The Baby Truce (16 page)

“Go figure,” he said.

Lowell laughed. “I was affronted the first time I watched, but I am now officially entertained.” He indicated his glass. “My third, and if Simone is going to be happy tonight, my last.”

Tom couldn't say he wasn't relieved.

“What I want to talk to you about is a partnership,” Lowell said after the bar server had placed the glass of beer in front of Tom.

Tom settled his forearms on the table and waited for him to continue.

“Simone and I are opening a restaurant and we want you to run the kitchen. It'd be like old times except that I can't get fired!” Lowell laughed and took a long swig of beer. “But you can.”

Tom realized that his heart was beating faster. “France?”

“Simone inherited property from her grandmother. A small house that can be converted into a restaurant. It's something we've both wanted to do for a long time, but we need someone we can trust to run things during the times when Simone and I are…” His voice trailed off as he sought an adequate description of their rather unusual yet long-lived relationship.

“Working things out?” Tom saw no reason to beat around the bush. He'd witnessed the fireworks more than once. However, never at a restaurant. They might pout, ignore each other whenever possible, but they
never allowed it to affect service. The fireworks happened, as all good fireworks do, after-hours.

“Exactly.”

Tom felt as if he'd been turned inside out. “I don't know if I can go to France.”

“Why ever not?” Lowell asked, his eyes bugging slightly. “You love France. And you need a job.”

“I do.” He took a swallow of the Guinness. He hadn't wanted it, but it tasted pretty damned bracing now. “Reggie is pregnant.”

“Reggie?” It took a moment for the name to register. “You don't mean the woman who dumped you way back when?”

“The same. She owns the catering business.”

“You knocked up the boss?”

“She wasn't my boss when I…knocked her up. That's why I'm here. I'm between jobs, we need to work a few things out.”

Lowell leaned on the table, which creaked slightly under his weight. “So are you going to get married or what?”

“She won't have me,” Tom said matter-of-factly.

“Smart girl.” He studied Tom, his expression too shrewd for someone who'd downed nearly three pints of beer. “Bugs you, don't it?”

“I can't say I'm ready to offer marriage, but I wish things were more…normal.”

“There is no such thing as normal. You know that. Let me serve as an example.” He raised his beer and gestured at Tom. “So tell me, Chef Gerard, what events are you catering next?”

Tom didn't answer. He picked up his Guinness and took a long, long drink before setting it down again. “You may as well tell me about this restaurant.”

 

“A
RE YOU HUNGOVER
?” R
EGGIE
asked the instant she set eyes on Tom the next morning. He knew he was looking beyond rough when she opened the side door of Frank and Bernie's oversize barn of a garage and stepped inside. But at least he was there, instead of passed out on his futon, as he'd been a mere twenty minutes ago.

He attempted a smile. It cost him. “Why do you ask?”

“First, you look like I used to feel in the morning not that long ago, and second, Eden told me Lowell stopped by to see you.”

Tom scratched his ear. “Yeah. He did, and I probably do feel like you did not that long ago.”

She set her bag on a workbench and pulled the rolled plans out of it. “Kind of odd. Lowell. Here.” Reggie didn't know Lowell, but she'd had one very bad experience with him—when he'd buzzed through Reno years ago with the offer for the job in Spain, at a restaurant owned by his uncle. Lowell was probably not on Reggie's favorite-person list.

“He was passing through town. Getting married, in fact.”

“Wasn't he married before?” Reggie asked with a slight frown. But there was something bubbling beneath her calm exterior. “And doesn't he need to be a citizen to get married here?”

“I'm not certain of the legalities,” Tom muttered.
When should he tackle this? Now? During a candlelit dinner?

Frank came into the shop, followed by Bernie. “Hey, you two. Ready to rock and roll?”

“Always,” Tom said.

Reggie smiled at the brothers. “Shall we go over the sketches and I'll tell you exactly what I want?”

“You bet,” Frank said. The three looked over the hand-drawn plans and Reggie answered their questions. Less than five minutes later she was done.

