The Baby Truce (4 page)

“They're coming here to sign the contract and finalize the menu. Which means I'd better get it printed out.”

She headed to the office and Reggie turned to face her brother. “What?” she said softly, perplexed by his attitude.

“I'm concerned,” he said flatly. “About you. And the kid.” He crumpled his cup in one hand. “You've spent so much of your life raising us, and now you're going to be raising a kid you didn't expect to have. Probably without a father around.”

Without a father around.

They'd basically grown up without one around and it had left a mark. Especially on Justin, who'd idolized their dad until he'd let him down one time too many. Hero worship had turned to bitterness.

And now Reggie was about to reenact the crime.

She wanted to say, “The kid will have a great uncle, though,” but she didn't wish to put that burden on Justin.

“We'll do all right,” she stated.

He had more to say. She could see it, but he was holding back. “If you change your mind about having one of us come with you, pick me. Okay?”

Reggie reached up and patted her brother's cheek, then smiled. “First on the list.”

 

R
EGGIE ARRIVED AT THE AIRPORT
McDonalds early because she wanted to make sure the smell of food wasn't going to trigger any bouts of nausea. So far, so good.

She chose a table close to the edge of the seating area, where she could watch the escalator, see Tom before he saw her.

She didn't have long to wait. Less than fifteen minutes after she sat down, he came down the escalator. Tall, dark, striking. Two women traveling up on the opposite side gave him second glances, but he had zeroed in on her.

Reggie swallowed.

This is Tom. Just…Tom.

But they had so much to hash out, and were undoubtedly coming at it from two different angles. Tom was probably wondering what this would do to his career, and Reggie was wondering what his career would do to the kid.

“No bag?” Reggie said before he could speak. She wanted to take control. Now. Always.

Good luck to her.

“I checked it.”

“So if you take a later flight—”

“It'll be waiting for me. Do you want something?” he asked, gesturing at the counter.

“I already had orange juice.”

“Been here long?” he asked, looking at the table, empty except for her napkin. The napkin was to give her something to do with her hands.

“Not really.”

Tom sat opposite her and for a moment they regarded each other coolly. Warily.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Distraught. Confused. Nervous.

“A little sick in the morning, but not as bad as last week.” There was no way she was going to pour her soul out to him, count on him to make things better, help her through this.

“Me, too,” Tom said. Reggie smiled. Or tried to. “We have some stuff to work out,” he added softly. But Reggie heard that underlying steel she remembered so well.

“Yes.”

“I have no idea where or how to begin.”

Reggie reached for the napkin. “You don't have to do anything.”

“I remember that part from our phone conversation.”

She didn't answer immediately, not wanting to make any more errors at this point in the game. “What exactly do you see as your role here?”

“Father?”

Reggie briefly twisted the napkin between her fingers, then realized what she was doing and made herself stop. “How much contact do you want with the baby?”

“Jumping right into it, aren't you?”

“Isn't that why you're here?”

Tom put both his palms on the table in front of him and Reggie focused on his long, strong fingers, with the small nicks and scars from past culinary adventures. He had wonderful hands. There was a lot about him she'd found wonderful…and yet something had prevented him from fully giving himself to her. And that had made it possible for him to walk away from her—from their plans—pretty much devastating her.

“I'm here as a first step only.”

“Agreed,” Reggie said. “We can't arrange custody until the baby is born, but I'd like to understand our roles beforehand.”

Tom nodded, lightly moving the tips of his fingers over the tabletop.

“Do you want custody?”

He looked up at her point-blank question, his dark eyes unreadable. “That's what I'm here to figure out.”

“If you have any doubts about it…err on the side of caution,” Reggie said.

He cocked his head, his eyebrows moving together. “Meaning?”

“A kid needs a steady father, Tom. I know that because I didn't have a steady father.”

“What makes you think I wouldn't be steady?”

Reggie gave a short laugh, crumpling the napkin. “What makes me think you
would
be?” She hadn't meant to be cruel, but it was oh so true. He had no record of steadiness, and she
was
justified in pointing that out.

His expression darkened, the first sign that his temper was taking over. Reggie had never been intimidated by his moods, and when they had argued in the past, she'd merely stuck to her guns and eventually the storm would peter out. But sticking to her guns took time, and today she didn't have time.

“I'm sorry, Tom. That was uncalled for.”

“But somehow it seemed to come from the gut,” he said.

