- -
- 100%
- +
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELEVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Copyright
Molly O’Keefe has written eleven books for the Superromance, Flipside and Duets lines. When she isn’t writing happily ever after she can usually be found in the park acting as referee between her beleaguered border collie and her one-year-old son. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, son, dog and the largest heap of dirty laundry in North America.
To Aunt Cherie and Uncle Earl
Sometimes, with family, you just get lucky.
And we are very lucky.
CHAPTER ONE
OUT OF THE CORNER of his eye, Gabe Mitchell saw his father, Patrick, spit a mouthful of seaweed-wrapped tofu into his napkin like a five-year-old.
Gabe kicked him under the table, appalled but envious.
“So?” Melissa-something-or-other, the chef responsible for the foul-tasting vegan spa cuisine, asked. “Was I right, or what?”
“Or what,” Patrick muttered, balling his napkin up beside his plate.
“You were right,” Gabe said and pushed his own mouthful of bitter mush into his cheek away from his taste buds. “This is really something.”
“Well?” She smiled broadly like a cat with her eye on the canary. “When do I start?”
Patrick laughed, but quickly coughed to cover it, so Gabe didn’t bother kicking him again.
He managed to swallow the mess in his mouth, took a huge sip of the unsweetened berry smoothie to wash it down and was appalled to discover she’d somehow made berries taste bad, too.
He’d interviewed and auditioned five chefs and this one really was the bottom of a very dark, very deep barrel.
“Well—” he smiled and lied through his teeth “—I have a few more interviews this week, so I will have to get back to you.”
The girl looked disappointed and a little meanspirited, which wasn’t going to help her get the job. “You know,” she said, “it’s not going to be easy to find someone willing to live out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“I understand that,” he said graciously, even though it was getting hard not to throw her out on her scrawny butt.
“And it’s a brand-new inn.” She shrugged. “It’s not like you have the credentials to get a—”
“Well, then.” He stood up and interrupted the little shit’s defeating diatribe before she got to the part about how he was ugly and his father dressed him funny. “Why don’t you gather your equipment and I’ll call you if—”
“And that’s another thing.” Now she was really getting snotty. What was it about vegans, he wondered, that made them so touchy? “Your kitchen is a disaster—”
“You know how building projects can be.” Patrick stood, his silver hair and dashing smile gleaming in the sunlight. “One minute shambles, the next state of the art.”
“You must be in the shambles part,” Melissa said.
“Very true, but I can guarantee within the week state-of-the-art.” His blue eyes twinkled as though he was letting Melissa in on a secret. It was times such as these that Gabe fully realized the compliment people gave him when they said he was a chip off the old block.
Patrick stepped to the side of Melissa and held out his arm toward the kitchen as though he were ushering her toward dinner, rather than away from a job interview she’d bombed.
Gabe sat with a smile. Dad was going to handle this one. Great. Because I am out of niceties.
“Tell me, Melissa, how did you get that tofu to stay together like that? In a tidy little bundle,” Patrick asked as they walked toward the kitchen.
Melissa blushed and launched into a speech on the magic of toothpicks.
God save me from novice chefs.
The swinging door to the kitchen swung open, revealing his nowhere-near-completed kitchen, and then swung shut behind his father giving the oblivious woman the heave-ho.
Gotta hand it to the guy, sixty-seven years old and he still has it.
Silence filled the room, from the cathedral ceiling to the fresh pine wood floors. The table and two chairs sat like an island in the middle of the vast, sunsplashed room.
He felt as though he was in the eye of the storm. If he left this room he’d be buffeted, torn apart by gale-force winds, deadlines, loose ends and a chefless kitchen.
“You’re too nice,” Patrick said, stepping back into the room.
“You told me to always be polite to women,” Gabe said.
“Not when they are trying to poison you.”
Patrick lowered himself into the chair he’d vacated and crossed his arms over his flannelcovered barrel chest. “She was worse than the other five chefs you’ve talked to.”
The seaweed-wrapped tofu on his plate seemed to mock Gabe, so he threw his napkin over it and pushed it away. At loose ends, he crossed his arms behind his head and stared out his wall of windows at his view of the Hudson River Valley.
The view was stunning. Gorgeous. Greens and grays and clouds like angels filling the slate-blue sky. He banked on that view to bring in the guests to his Riverview Inn, but he’d been hoping for a little more from the kitchen.
The Hudson River snaked its way through the corner of his property, and out the window, he could see the skeleton frame of the elaborate gazebo being built. The elaborate gazebo where, in two and a half months, there was going to be a very important wedding.
The mother of the bride had called out of the blue three days ago, needing an emergency site and had found him on the Web. And she’d been e-mailing every day to talk about the menu and he’d managed to put her off, telling her he needed guest numbers before he could put together a menu and a budget.
