Molly O'Keefe - Baby Makes Three

“I met your roommate,” Gabe said, watching her uncork the bottle like a professional. “Nice guy.”

He tried to steer the conversation toward her situation, remind them both, no matter how unsavory, they needed each other.

“He’s clean and pays the rent on time.”

“Sounds like the proper arrangement. How was work?”

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase here, Gabe.”

She popped the cork, poured a perfect four ounces in each glass, grabbed a cookie from the package on the table, then retreated across the kitchen. She hoisted herself onto the counter, sitting in the shadows. He could only see the gleam of her skin, the shine of her eyes and her shaking hands as she lifted her glass to her mouth and drank like a woman in need.

Again, his gut told him to get out of that kitchen, away from the quicksand of Alice’s pain.

“Go ahead, Gabe,” she said. “Give me your pitch.”

He rubbed his face, wondering how he’d ended up here, of all places.

“Having second thoughts?” she asked, her voice a sarcastic coo from the darkness by the stove. “Wondering if your ex-wife might be drinking a bit too much? Thinking maybe she’s just a little too much trouble?”

“Yep,” he told her point-blank. She poured herself another glass, not even trying to assuage his fears.

“Well, you had to be pretty damn desperate to come find me. So unless things have changed since this afternoon, you’re still pretty damn desperate, right?”

He nodded.

“Let me tell you, drunk or not, I’m still the best chef you know. So, give me your pitch.”

“I can’t ask you to do this if you’re…not stable.”

“I’m plenty stable, Gabe. I just drink too much after work. I drink too much so I can live in this house and not go crazy.”

He understood that all too well, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t jeopardize the Riverview Inn with a bad decision, and Alice could be a very bad decision.

“But Zinnia? What happened there?”

“I didn’t realize I was applying for a job. You came to me.”

“Yeah, I came to you in a parking lot at Johnny O’s. You’re the best chef I know, but something’s happened to you and I think I need to know before I make you an offer.”

“I’ll worry about me, you worry about your inn.” She stared unflinchingly into his eyes and he knew from years of hard experience that he wouldn’t get any more from her.

“I could leave,” he said, a warning he knew he really couldn’t follow through on.

“You have before,” she said. “But I think you’re too desperate to walk out that door and—” her smile was wan “—I’m too desperate to let you. Tell me what the job is.”

Honesty again, when he’d least expected it, and as usual when she was real with him, he couldn’t refuse.

“The position is executive chef at Riverview Inn. Opening day is May 1.”

She choked on her Oreo. “That’s a month away. Cutting it close, don’t you think?”

“No one knows that better than me right now.” He smiled ruefully. “As bad as that sounds it’s actually worse. I have the Crimpson wedding in June and—”

“Crimpson? Crimpson frozen foods?” she asked and he nodded. “Well, that’s quite a feather in your cap.”

“Right, so it’s pretty important that the event be flawless.”

“Two months?” she asked. She leaned over the stove and waved the scent of the soup up to her nose. “Opening day in four weeks and a wedding in eight?”

“After the event you can walk away,” he told her. “And I imagine it would be best if you did.”

She dipped her pinkie in the red liquid and touched it to her tongue. “I imagine it would, too.” She hopped down from the counter and opened the cupboard to the left of the gas stove. She sprinkled the soup with balsamic vinegar and a couple of twists from the black-pepper grinder and tasted again. She nodded, so he guessed it was better.

“Staff?” she asked.

Gabe didn’t answer and her black eyes pinned him to the wall. “Staff?” she repeated.

“A young guy with some excellent past experience.” Gabe watched the wine in his glass instead of meeting her eyes and hoped that kid who’d been fired from McDonald’s could be trusted around knives and headstrong chefs.

“I’ll need more,” she said.

“You going to take the job?”

“Not so fast,” she said, pulling down the kosher salt from the cupboard and giving the soup a few hefty pinches. “What are you going to pay me?”

He braced himself. “Twenty—”

“Nope.”

“You’ll only be there two months.”

“I won’t be there at all for twenty grand.”

“Okay.” He sighed, having expected that. His budget for a far less experienced chef was forty grand for the year. He was blowing everything on this gamble—he’d have to take money from the landscaping funds to pay another chef when she left. “Thirty. For two months’ work, I won’t give you more.”

She tasted the soup again, nodded definitively and took it off the burner.

“Are you going to have any?” Gabe asked, gesturing to the heavy pot.

“Nope. And I won’t go to your inn for thirty grand, either.”

“Thirty-five and some shares in the place.”

Her eyes burned fever bright. He knew what shares represented. Income. Success. And after two months she wouldn’t have to work for it.

It would help, maybe after they split ways again. Make it so she wouldn’t have to work at a terrible job or share her house with a stranger.

“You know it’s a good deal. I’ve never had a restaurant not turn a profit.”

She rubbed her forehead and he knew he had her. It was just a matter of sealing the deal.

“It would be a fresh start, Al.”

Her nickname warmed the air.

“It hardly seems fresh.” She laughed. “You’re my ex-husband and this is an old plan of ours. It feels like trouble.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He laughed, too. “But you’d have total run of the kitchen.”

She scoffed. “Right.”

“I’m serious, I’ll be very busy—”

“Getting in my way.” She looked at him for a brief moment and all the problems in their relationship—the fights and clashing egos—for some reason, in this room with the wine, he felt…nostalgic for them. Those nights when he made her so mad she threw things at him, broke plates against the floor and ruined meals with her temper. The long days when he wouldn’t talk to her, giving her a silent treatment so cold and deep that the only way to thaw both of them…

She cleared her throat, seeming uncomfortable, as if she’d been thinking the same thing. “I’ll do it.”

Gabe felt both jubilant and wary. Is this the right thing? Am I making a deal with the devil? “I’m so glad.”

“But—” she held up a finger “—I’m out of there the second that wedding is over and I run the kitchen. Not you.”

He nodded, stood and held out his hand.

“I’m serious, Gabe. I won’t have you trying to take things over. You hired me to be executive chef—”

“I promise.” He put his hand on his chest and bowed his head slightly. “I absolutely promise to stay out of your way as long as you promise to try to be a team player. My dad and Max—”

“Your dad and Max are there?” she asked, bright joy filtering through the dark clouds on her face.

“They are and they’ll be very glad to see you.”

She smiled and held out her hand. “I can be a team player.”

“And I can stay out of your way.”

They shook on it and Gabe had to wonder who was going to break their promise first.

PATRICK MITCHELL watched his oldest son walk away whistling.

Whistling! And after the bomb Gabe had just laid on them, watching him whistle was akin to watching him hit himself in the head with a ball-peen hammer.