Reggie leaned back in her chair and studied his face. With the exception of the longer hair and the beard, which was little more than a neatly trimmed five o'clock shadow, he looked almost the same as he had seven years ago. But he wasn't. Her Tom was there—she'd seen glimpses of him the night they'd slept together—but he was buried under a heavy layer of Chef Tom Gerard. The dog-eat-dog world he had embraced had changed him.

But why had he chosen it over her? Why couldn't he have stayed with her?

“Maybe it did,” she allowed. She put a hand against her flat abdomen. “I'm concerned about the baby.”

“And I'm your biggest concern.”

“In a way, yes.”

“Why? This has got to be as life altering for you as it is for me.”

She had a feeling he knew exactly what she was going to say. That he wanted her to say it so he could contradict it. Fine.

She leaned forward again. “I'll spell it out, Tom. Once upon a time I loved you. We were supposed to start a catering business. Papers were signed. We had a plan.”

His eyes flashed with sudden temper. “It wasn't carved in stone.”

“Obviously,” Reggie replied, unfazed. “Since you took off for the north of Spain for a job that had no future.”

“It made one hell of a future for me.”

“Yes, it did,” she conceded. He'd taken a gamble and it had paid off. And, since he had such a valid point, she took the low road. “But which of us is still employed?”

“I will be employed,” he said coldly. “I don't think Letterbridge is flying me across the country on a whim.”

“Okay…and forgive me for being blunt,” Reggie said, tossing the crumpled napkin past him into the trash, “which one of us will stay employed?”

He smiled. “Which one of us has had the more successful career?” he asked with exaggerated politeness.

“I rather like mine. At least I know I'll be bringing home a paycheck. It may not be as big as yours, but it's steady.”

Tom hooked an elbow over his chair back. “You're
still
angry about me leaving,” he said as if making a major deduction.

Brilliant, Tom.
“Believe it or not, it stung when you chose a shot in the dark over me and a fairly sure thing.”

“You could have come with me. Instead you gave me that fricking ultimatum.”

“Which you took.”

“It didn't have to be all or nothing. We could have worked something out.”

“Look who's talking, Mr. Compromise. I don't think so. It's all or nothing for you. If everything isn't just so in your kitchen, you throw a fit. And now you've gone public with those fits.”

“I don't throw fits!” Tom's voice rose and then he clamped his mouth shut as several people at nearby tables looked his way.

“Tizzies?” Reggie asked innocently, not above driving a point home.

His neck corded as he fought to bring his temper under control. Finally he said in a low voice, “My
tizzies
aside, here's what it comes down to.” He stabbed the table with his finger. “You could have come with me to Spain. The catering business had barely started. You wouldn't because I had deviated from The Plan.”

“I didn't come because you didn't ask me.”

“Yes, I did.”

Reggie jutted her chin out. “No, you didn't.”

Sweat broke out on her forehead, always a precursor to a surge of nausea, but she was
not
going to give in to it. Not in front of Tom.

Unfortunately, as totally pissed as he was, he noticed. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little queasy.”

“Are you taking care of yourself?” he demanded.

“Yes.” She got to her feet, gathered her purse, holding the oversize bag in front of her stomach like a shield. “I want to come to an understanding about the baby, Tom, but obviously this is not the time or place.”

“I agree,” he said with an obvious effort to control himself. “It seems as though we have some other issues to sift through first.”

Issues Reggie hadn't expected to come screaming out of her so rapidly. But she should have known better.

She just hoped he hadn't gotten his back up. The old Tom would have cooled off fast, seen the argument for what it was—a release of pent-up frustrations and unresolved anger. This new Tom…she wasn't so sure what he was going to do.

“Yes. Maybe we can meet again—” she glanced around “—in a different environment.”

He gave her a you-picked-it-I-didn't raise of an eyebrow, but simply nodded.

“Good luck on the interview.”

He stood. “I don't need luck. I'm getting this job, and when I do, we'll discuss our baby.”

“Call me when you get that job, Tom.” Reggie started
across the lobby without a backward glance, thankful that the nausea was rapidly abating so she wouldn't embarrass herself in the terminal.

She didn't realize how rigidly she'd been holding herself until she reached the automatic doors. Her shoulders were aching. She rolled them as she started across the street for the parking garage, willing her muscles to relax.

Not the meeting she'd imagined.

She hoped she could repair the damage before it was too late.

