“I did marry Bonita because I thought I could be the father her son clearly needed.” Celery stalks, cut into thin strips, took turns beneath his blade. Quick. Precise. Sharp cuts that left no strings.
He’d had some asinine plan back then that it would be his way of atoning for his sins. That he could give back some of what he’d taken. As Eliza had stated the night before, he had, at one time, thought that he’d make a great dad. Had wanted kids of his own almost as badly as he’d wanted Eliza.
Standing at the stove across the counter from him, she’d been stirring. Her hand still on the big metal spoon, she seemed to freeze, her spoon standing upright in the pan.
Pierce had more to say. He just wasn’t sure what. He chopped. And eventually she started to stir again, too.
They finished their preparation, classical music playing softly in the background. Did the dishes side by side. And went into their room.
He brushed his teeth while she washed her face. But when she was about to undress and get ready for bed, Pierce took her hand, led her over to the chintz-covered stool at her antique dressing table. He lit candles. Put on Beethoven. Turned off the lights.
And drew her a lavender-scented bath.
Tonight wasn’t about him. It was about making it up to her—all of the things she’d lost because of him, the things she continued to sacrifice.
It was about showing her the things he couldn’t say.
As his lovely wife sat on the edge of the tub, still in her robe, waiting for the bubble bath he’d started for her to fill, he slipped out to pour two glasses of iced lemon water. Placing them on one of her silver serving trays, he added a small dish of milk chocolate shavings—Eliza’s favorite indulgence—and, for himself, a couple of her chocolate cream cookies.
She looked up when he returned, tray in hand, fully dressed in his dark blue pants, shirt and slip-on boat shoes.
“You’ll stay with me?” she asked. Even now, she welcomed him.
Pierce swallowed. Shook his head. Set down the tray and handed her a water and the plate of chocolate.
“I wish you’d at least get comfortable,” she said, testing the water in the tub with a frown.
He was scaring her. The last thing he’d meant to do.
So he went to change into the blue chenille robe she’d bought him for Christmas, and sank to the floor of the bathroom, his back against the wall.
That was Pierce. Always with his back to the wall. Or against a wall.
Still in her robe, she’d turned off the water, but he knew she wouldn’t get in until he’d said what he had to say.
“Two things,” he said, keeping his voice low as he invaded the peace with which he’d purposely surrounded her. “First, it took less than a year of marriage for me to know that the man I am today, the man I became in the Middle East, could not ever be a father.”
Her chocolate sat untouched on the side of the double-wide cast iron tub—a luxury he suspected had been built in more modern times to emulate a tub of old. It had been holding court in the largely decorated with roses room the first time he’d visited Eliza.
“The responsibility, the constant need to be one step ahead, knowing that someone was relying on me for safety and security on a constant basis, being in charge of someone who could not always fend for himself...it triggered nightmare after nightmare. No matter what I did, how hard I tried, how much counseling I sought...the boy triggered nightmares.”
He knew why. His counselor hadn’t, not specifically. Because he hadn’t told him. But the PTSD professional had known enough.
“Last night was because of me,” Eliza said. “Because I wanted to talk about kids.”
“It’s not your fault, Eliza. And you need to talk about what you want and need. You have a right to. And our marriage needs you to do so. Our relationship needs it.” The words flowed freely when he was dealing with her. Loving Eliza was the one thing that had always come easy to him.
Too easy for her own good.
“And we need to deal with the fact that I am not a man who can have kids with you. Not in any way. Biological or not.”
Surrounded by roses, cast iron heart shapes adorned with roses, wallpaper depicting rose trellises, he felt like he was spewing ash on her beauty.
She wasn’t saying anything. But watching her expression, he knew she was thinking. Knew, too, that he had to nip any hope in the bud.
“It’s not just the nightmares,” he told her. He’d known that morning that he was going to have to give her more. Because they were dealing with so much more.
He wasn’t going to break the pact. Not yet, anyway. He couldn’t predict the outcome and was not going to get in the way of her reaching for her dreams. But she deserved the truth he could give her.
“I was a terrible father,” he told her. “Jeremiah thought I hated him. He was a good boy. Got good grades. Was respectful. I truly cared about the kid, but my silences scared him. So I’d try to talk and end up saying the wrong thing.” Because he’d had nothing to say. “I don’t have the ability to nurture a child. One night when I got home, Jeremiah ran up to me and threw his arms around my waist. I immediately dislodged them and backed up. And when I saw what I’d done, saw the hurt on his face, I still couldn’t hug him.”
He shuddered inside just thinking about that night.
“I was already sleeping in my own room by then, behind a locked door, because of the nightmares. I had to struggle, every day, for patience with Jeremiah. Listening to his boyish chatter, I’d go on a mind freeze and hope that he finished soon.” The boy would talk and Pierce would see all of the ways in which he was setting the kid up for hurt. For disappointment. Setting himself up for failure. And know that he couldn’t do anything to prevent any of them.
