by Vicki Essex
“Why is he back there anyhow?”
“It’s...a lesson. Sort of.” One that didn’t seem to be working, unfortunately. Then again, Simon was more engaged than she’d ever seen him. Perhaps what he really needed was a part-time job instead of a tutor. If college was beyond his means...well, someone had to flip the burgers.
“You go and drop him off at home, but come back right after. I’ve got a reservation for ten people tonight and Cindy called in sick. I need help.”
Tiff was about to protest when she heard a shout and a noisy clatter. Her heart leaped into her throat as she sprinted into the kitchen. Simon was clutching his arm, whimpering. Daniel turned on the tap and ushered him toward the sink.
“What happened?” Nausea gripped her at the sight of the angry red marks seared into Simon’s pale skin.
“I think the fryer basket slipped and splashed him.” He jammed Simon’s arm under the cold water, and Simon moaned in pain.
“It hurts,” he sobbed. His face was red and streaked with tears. Right before her eyes, huge white blisters formed in a hideous pattern across his right hand and forearm.
Daniel swore. “We need to get him to the hospital.”
* * *
CHRIS’S TIRES SQUEALED as he parked his truck in the hospital lot and ran for the entrance to the E.R. Tiffany’s panicked call hadn’t made sense. She’d babbled something about oil and chicken balls. All he’d understood was that Simon was hurt.
His heart hammered in his chest. After his dad’s accident, he hadn’t rushed nearly as quickly, assuming that the injury had been minor. But when he’d reached the E.R., he’d been informed that his father had been critical, and that he was being taken in for an emergency amputation.
He’d never dallied at an emergency again after that.
The nurse directed him to the appropriate cubicle. Simon sat on the edge of a gurney as a woman in blue scrubs gently wrapped a light gauze bandage around his oozing, blistered forearm. His stomach turned at the sight. His son wore a brave face, but he was pale, his expression pinched, and he kept his eyes averted from the procedure. In the far corner, Tiffany stood by watching, hugging herself, a fist pressed against her mouth.
“Simon,” he said hoarsely. “My God, are you all right?”
Simon nodded slowly, blinking sleepily.
“I’ve given him some painkillers, so he might be a bit punchy. He sustained second-degree oil burns to his arm,” the doctor said after introducing herself. “It’s not as serious as it sounds, and as long as he follows my instructions, it’ll heal up fine.”
“How did this happen?”
“It’s my fault,” Tiffany blurted. “I made him work in the kitchen at the diner. He was using the deep fryer and the oil splashed on him.”
Chris turned toward her, confused. “Why was he working at your parents’ diner? What happened to tutoring?”
Tiffany opened her mouth, closed it and shook her head. “Let’s talk outside.”
Chris followed her, each step ratcheting up his fury. Outside the E.R. waiting room in the cooling evening, he took a deep breath and said, “Tell me everything from the beginning.”
“Simon wasn’t cooperating. I was really worried he didn’t get how important his studies were. So...I tried to give him a life lesson.”
“Life lesson?” It came out on a hiss.
“I wanted to show him... He needs to learn that education can get him far. That without it, he can get stuck in a terrible job. Like being a short-order cook or something.”
Chris stared at her, his breathing rasping hotly through his lungs. “So...you put him to work in your parents’ diner. Without training. Without safety equipment. Without even asking me?”
“If I thought for a minute he was in danger, I wouldn’t have brought him back there.”
“Of course he was in danger. What the hell is wrong with you? He’s fifteen.” He raked his hands through his hair.
“I’ve been working there since I was eleven.” It came out a weak protest.
“That’s beside the point. The fact is, Simon got hurt. You didn’t think about his well-being at all.” It was a good thing he had health insurance to cover emergencies like this. “You’re lucky if I don’t sue you and your parents.”
