The Baby Truce (9 page)

“I think you need me there.”

“I know you do,” she said. “It's one of the symptoms of your megalomania.”

“You're short-handed,” he said, refusing to rise to such obvious bait. She didn't answer and he said, “I tried my damnedest to do as you said. I peeled, chopped, counted. I didn't use my brain. I made your prep cook cry only once and I apologized.”

“But I'm not loving coming to work, Tom,” she said tightly. “And I used to.”

“But it's not all about you anymore, is it? Or me?”

Where had those words come from?
He had no idea, but the instant he said them, he knew they were true. “Believe it or not,” he confirmed, “I wasn't trying to take over when I offered to help with the chili.”

“And believe it or not, I'm not used to having to fight my prep cooks to handle matters my way.”

“I am who I am, Reg. But I wasn't taking over.” She didn't answer, so he asked the big question. “Do you want me to come back?”

“The way things are right now…no. I don't.”

“Ever?”

She pulled in a breath. “I don't know.”

“I'm not leaving town. Not until we settle a deal, or we have a kid, whichever comes first.”

“Is that a threat?” Reggie asked quietly.

“Just a fact, Reggie. You know where to find me when you want to work something out.”

 

R
EGGIE'S DOCTOR STARTED SEEING
patients at seven-thirty each morning, which was one reason she'd chosen his clinic. She could work early morning appointments into her schedule and had actually booked tentative visits for
the duration of her pregnancy. Which was one strange feeling—having a fully booked pregnancy.

There were only two other women in the waiting room, unlike the first visit, when the place had been packed. And both were deep into baby magazines.

Reggie was alone with her dark thoughts.

She'd fired Tom.

Now the stress she felt in her kitchen would be the good kind, the beat-the-clock kind, not the why-can't-I-stop-thinking-about-that-guy-and-what-is-he-goingto-do-next kind.

If only it was that easy to fire him from her life.

But regardless of what happened, her life had changed forever. It would have been great to blame Tom, but she couldn't.

She might, however, consider filing suit against the condom company.

Yes, she resented the pregnancy, resented what it represented and how her life was entangled with Tom's. But on the other hand, since she'd heard the heartbeat, she wasn't unhappy to be having a baby.

Which made no sense at all, but that was the way of it. “Ms. Tremont?” Reggie looked up at the nurse. “Time for your weigh-in…?.”

 

I
N AWAY
, T
OM WAS SURPRISED
he'd lasted as long as he had in Reggie's kitchen. She might not want him back, but that didn't mean he was leaving town. And if he was staying, he needed something to sit on. His first idea was renting furniture, but one brief phone call had im
mediately nixed that idea. Oddly, it was cheaper to buy. One futon, recliner and kitchen table later, he realized he was in need of a truck, since he'd saved a boatload of money by purchasing at a warehouse store. No delivery.

So what now? Rent a truck? Borrow a truck? Any chance that Patty might have a truck? Surely she'd be willing to help out a fellow prep cook.

Justin.

During the short amount of time he'd been at the kitchen, Justin remained cold, standoffish. Protective of Reggie. They'd once gotten along quite well. Now he looked as if he wanted to beat the crap out of Tom.

But maybe, since he was no longer invading Justin's turf, they might be able to at least work out a civil relationship. Which might be helpful in the future. And what better way for two guys to bond than over a truck?

That evening, Tom drove by the kitchen. Justin's car was in the lot, so he pulled in. He didn't have a key to the building, so he rang the buzzer. Several times. Finally Justin pulled the back door open, a scowl on his face. “Did you forget something?”

“I wanted to talk to you and I don't have your phone number.”

“You could have called the kitchen.”

“I did. Maybe you couldn't hear it over the music?” Green Day's “American Idiot” was blaring from the pastry room.

“That's possible,” Justin conceded. “What do you want?”

“To ask you if you had a truck I could borrow to move some new furniture to my house.”

“The place doesn't deliver?”