She waved to the two men as she headed to the door, which Tom opened for her. “Frank. Bernie. See you guys later, and thanks.” The second she was outside her smile faded. She walked toward her car, Tom following, but before she got there she stopped so quickly he almost tripped over her. “Is there a job offer involved in Lowell's swing through town?”

Just like last time?

Tom squinted into the sun. “As a matter of fact, there is.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Where?”

“France.”

“France?” No anger. No angst. Not much of anything by way of a response. A far cry from his announcement of a possible job in the north of Spain seven years ago.

“Nothing carved in stone,” he added.

Reggie's expression remained calm. Almost serene. Ridiculously accepting. They might as well have been discussing the weather.

“It would be a good career move for you.” She walked to the car, but didn't open the door.

“Is that a dig?” Tom asked flatly, stopping by the hood of her car.

“An observation, Tom.”

Was she trying to get rid of him?

Reverse psychology, maybe?

“Here it is, Tom. Spelled out. You had a career that many people would give their right hand for. Something like that involves sacrifices, which I didn't really understand seven years ago. But I do now.”

“What do you mean?”

She gave him a weary look. “You aren't done yet.”

“Aren't done with what?”

“You aren't done doing the work you have to do. The work you need to accomplish before you can settle.”

“How do you know that?” he asked, with more of a sneer than he intended. The headache was bringing out the worst in him. And Reggie wasn't helping.

She just shook her head and opened the car door. The sunlight glinted off her dark hair as she got inside, bringing out the red.

“I'll see you at the kitchen.”

Where he was supposed to make chicken cordon bleu this morning for an old-school dinner party, and where Patty would make conversation impossible.

As Reggie backed out of the driveway, Tom stalked to Frank and Bernie's garage and jerked the door open with too much force. It got away from him and slammed into the side of the metal building, the reverberating crash making the pain in his head spike.

“You all right?” Bernie yelled.

“Fine,” Tom lied, as he tried not to wince. Damn Lowell and his Guinness. “Are the plans clear?”

“Yep,” Frank said. “Piece of cake.”

“And you can definitely be done by the weekend, so we have time to paint.”

“Without breaking a sweat,” Frank stated.

Tom wished he could say the same thing. Kitchens were hot and today he'd be sweating. And thinking. Not his favorite combination.

 

T
OM WORKED LIKE A MACHINE FOR
most of the day, silent and withdrawn. Patty stayed far away from him. So did Reggie.

She wasn't going to bring more drama into her kitchen. They both knew Tom wasn't going to settle for spending his days working as a prep cook here. He had dragons to slay. He was leaving, and before he went, they would make a preliminary agreement about the baby, since actual legal custody couldn't be settled until the child was born.

She wasn't looking forward to the discussion, because she had no idea what Tom was going to counterpropose to her full custody proposal. Summers in France, perhaps?

Justin swung into the kitchen around three o'clock with the happy news that the bistro was ahead of schedule. And it was spectacular. His only concern was transport and setup, since the piece was large and heavy and required hefty supports to avoid squishing the general public.

“Are you sure it's sturdy?” Reggie asked.

“Once it's bolted together, an elephant will be able to lean on it,” Justin said, his eyes cutting over to Tom, who'd barely looked up. “I'm going to get Donovan to help transport it.”

“Great.” Reggie went back to rolling out potpie crusts.

Justin looked from one to the other, then back again. “All right then. I guess I'll just start in on those desserts.”

He stood there for another few seconds, then shook his head and disappeared into the pastry room. Patty looked as if she wanted to follow him.

A second later Tom's hand closed over Reggie's upper arm. He motioned with his head to the alley and she gave up and went.

When they got outside, Tom didn't immediately say anything. Instead, he glared at her, as if it was her fault they were in this situation…which it was. So Reggie took the initiative.

“What do you want from me, Tom? I didn't offer an ultimatum. I accepted that you may be going to France.”

“If I go,” he said, “it doesn't mean that I'm out of your life. Out of the baby's life.”

She only nodded, because he was deluding himself. Of course it would take him out of their lives. How could it not? And she knew the frantic pace of a restaurant, especially with a start-up. He'd be consumed.

“This isn't like Spain,” he said.

“How so? The job in Spain catapulted you into the limelight. You need this job in France to jump-start your career.”