She flinched and backed away from him. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but anger burned there, too. “I didn’t plan for any of this to happen.” Her chin drooped. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry wasn’t going to heal the scars Simon might have for the rest of his life. “I paid you to tutor him in English, not life. You don’t have the right— That’s my job, not yours,” he sputtered as he tripped over his words. This was exactly like the fights he had with Dad. William was constantly interfering, trying to steer his grandson toward a future in farming, trying to stuff him into a mold even Chris couldn’t fully fill. His hands tightened into fists.
“I was only trying to help.”
“By doing what? Telling him he’ll be nothing more than a fry cook for the rest of his life?” His blood pumped so hard, his vision hazed over as he realized that was exactly what she’d been trying to do. That settling for a job that paid the bills was only for dropouts. “Believe it or not, Tiffany, some people do choose and enjoy that work. A formal education is not the be-all and end-all of life.”
Her face grew pale. “You think I don’t know that? You think I really believe school is all that matters? I did nothing but school for more than two-thirds of my life, and look where it’s got me.”
Her declaration rang out like the ominous toll of a bell. Tiffany’s measure of success had always been rooted in grades and academics. Now, the broken girl behind the woman with all the ambition and skills and none of the luck stood naked and ashamed before him.
Look where she was. Look where they were.
Chris was too mad to feel sorry for her, though. He’d made peace with his choices. Only one thing truly mattered to him now, and he’d do whatever it took to protect him.
He pushed past her and said over his shoulder, “I think it would be best if you stopped working with my son.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“WHERE’S TIFFANY?” Simon asked when Chris returned to his bedside.
“She had to leave.” He sounded as though he were chewing rocks. He looked away, not wanting his son to see how upset he was. It was as if someone had pushed every single one of his buttons, and every muscle in his body was ratcheted tight.
“Where’d she go?”
“Listen. I fired her, Simon. You won’t see her again.”
“What? Why? Because of this?” He motioned with his arm and winced.
“She shouldn’t have made you work in that kitchen.”
“She didn’t force me.” Simon sat forward on the bed, fully alert. “I was goofing around and dropped the basket in the oil by accident. She was just showing me how things worked there.”
Chris settled a hand on his shoulders. “Simon, you don’t need to defend her. She’s the adult. You were her responsibility, and she couldn’t keep you safe.”
“I’m not a little kid anymore, Dad.” He yanked out of his hold. “This is my fault. I didn’t listen to her, and I got hurt.”
Chris blinked. This was the first time in his memory that his son had taken responsibility for his own actions and the consequences. “What are you saying exactly?”
His lips pursed into a thin line. “She gets me, okay?” His glare hardened. “Which is more than I can say about you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You keep talking about college and careers, and I can barely stay awake at school. You have this crazy idea that I’m going to get a job saving the world. Well, I can’t, okay? I don’t know what I want to do. I’m just trying to survive, but you keep pushing and pushing like it’ll be the end of the world if I don’t go to college. You’re as bad as Grandpa.”
The remark hit him like a backhanded slap. Had he really been pushing Simon that hard?
<
br /> The teen deflated, his spine slinking back into its natural slouch. “Tiffany gets me,” he said more quietly, plucking at the sheet. “This wasn’t her fault, okay? Don’t punish her ’cause of something I did.”
* * *
CHRIS WAS STILL STUNNED on the drive home. All of Simon’s admissions bore into him. He didn’t realize he’d been putting that kind of pressure on his son. He wanted what all parents wanted for their children—a stable future, a good job and happiness. Someone had to want them for him: his mother had barely made the effort, and his grandfather was only concerned about the future of the farm.
At a stop light, he glanced over at Simon. Poor kid had passed out the minute they’d hit the highway. Thinking back, Chris realized that whenever they had a chance to talk, he and Simon only ever talked about school, about the things he was doing in class and whether any of it interested him as a field of study. It would have come across as a constant inquisition. Chris would have resented the hell out of it, too. Those dinner conversations were the only real quality time they spent together; how else would Simon have perceived a never-ending barrage of questions about his future?