If they lost that wedding…well, he’d have to hope there was a manager’s job open at McDonald’s or that he could sell enough of his blood, or hair, or semen or whatever it took to get him out of the black hole of debt he’d be in.
All of the building was going according to plan. There had been a minor glitch with the plumber, however Max, his brother and begrudging but incredibly skilled general contractor, had sorted it out early and they were right back on track.
“Getting the chef was supposed to be the easy part, wasn’t it?” Patrick asked. “I thought you had those hotshot friends of yours in New York City.”
Gabe rolled his eyes at his father. Anyone who didn’t know the difference between a fuse box and a circuit breaker was a hotshot to him. And it wasn’t a compliment.
“They decided to stay in New York City,” he said. All three of his top choices, which had forced him into this hideous interview process.
Fifteen years in the restaurant business working his way up from waiter to bartender to sommelier. He had been the manager of the best restaurant in Albany for four years and finally owner of his own Zagat-rated bar and grill in Manhattan for the past five years and this is what he’d come to.
Seaweed-wrapped tofu.
“I can’t believe this is so hard,” he muttered.
Patrick grinned.
“I open in a month and I’ve got no chef. No kitchen staff whatsoever.”
Patrick chuckled.
“What the hell are you laughing at, Dad? I’m in serious trouble here.”
“Your mother would say this—”
Icy anger exploded in his exhausted brain. “What is this recent fascination with Mom? She’s been gone for years, I don’t care what she’d say.”
His cruel words echoed through the empty room. He rubbed his face, weary and ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’ve got so much going on, I just don’t want—”
“I understand, son.” The heavy clap of his father’s hand on his shoulder nearly had him crumbling into a heap. “But not everything can be charmed or finessed. Sometimes it takes work—”
“I work.” Again, anger rose to the surface. “I work hard, Dad.”
“Oh, son.” Patrick’s voice was rough. “I know you do. But you’ve worked hard at making it all look easy. I’ve never seen a construction job go as smooth as this one has. You’ve got every lawyer, teamster and backhoe operator eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“You think that’s easy?” Gabe arched an eyebrow at his father.
“I know better than that. I’ve watched you work that gray in your hair and I’ve watched you work through the night for this place and I’m proud of you.”
Oh, Jesus, he was going to cry in his seaweed.
“But sometimes you have to make hard choices. Swallow your pride and beg and compromise and ask for favors. You have to fight, which is something you don’t like to do.”
That was true, he couldn’t actually say he fought for things. Fighting implied arguments and standoffs and a possibility of losing.
Losing wasn’t really his style.
He worked hard, he made the right contacts, he treated his friends well and his rivals better. He ensured things would go his way—which was a far cry from having them fall in his lap. But it was also a far cry from compromising or swallowing his pride or fighting.
The very idea gave Gabe the chills.
“You saying I should fight for Melissa?” He jerked his head at the door the vegan chef had left through.
“No.” Patrick’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “God, no. But I’m saying you should fight for the right chef.”
“What’re we fighting for?” Max, Gabe’s older brother stomped into the room, brushing sawdust from the chest and arms of his navy fleece onto the floor. “Did I miss lunch?”
“Not really,” Patrick said. “And we haven’t actually started any fight, so cool your jets.”
Max pulled one of the chairs from the stacks on tables in the corner, unclipped his tool belt and slung it over the back of the chair before sitting.
As the family expert on fighting, Max had made battles his life mission. And not just physically, though the bend in his nose attested to a few bar brawls and the scar on his neck from a bullet that got too close told the truth better than this new version of his brother, who, since being shot, acted as though he’d never relished a good confrontation.
Yep, Max knew how to fight, for all the good it did him.
“Well, from the look on Gabe’s face, I guess we still don’t have a chef,” Max said, sliding his sunglasses into the neck of his shirt.
“No,” Gabe growled. “We don’t.”
Now Max, his beloved brother, his best friend, stretched his arms over his head and laughed. “Never seen you have so much trouble, Gabe.”
“I am so glad that my whole family is getting such pleasure out of this. Need I remind you that if this doesn’t work, we’re all homeless. You should show a little concern about what’s going on.”
“It’s just a building,” Max said.
Gabe couldn’t agree less, but he kept his mouth shut. Going toe to toe with his brother, while satisfying on so many levels, wouldn’t get him a chef.
“I’m going to go make us some lunch.” Patrick stood and Max groaned. “Keep complaining and you can do it,” he said over his shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Cheese sandwiches. Again,” Max groused.
“It’s better than what we had, trust me.”
“What happened?”
“Ah, she fed us terrible food and then said I was crazy for trying to build an inn in the middle of nowhere and get a chef to come out here for little pay in a half-finished kitchen. Basically, what all the chefs have said to me.”
Gabe paused, then gathered the courage to ask the question that had been keeping him up nights.
