Molly O'Keefe - Baby Makes Three

Her mouth fell open and she grabbed a recipe manual from the stack at her knee. “I cook from a manual, Darnell. It’s against corporate policy to do something special.”

“But you haven’t even tried, have you? We have nightly specials and I gave you carte blanche.”

“Right, and I’ve—”

“Served the same thing for two weeks, despite the fact that no one orders it. Our customers don’t like duck, Alice. But those ribs you made two months ago were amazing, and you served them for two days. That’s it. It’s like you don’t want to succeed.”

Darnell watched her expectantly and Alice dropped her eyes to the recipe manual. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t want to talk about her problems. She wanted to work, pay off the outrageous amount of money she owed the bank and annoy Trudy. That’s it.

And drink. Dear God. I need a drink.

“Alice, I don’t know the whole story behind what happened at Zinnia—”

“I’ll talk to Trudy and I’ll put the ribs back up on the specials board.” She stood, stared at Darnell with tired eyes. “I have to be back here tomorrow for—”

“No.” Darnell shook his head. “You don’t.”

She slumped.

“You’re fired.”

ALICE’S CAR rolled slowly down Pape and she could see the dim lights, the shadow of someone moving through her kitchen window. She knew it wasn’t Charlie.

He’s still here, she thought and hit the garage-door opener on her dashboard. An itchy anger chugged through her bloodstream like a drug, making her head spin.

Gabe was the last thing she needed tonight.

The heavy white door lifted and she drove into the parking spot between the empty freezers and the golf clubs Gabe had left. She tried to gather whatever resources were left in her tired, drinkcraving, jobless body.

After the day she’d had, there weren’t many left. Gabe reentering her life dredged up feelings she’d been managing, longings she’d been subduing.

But tonight those feelings were here in force, like weights on her heart.

I wish I wasn’t alone.

I wish I had a family.

And he was in there with dim lights and probably tomato soup, something she lost the taste for after he left.

She chewed her beleaguered thumbnail and watched the door between the garage and kitchen as though it might open and Gabe would come running out throwing knives at her car. Not that she was scared of him, just scared of what they were when they were together.

“I don’t need anything,” she whispered her oftrepeated mantra that eventually got her through the worst days. “There is nothing I want.”

But the fates had conspired tonight. Her mortgages—both of them—were due at the end of the week and she had only enough money to cover one.

Am I too old to sell my body? she wondered. But that was a bit drastic, even for her.

She felt raw and panicked, like a trapped animal. Gabe was going to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse and she wanted to punish him for it. She wanted him to pay for coming back here and rubbing his success in her face.

She wanted to pick the scabs between them, scratch at old wounds.

I want to fight. Alice smiled, feeling feral. And there’s nothing in this world that Gabe hates more than a fight.

She opened the door between the garage and the kitchen and Gabe looked up at her from the bread he sliced at her kitchen table. He was too handsome for words in this light.

“You’re still here,” she said, unbuttoning her dirty chef’s whites. “You make yourself at home?”

His smile dimmed a bit, no doubt startled by her biting sarcasm. She came out swinging, hoping to get a few licks in before he made her that offer and she had to take it.

“Did you take the tour?” she asked, throwing the dirty jacket on the table. “Visit the baby’s room?”

His eyes turned to stone. His smile became a grimace.

“Alice.” There was that sigh again. It told her, better than words, better than failed doctor’s appointments, better than divorce papers, that he was disappointed in her.

And immediately she regretted wanting to fight over this. A fight she never won.

“Alice, there was no baby.”

“FOR YOU,” she said, her eyes narrowed like a cat backed into a corner. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

He didn’t want to deal with this Alice, the Alice from the end of their marriage. He’d take her cool sarcasm, her judgment and disdain over this Alice—the Alice who wanted to talk about things.

He didn’t like this Alice.

“There were no babies, period.”

Every fiber in his body, his gut, told him to walk out the door. He didn’t have it in him to go another round over this.

She still wallowed in their old misery, he could see it in her black eyes. The miscarriages were all fresh. Real.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said, pushing away the bread. “I’m not here for that.”

Her laughter sounded like ice breaking. “Really? And here I thought you finally wanted to sit down and talk—” She pretended to be surprised when he stood.

“This isn’t going to work.” He slammed the serrated knife onto the small cutting board. “Coming here was a mistake.” He grabbed his keys and headed for the front door.

“Ah, the infamous Gabe Mitchell cold shoulder as he heads for the door. How I have missed that.” Her sarcasm raked him and suddenly he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

He put his hand on the doorknob and at the same time, she tentatively touched his elbow and a spark of electricity shot up his arm.

“No. Stop. Please, Gabe.” Her tone held a certain honesty that he couldn’t walk away from. He could walk away from her anger and sarcasm, her lies and evasions. But when she was vulnerable—he just couldn’t walk away.

He stopped, his shoulders hunched as if to protect himself. He noticed and immediately straightened.

“I’m—” He could hear her swallow around the words. “I’m sorry. I…forget I said anything.”

He weighed the cost of turning around. Of sitting back at that kitchen table, the one from her grandmother.

He needed a chef and she was the best.

He turned and looked right into her liquid black eyes. “No more talk about the marriage or the miscarriages.” He shook his head. “It’s counterproductive. For both of us.”

She huffed a little laugh and licked her lips. “Okay. You’re right.”

He sat down in the midst of the awkward silence that breathed between them, but he was satisfied that the past wouldn’t leap out at him anymore, ambushing his plans for the inn.

“You want something to drink?” she asked, heading for the cabinet above the fridge. She stood on tiptoe and pulled down a bottle of red wine.

And, despite himself, he watched her move. Her pale skin glowed in the half light. She’d lost some of the lush curvy weight she’d carried in happier days. Her arms were muscled from the hard work of running a kitchen, but the rest of her was a whipcord.

She looked as if she’d missed too many meals. She looked tough.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said. She hadn’t even glanced at the stove even though he knew she could smell the tomato soup.

“I ate at work,” she said and he didn’t force the issue. He’d bet the inn she was lying.

“Wine?” she asked, holding up a bottle.

“I’d love some.” He forced himself to be warm to her, cordial. Due to years of practice, he could slip into gracious without batting an eye. It was a suit he donned when he needed it. “I’ve got Oreos.”

That made her smile, and the tension in the room cracked and he could breathe again.