“That doesn't mean the career comes first. I…just need to make a living in a way that doesn't eat my soul.”

“I know, Tom. You have tough choices to make here.” She leaned back against the brick wall. “When would you go…if you did take it?”

“The end of the month. The restaurant opens in September. Lowell needs an answer soon.”

T
OM SHOWED UP FOR WORK EVERY
day after dropping the France bombshell, and Reggie kept contact to a minimum—until she went over to Frank and Bernie's garage to help Eden paint the bistro front. Tom was there, too, with the little dog prancing around him.

The five of them painted the set, then Frank and Bernie attached the hardware and showed Eden and Reggie the awning they'd devised.

“Now it's just a matter of getting it there,” Tom said, standing back, hands on his hips.

“Shouldn't be a problem. We're lending Justin our flat trailer. All we'll have to do is attach the side braces on site.”

Reggie and Eden exchanged glances.

“You want us there, right?” Frank asked. “For technical assistance?”

“Of course,” Eden said. She leaned down to scratch a spot of paint off her compression boot with her fingernail, but Reggie could see her smiling.

Tom left with Reggie and Eden, carrying the little dog in one hand, calling good-night to the brothers, who were still inspecting their handiwork. Once outside, he said, “I want to go.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be there, and I can't be trusted alone in the kitchen to answer the phone. Remember what happened last time?”

Eden took her cue and limped away from them to the car. Tom didn't seem to notice.

“I thought you wanted to avoid recognition.”

“No one cares anymore, Reggie. I'm yesterday's news. So I show up at a catering competition. Helping out a friend.”

“I don't know that
I
want you to be recognized.”

“Embarrassed to be seen with a washed-up chef?”

Reggie massaged her forehead. “I'm not sure your reputation jibes with ours.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “No one will recognize me behind the scenes.” One corner of his mouth tilted up. “I'll cut my hair.” And then he smiled that predatory smile of his. “Or better yet, you can cut my hair.”

“I haven't cut hair since…well…since I used to cut yours.” Back in their peanut butter eating days. She'd honed her skills on Justin over the years—until he was sixteen and no longer let her touch his hair, preferring to shave it himself into a rebel skater do.

“I have scissors,” Tom said.

“Decent ones?”

“Hopefully.”

“Because I'm not cutting your hair with kitchen shears.”

Tom laughed and touched the side of her face. “Let's get Eden. She can give technical advice.”

“I don't need technical advice.” Reggie started for
the car. “I've done this a time or two.” She waved her sister out as they approached.

Eden rolled down the window. “What?”

Tom settled a hand on Reggie's shoulder. “Reggie's cutting my hair if you don't mind waiting.”

Eden's jaw dropped. “Why?”

“Tom wants to help out at the competition.”

Eden petted Brioche, shaking her head and obviously not saying whatever it was she was thinking. “Fine by me as long as it's fine by you.”

Reggie had no idea what was and wasn't fine anymore, but she was glad Eden was there when Tom sat in the kitchen chair and she stood behind him, scissors in hand. And they weren't kitchen shears. They were the same scissors she'd used back when they'd been together, and still very, very sharp. Chefs had a thing for sharp cutting utensils, which made this job all the more easy.

She pulled the band out of his thick locks and combed through them with her fingers. His hair was wavy when it was shorter, which it soon would be. She held out her hand for the comb. Eden slapped it into her palm like a surgical nurse.

“Make it into a mullet,” she whispered before Reggie took the first big snip. Tom winced.

She held out the hank of black hair before opening her fingers and dropping it on the floor. “Chef Gerard no more.”

Tom tilted his head back to look at her. “Maybe we could change that to the new Chef Gerard?”

“One can only hope,” Reggie muttered, pressing her
belly into the back of the chair as she pulled sections of hair up and started snipping.

And as she worked she kept thanking her lucky stars that her sister was here, because standing behind Tom, letting his hair slide through her fingers, was damned heady stuff. Throw elevated hormones into the mix and…oh, yeah. She was surprised her hands weren't shaking.

When she was done, she stepped back and cocked her head. “What do you think?” she asked Eden.