He drummed his fingers against the wheel, irritated at himself. No wonder Simon tuned him out and avoided his company. Chris forked a hand through his hair and peered at his son, the snowy-white bandage around his right arm glowing in the darkness.
At home, Simon blearily said hello to his grandfather as he shuffled up the stairs to his room. William’s glance flickered from the bandage to his son, standing in the doorway. Simon’s bedroom door closed quietly.
“Will he be able to do his chores?” his father asked brusquely.
Chris slapped his keys down on the console table. “Do you even care that he was hurt? Or how?”
William changed the channel disinterestedly. “You’re gonna tell me. Why waste my breath asking?”
His father’s utter lack of concern shouldn’t have surprised him. William was not one to worry about minor injuries or trips to the E.R. “He burned himself with fryer oil at the Cheungs’ restaurant.”
One eyebrow shot up. “How?”
“Tiffany wanted to...teach him about the restaurant business.” He didn’t know why he wanted to keep her role in this accident to a minimum. It was her fault, after all.
William turned in his seat to face him fully. “Are you paying that woman to make your son into some kind of white slave?”
“No, Dad—”
But his father had heard enough. He tossed the remote aside. “See? That’s what you get for trusting her. I told you he didn’t need her.” He pushed up out of his seat, grabbed his crutches and followed him to the kitchen. “I hope you fired her.”
“I did...but I’m going to get her back.” He’d made the decision on the drive home. She’d connected with Simon in a way he hadn’t, even if she didn’t know it yet. If there was one thing his son needed right now, it was guidance, an ally. “Simon still needs a tutor. She’s the best there is.”
“Not this again....” He planted his crutch firmly in front of him. “Listen to me. He shouldn’t be wasting any more time with this college nonsense. It’ll distract him from what he actually needs to know. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep up with things around here and turn a profit? If he doesn’t step up soon, this whole place could fall apart.”
Chris’s blood boiled. And what, exactly, did his father think he’d been doing these past fifteen years? When he’d first taken over and looked at the books, the farm had been on the brink of financial ruin. He’d turned that around and made the failing Jamieson farm into a solid business all on his own. He’d poured everything he had into it. And William treated him as if he’d brought the ten plagues upon the land.
“You can’t force Simon into taking over,” he told his father.
“This farm is his legacy. It’s in his blood.”
Legacy. As if a fancy word would sway him. “Farming is not in his blood.”
“How do you know that? You said the same thing about yourself right up to the moment you came back here, hat in hand, wanting a job and a place to raise your child. You always thought you were better than your old man, but I’m the one who raised you, gave you and the boy a place to call home. I’m the one who pulled you through after Daphne left your sorry ass. If you’d been anywhere as committed to the farm as you were to Simon—”
He clenched his fists. “I am committed. I dug you out of the financial rut you were spinning your wheels in. If I hadn’t come back—” He stopped and paced back and forth.
“Go on. Say what you need to,” William urged with sarcastic magnanimity. “You want to tell your old man he’s nowhere near as smart as you? Go ahead, I know you think it.”
Chris inhaled deeply and forced patience into his tone. “I won’t be goaded into saying something I’ll regret. It’s been a long day and I haven’t had dinner.”
“Coward.” His father made a noise of disgust. “Heat it up yourself.” He stumped out.
* * *
TIFFANY LAY ON HER BED, staring up at the ceiling, thoroughly miserable. The horrible burn scars on Simon’s arms were seared into her mind, and that miserable whimpering... She was sick to her stomach that she’d caused him that kind of pain. He must really hate her now. On top of all that, Chris had threatened a lawsuit. The fierce look burning in his blue eyes struck her again. He’d been more than disappointed—he’d been enraged. How could things have gone wrong so quickly? Hot tears pooled in her eyes and throat.
Someone knocked on her bedroom door.
“What?”
