Читать книгу When You Walked In - Jessica Bird - Страница 11

Nate braced his arms against the stainless steel counter and bit back the curse teasing his tongue.

What did she think he was going to do, order truffles, foie gras and blowfish? He knew damn well they were on a shoestring and he had no interest in bringing the place down. He understood the kind of pressure she was under and he was here to help, not make things more difficult.

But he needed some real supplies.

He thought about it and decided to humor her for a little while. Make lists for her to review. Prove he could be trusted. And when she realized he had half a brain, she’d back off. As general manager, she should be marketing the place, following up with customers for feedback, balancing the books. She did not need to concern herself with whether he ordered five or six heads of romaine.

God, when was the last time he’d submitted an order list for review?

After a quick look around the kitchen for some paper, he headed for her office. As he walked in, he found her gripping the edge of her desk and throwing her whole body into the thing. In spite of all the effort, it wasn’t moving from underneath the gaping, dripping hole in the ceiling.

“Let me help,” he said.

Her head jerked toward him. “I’ll be fine.”

She wasn’t going to be fine. The desk was made of mahogany and weighed about as much as a small car.

Ignoring her, he walked over and picked up one corner. Pulling the thing out from under the exposed pipes, he put it to rest under a window that had a lake view. Then he grabbed the heavy chair and carried it across the room.

“Do you have any paper?” he asked when he was finished.

“Er—in the closet.”

She seemed flustered by his initiative so he took what he needed and left her alone, thinking that woman was going to have to start relying on him.

Frankie hung up the phone and stared at it. After a glowing report from the owner of La Nuit, it appeared as if she’d won the lottery when Nate walked through her back door.

A graduate of the Culinary Institute of America. A classically trained chef who had worked in Paris. Who’d have thought? Assuming that Henri guy was on the up-and-up, and her instincts told her he was, Nate was a gift from God.

Which got her thinking…if he stayed long enough, maybe he could help put them back on the map. At least with the locals. And then they could—

Frankie looked up and saw Nate standing in her doorway.

Trying to hide her surprise, she lifted her eyebrows and waited for him to speak.

“Here’s my list, Boss.” His voice was relaxed, the term almost an endearment.

He came forward and dropped the sheet of lined paper on the desk. His handwriting was all in capitals and very neat. The list itself was ordered logically by food group, also including his meat and dairy requirements.

“I assumed we wouldn’t have more than ten people a night for the next seven days so I’ve kept it light. And just so you know, I’m going to redo your menu. It’s old and boring.”

She nodded and looked up, narrowing her stare. “I spoke with Henri just now.”

Nate smiled. “How is the old buzzard?”

“He told me you were…very good.”

“Precisely why I gave you his name. Figured if you heard it from him you wouldn’t worry about me so much. And by the way, I don’t have a criminal record and the only time I was in a police car was when I was in college and went skinny-dipping in the Charles River by mistake. My father had a lot to say about that one but I wasn’t formally charged. Oh—but I do have about thirty outstanding parking tickets in New York City.”

Frankie frowned in an attempt to keep a smile off her face. “Let me ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Why would someone with your background and training want to work here?”

He shrugged. “I need the money. And it’s just for the summer.”

“But why don’t you find somewhere like La Nuit to work? Down in the city. You could be making a lot more.”

Frankie closed her mouth, thinking she should shut up. Was she actually trying to talk him into going somewhere else? Because he was right—she did need him.

Nate considered her for a long moment, as if debating how up-front to be. “A buddy and I are going to buy our own restaurant. We’ve been looking for the last four months in New York, Boston, D.C. and Montreal, but the right opportunity hasn’t come along.” He grinned. “Or maybe it’s more like we haven’t found a place we can afford yet. I’ve been living off my savings and we need that money for a down payment to secure a small business loan. Right about the time my car broke down, I’d decided to find summer work and then resume the hunt in the fall. Your place is as good as any.”

Frankie looked down, absurdly hurt. To her, White Caps wasn’t just any place. It was home, it was family, it was…everything. But to a stranger, of course, it would just be a bunch of walls and a roof.

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Besides, how can I resist the opportunity to work for someone like you?”

She glanced up. “Like me?”

His gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips. Her breath stopped.

He was looking at her as if he wanted to kiss her, she thought. He truly was.

Time slowed, then halted altogether. She looked away from him, unable to stand the tension.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly.

She braced herself and met his eyes again, thinking that the casual endearment really shouldn’t please her.

“Smile for me and don’t hide it this time.”

She flushed. “Maybe later.”

Nate’s lips lifted slightly, as if he enjoyed her show of spirit. “I’m willing to wait.”

And then he went back out to the kitchen.