“He still looks like a rogue chef to me. You should have gone with the mullet. And you need to take a little more off on the left side. See?”

“You're right.” Reggie did some touch-up snipping, then the sisters stood side by side regarding the results.

“How do I look?” Tom asked drily.

Like the guy she'd been in love with.

 

E
VERY YEAR THAT
R
EGGIE HAD
made an application to the Reno Cuisine, she'd assumed eventually Tremont would get in—but she'd never dreamed she'd be pregnant and have a vanquished celebrity chef with a new haircut working behind the scenes at her booth.

Their designated area was three spaces down from Candy's Catering Classique, which had a display that had made Reggie stop and stare.

A papier-mâché tree trunk, wonderfully gnarled, with a squirrel hole in the center, stood at one side of her booth space, its branches somehow supporting the canopy. Jeweled fruit hung amid the paper leaves and
were also scattered over the display tables as if they'd fallen there from the branches.

The risers were sheets of jewel-tone glass, supported on mosaic cylinders. Candy herself was dressed in a lovely gold dress with a simple white organza apron tied over the front. When she saw Reggie staring, she gave her a smug look that clearly said, “I have this all sewed up.”

Meanwhile, Justin, Tom, Frank and Bernie were struggling to put together the bistro display on the Tremont site. They had the front and supporting side wings in place when Reggie and Eden arrived.

“It looks great,” Reggie said as she pulled open the van doors.

“Thanks.” Justin continued fastening screws, while Patty stood at a distance, eyeing the structure critically.

“It looks a little crooked to me,” she called.

“Don't worry about it,” Justin said.

“No, really.” Patty walked closer to inspect the supporting wing on the side closest to the van.

“It's fine,” Tom said.

“No,” Patty said adamantly. “The serving counter is at an angle. This side needs to be lowered.” She attempted to nudge the supporting wedge farther out from under the side wing. Instead of shifting, though, the support shot out from under the unsecured wall, which instantly dropped two inches.

Patty shrieked, trying desperately to hold the wing in place, but the entire structure leaned heavily toward her, twisting under its own weight.

Tom rushed to help her hold it up, putting his shoul
der to the structure as a wooden support piece broke free and raked up his side. He gritted his teeth and held up the heavy pressboard, with Bernie's and Frank's belated assistance, while Justin shoved wedging under it.

“Don't let go,” Justin said, grabbing for his drill and sinking several screws, then reattaching the 2x2 that had ripped up Tom's side. Finally, Justin decreed the piece sturdy, and Frank, Bernie and Tom all carefully released their grips. Justin turned to a red-faced Patty. “I think we'll let it be a little bit uneven.
All right?
”

Patty turned even redder. “I'm sorry…I—I…” She swallowed convulsively, then turned and walked quickly toward the van.

“Damn it, she'd better not quit,” Justin muttered. “Frank, Bernie…can you help me get the other side of this thing screwed together so we don't crush any bystanders—shit, Tom. You're bleeding.”

“It's not that big a deal,” he said. “I'll go clean up.”

“Let me see it,” Reggie said. Tom obediently hoisted his jacket and she grimaced. The wound didn't need stitches, but was slowly oozing blood. Not a good look for a food server.

“I'll take care of it,” he assured her. “You should be setting up.”

“I have to wash my hands, anyway,” Reggie said, “and I don't know how you're going to reach your back.” The deep scratch started on his side and twisted around almost to his shoulder blade.

Please do not let this be a harbinger of the day to come. One prep cook bleeding, the other probably crying.

Reggie got a small first aid kit from under the seat of the van, then gestured with her head to the office building that served as headquarters for the event.

“Your jacket is ruined,” she said as they walked the short distance. “I have another in the car.”

They went into the family rest facilities and Reggie put the first aid kit on the sink and raised his jacket again. Tom stood as if at attention as she turned on the water and let it run until it was warm. Then she took a gauze pad and dampened it. His muscles contracted as she started wiping the blood away.

“I'm sorry if it stings,” she said without looking up at him. She took gauze and adhesive tape out of the kit.