“I found what I wanted in WareCo, but they don't deliver.” Justin didn't reply immediately and Tom added, “I can rent a truck. I just thought—”

“I can get a truck.” Justin pulled his head back inside. “I'm on a tight deadline. Come on in.”

Tom followed him to the pastry room and stood staring at the three-layer cake on the table in front of him.

“How did you ever get involved with specialty cakes?” he asked.

“Totally by accident,” Justin said, taking up his spatula and carefully moving a perfect confectionary orchid to a butter-cream–covered layer. “I did one in a wedding emergency after a bakery had an electrical fire and got closed down. Word spread.”

He bit his lip as he placed the flower and then stood back to make an assessment. Putting down the spatula, he picked up his piping bag.

“So, what's the deal with you and my sister?”

“I thought you knew the deal.”

“Not the part where she's pregnant.” Justin removed the ring and then the tip of the pastry bag. “The part where she said you wouldn't be returning and I should cut back on the cake orders until we hire someone to take up the slack. Now you're buying furniture.”

“Why do you have to cut back on cake orders?” Tom asked.

“Because with you here, Patty has time to do more for me, so I took more orders.”

“Sorry to screw things up for you.”

“Yeah. So what's the deal with you and Reg?” Justin asked, refusing to be sidetracked.

Tom rubbed his cheekbone with a knuckle. “We're having trouble communicating, I guess.”

“Do you want to communicate?”

“In the worst way.”

“Good answer,” Justin muttered as he choked up the bag and finessed an intricate swirl of pale gold icing next to an orchid. Tom found himself holding his breath as Justin leaned in for a tricky bit of piping. “Do you really mean it?”

“You ever have anything like this happen to you?” Tom asked when Justin straightened to reassess. He cut Tom a sidelong look. Apparently not. “Well, I can tell you this…it's unreal. I have no other experience I can use to judge how to handle this, so I've been hanging around a kitchen peeling carrots and counting inventory while I try to figure it out.”

“And here I thought you were proving to the cooking world you can stay out of trouble.” Justin adjusted the pastry tip.

“I'm here because I want to do what's right. For her. And the kid. Which means we've got to communicate at some point.” He hooked a thumb in the front pocket of his cargos. “I kind of thought being in the kitchen would help.” He shifted his weight as he shook his head. “It hasn't.”

“No kidding.” Justin gave him a second long look, then lowered the pastry bag. “So what now?”

“I wait, I guess.”

“In your new house.”

“I need something to sit on while I wait.”

Justin set his jaw. “This situation sucks, Tom. And now you guys are bringing a baby into it.”

“Not on purpose.” Which was no excuse.

“But you are.” Justin paused for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. “If you hurt my sister again…”

How in the hell could her hurt her? She'd made it clear she no longer cared about him, that she'd slept with him for closure. To prove something to herself.

Tom drew in a breath, told himself to hold it together. “Reggie has all the power, Justin. I'm just trying to figure out what my role is. I'm not going to try to steal the kid away from her. I just want what's fair.” He reached up to rub his temple as he rapidly approached his frustration max-out point. “If you'd ever been in this situation, then you'd understand. I'm doing the best I can. Hell, I feel like I'm juggling chainsaws.”

Justin still said nothing.

“Do you know what?” Tom finally said. “I'm so far out of the loop, I don't know the kid's due date.” Because he hadn't asked. He'd been waiting for the “right time.”

Well, the right time was never coming. He had to man up and ask those questions he'd been avoiding because it made the situation too real.

“I guess there's stuff you guys need to talk about,” Justin agreed. He squeezed a small amount of icing onto his finger, testing to see if it had dried inside the tip. Then he looked up at Tom, his voice flat as he said, “Let me know when you need the truck and I'll see what I can work out.”

R
EGGIE ARRIVED AT WORK A HALF
hour late because of another traffic snarl. She'd gained a couple more pounds and was looking forward to sharing the news, but she was so late that Eden had already left to do last-minute shopping for her family meals.