Frankie put her head in her hands, propping the weight up by her elbows. She was not the kind of woman who fell for romance. She really wasn’t. But, in a matter of moments, he could completely disarm her with that charm of his. Somehow, even if it was a ruse, just some throwaway words to him, his husky voice had the power to short out her brain and turn on her body’s boiler system.

This was not good.

In the middle of all the chaos, being attracted to her new cook—chef—was a complication she didn’t need.

The phone rang and she picked it up with relief, ready to be distracted. It was, unfortunately, someone canceling their reservation for the following weekend. When she hung up, she looked through the window. Out on the lawn, which needed to be mowed again, there were a pair of chipmunks racing around.

An old memory drifted through her mind. She saw Joy and Alex and her much younger self in the midst of an Easter egg hunt. Joy had found only one egg, but that was because she’d been looking for the bright pink one in particular and had stopped once she got it. Alex had found three, but then lost interest and climbed up a tree to see how high he could go. Frankie had scampered around, retrieved all the other eggs and divvied them up between the baskets equally. Finding them had been easy enough to do. She’d helped her mother hide them.

That was so long ago, she thought. Back when their parents had seemed like fixed objects in the sky, a surefire, two-pronged orientation system to the world. That feeling of safety, however illusory, had been so powerful.

God, she missed them.

When the chipmunks got bored with playing keep-away and disappeared into the lilac hedges, she let the past go.

Measuring the lawn, and envisioning hours of pushing the ancient manual mower, she looked back down at the desk. Next to Nate’s list was the letter from the bank—the one that reminded her she’d been behind on the mortgage payments for six months in a row. Her banker, Mike Roy, had written on the bottom of the form letter: Let’s talk soon—we’ll work something out.

She was lucky she had Mike to deal with. He’d been head of the local bank for almost five years and had always been fair. Maybe a little more than fair. She’d gotten behind in years past, especially at the end of the long dry spell caused by winter. The summer season provided her with the opportunity to get caught up and she’d always managed to get things under control again. At least until last summer. For the first time, she’d gone into the winter still behind, which meant she had an even bigger hole to dig out of this season.

She worried that selling the place might be inevitable. She’d been rejecting the idea out of hand for years, but it looked as if the unthinkable might become the unavoidable.

With a nauseous swell, Frankie imagined packing up her family’s home. Her family’s heritage. She pictured herself transferring the title to the house and the land to someone else. Walking away, forever.

No.

The protest didn’t come from her head. It came from her heart. And the strength of it flooded through her body, making her hands shake.

There had to be a way to make it work. There just had to be. She refused to sell the only thing left of her parents, of her family. She had worked hard all of her adult life to keep White Caps. She wasn’t going to stop now just because the stakes seemed more stacked than ever against her.

She thought of Nate. A fine French chef. Maybe he could, as he put it, get some asses back in those chairs. And she could run some specials on the Lincoln room in the newspapers around the area. There was always Labor Day to look forward to. They already had three rooms booked and usually they had a full house. And hadn’t she read in the paper the other day that tourism was on the upswing after a couple of hard years?

The tide was going to turn in their favor and it would be a damn shame to quit just before things got better. She only had to have a little faith.

Frankie checked her watch and picked up her purse. She needed to go into town to make a deposit before the bank closed at noon and there were a few odds and ends she had to pick up. As soon as she got back, she was going to take care of the lawn. It always seemed as if the moment she finished pushing that arthritic mower around, she had to start on the acres of grass all over again. She’d asked George to do it once but it had looked like a shag carpet when he was finished. It was easier to do the job by herself than try and talk him through the process a second time.

She passed through the kitchen, where Nate was working over the stove, and called upstairs. “Joy, I’m heading into town, you need anything?”

“Can Grand-Em and I come?”

Frankie was tempted to say no. She wanted to get back before the vegetable delivery came and going anywhere with their grandmother was a production.

Joy appeared at the top of the stairs. “Please?”

“Okay, but hurry.” Frankie wondered what the big deal was as she glanced over at Nate. “That smells good. What are you making?”

“Stock. I’m putting what’s left of that chicken to good use.” He turned back to a cutting board and started in on an onion. Half of the thing was reduced to a pile of perfectly cut little squares in moments. The other half he cut in long shreds. “Hey, I told the tow truck I called to move Lucille here, okay? I’ve got to figure out what’s wrong with her.”

And he fixes cars, she thought. As well as names them.

“Fine with me. You can put her in the barn out back.”

“Thanks.” He picked up the fluffy white mélange, threw it in the pot and stirred.

When Joy came downstairs with their grandmother, Frankie got a load of Grand-Em’s outfit for the day. It was a lavender satin gown, and though the thing must have been fifty years old, it still looked beautiful. Somehow, Joy managed to keep all the old gowns in good shape, spending hours with a needle patching and stitching them back together, year after year. God only knew where she got the patience.

“You need anything?” Frankie asked Nate.

He looked up and grinned. “Nothing you can buy me.”