Jeremiah’s innocence had not belonged in his world, and he’d known it. Or rather, he hadn’t belonged in Jeremiah’s innocent world.
He belonged on the streets. Busting criminals. It was what he was good at. The way he could contribute good to the world.
“It got to the point that he refused to be alone with me,” Pierce told her the worst of it. “That’s when Bonita and I decided to divorce.”
He should have left months before then. He’d just hated to walk out on another woman.
And he hadn’t wanted to leave that boy.
“Pierce?”
Eliza’s soft tone drew his gaze. Her eyes should have been showing him...disappointment...at the very least. Instead, they were glistening with...him.
She’d sat in his darkness.
She loved him anyway. Still.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELIZA TOOK A later flight on Friday. She had no exploring to do. Her visit to California had one purpose—competing on Family Secrets. Getting the win she so desperately needed. A personal reinforcement that would give her the strength to do the things she needed to do for those who loved her. For those she loved.
Her son, finding him, was on hold. Telling Pierce about the boy who might or might not even agree to meet them couldn’t be done just on her own timetable. She had to consider her husband. Care for him.
Love him.
She had to follow through on the commitment she’d made to him. To prove to herself that she didn’t always let down the people in her life.
After her flight was delayed in Denver, she missed the car that had been arranged to take her to the hotel and had to take a cab. The lobby was like a morgue. Just she and the desk clerk. The one bellhop on duty was away from his stand, and rather than wait for him, she opted to take her own bag up to her room. One roller. She could handle it.
At just before midnight, her internal clock thought it was almost three in the morning. For Pierce, it was. But she called him anyway.
He was awake. But he sounded drowsy.
&nbs
p; “I love you, babe.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.” His words warmed her.
And yet, she was excited to be where she was. Which gave her a huge case of the guilts.
She told him to get some rest. He wished her good luck the next day.
And disconnected the call.
Pierce was pulling away from her. She could feel it. Ever since she’d mentioned adoption, ever since his nightmare...
Getting into bed, Eliza willed herself to sleep. Willed herself to allow herself a win the next day. She loved her life. Loved Shelby Island. Loved the inn. And loved Pierce.
Truly and desperately.
How could she possibly need, or even want, more than she had? She’d long ago accepted that she’d never raise a child.
Never be a mother.
But being a chef worthy of a win on a nationally syndicated reality TV show? She wanted it. More, she needed it. Needed a reason to feel proud of herself. Needed to know she had a personal self. She needed it so badly she couldn’t make herself quit and go home where she belonged. And hoped that she wasn’t jinxing all of the good in her life by clinging to the chance to prove something to herself.
Hoped that she wasn’t being selfish.
And knew that she was. She wasn’t calling the agency to tell them to release her contact information to her son. She would. Just not yet. She wasn’t telling Pierce he’d fathered a son.
And for the next four or five weekends, she was leaving Pierce, their home, her guests, in pursuit of a dream.
* * *
PIERCE WORKED A security detail on Saturday—having put in for the extra work when he knew Eliza would be gone. And then, instead of heading home, or out to fish, which was what he’d told Eliza he thought he’d do, he went downtown to Charleston police headquarters and knocked on the door of the shrink on duty.
A woman he’d seen in the past. But hadn’t visited in more than a year.
They chatted. But only long enough for him to report his recent nightmare—to follow protocol. He wasn’t going to put other lives at risk.
Long enough for her to shrug and tell him that she wished more of the officers she saw were as healthily aware of their mental states as Pierce was. Doing what they did on the streets, seeing what they saw, it came with a price.
Pierce had already been paying the price before he’d become a civilian cop. He figured he was a good fit for the job because it couldn’t take his soul like it did a lot of guys’. He’d already lost his.
But he was going to make certain that no one else paid his price with him. For him. Or because of him.
* * *
THE FIRST THING Eliza noticed when she entered her on-set kitchen Saturday just before noon—about the time Pierce would be enjoying his midafternoon fishing at home—was that the dried porcini mushrooms she’d ordered for the beef fillet dish she was preparing were nowhere to be found.
Taping didn’t start for half an hour. She didn’t panic. Or even worry. She just set out to find her mushrooms. When they didn’t turn up in any of the group storage cupboards, she started asking other contestants to check their kitchens.
The mushrooms didn’t turn up. But another contestant who needed them did. Grace Hargraves, the eighty-one-year-old contestant from Utah who’d rented a condominium in Palm Desert for the duration of the show.
“There are cans of mushroom soup in the general supply closet,” Eliza told her. “We can rinse the soup through strainers and at least get bits and pieces of mushrooms for flavoring.” Her mind raced with other ideas.
The crumpled look on Grace’s wrinkled face looked more lost than determined. “The porcinis were my secret ingredient,” she said. Her kitchen, in the same pod of four as Eliza’s, was two down from her. Beach Boy was stationed between them and hadn’t yet made it to the stage.
Various techies, from lighting and sound to camera assistants, were busily preparing for the taping. Other than for the final show, Family Secrets had no live studio audience. One family member or guest, with previous approval, could sit in the audience or watch from the monitors in the green room.
