow. Maybe these were his own issues, nerves, or whatever. He’d never had something so in-depth written about him, his home, and what he believed in. There on paper it just felt odd and a bit foolish.
“And what’s this ‘Logan Rye not only grows his food, but he has recently learned the value of foraging’?”
“What is wrong with that? You have. I’m not sure why you are getting so worked up. The article was well received. The Times loves the tone. Logan, it’s just a peek into you and what you believe in as a chef and a man. It wasn’t meant to be all-inclusive.”
Kara seemed a little offended, so he backed off and by his second piece of pizza he decided all publicity was good for the restaurant. Kenna was thrilled, so he needed to relax.
“It’s not your article. Your writing is fantastic; I guess I’m not into all of this. I do what I do. It makes sense to me, and yeah it’s how I think the entire country should eat. We’d be better for it, but reading this. I don’t know, it makes me sound . . .”
“Like a different kind of guy, with a unique ‘optimistic’ vision for the world. A man who works hard, not only growing food, but also making delicious meals? That is who you are. If you wanted my article to paint you as some cool, mainstream, food-off-a-truck chef, I’m sorry. You’re not that guy.”
“Food-off-a-truck chef,” he repeated and laughed. Sometimes she surprised him with her one-liners. No other woman made him laugh like she did, except maybe Kenna, but he was often the butt of her jokes. “That’s a good one. I might need to keep that for myself on the days when I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to keep this all together. I still hate the word ‘optimistic’.”
Kara shook her head. “It means someone who thinks all things are possible. Like it or not, that is you, Logan. At least when it comes to food.”