“Do you think they’re right? Is it nuts to expect a high-caliber chef to come way out here and put their career on the line and their life on hold to see if this place takes off?”
Max tipped his head back and howled, the sound reverberating through the room, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Brother, I’ve been telling you this was nuts for over a year. Don’t tell me you’re starting to agree now!”
Gabe smiled. He was discouraged, sure. Tired as all hell, without a doubt. Frustrated and getting close to psychotic about his chefless state, absolutely. But his Riverview Inn was going to be a success.
He’d work himself into the hospital, into his grave to make sure of it.
He had been dreaming of this inn for ten years.
“It’s not like I’ve got no credentials.” He scowled, hating that Melissa had gotten under his skin and that he still felt the need to justify his dream. “I worked my way up to manager in the restaurant in Albany. And I owned one of the top ten restaurants in New York City for five years. I’ve had reporters and writers calling me for months wanting to do interviews. The restaurant reviewer for Bon Appetit wanted to come out and see the property before we even got started.”
“All the more reason to get yourself a great chef.”
“Who?” He rubbed his hands over his face.
“Call Alice,” Max said matter-of-factly, as though Alice was on speed dial or something.
Gabe’s heart chugged and sputtered.
He couldn’t breathe for a minute. It’d been so long since someone had said her name out loud. Alice.
“Who?” he asked through a dry throat. Gabe knew, of course. How many Alices could one guy know? But, surely his brother, his best friend, had not pulled Alice from the past and suggested she was the solution to his problems.
“Don’t be stupid.” Max slapped him on the back. “The whole idea of this place started with her—”
“No, it didn’t.” Gabe felt compelled to resist the whole suggestion. Alice had never, ever been the solution to a problem. She was the genesis of trouble, the spring from which any disaster in his life emerged.
Max shook his head and Gabe noticed the silver in his brother’s temples had spread to pepper his whole head and sprouted in his dark beard. This place was aging them both. “We open in a month and you want to act like a five-year-old?” Max asked.
“No, of course not. But my ex-wife isn’t going to help things here.”
“She’s an amazing chef.” Max licked his lips. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve woken up in a cold sweat thinking of that duck thing she made with the cherries.”
Gabe worried at the cut along his thumb with his other thumb and tried not to remember all the times in the past five years he’d woken in a cold sweat thinking of Alice.
“Gabe.” Max laid a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Be smart.”
“Last I heard she was a superstar,” Gabe said. He tried to relax the muscles of his back, his arms that had gone tight at the mention of Alice. He tried to calm his heart. “She wouldn’t be interested.”
“When was the last you heard?”
It’s not as though she’d stayed in touch after that first year when they’d divvied up all the things they’d gathered and collected—the antiques from upstate, their kitchen, their friends. “About four years ago.”
“Well, maybe she’ll know of someone. She can at least point you in the right direction.”
Gabe groaned. “I hate it when you’re right,” he muttered.
“Well, I’d think you’d be used to it by now.” Max laughed. “I think I’ll skip lunch and get back to work.” He grabbed his tool belt. “The gazebo should be done by tomorrow.”
“What’s the status on the cottages?” Gabe asked.
“You’ll have to ask Dad.” Max shrugged his broad shoulders and cinched the tool belt around his waist, over his faded and torn jeans. “As far as I know he just had some roofing and a little electrical to finish on the last one.”
Gabe’s affection and gratitude toward his brother and dad caught him right in the throat. The Riverview Inn with its cottages, stone-and-beam lodge and gazebo and walking trails and gardens had been his dream, the goal of his entire working life. But he never, ever would have been able to accomplish it without his family.
“Max, I know I don’t say it enough, but thank you. I—”
Max predictably held up a hand. “You can thank me by providing me with some decent chow. It’s not too much to ask.”
He took his sunglasses from the neck of his fleece and slid them on, looking dangerous, like the cop he’d been and not at all like the brother Gabe knew.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Max said, poised to leave. “Sheriff Ginley has got two more kids.”
“Can either of them cook?”
Max shrugged. “I think one of them got fired from McDonald’s.”
“Great, he can be our chef.”
“I don’t think Sheriff Ginley would smile upon a juvenile delinquent with such easy access to knives.”
The after-school work program for kids who got in trouble in Athens, the small town north of the inn, had been Max’s idea, but Gabe had to admit, the labor was handy, and he hoped they were doing some good for the kids. “They can help you with the grounds.”
“That’s what I figured.” Max smiled wickedly and left, his heavy-booted footsteps thudding through the nearly empty room.
Gabe sighed and let his head fall back. He stared up at the elaborate cedar joists in the ceiling, imagined them with the delicate white Christmas lights he planned on winding around them.
The ceiling would look like the night sky dotted with stars.
It had been one of Alice’s ideas.