So far, on their side of the stage, it was just Eliza and Grace. And various young men and women scurrying around without even appearing to see either one of them.
Eliza called out to the young man who was closest to them. Though he probably had something important to do, he seemed least rushed as he appeared in her peripheral vision, hovering on the edge of the stage.
Daniel Trevino, his name badge read as he approached them. Eliza quickly apprised the blue-eyed blond of the situation, with Grace piping in, her worried tone leaving no doubt as to her angst. Saying he was new to the show but would go find someone who would know what to do, Daniel hurried off.
Ten minutes before they were due to start taping, the other contestants were called to take their positions on stage. They all had mic checks. And Natasha Stevens, the show’s host, stopped by to speak with Grace and Eliza. She’d sent Daniel, a recently hired high school student, to the closest grocer for more porcinis.
“They have to be soaked,” Grace said, her voice sounding a lot stronger than she looked at the moment. “Half an hour. They have to soak for half an hour.”
In room-temperature water, Eliza said to herself. General instructions called for hot-water soaking, but she’d discovered that room temperature left far more flavor in the mushrooms.
“I know.” Natasha was nodding.
“I’ve got my stroganoff timed down to the minute. If I don’t start soaking when you say go, I won’t finish in time.”
Eliza watched the exchange, plan B already firmly in place. She’d strain the soup. Still had the eight ounces of mixed mushrooms she’d ordered. And would add more whipping cream sauce to the finished medallions to make up for the lack of mushroom. Her secret ingredient was the sea salt crusting the outside of the steak, anyway...
“The best I can do at this point is to assure both of you that the judges will be made aware of what happened here.” Natasha, gorgeous as usual with her long auburn curls flowing over her tight black tunic dress, did not look happy. “My shoppers each signed off on their orders...” There were two of them, one for each pod, and then in preparation for the day’s show, each checked off the other’s lists, as well. “And Angela checked your kitchens as well, first thing this morning.” Angela had been Natasha’s stage manager from her very first show several years before.
Grace nodded. And was shaking her head, her shoulders hunched, as she made her way back to her kitchen. Being on a cooking show was Grace’s lifelong dream, the older woman had told Eliza when they’d run into each other, literally, in the green room the week before. Eliza could relate. She wanted this win so badly she could hardly focus on anything else at the moment.
With permission from Natasha, Eliza started straining cans of mushroom soup. It was a poor substitute for the ingredient that should have been provided. Neither her dish nor Grace’s would be as good with the cheap substitution, but she strained enough for both of them.
And was nearly sick with relief when, just before Natasha gave them the command to start, Daniel showed up with their porcinis. The young man might look like a stereotypical California surfer dude, but he’d come through in a pinch.
Eliza hoped that Natasha rewarded him accordingly.
* * *
PIERCE WATCHED THE show while propped up on his and Eliza’s pillows in their bedroom. Margie and the five other rooms’ worth of guests they had with them that weekend were all huddled around the TV in the entertainment room at the back of the inn. Margie had asked him to join them, but understood when he shook his head. She was as close to a sister as any woman Pierce had ever known. And truly didn’t seem to mind covering for him when he needed solitude in a home almost constantly filled with guests.
She filled a plate for him of assorted homemade cookies and even had his glass of iced lemon water already prepared when he came in from vacuuming the parlor after the evening’s social hour—an event that had taken place an hour earlier that night in deference to the timing of the West Coast show.
Pierce already knew the outcome. Eliza had called him before she’d boarded the shuttle headed back to the hotel. Margie and the others didn’t know that, though.
He watched with the diligence of an officer on a stakeout. Noticed every aspect of every contestant as the camera panned across them in their kitchens, studied character giveaways when one or the other was on close-up. Listened to their tones of voice when clips from the previous weekend’s introduction session were dubbed into the current show.
On a commercial, he got up to refill his water.
And was right back in place, intent, when the show returned to the airwaves. He caught defensive glances. Worried frowns. A toe that tapped almost constantly.
And his wife—looking more desirable than he’d ever seen her as she talked about her ultimate dream of achieving national recognition as a professional, award-winning chef. A dream she hadn’t even dared let herself think could ever be a reality. He’d helped her choose the black leggings and short plaid flannel dress with the wide black belt at the waist. He hated the shoes she’d purchased to go with it—platform sandals that put her a good four inches off the ground. But had to admit that they made her calves look good. Darn good.
Taking a bathroom break during the next commercial, Pierce ran cold water over his face. Avoided the mirror that covered the wall in front of their sinks. And thought about opening a bottle of wine. He didn’t, of course. He and Eliza rarely drank, and if he opened a bottle just for himself, the rest would go to waste.
It felt good to think about it, though. To know he could if he needed to.
And when the last ten minutes hit, he was back in place, watching everything unfold. In spite of knowing what was coming, he stopped breathing while the second runner-up was called. As though Eliza could have made a mistake. Or the show had been retaped.
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