by Ava Miles
He wasn’t a man prone to self-pity, but today he had to admit that he was sorely tempted to wallow in it.
His nurse, of course, didn’t let him. Helga had told him in no uncertain terms that he was taking a shower today. Since it was an excruciating, degrading process, he’d decided to do it only every couple of days. It wasn’t like he was getting sweaty or dirty since he was basically just sitting around hurting all day. They’d wrapped his casts in plastic tied off at the end to prevent moisture from wetting them. He could wash himself with one hand, but it was a bitch. Still better than Helga getting into the shower with him and washing his balls, which he’d assured her was never going to happen. Her smirk had only made him more determined, and he was glad she hadn’t pressed him.
Somehow Helga was managing to preserve his dignity the best she could.
She’d even surprised him by agreeing to open the spice bottles for him, something he’d discovered he couldn’t easily do with one hand. Then she’d turned into his sous chef extraordinaire by curing the bacon for him and hefting the pork shoulder out and arranging it on a cookie sheet so he could rub the meat. That he could manage with one hand, but the process of making a rub was haphazard at best. He’d thrown spices into a bowl by eye—using black pepper, dried lemon, chili powder, and sage—and stirred them awkwardly.
His dad had always said the best rub was one you wanted to lick off your fingers, the meat notwithstanding. Sadness had overwhelmed him at the memory, and so he stirred harder. When he was satisfied with the flavor, he rubbed the meat, oddly enjoying the process of transforming the plain pork into something more.
A rub and a good smoke would do that.
“Cooking will be healing for you,” Helga said when he removed his hand from the meat.
“What did you say?” he asked, still coming out of his childhood reverie. He wiped his hands off with the wet cloth she’d brought him.
“Food makes people happy,” she said, her full face transformed by a rare smile. “Happy people heal faster.”
Chase knew medical professionals talked about such things, but it was hard to imagine it in regards to him.
“Are you trying not to laugh?” she asked, ever perceptive. “Maybe you should. It might make you happy.”
His mouth was tugged into a smile. “I don’t think I expected anyone to ever include my name and healing in the same sentence.”
She started laughing, enough that her shoulder-length, straw-colored hair bobbed with the movement. “Even tough cookies like you need to heal. You’re resisting it. The body is a healing instrument. It’s made to heal.”
Cocking his head to the right to study her sent a spear of pain through his head. “I thought the body started to break down after a certain age.”
“You look pretty decent for your age,” she said, chuckling. “So do I.”
He studied her, for the first time. She was five-ten and large-boned, but despite his Sumo joke to Evan—which he now regretted—she wasn’t fat. He’d guess she was probably in her early sixties, but her muscles were more than impressive. She’d helped him out of his scooter a few times when he was in too much pain to do it himself. While she was tough, she was also kind. Evan would have looked for that.
“Do you cook?” he asked her.
“Every day,” she said. “It’s one of the ways I relax after a tough time at the office.”
He thought about what a tough day might look like for a nurse. Dealing with people’s physical issues and emotions couldn’t be all that easy.
“Thanks for helping me, Helga,” he said.
“Any time, Chase,” she said, washing her hands. “Your friends can take over when they arrive.”
Yeah, Evan would help him, and so would Margie. And then there was Moira…
He found himself excited by the prospect of seeing her.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” Chase said, which made her smile again, softly this time. Like she’d won a victory.
Maybe she had.
They were finding their way together in this horrible life event called convalescence. He decided to be grateful for that. Since he’d been in the accident, he hadn’t been grateful for anything. Hadn’t felt like he’d had a win.
Well, he planned to have another one. No, two more. He was going to smoke the shit out of this pork shoulder, and he was going to enjoy seeing Moira.
Maybe he could get her to talk about the institute. He was dying for any talk related to work. After he’d approved Evan’s reallocation of his work and travel—with a locked jaw, mind you—Evan had deflected any and all of his questions about company business, saying they’d talk about it when he felt a little better. Chase hadn’t liked that answer one bit.
