Читать книгу The Baby Truce - Jeannie Watt - Страница 12

REGGIE HAD BEEN HOME BARELY AN hour when Eden showed up at the door. She knocked, then let herself in, carrying a bottle of sparkling apple cider by the neck.

“I thought you might need a belt after meeting Tom,” she said, lifting the cider. Reggie tried to smile. Couldn’t do it. “Bad?” Eden asked.

“I said some things I probably shouldn’t have.” Definitely shouldn’t have.

“He’s being unreasonable?”

“That’s the problem…I think he was trying to be reasonable. Reasonable for Chef Gerard, that is.” She took the bottle and headed into the kitchen, Eden and Mims following. Her sister went to the cupboard and pulled out two glasses, while Reggie opened. She poured two healthy amounts of cider, then looked down at her stomach with a wry twist of her lips. “Somehow I don’t think sparkling cider is going to take the edge off.” She raised her eyes. “I don’t think anything is going to take the edge off. Tom and I trigger each other.”

“That’s to be expected,” Eden said, sitting at the table. “You guys have got a ton of unfinished business to work through.”

“I think that we both need more time. This meeting…not a good idea.”

“How much time?”

Reggie shrugged. “I don’t know. A decade, maybe?”

Eden smiled and raised her glass in a salute, then changed the subject. “What’s with Justin?”

“In what way?”

“He’s been really quiet. You haven’t noticed?”

“I’ve been kind of preoccupied,” Reggie said with a significant lift of her eyebrows.

“Yeah. So’s he.”

“Do you think it’s…me?” She frowned as Mims got up on the chair next to Eden and put a tentative paw on the table. Her cat was pushing the limits, perhaps as a reaction to Reggie’s constant tension.

Eden gently moved the chair back while Mims hung on, her eyes going a little wild on the short ride. “Maybe. Or woman trouble.”

“He’s a big boy, Eden. We need to let him face the world on his own.”

She laughed. “I asked him if he was dating and all I got was a sour look.”

“Woman trouble,” Reggie said. She hoped so, anyway. Justin saw himself as the man of the family—still—and she didn’t want him losing sleep over her.

“And speaking of woman trouble,” Eden said, “I ran into Candy.” The owner of Candy’s Catering Classique, who had hired Justin and Eden in high school and had never forgiven them for starting a competing business.

“She was sweet as always, while shooting daggers at me. She wished us luck in the Reno Cuisine. She even added a ‘bless our hearts for trying.’”

Kiss of death coming from Candy, who always took one of the top honors at the event.

“And Julie is working for her now.” Their prep cook who had quit so suddenly.

Reggie paused, her glass halfway to her lips. “Figures. Welcome to the cutthroat world of catering.”

“Well, she’d better keep her hands off Patty.” Eden’s jaw set. “I know we won’t win, because Candy will have a booth that would put a Hollywood set to shame—”

Mims took a flying leap at the table from her chair just then, didn’t quite make it and would have hit the floor if Eden hadn’t caught her. “Have you been ignoring your kitty?” she asked as she set her on the floor. Mims instantly started a bath.

“Not on purpose.” Reggie went to pick up the cat, but Mims walked away, tail held high, before Reggie could scoop her up. Maybe she had been ignoring the cat.

“Anyway…” Eden reached for the cider and topped up her glass “…I thought I could take the helm of the Reno Cuisine, since both you and Justin are so busy.”

“Please,” Reggie replied. They had just booked a big wedding on short notice—three weeks—and that would consume most of Reggie’s time, particularly since they already had a business dinner booked that same week. “Take the helm, take the entire ship, because right now I have to make amends with my cat and battle plans for a big-ass wedding reception.”

HUMILIATION SUCKED.

Numbly, Tom took his seat on the flight back to Reno. Not only had he not gotten a job, he hadn’t even gotten to interview or cook. In fact, he was going back to New York sooner than he’d expected. Days sooner.

He didn’t know if Jervase had gotten hold of these guys or what, but after a very short, very terse and uncomfortable meeting with three members of the Letterbridge cuisine vision team, one of them had taken him aside and explained that rather than put him through an interview for a job he had no chance of getting, they were simply going to come clean. Inviting him had been a mistake. Literally a mistake. The associate in charge of contacting the top candidates had pulled his file in error. Tom had no chance of working for Letterbridge.

“None?” he had asked, flabbergasted. Two years ago they’d offered him a damned handsome deal.

“None,” the guy had said flatly.

Tom felt as if he’d just swallowed a chunk of cement. How in the hell had he gotten to the point where he was disappointed—no, make that devastated—at not being a candidate for a freaking corporate kitchen job?

The man babbled about public opinion and image, and how all members of the kitchen staff and management had to be team players, because Letterbridge was a team, from the top on down. Then he looked at Tom and said, “You have to see how we cannot possibly have someone like you on our team.”

And that was when Tom, despite his vow in the Reno airport not to indulge in public fits of temper, told the HR guy exactly what he could do with his team and how.

Shortly before security showed up, Tom left the building of his own volition.