 

T
HE AUTOMATIC DOORS CLOSED
behind Reggie before Tom started back to the escalator. So much for catching a later flight. Going after Reggie would do no good. He'd have to nail this job and show her that, regardless of what he might have done seven years ago, he was more than capable of being “steady.” He had no idea exactly what his role would be, but his father had always been there for him, even if it had been on the other end of a phone line, and Tom would be there for his kid.

And suddenly it was important to him to prove that he wasn't some maniac who threw fits in public—although every time he'd had a blowup, he'd been more than justified.

He got back into the security line, which was ridiculously short compared to the one in LaGuardia on the first leg of his flight. He pulled his crumpled boarding pass for the next leg out of his jacket pocket.

And what the hell was that about not asking her to
go to Spain? Of course he'd wanted her to go. But she'd stuck with The Plan.

At the time he'd been stunned by her choice…?.

In a matter of fifteen minutes he and his belongings had been inspected, prodded and okayed, and Tom was seated alone in the one bar in the concourse, going over his interview notes. This deal with Reggie, the depth of her anger at him, was upsetting, but he would figure out how to handle it after he got this job. One challenge at a time. Surmount one, move on to the next.

Despite all the shit that had come his way, he'd never interviewed for a job and not gotten an offer. The only thing that had tripped him up over the past several weeks had been in not landing the interview. Well, he had one now and he was going to ace this sucker.

He was back.

R
EGGIE HAD BEEN HOME BARELY AN
hour when Eden showed up at the door. She knocked, then let herself in, carrying a bottle of sparkling apple cider by the neck.

“I thought you might need a belt after meeting Tom,” she said, lifting the cider. Reggie tried to smile. Couldn't do it. “Bad?” Eden asked.

“I said some things I probably shouldn't have.” Definitely shouldn't have.

“He's being unreasonable?”

“That's the problem…I think he was trying to be reasonable. Reasonable for Chef Gerard, that is.” She took the bottle and headed into the kitchen, Eden and Mims following. Her sister went to the cupboard and pulled out two glasses, while Reggie opened. She poured two healthy amounts of cider, then looked down at her stomach with a wry twist of her lips. “Somehow I don't think sparkling cider is going to take the edge off.” She raised her eyes. “I don't think anything is going to take the edge off. Tom and I trigger each other.”

“That's to be expected,” Eden said, sitting at the table. “You guys have got a ton of unfinished business to work through.”

“I think that we both need more time. This meeting…not a good idea.”

“How much time?”

Reggie shrugged. “I don't know. A decade, maybe?”

Eden smiled and raised her glass in a salute, then changed the subject. “What's with Justin?”

“In what way?”

“He's been really quiet. You haven't noticed?”

“I've been kind of preoccupied,” Reggie said with a significant lift of her eyebrows.

“Yeah. So's he.”

“Do you think it's…me?” She frowned as Mims got up on the chair next to Eden and put a tentative paw on the table. Her cat was pushing the limits, perhaps as a reaction to Reggie's constant tension.

Eden gently moved the chair back while Mims hung on, her eyes going a little wild on the short ride. “Maybe. Or woman trouble.”

“He's a big boy, Eden. We need to let him face the world on his own.”

She laughed. “I asked him if he was dating and all I got was a sour look.”

“Woman trouble,” Reggie said. She hoped so, anyway. Justin saw himself as the man of the family—still—and she didn't want him losing sleep over her.

“And speaking of woman trouble,” Eden said, “I ran into Candy.” The owner of Candy's Catering Classique, who had hired Justin and Eden in high school and had never forgiven them for starting a competing business.

“She was sweet as always, while shooting daggers at me. She wished us luck in the Reno Cuisine. She even added a ‘bless our hearts for trying.'”

Kiss of death coming from Candy, who always took one of the top honors at the event.

“And Julie is working for her now.” Their prep cook who had quit so suddenly.

Reggie paused, her glass halfway to her lips. “Figures. Welcome to the cutthroat world of catering.”

“Well, she'd better keep her hands off Patty.” Eden's jaw set. “I know we won't win, because Candy will have a booth that would put a Hollywood set to shame—”

Mims took a flying leap at the table from her chair just then, didn't quite make it and would have hit the floor if Eden hadn't caught her. “Have you been ignoring your kitty?” she asked as she set her on the floor. Mims instantly started a bath.