“I'll tear tape,” Tom said, taking the roll from her. She stretched gauze over the wound while he tore off a chunk of tape with his teeth. “This is the first time I've gotten a back wound while cooking.”

“Considering your temper in the kitchen, that's surprising.” The muscles of his back contracted again as he laughed.

“A sous-chef did chase me with a knife once. Around and around the counter.”

Reggie looked up to see if he was kidding. He wasn't, and there was something in the way he looked at her that made her mouth go dry. She quickly went back to taping the gauze in place.

Had he made a decision about France?

Just ask him. Get it over with.

No. She wanted him to tell her.

“Well,” she said after patting the last piece of tape
over the dressing, “it's a bit primitive, but you won't be bleeding through your jacket.”

“The booth looks good when it's not attacking me,” Tom said as they crossed the grass toward it. Indeed, the bistro front, with the elegantly lettered Tremont sign, looked authentic and thankfully sturdy, the awning a clever touch. Lace-edged linens covered the tables in front of the windows, and Eden was starting to arrange plates. The vendors to the left of them had just finished setting up a saloon front and the people on the other side were struggling to get an inflated palm tree for their luau themed display to stay put.

“I can't find Patty,” Eden said as soon as Reggie got into earshot.

“Great. Do you think she quit?” Reggie asked.

“I'll go find her,” Tom said.

“No. Start finishing the hors d'oeuvres. I'll—”

“I'll find her,” Bernie interrupted as he walked by with his portable drill and toolbox. “I saw her head toward her car.”

“I hope she's still here,” Reggie muttered. “I don't want to find another prep cook after you're…” Her voice trailed off.

“Gone?”

“Exactly.”

Tom made a gesture with his chin and Reggie turned to follow his gaze. Patty was on the opposite side of Bernie and Frank's truck, and Bernie was talking to her, his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were down, but she nodded as he spoke.

“Bernie saves the day,” Tom muttered.

At ten o'clock the general public was allowed into the cordoned off area of the park, and from that point on it was a steady stream of work. Tom stayed in the background, out of sight, replenishing trays of food, stacking napoleons, piping fillings into various hors d'oeuvres. He worked on a long portable table hidden behind the display, made level on the grass by a wooden wedge jammed under one leg. Justin worked the hot station in the wide lace-edged storefront window to the left of the false bistro door. Eden served the cold food out of the window to the right. Reggie circulated, lending a hand where needed, greeting people and explaining dishes whenever she had a free moment.

Patty, also in black pants and a white shirt, her curls pulled away from her face with a black fabric headband, worked the back with Tom. She took care not to make eye contact, focusing on the food with a laserlike intensity.

“Damn it, Patty,” he finally growled.

“What?” she asked, snapping to attention at his tone.

“I'm not going to eat you.”

She swallowed, raising her chin. “I've never injured anyone before.”

“You barely scratched me. You made a mistake. We all make mistakes. Wallowing in guilt doesn't help.” He narrowed his eyes. “Haven't we had this conversation before?”

“Yes,” she allowed. Her mouth puckered tighter for a moment, then she said, “Sometimes I wonder why they keep me when they have you.”

Tom stared at her, frowning deeply. “Because I'm not staying.”

“Really?”

“Reggie did me a favor. I needed some time to reevaluate some aspects of my life. I asked for a job and she gave me one. Temporarily.” Pouring his guts out to Patty. Had hell frozen over? “We'd better get back to work.”

Tom loaded a plate of napoleons out of the cooler, then came around the counter to set them on a marble board. When a young redheaded woman dressed in jeans and a khaki blazer touched his arm, he glanced at her, impatient to get back to his work area.

“I have some questions if you have a minute, Chef Gerard.”

Well, shit. He frowned at her and shouldered his way back behind the set.

“I don't think the general public is allowed in here,” he said when she followed him.

“Just a couple questions. I was surprised to see you, of all people here, with a catering company. This is a bit of a step down from your usual gig.”

“Who are you?” Tom demanded, as Reggie came around the other side of the booth. “Christine Miles.
Reno Standard.
” She handed him a card, which Tom looked at, then dropped on the ground. He felt Reggie's hand on his back and resisted the urge to grind the card into the grass with his shoe.