He was screwed. Royally. Just as Lowell had said.

Worse yet, he was beginning to suspect that part of it was his own fault.

So what now?

Letterbridge had arranged for an earlier flight back to New York, but he’d booked his own on their dime. He wanted to stop in Reno again. Had to stop in Reno, since he had no idea when he’d get another chance to meet with Reggie face-to-face.

What was he going to tell her after his assurances that the job was all but his?

As he stared morosely out the window, waiting for takeoff, he became aware of the woman across the aisle staring at him. He glanced at her, she looked down, then when he shifted his attention back to the window, she started studying him again.

“I’m not him,” Tom said.

“Not who?” the woman asked, perplexed.

“Whoever you think I am.”

“Right now I don’t think you’re anyone,” she said curtly.

“Sing it, sister,” he muttered, looking back out at the tarmac.

Right now, he wasn’t anyone. And being someone—in the cooking world, that is—had become a huge part of his identity.

Shit. He let the side of his head rest against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes. There was a commotion across the aisle and he glanced over to see that the woman who’d recognized him had scooted over to the window seat to let a woman with a baby sit on the aisle. A baby.

Tom leaned his head back and rolled his eyes heavenward.

I get it. I’m going to be a dad. I have a responsibility here. I don’t need it hammered home.

His not so prayerlike prayer didn’t make him feel any less tense. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the mother settled the child on her lap. What was it? A boy? A girl? Whatever, it was totally bald. The baby looked around, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Then his mouth opened and he let out a howl. Every muscle in Tom’s body tensed.

The mom pulled her child closer, but he pushed away with his chubby fists, turned his mouth upside down and wailed again.

“I know, I know. It’s all right,” she murmured, jiggling him on her knees, rubbing his little shoulders and neck. The kid howled some more. Tom turned to the window.

How on earth was the mother dealing with this?

The hiccuping sobs continued, and when Tom looked back—because he couldn’t help it—the kid’s gaze fastened on to his. One fist clutched his mother’s collar and she continued to soothe the baby until finally he slumped against her, pulling in shaky little breaths. But his eyes stayed on Tom until they finally drifted shut. Asleep.

He’d fallen asleep. Just like that.

The mother smiled at Tom and he made an effort to smile back. Then she took advantage of the moment to shut her eyes, too. But her arms stayed wrapped tightly around her young son, until the attendant arrived with a travel seat and the kid woke up again. Wonderful.

This time he didn’t cry. He watched in fascination as the attendant put the seat in place. As soon as she was done, a person sat in the aisle seat next to Tom, blocking his view.

The plane started to back away from the terminal, then slowed to a halt with a slight jerk. A moment later, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there’ll be a slight delay before takeoff. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Tom wasn’t a huge believer in signs—well, other than the baby, perhaps—but he did believe in opportunity. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on, shielding it with his hand in case the attendant went militant. He needed to make this call now. Because he didn’t know what else to do, and he suddenly felt as if he was running out of time.

He had seven months, which wasn’t very long at all. He didn’t want to be an unemployed bum of a chef when his child was born.

By some miracle Pete answered his call.

“Pete…I need advice.”

“No.”

“Can you at least give me the name of a decent manager?”

“No, because you’ll tell him I sent you.”

“I won’t.” There wasn’t a hint of irony or amusement in his voice. “I, uh, need some advice here.”

“You’re a talented guy, but that talent’s a waste if your opinion of yourself is so high that you don’t think anyone else knows jack.”

Tom almost said, “They don’t,” but managed to hold in the words. Progress. He was making progress.

“You cut your own throat, Tom. No one did it for you.”

“I know. I know.” He didn’t want to hear about cutting his throat. He wanted to hear about saving his ass. “What can I do to uncut my throat?” That didn’t involve a lot of public kissing up.

“Nothing. And I mean that literally.”

“Nothing.”

Pete exhaled wearily. “If you can stay out of the limelight for, say, a year without blowing up or quitting or criticizing your bosses in public, then maybe I can do something for you.”

Tom tapped the tips of his fingers on his thigh impatiently. Pete was missing a fairly big point here. The job, or lack thereof, was the problem. Unless…

“What am I supposed to do? Wear a paper hat?” And he wasn’t talking a chef’s toque.

“It might do you some good.”

The flight attendant walked up the aisle, and Tom turned in his seat, shielding the phone from her. “It would kill my career if I settled for some mediocre job now.” In his gut he knew this was true, and Pete had to know it, too. Maybe he’d given Pete so much grief that he wanted him to die a culinary death. Disappear from the radar.

“Well, you might have to settle. Your only other option would be to find the backers to open your own restaurant, and with this economy, and your track record, I don’t see that happening.”

Neither did Tom. “That’s it?”

“You asked for my advice. I gave it. Work for a year without raising hell, and people might be ready to take a look at you again.”

“What kind of work, Pete?” Tom muttered in frustration.

“Hell, it could be a school cafeteria. You simply have to behave and make good food. One of those won’t be a problem.”

Tom shoved a hand into his hair. There were many other business managers out there. Ones he hadn’t yet contacted.