“Not on purpose.” Reggie went to pick up the cat, but Mims walked away, tail held high, before Reggie could scoop her up. Maybe she
had
been ignoring the cat.

“Anyway…” Eden reached for the cider and topped up her glass “…I thought I could take the helm of the Reno Cuisine, since both you and Justin are so busy.”

“Please,” Reggie replied. They had just booked a big wedding on short notice—three weeks—and that would consume most of Reggie's time, particularly since they already had a business dinner booked that same week. “Take the helm, take the entire ship, because right now I have to make amends with my cat and battle plans for a big-ass wedding reception.”

 

H
UMILIATION SUCKED
.

Numbly, Tom took his seat on the flight back to Reno. Not only had he not gotten a job, he hadn't even
gotten to interview or cook. In fact, he was going back to New York sooner than he'd expected. Days sooner.

He didn't know if Jervase had gotten hold of these guys or what, but after a very short, very terse and uncomfortable meeting with three members of the Letterbridge cuisine vision team, one of them had taken him aside and explained that rather than put him through an interview for a job he had no chance of getting, they were simply going to come clean. Inviting him had been a mistake. Literally a mistake. The associate in charge of contacting the top candidates had pulled his file in error. Tom had no chance of working for Letterbridge.

“None?” he had asked, flabbergasted. Two years ago they'd offered him a damned handsome deal.

“None,” the guy had said flatly.

Tom felt as if he'd just swallowed a chunk of cement. How in the hell had he gotten to the point where he was disappointed—no, make that devastated—at not being a candidate for a freaking corporate kitchen job?

The man babbled about public opinion and image, and how all members of the kitchen staff and management had to be
team
players, because Letterbridge was a
team,
from the top on down. Then he looked at Tom and said, “You have to see how we cannot possibly have someone like you on our team.”

And that was when Tom, despite his vow in the Reno airport not to indulge in public fits of temper, told the HR guy exactly what he could do with his team and how.

Shortly before security showed up, Tom left the building of his own volition.

He was screwed. Royally. Just as Lowell had said.

Worse yet, he was beginning to suspect that part of it was his own fault.

So what now?

Letterbridge had arranged for an earlier flight back to New York, but he'd booked his own on their dime. He wanted to stop in Reno again. Had to stop in Reno, since he had no idea when he'd get another chance to meet with Reggie face-to-face.

What was he going to tell her after his assurances that the job was all but his?

As he stared morosely out the window, waiting for takeoff, he became aware of the woman across the aisle staring at him. He glanced at her, she looked down, then when he shifted his attention back to the window, she started studying him again.

“I'm not him,” Tom said.

“Not who?” the woman asked, perplexed.

“Whoever you think I am.”

“Right now I don't think you're anyone,” she said curtly.

“Sing it, sister,” he muttered, looking back out at the tarmac.

Right now, he
wasn't
anyone. And being someone—in the cooking world, that is—had become a huge part of his identity.

Shit. He let the side of his head rest against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes. There was a commotion across the aisle and he glanced over to see that
the woman who'd recognized him had scooted over to the window seat to let a woman with a baby sit on the aisle. A baby.

Tom leaned his head back and rolled his eyes heavenward.

I get it. I'm going to be a dad. I have a responsibility here. I don't need it hammered home.

His not so prayerlike prayer didn't make him feel any less tense. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the mother settled the child on her lap. What was it? A boy? A girl? Whatever, it was totally bald. The baby looked around, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Then his mouth opened and he let out a howl. Every muscle in Tom's body tensed.

The mom pulled her child closer, but he pushed away with his chubby fists, turned his mouth upside down and wailed again.

“I know, I know. It's all right,” she murmured, jiggling him on her knees, rubbing his little shoulders and neck. The kid howled some more. Tom turned to the window.

How on earth was the mother dealing with this?

The hiccuping sobs continued, and when Tom looked back—because he couldn't help it—the kid's gaze fastened on to his. One fist clutched his mother's collar and she continued to soothe the baby until finally he slumped against her, pulling in shaky little breaths. But his eyes stayed on Tom until they finally drifted shut. Asleep.

He'd fallen asleep. Just like that.

The mother smiled at Tom and he made an effort to
smile back. Then she took advantage of the moment to shut her eyes, too. But her arms stayed wrapped tightly around her young son, until the attendant arrived with a travel seat and the kid woke up again. Wonderful.

This time he didn't cry. He watched in fascination as the attendant put the seat in place. As soon as she was done, a person sat in the aisle seat next to Tom, blocking his view.