He and Alice used to talk about opening a place out of the city. A place on a bluff. He’d talked about cottages and fireplaces and she’d talked about organic ingredients and local produce. They’d been a team then, she the chef, he the consummate host, producer and manager. He’d felt invincible in those early days with Alice by his side.
But then the problems came and Alice got more and more distant, more and more sad with every trip to the doctor, every failed effort that ended in blood and tears and—Well, he’d never felt so helpless in his life.
“Lunch, boys!” Dad called from the kitchen the way he had since their mom walked out on them more than thirty years ago.
Gabe smiled and stood.
Nothing to do but eat a cheese sandwich and get to work. His dream wasn’t going to build itself.
THE HANGOVER POUNDED behind Alice’s eyes. Her fingers shook, so she set down the knife before she diced up her finger along with the tomatoes.
“I’m taking a break,” she told Trudy, who worked across from her at the long stainless steel prep table
Trudy’s black eyes were concerned. “That’s your second break since you’ve been here and it’s only three.”
“Smoker’s rights,” Alice croaked and grabbed a mug from the drying rack by the industrial washer and filled it with the swill Johnny O’s called coffee.
“You don’t smoke,” Trudy pointed out, trying to be helpful and failing miserably. “If Darnell comes back here, what am I supposed to tell him?”
“That he can fire me.” Alice slid her sunglasses from her coat hanging by the door and used her hips to push out into the bright afternoon.
Even with her dark glasses on, the sunshine felt like razor wire against her eyeballs, so after she collapsed onto the bench that had been set up by the Dumpsters for staff, she just shut her eyes against the sun.
The hangover, the sleeplessness, this mindless menial job that paid her part of the mortgage, it all weighed her down like sandbags attached to her neck.
Tonight no drinking, she swore.
She couldn’t change the fact that she’d fallen from chef and owner of Zinnia’s to head line chef at one of the three Johnny O’s franchises in Albany. That damage was already done and she’d come to grips with it.
But she could control the drinking.
A small voice reminded her that she made that promise almost every night.
Sometimes she wanted to punch the small voice, but instead she breathed deep of the slightly putrid air and tried to get Zen about the whole situation. She took a sip of her coffee, and listened to the sound of traffic.
The parking lot was pretty empty, but soon the hungry folks of Albany would be getting off work and looking for a sunny patio and drink specials and a lot of them would head to Johnny O’s. The kitchen would be loud and on fire for about eight hours and in those eight hours, while arranging plates of pasta and firebaked pizzas and grilling steaks and fish specials, she would forget all the reasons she had to drink.
Maybe she’d help the cleaning staff tonight. Work herself into a good exhaustion so she wouldn’t need the red wine to relax.
She tilted her face up to the sun and stretched out her feet, pleased with her plan.
A black truck, mud splattered and beat-up, pulled in to the lot and parked directly across from her. She thought about heading back inside, or at least opening the door and yelling to warn Trudy customers were arriving and the kitchen was on demand. But Trudy had been in the business as long as she had and could handle cooking for a truckload of guys.
But only one guy got out.
One guy, holding a droopy bouquet of yellow roses.
One guy, whose slow amble toward her was painfully, heartbreakingly familiar.
Coffee sloshed onto her pants, so she set the cup down on the bench and clenched her suddenly shaking hands together.
Spots swam in front of her eyes and her head felt light and full, like a balloon about to pop.
The man was tall and lean, so handsome still it made her heart hurt.
He stopped right in front of her and pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, displacing his dark blond hair. The sun was behind him and he seemed so big. She used to love his size, love how it made her feel small and safe. He’d wrap those strong arms around her and she felt protected from the world, from herself.
He smiled like a man who knew all the tastiest things about her.
That smile was his trademark. He could disarm an angry patron at four feet with the strength of his charming smile. He could woo frigid reviewers, disgruntled suppliers…his ex-wife.
“Hello, Alice.” He held out the roses but she couldn’t get her hands to lift and take them.
She left her shades on, so shattered by Gabe’s sudden appearance in front of her, as if the past five years hadn’t happened.
“Gabe.” Her voice croaked again and she nearly cringed.
He took a deep breath, in through his nose, no doubt hoping for a bit more welcome from her, some reaction other than the stoic front that was all she had these days.
His hand holding the roses fell back to his side.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. She sounded accusatory and mean, like a stranger who had never known him at all.
And she felt that way. It was why, in part, the marriage had ended. Despite the late-night talks, the dreams of building a business together, the sex that held them together longer than they should have been, in the end, when things got bad, they really never knew each other at all.
“I could ask you the same thing.” His eyes swept the bench, the back door to Johnny O’s. The Dumpsters.
Suddenly, the reality of her life hammered home like a nail in her coffin. She worked shifts at a chain restaurant and was hungover at three on a Friday afternoon.