He wheeled himself over to the stack of wood chips Helga had opened for him. All the different varieties were set out on the counter. He was going to use mesquite, he decided. The flavor would be edgier for the pork shoulder. Chef T had been inspired in his spice selections, even going so far as to include lavender, which really intrigued Chase. What meat and smoke might work with lavender? Surely the French had tried something. They incorporated lavender into food as though it were an art form.
If only Evan would let him go online and do some research. Maybe he could talk his friend into it when he arrived.
A few hours later, Evan held the line again on Chase using a computer. “I’ll find you some BBQ rub books.”
“I’ll help,” Margie said, her smile eager and genuine.
She really was a sweetheart, and the perfect match for Evan in so many ways. But he needed an ally in this. He looked over at Moira, who was pouring a bold Chianti into three wine glasses.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “Evan agreed to be the technology bad guy.”
“But I want to look up how the French might use lavender in a rub or marinade,” Chase said, refusing to be embarrassed. Some men would feel compelled to give up their Man Card for even talking about lavender.
“I’ll bring you some printouts,” Evan said.
It felt like someone had turned his burner on to simmer, but Chase decided not to let this minor setback diminish his mood. He was about to smoke meat for the first time since before his family’s ranch had burned down. Pain shot through his heart, and he must have winced because Margie darted over and put her hand on his good shoulder.
“Are you okay, Chase?”
“Just a pain,” he said, trying not to worry. He’d thought the pain he’d felt in his heart before the accident had been a psychosomatic reaction to his memories of the fire, but he was smart enough to know he should get it checked out.
Andy had agreed to check in on him at Evan’s request—likely accompanied by a fat donation to Dare Valley General—and Chase planned to confidentially ask him to take a look at his heart. His first home visit was tomorrow. As his doctor, he couldn’t tell Evan or Moira anything.
“I know you can’t have any wine, Chase,” Moira said, “but I wondered if you’d like some sparkling water with lime?”
“That would be great,” he said, looking forward to the day he could have his first bourbon. He wasn’t a big drinker, but he felt like a kid at an adult party, not being able to enjoy a drink with their meal.
When she handed him the glass, she lifted hers in a toast. “To a speedy recovery.”
“That I can drink to,” he said, and everyone crossed to touch glasses with his.
It was hard not to feel awkward in the scooter. He was used to being a commanding presence in the room, not a pitiful one. He shook it off. He’d entertained self-pity enough in the last few days to last a lifetime.
“Let’s get the chimney starter going. Moira, will you help me?”
Her eyebrow rose a fraction before she smiled. “Of course. Let me get my coat.”
“Grab some newspaper by the fireplace too,” Chase told her.
Evan put his arms around Margie. “We’ll observe from the door. Warmer here.”
If Evan knew why he
’d asked Moira and not him, he wasn’t giving anything away. Margie, however, was studying him carefully.
“Thanks for bringing the bread,” he said, hoping to distract her.
She smiled immediately. “Of course. I’ll make sure you have some delivered every day.”
“You’d better get a move on, Chase,” Evan said, kissing the top of Margie’s head. “This one goes to bed early since she starts her bread making before dawn.”
Bakery hours weren’t the only reason they went to bed early. They were newlyweds, and Chase couldn’t be happier to see his friend so happily married. Good for them, he thought.
“Moira, you ready?”
“As a clam,” she said, sauntering over, ruffling the newspaper.
“I think it’s ‘happy as a clam,’” Chase said, his lips twitching.
She shrugged. “Lead on.”
He fought embarrassment as he wheeled to the back patio doors in his scooter and then pressed the button to open the door. But when he reached the smoker, a new peace settled over him, drowning out his nerves. It had been so long since he’d smoked anything. But somewhere inside, on some deep intuitive level, he remembered what to do. Some of his favorite, and earliest, childhood memories were of smoking meat outside with his dad, and they’d done it together until…they hadn’t.