With a wink thrown to Joy, he went back to his work.

As they left, Frankie’s mouth was set. She wasn’t sure what she resented more, his harmless flirtation or her reaction to it.

They headed out into the sunshine to her old maroon Honda. Grand-Em, who was used to being chauffeured, was eased in the back seat and Joy sat beside her. During the drive along Lake Road, the old woman narrated landmarks, commenting on the houses she’d gone to parties in years ago. It was the same patter every time, the same names, the same dates. The speech seemed to have a calming effect on her, as if the old familiarity pulled her mind together temporarily, and Joy responded at the right intervals while Frankie drove.

Downtown, such as it was, was built around a square of lawn that had four thick-trunked maples at each of the corners. In the center, there was a six-sided white gazebo that was a point of pride to residents. Big enough to house the twenty-piece orchestra that played there twice a summer, it was mostly used by tourists as a backdrop for pictures. Glowing in the morning sun, it stood out against the green lawn like a silvery cage.

The Lake Road split in two around the gazebo, rejoining on the far side. Fronting the streets, were the local bank, Adirondack Trust & Savings, a drugstore known as Pills, the post office and Mickey’s Groceries. There were also some touristy shops that sold Adirondack-style trinkets, as well as a few antique stores that hiked their prices up by a factor of ten in the months between May and September. Barclay’s Liquors and the Hair Stoppe were on the far end.

“I’m going into the bank and the post office,” Frankie said, parallel parking into an open space. “Why don’t you two wait here?”

“Sure,” Joy murmured while craning her neck around and looking at the cars parked on either side of the road. With all the Independence weekend visitors, they were a fancier lot than the local traffic. The Jaguars, Mercedes and Audis signified that the owners of the mansions were back in residence.

As Frankie got out, she wondered who her sister was searching for.

He would be up this weekend, Joy thought. He always came for the Fourth of July.

Grayson Bennett drove a black BMW 645Ci. Or at least that had been what he’d come in last year. Two years ago, he’d had a big, dark red Mercedes. Before that, it had been a Porsche. His first car had been an Alfa Romeo convertible.

For a woman who didn’t care about the automotive industry in the slightest, Joy knew a hell of a lot about cars, thanks to him.

There were a few people walking the clean, pale sidewalks and she sifted through them. Gray was easy to pick out of the crowd. He was tall, imposing and he didn’t walk places, he marched. He also tended to wear sunglasses, dark ones that played off his black hair and made him look even more intense.

She realized that Gray would be thirty-six this year. His birthday bash, held every year at the Bennett estate, was one of the highlights of the social season although it wasn’t as if she or Frankie were invited. The Moorehouses had once mixed with the Bennetts regularly, back in Grand-Em’s day, but with the declining fortunes of Joy’s family, the two had ceased moving in the same circles.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t picture a different scenario, however.

A favorite daydream of hers was to imagine going to that party, dressed beautifully, floating among his guests until he noticed her and saw her as she really was. As a woman, not some child. He would take her into his arms and kiss her and then they would go off somewhere quiet together.

In real life, their encounters were a lot less romantic. In the summer months, if she saw him around town, she’d plant herself in his path. He would stop and she’d hold her breath, willing him to remember her name. He always did. He’d smile down at her and sometimes even take off his sunglasses as he asked about her family.

From the left, she saw a BMW approach and she leaned forward. It was the wrong kind.

As she settled back against the seat, letting Grand-Em natter on about the opening of the town library back in 1936, she couldn’t ignore how one-sided her attraction was.

She looked down at her bare ring finger. If she kept up the teenage fantasy, she knew she was on the winding trail to spinsterhood. She’d probably end up weird Auntie Joy who’d never married and smelled like mothballs and denatured perfume.

Now there was a picture.

If they could only leave White Caps and move somewhere with more people her own age, she might be able to get Gray Bennett off her mind. Maybe it wasn’t his fantastic good looks or his dark, sexy voice or those pale blue eyes.

Maybe it was just a lack of viable alternatives.

“Did you know that my fourth great-grandfather built that gazebo?” Grand-Em inquired. She wasn’t looking for an answer. It was an invitation for a prompting.

“Really. Tell me about it,” Joy murmured, putting her hand down in her lap.

“It was in 1849. There had been a terrible winter that year and the old one had collapsed because of the snow. Great Grand Pa-Pa declared the structure unsafe….”

Grand-Em spoke with a proper intonation, her words carefully considered as if they were a gift to the listener and therefore must be chosen with respect and affection. And Joy usually found them fascinating. She loved listening to the old stories, particularly about the balls and the clothes.

But not today.

After nearly a decade of pining for a man she couldn’t have, Joy was struck with how pathetic her attraction to Gray was. Pinning hopeless dreams on a fantasy was like feeding yourself with chocolate. A great short-term buzz with no lasting value.