Daniel poked his head in. “I just finished talking to Chris.” He stepped into the room. “He isn’t going to pursue a lawsuit.”
The fist around her gut unclenched and she exhaled a long breath. “I’m so stupid.”
“Hey, Dad and I were there, too. We should have stopped him, but we weren’t thinking.” He sat in her creaking desk chair. “We took his safety for granted. I should have been watching him more closely.”
“I shouldn’t have brought him back there. I just wanted him to care about his studies.” She sat up and shook her head, forced to face the shameful truth. “No. That’s not true. I wanted to show him how much working as a line cook would suck.”
“At least you’re man enough to admit it.” Daniel leaned forward. “You were trying to give him the old ‘someone has to flip the burgers’ lesson. You had his best interests at heart. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
But she was ashamed. Not only because things had gone so badly, but also because she’d absolutely believed it was the right thing to do.
And wasn’t that the story of her life? She’d alienated nearly everyone because she was used to doing things her way by herself. No one had ever stepped up to help her, defend her, give her encouragement or offer advice. She was expected to do it on her own, to be fully capable, and no one ever questioned her methods because she always got the job done. Thinking back, her boss had gently mentioned that her ability to work as an individual overshadowed all her other assets. In other words, “doesn’t play well with others.”
She sank deeper into depression. No wonder she’d been fired. No wonder she’d been turned away from so many doorsteps after she’d been evicted.
“You don’t just flip burgers,” she said. Daniel watched her with interest. “You and Dad. You’re not McFlippers.” The expression had come from a hard-ass high school counselor, Mr. Murray, whose mandate was to scare kids into preparing for the real world. She thought of his favourite saying—You’re not above flipping burgers to pay the rent.
Tiffany looked at her brother. “I know you work hard. I’m sorry if I offended you and Dad.”
“As long as you’re not judging us by what we do rather than who we are, you can think whatever you want.”
She admitted she was guilty of doing that. She’d never been able to get over her brother’s wasted education, or how her father had abandoned his job at that a
rchitectural firm in Brooklyn for a small-town Chinese restaurant business in the middle of upstate New York. But then, who was she to judge? Jobless, homeless, carless and up to her eyeballs in debt was not exactly a stellar way to live.
“I can’t believe I’ve been fired from two jobs now in under a month.” Tiffany pressed a pillow against her face.
“It’s just a setback. Some things aren’t meant to be. But you’ll pick yourself up and keep moving forward, right? You know that old proverb of Kung-kung’s—ride the horse, but if it goes lame, find a cow. If the cow dies, start walking.”
“Am I supposed to be the cow in this story?”
“Don’t be a bitch. I’m trying to help you out.”
She knew that, but she couldn’t help her rising resentment. It was a prideful, knee-jerk reaction to criticism and meddling from her family. “Are Mom and Dad mad?”
He hesitated. “Not at you.”
Which meant they were fighting again, probably blaming each other for Simon’s injuries, fearing the Jamiesons would sue them or start telling everyone in town what had happened so they’d lose business. It didn’t matter if it was true—they would find something to blame each other for. That was how it’d always been. Why they hadn’t divorced years ago Tiffany didn’t understand.
Daniel picked up on her mood. “Listen, tomorrow, you’ll get a fresh start. I’ll make some calls, see if any of my friends in the city know of any openings....”
“No.” Tiffany sat up. “Don’t do that. I’m going to find a job on my own.”
“But—”
“I have to do this on my own.” She regretted her biting tone instantly. Daniel was only trying to help, but she couldn’t lean on her family any more than she already was. She had to show them she’d earned every ounce of her professional success on her own merits. That her choices were good ones.
Confusion and disbelief warred on her brother’s face. He raised his hands uselessly and dropped them to his sides. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
* * *
DANIEL HAD DONE his brotherly duty. He’d offered to help, but Tiff had refused. Fine. He couldn’t change his sister’s pissy attitude, and he had no intention of trying. He had his own problems to deal with.