They were all rushing around like crazy people, since the kitchen had been swamped with business after she'd told Tom not to come back almost a week ago.

Fate's way of spanking her?

And then she found out that Justin had actually taken time away from a cake to help Tom haul furniture. Next, Eden would be doing his laundry. But Reggie didn't say a word. Justin could do as he pleased.

Patty met her at the door with a notepad. She was so happy in the kitchen now that she was an only child, and the frantic pace didn't seem to faze her. She still worked slowly and meticulously.

“Eden left a sketch for the Reno Cuisine event,” she announced, pulling a paper off the top of the notepad and handing it to Reggie. “Mrs. Maddox called about the possibility of having extra guests.”

“I'm so glad she called,” Reggie said. It was next to impossible to stretch a lamb chop dinner. “Anything
else?” The words were barely out of her mouth when the phone rang.

“Probably Mrs. Maddox,” the prep cook said. “Would you like me to get it?”

“Thank you.” Patty would undoubtedly have been the kid in class who always raised her hand first.

Reggie held up Eden's sketch and studied it as Patty hurried to the office. A French bistro was a little pedestrian, but it was doable in the amount of time they had to throw it together—if they could find a carpenter. She'd discovered through the professional grapevine that Tremont had gotten into the event late because Sutter's Catering had failed to pay the entry fee on time. But in was in and she was happy.

“Tremont Catering. How may I assist you?” There was a brief silence and then Patty gasped, “Oh my goodness! Is she all right?”

Reggie set the sketch on the counter and hurried to the office. There was only one other “she” involved with Tremont Catering.

“Yes, let me get her sister.” Patty held the phone toward Reggie, who snatched it up.

“Hello?” The word stuck in her throat.

“This is Mike Maynard. Reno Fire Department Paramedic. Are you Eden Tremont's sister?”

“Yes.” Reggie swallowed drily.

“She's been in a pedestrian-automobile accident.”

“A what?” Reggie struggled to get her frozen brain to translate. “She got hit by a car?”

“Yes. In the Super Saver parking lot. The only apparent injury is a broken or badly sprained ankle. However,
she did hit her head on the pavement and we'll be transporting her to Washoe Med for further evaluation.”

“Reggie!” An angry female voice cut in as soon as the paramedic stopped talking.

“Uh, is that my sister yelling in the background?” Reggie asked.

“Yeah. That would be your sister.”

Reggie felt a huge rush of relief at the sound of Eden's very irritated voice. “Can I talk to her?”

“We really need to transport her. We're blocking traffic.”

“I don't want to pay for an ambulance!” Eden shouted.

“Is this life threatening?” Reggie asked the paramedic. Because if it was, then Eden was getting in that ambulance.

“Whenever a head hits pavement—”

“Reggie! Get over here. Take me to Urgent Care!”

“I'll be right over,” she told the paramedic. “Do
not
transport her.”

“I'll drive,” Patty said as soon as Reggie hung up. “You are in no condition.”

Startled, Reggie looked at her, then realized Patty was talking about the shock of the accident. “I'm fine. I can't tell you how many times I went through this with Justin.” Which was why Eden knew enough not to get into the ambulance and pay for one hell of an expensive short ride.

“If you're certain…”

Reggie set a firm hand on Patty's round shoulder. “I need you here to hold down the fort. My cell number is
on the business cards there.” She pointed to the holder next to the computer. “Call if you have any difficulties at all.”

“What shall I do while you're gone?”

“Mini quiches,” Reggie said as she snatched up her keys and purse.

“Mushroom or broccoli?” Patty called as Reggie maneuvered around the counter and opened the door.

“Your choice. I've got to go.”

 

T
HE AMBULANCE WAS STILL PARKED
in the Super Saver lot when Reggie arrived, and Eden was sitting on the pavement with a good-looking paramedic crouched next to her. He helped her to her feet and into the passenger side of Reggie's car.

“Thank you.” Eden spoke stiffly, her face as white as Reggie had ever seen it.