The plane started to back away from the terminal, then slowed to a halt with a slight jerk. A moment later, the captain's voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there'll be a slight delay before takeoff. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes.”

Tom wasn't a huge believer in signs—well, other than the baby, perhaps—but he did believe in opportunity. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on, shielding it with his hand in case the attendant went militant. He needed to make this call now. Because he didn't know what else to do, and he suddenly felt as if he was running out of time.

He had seven months, which wasn't very long at all. He didn't want to be an unemployed bum of a chef when his child was born.

By some miracle Pete answered his call.

“Pete…I need advice.”

“No.”

“Can you at least give me the name of a decent manager?”

“No, because you'll tell him I sent you.”

“I won't.” There wasn't a hint of irony or amusement in his voice. “I, uh, need some advice here.”

“You're a talented guy, but that talent's a waste if your opinion of yourself is so high that you don't think anyone else knows jack.”

Tom almost said, “They don't,” but managed to hold in the words. Progress. He was making progress.

“You cut your own throat, Tom. No one did it for you.”

“I know. I know.” He didn't want to hear about cutting his throat. He wanted to hear about saving his ass. “What can I do to
uncut
my throat?” That didn't involve a lot of public kissing up.

“Nothing. And I mean that literally.”

“Nothing.”

Pete exhaled wearily. “If you can stay out of the limelight for, say, a year without blowing up or quitting or criticizing your bosses in public, then maybe I can do something for you.”

Tom tapped the tips of his fingers on his thigh impatiently. Pete was missing a fairly big point here. The job, or lack thereof, was the problem. Unless…

“What am I supposed to do? Wear a paper hat?” And he wasn't talking a chef's toque.

“It might do you some good.”

The flight attendant walked up the aisle, and Tom turned in his seat, shielding the phone from her. “It would kill my career if I settled for some mediocre job now.” In his gut he knew this was true, and Pete had to know it, too. Maybe he'd given Pete so much grief that he wanted him to die a culinary death. Disappear from the radar.

“Well, you might have to settle. Your only other
option would be to find the backers to open your own restaurant, and with this economy, and your track record, I don't see that happening.”

Neither did Tom. “That's it?”

“You asked for my advice. I gave it. Work for a year without raising hell, and people might be ready to take a look at you again.”

“What kind of work, Pete?” Tom muttered in frustration.

“Hell, it could be a school cafeteria. You simply have to behave and make good food. One of those won't be a problem.”

Tom shoved a hand into his hair. There were many other business managers out there. Ones he hadn't yet contacted.

“Six months,” Pete said.

“Six months?” Tom repeated as the plane lurched forward and the captain's voice came over the intercom, announcing that they'd been cleared for takeoff. He covered the phone with his free hand.

He sighed. “It's like chef rehab. Work sedately for six months, prove that you can do it, and I'll see what I can do. Screw up and you can find yourself a new manager. Although right now, Tom…I don't know of a reputable guy in the industry who'd take you on.”

 

S
IXTEEN GUESTS SHOWED UP FOR A
sit-down meal booked for twelve. Tracy Bremerton, the hostess, dressed about a decade too young for her age, didn't understand why this was a problem, apparently expecting Eden and Reggie to manufacture food out of thin air. Which they
did, of course. Reggie cut the rolls in half; Eden raced to the store to buy ingredients to stretch the salad. Patty, who was there to watch two of Tremont's regular temp waiters serve, and learn the ropes so she could fill in if someone didn't show, ended up taking Eden's place in the kitchen while she was gone.

Thankfully, they had plenty of soup, and the entrée was a pasta dish, so it was easy to stretch. Dessert was not so easy to stretch. Reggie was not at all happy with the size of the tiramisu servings, and neither was the hostess, from the expression on her face.

When dinner was over and the van was packed, Mrs. Bremerton stepped into the kitchen and gave it a critical once-over. It was spotless, because Reggie and Eden never left a place in any other condition.

“Are the leftovers in the refrigerator?” she asked.

“There are no leftovers,” Reggie said, wondering how the woman could possibly expect any under the circumstances. Even if there'd been extra food, the contract clearly stated that Tremont did not leave leftovers. They'd had a bad experience early on with a host not storing the food properly, and then getting sick days later—and threatening to sue. It'd taken months to move past the rumors he'd started. After that they'd rewritten their contract.