“Six months,” Pete said.

“Six months?” Tom repeated as the plane lurched forward and the captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing that they’d been cleared for takeoff. He covered the phone with his free hand.

He sighed. “It’s like chef rehab. Work sedately for six months, prove that you can do it, and I’ll see what I can do. Screw up and you can find yourself a new manager. Although right now, Tom…I don’t know of a reputable guy in the industry who’d take you on.”

SIXTEEN GUESTS SHOWED UP FOR A sit-down meal booked for twelve. Tracy Bremerton, the hostess, dressed about a decade too young for her age, didn’t understand why this was a problem, apparently expecting Eden and Reggie to manufacture food out of thin air. Which they did, of course. Reggie cut the rolls in half; Eden raced to the store to buy ingredients to stretch the salad. Patty, who was there to watch two of Tremont’s regular temp waiters serve, and learn the ropes so she could fill in if someone didn’t show, ended up taking Eden’s place in the kitchen while she was gone.

Thankfully, they had plenty of soup, and the entrée was a pasta dish, so it was easy to stretch. Dessert was not so easy to stretch. Reggie was not at all happy with the size of the tiramisu servings, and neither was the hostess, from the expression on her face.

When dinner was over and the van was packed, Mrs. Bremerton stepped into the kitchen and gave it a critical once-over. It was spotless, because Reggie and Eden never left a place in any other condition.

“Are the leftovers in the refrigerator?” she asked.

“There are no leftovers,” Reggie said, wondering how the woman could possibly expect any under the circumstances. Even if there’d been extra food, the contract clearly stated that Tremont did not leave leftovers. They’d had a bad experience early on with a host not storing the food properly, and then getting sick days later—and threatening to sue. It’d taken months to move past the rumors he’d started. After that they’d rewritten their contract.

“There was extra pasta and bread. I saw it.” Not much. Reggie was about to explain about the leftover policy when Mrs. Bremerton added, “I was a bit embarrassed at the size of the desserts you served.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Reggie said as tactfully as possible. Finesse was part of the game. But this was the time to be blunt. “I had a final count of twelve. We served sixteen.” And worked our butts off to do that.

“I called as soon as I found out my friend and her family would be able to make the dinner, after all,” the hostess said, taking hold of her long string of definitely not fake pearls and running them through her fingers.

“The call came a little late.” As in while they were driving to the Bremerton house high on the hill overlooking Reno.

“It seems to me that caterers should be prepared for this type of emergency.”

“Yes—as long as you don’t mind paying for the extra food.”

“Which you refuse to leave. Very unreasonable.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. Perhaps we can get together and discuss ways to avoid this in the future?”

Mrs. Bremerton sniffed. “I don’t foresee a future.”

“Well, good night, then.”

Reggie made one final visual sweep of the spotless kitchen, nodded at the hostess, then left through the back door, a smile frozen on her face until the door closed behind her.

“Not a happy hostess,” Reggie said as she got into the van, where Eden and Patty were waiting for her.

“I don’t see why not,” Patty said stiffly. “It was a lovely dinner.”

“Because we couldn’t read her mind and guess that she had extra people coming.” Eden put the van in gear. “I’ll do some damage control tomorrow.”

“Good luck with that.” Reggie leaned her head against the window.

She was so very tired. More tired than a catering event and disagreement with a host should have made her.

Pregnancy, coupled with the unfinished business with her baby’s father, was wiping her out.

Reggie hoped Tom got this job so their personal negotiations could begin.

IT WAS RAINING. OF COURSE. HE comes to Nevada, one of the driest states in the union, and it rains on him. And not just a little. It rolled down his cheeks, into the corners of his mouth, collected on his lashes and got into his eyes when he blinked.

And Reggie wasn’t answering her door. Finally, he heard a shuffling noise and then the peephole went dark. The door swung open.

“How did you find me?” she demanded.

“Could you please change that to ‘Come on in. It’s wet out there?’” And it had been easy to find her, thanks to the internet.

Reggie looked past him at the cab idling on the wet street, then stepped back so he could come inside. “Why are you here?”

She wasn’t any more welcoming now that he was under her roof, but he was going to be a damned sight warmer.

“Did you get the job?” she added with a frown, since they’d met less than two days ago.

“Do you mind if I take my coat off?” he asked, buying time.

Reggie gave him a pained look, but nodded. He couldn’t help but glance at her abdomen under the form-fitting T-shirt she wore. There was no sign of pregnancy.

“I’ve gained four pounds,” she said, interpreting the look. “But I probably won’t start showing until next month. Why are you here?”

“We did well together once.” Reggie stiffened at his opening words, delivered as if they were part of a memorized speech. That’s what he got for not practicing.

She casually folded her arms, shutting him out. “Agreed. Then one of us changed.”

“I want another chance.”

Reggie took a half step back, bringing her hand up to the base of her neck in a way that totally pissed him off. “With me?”

“Don’t look so horrified.” Plan B, Plan B. “I didn’t get the job in Seattle.”