Helga had set everything up for him before she’d left. Bless her. The bag of coals lay open by the patio table. He gestured to the chimney starter, eyeing the funnel designed to hold the coals.
“Can you ball up some newspaper and put it under here? Then we’ll add the coals on top.”
“I’ve helped light coals before, with my brothers,” she told him, to which he nodded.
She was efficient—just like she’d proven herself to be with everything related to Artemis. Her newspaper balls were precise and laid out in a perfect circle under the chimney starter. Then she added the coals up to the top. He handed her the torch lighter, but she shook her head.
“I think you should do the honors,” she said.
He clicked the black button and the flame appeared. Touching it to the paper, he watched, entranced, as everything caught. The coals started to simmer and pop, and he realized how much he used to love that sound. It was primal of him perhaps, but there was something about fire.
He wasn’t afraid of it, oddly—even after what it had done to his home.
In an odd way, he respected its power. It could warm a home as well as destroy it.
“Once you pour the coals into the smoker, we need to use the tongs to arrange them in a circle,” he said. “Then we put a few of the wood chunks on the outside of the coals. It’s called the snake method.”
“So long as you don’t plan on smoking snake for dinner,” she quipped, reaching into the bag of wood chips.
“I’ve smoked a lot of meat—rabbit, elk, venison—but never snake.”
“You’re a wise man,” she said dryly. “Okay, let’s do this.”
He wheeled closer to the side of the smoker, careful of the popping and sizzling chimney starter on the side grate.
“Wait. Use the heat protection gloves,” he said, pointing to the gloves slung over the railing.
Her brow wrinkled as she put them on. “I’ve always wanted to wear giant rubber gloves in prison orange.”
He found himself smiling. “I wish I could take a picture of you like that.”
She did jazz hands with the gloves and made a face. “I’m sure I look adorable.”
As she picked up the chimney starter, he found himself saying, “You do. Maybe you should wear prison orange more often.”
“Your mood is much improved,” she said, carefully emptying the coals into the smoker and arranging the coals and wood chunks to his specifications, again with precision. “Is this right?”
“Yes.”
“You should smoke more often.”
“Funny,” he said, but she was right. He did feel better. The anger that had become his constant companion these last several days had finally loosened its grip.
He was actually enjoying himself. “Time for this baby to get up to temperature.”
Leaning over, he checked on the coals one last time. Small ribbons of smoke were already trailing up from where those white-hot briquettes were touching the wood chunks. Mesquite smoke tickled his nose, and he inhaled deeply.
“I’m getting hungry already,” Moira said. “When is the pork shoulder going to be ready?”
He’d had Helga cut the one Chef T had delivered in half to ensure a faster cook time. “About two hours.”
“Two hours,” she exclaimed. “Seriously?”
He let his mouth tip up. “Yep. I thought you and Evan could fill me in on the Artemis Institute in the meantime. It’s only talking. My brain can handle that, according to your brother.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You are a devious man.”
Sue him, he’d planned to maroon them for a few hours. “You guys can drink wine. I want to circle back to the guest list for the fundraiser.”
“You’re still chomping on that bone?” she said, meeting his gaze and holding it. “Cripes. I’m going inside to tell Evan we’ve been set up.”
He eyed the smoker and closed the lid. “You do that. I’ll stay out here until we have the right temperature.” The shoulder needed to be cooked at around two hundred and twenty degrees, plus or minus ten degrees.
She walked inside, and pretty soon Evan came out to the patio with the seasoned pork shoulder on a cookie sheet. “I hear you had a bigger plan than dinner.”
“We have to talk about things, Evan,” Chase told him as Evan placed the meat on the cooking ledge to the right of the smoker. “Like the guest list for the fundraiser. We didn’t get the chance to discuss my concerns after the accident. Did you really think I wouldn’t circle back?”