“She's in shock,” the paramedic said. “Take her to the hospital. Do not mess around with this.”

“I am familiar with the procedure,” Reggie said shortly, getting behind the wheel.

Reggie was no fan of emergency rooms and urgent care, having spent a great deal of time over the years waiting for Justin to get patched up. It had been particularly tricky the two times their father had been away and Reggie had had to call him to get verbal clearance for Justin to be treated. That had pissed her off. Her father should have been there with them, but he was always chasing the open road. Promising that this long haul was the last and then he'd go short route only. As far as she knew he was still on the road. None of them
had heard from him in months. He'd eased out of his children's lives after a bad blowup concerning Justin in high school.

She glanced sideways at Eden as she pulled into an urgent care parking spot. Her sister was overly pale and her ankle was huge and turning bluish-black. Fortunately, the paramedics had removed her shoe, so that trauma was over.

“I'll get someone to help you in.”

Eden shook her head, but Reggie ignored her. A few minutes later a nurse followed her out with a wheelchair. Thankfully, it was a relatively slow day at the clinic.

Eden was treated and released within an hour. Reggie helped her back to the car, clutching concussion instructions in her free hand as Eden made the painful journey. They weren't yet sure if the ankle was broken, but she'd hit the pavement hard and was feeling the effects.

“Oh damn, Reggie,” Eden said miserably once they were both in the car. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault.” As Reggie understood it, the teenage driver had rounded the corner too fast and hadn't been able to stop in time to avoid bumping Eden, who'd stepped out from between two cars without looking. She'd been knocked sideways into another car. Technically, his insurance should have paid for the ambulance Eden was so worried about, but Reggie was glad they weren't dealing with the emergency room.

“How am I going to get food to my families?” Today was Eden's cooking day. Tomorrow morning was delivery.

“Patty will help. We'll do fine.”

“The luncheon…the wedding…” Eden let out a growl of frustration.

“I can handle it, Eden.”
Just let me drive. And think. And try to avoid the obvious solution.

The phone rang before they reached Eden's street. She answered, nodding as she spoke. “Yes, I'm fine… Kind of… No plan yet…?. All right. I will. Here.”

Eden held out the phone and Reggie took it, keeping her eyes on the road. “Justin?” she guessed.

“Call Tom,” he said, almost before she got the phone to her ear.

“I—”

“Call him, Reg.”

She exhaled heavily as she turned the corner into Eden's driveway. “I'd already planned on doing that. What if he tells me to go to hell?”

“Then maybe in some small way you deserve it. Do you think that'll happen?”

“Yeah,” Reggie said with a sigh. “I think there's a good possibility.”

 

S
MOKE FROM THE BARBECUE NEXT
door was rolling over Tom's fence when he pulled into his driveway after an hour in Whole Foods. The rat dog was happily working over a stick near the fence and the old guys on the other side were arguing about something. The wonderful aroma of barbecue beef wafted over on the breeze, giving Tom a sudden hankering for ribs.

He was putting groceries away when he heard a strange noise on the back steps—a thumping, as if something was being dragged to the top. He opened
the door to see the little rat dog standing proudly with one end of a giant raw beef rib in her mouth and the rest of it between her legs.

“Where did you get that?” Tom asked, reaching down to take the meat-and-fat-laden bone away from her. The rat dog reluctantly relinquished her find to the alpha male—Tom—and then sent him a reproachful look.

“Hey, I'm sorry, but I'm only thinking about you. It isn't like I want to eat this.” They'd been together for only two weeks, but during that time Tom had learned that table scraps, or even changing food, had a detrimental effect on the dog's digestive system. And the carpet.

Time to make a neighborly visit. He popped the dog into the house, took the bone and headed for the driveway, to walk around to his neighbor's front gate.

Smoke nearly choked him when he approached the cedar fence and looked over. Frank and Bernie, the neighbors he'd met the first day he'd moved in, were staring at the cooker.