“I was hoping you’d rest your brain so it wouldn’t explode,” his friend commented, rubbing his bare hands together to generate warmth.
“I haven’t exploded yet, and if it hasn’t happened by now…”
“The brain is a complicated organ,” Evan said. “You can’t push it.”
He hated hearing that. “You cut me off from my team. Rajan and Darren even. It’s hard for me not to be able to even talk to them.”
“Since Rajan is our head of R&D and Darren is our VP, I thought it best,” Evan told him. “They know you’ll pump them for information.”
“Rajan has a lot going on, finalizing your new invention,” Chase said, referring to the revolutionary invisible paint Evan had created. “And prepping the bid.”
“I’ve got MAL-77 in hand,” Evan told him. “You need to trust me.”
“I do, but I’ve never been cut out of things like this.”
Evan put his hand on Chase’s good shoulder. “Our counterparts are going to survive without you being in the picture. I know you were worried about delegating the contract renegotiation with the Germans to Darren, so I’ve pushed it back. It can wait until you’re better.”
Darren wasn’t as chummy as Chase was with their tight-assed counterpart, and given how sticky the situation was, chummy gave him the edge. Postponing still chapped his hide, though. “We’ll lose money because of it.”
“So what?” Evan said like only he could. “You and your well-being are much more valuable.”
He looked away, beset with messy emotions, and checked the temperature to give himself a moment. “The smoker is ready.”
“What do I do?” Evan asked as Chase lifted the lid again.
“You put on the prison-orange gloves, as Moira called them, pick up the shoulder, and place it on the grate in the center. You never smoke meat directly over the coals.”
“Good to know,” Evan said, following his instructions. “These gloves really are an abomination, aren’t they? I’ll bet the French have much sexier looking gloves to use for grilling.”
Chase snorted at that. “You’re probably right. Maybe you can look into that th
e next time you head that way.”
“All right, let’s get you inside,” Evan said. “Your cheeks are red from cold.”
“I like this kind of cold,” Chase said. “It doesn’t get this way in northern Virginia. The cold is different in the mountains. It’s drier somehow.” And it felt good on his skin, like a kind of fabric he hadn’t worn in a long time. It was another thing he hadn’t realized he’d missed.
“See, you already dig living here,” Evan said. “Maybe you’ll want to move to Dare Valley. Like I said, I’m much happier in my new town.”
“And like I said, that’s because Margie is here,” Chase said, following Evan to the patio door in his scooter and wheeling inside.
“But I’m here,” Evan said, “and you love me.”
“I should never have told you that,” Chase said. “My compassion got the better of me because you were so miserable from being apart from Margie. Besides, you know I don’t love you like that.”
Evan started laughing as he closed the door. “What a bromance we’d have, though.”
“You two would be a good bromance,” Margie said, joining him in laughter.
“Shut up, Margie,” Chase said, eyeing the row of sliced baguette she’d arranged on a long wooden plate.
Evan pulled his wife in for a kiss, and Chase looked away, only to lock gazes with Moira, who had removed her coat. Her brown hair curved around her neck in a way that made him long to brush it aside and kiss it. Suddenly Chase’s heart was beating faster. He shook himself, wary of the way she made him feel.
It wouldn’t be smart to let Moira into his heart.
Even so, he had to admit to himself that some of his old bitterness about marriage had leached away after Evan and Margie had found each other and begun a wonderful life together. Somewhere in the back of Chase’s mind, he’d wondered if it might still be possible for him.
Until Margie, Evan had hung out with models and a nouveau-riche crowd. Chase hadn’t imagined Evan ever wanting a wife, a family, a home. And yet here his friend was, the winning lottery ticket in hand. Margie wasn’t the kind of woman who’d do to Evan the things Trisha had done to Chase. They were true partners, and he had no doubt they’d be there for each other no matter what life threw at them.