“Too much mesquite!” Bernie yelled at Frank.

“You're the one that put it in there.”

Tom cleared his throat. Frank instantly turned, while Bernie continued to glare at the cooker. Frank, Tom could see, was wearing hearing aids. Bernie was not.

“Hi,” Frank said. “Need something?”

“Uh, yeah.” Tom held up the rib. “I think the dog got one of your ribs somehow.”

“I didn't give your dog a rib. Bern? Did you give one of the ribs to the dog?”

Tom was still working on the “your dog” part of the comment. She wasn't his dog.

“Well, you know…” the shorter man said.

Frank turned back to Tom. “I'll try to control my brother's bad habits.”

“I'd appreciate it.” He stood on tip-toe to get a better look at the barbecue setup. “Smells good,” he said.

“Smells like too much mesquite,” the man answered, directing the remark at his brother.

“Is there such a thing?” Tom asked.

The old guy's eyes cut back to him. “Do you know anything about cooking?”

“A little,” Tom allowed.

“Here,” he said, shoving a sauce stained paper plate with a few individual ribs on it over the fence toward Tom. “Tell me what you think.”

Tom obediently picked up a rib, held it up to inspect the glaze.

“They're storebought ribs—not as good as the ones we get from the packing plant.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Tom bit in. The texture was perfect, the glaze almost there. The flavor… “A little heavy on the chipotle, but the smoke is perfect. I don't think you have too much mesquite.”

“I told you,” Bernie said.

“This is the first year we've tried the chipotle.”

“All in all, not bad.”

“We're aiming for perfect. We compete in the rib cook-off every year and we want to win while we're still vertical.”

“Good start.”

Frank nodded, his cheeks reddening. “I thought they were pretty good.”

“Oh, they are. Just not perfect.” Tom shrugged. “But what is?”

Frank frowned at him. “I know you.”

He waited, wondering if his neighbor would make the connection. Finally Frank shook his head. “Maybe not. You just remind me of somebody.”

“I get that every now and then. One of those faces. I look like a bartender.” Reggie was right—he'd have to cut his hair. He'd gotten rid of the beard a few days ago and figured that would be enough. Apparently not.

Frank laughed. “Actually, that was what I was thinking, but since I only go to one bar anymore and you don't work there, I don't think that's it.”

“Excuse me.”

All three of them turned at the unexpected sound of a woman's voice. Reggie stood at the side gate, looking as if she was about to walk the long green mile.

“I have company,” Tom said, although judging from her expression, this was not a social call. “I'll see you guys later.”

“What does he know about sauce?” he heard Frank mutter to Bernie as he walked away.

 

R
EGGIE'S FIRST THOUGHT
, ridiculous under the circumstances, was that Tom had shaved and she wasn't sure she liked it—because he looked so much more like the man she'd once fallen for. He crossed the distance between them in a matter of seconds, his expression one
that had probably struck fear in more than a few sous-chefs.

“Eden's been hurt,” she said abruptly.

Tom's hand stilled on top of the gate latch and his eyes shot up to hers. “Hurt? How?”

“Hit by a car in a parking lot.” And then she ran out of words. Couldn't bring herself to say, “Can you help me?”

“Let's talk inside,” he said as he unlatched the gate and walked through, shooting a quick glance back at his neighbors, who were watching them closely. She followed him to the back door of his house, having no clue how she was going to ask him to help…or if she was.

The little dog turned a circle when Reggie and Tom entered the kitchen.

“You kept her,” Reggie said. There were matching ceramic dog bowls next to the fridge and a bed filled with dog toys under the kitchen table.

Tom shrugged as the dog sat on his shoe and leaned against his leg. “Until I find her a home. Tell me what happened,” he said. “Is Eden all right?”

“She stepped out in front of a teenager driving through a parking lot. You know how she is—going a hundred miles an hour, her mind on the next thing she has to do.” Reggie had witnessed a couple near misses while shopping with Eden. “She has a concussion and a broken ankle.”