With a Little Help (3 page)

He put the phone down again. “Coming from a medical family, you'd be used to interruptions,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

The coldness she couldn't keep out of her voice made him raise an eyebrow, but he didn't respond. Instead he scrolled through the document she'd sat up late last night preparing for him. “Impressive,” he said. “The combinations are nicely balanced. Tarte Tatin is one of my favorites. Making it with figs and leeks is an interesting variation.”

She heard what he didn't say. “But?”

“These options are a bit ordinary.”

Pride made her bristle but she kept herself in check. “Not everyone appreciates the unusual when it comes to food.”

“My guests will. A group of us belong to a private gourmet club that travels the country for new and interesting eating experiences.”

“What kind of experiences?” she asked. Her mother might have mentioned he and his friends were gourmands.

His eyes brightened. “There's a tiny place in Rosebud on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria. Only holds twenty people, and everything they serve comes from their own produce or is sourced locally. We flew down there one Sunday, spent a day with the owners, picking ingredients from their kitchen garden, helping with preparation and eating one of
the best meals of my life. Another time, we traveled to the outback to eat crocodile meat beside a river infested with them.”

“Hardly a relaxing venue,” she said, wondering how often he'd been interrupted by work calls there.

He leaned forward. “That's the point. Knowing we were dining on a man-eater in its territory was a real buzz. The indigenous community hosting the dinner obtain all the ingredients in and around the river. They supplied the crocodile meat and showed us how to hunt goannas, dig for yams and climb trees to harvest wild honey.” He brought his fingertips together. “Have you eaten live witchetty grubs?”

She couldn't suppress a shudder. “It's not high on my list of foods to try.”

His lopsided grin was oddly appealing. “You should. The texture is soft, and the taste reminiscent of a gamey veal pâté. You hold the grub by the head and kind of suck the meat off.” He mimed the action.

“Are you telling me you'd like live grubs on your birthday menu?”

He shook his head. “Only a few of the group volunteered for that experience. But generally we're more adventurous with food than most people, so you can pull out all the stops.”

His proposal was a chef's dream, but she was in
no position to take advantage of it while she was still in the throes of establishing her business.

She closed the net book. “I can't tell you how much this tempts me.” In more ways than one, she thought, wondering fleetingly if she was turning the job down because of the business or him. “In good conscience, I won't take a job on unless I can do it well. Now I know what you're looking for, I'm positive I'm not the right person for this assignment.”

“And I'm positive that you are.”

He wasn't insisting because of her talents, but because he was used to getting his own way. She'd been through similar scenes with her family. His attitude on the phone had shown her how accustomed he was to being in charge.

“Why are you so determined to hire Love This Catering?” she asked. “You must have a lot of contacts in the food business through your group.”

He took his time answering. “You intrigue me. I know your parents and brother professionally, and you're totally different from them.”

“In what way?” she asked warily, so used to being compared with her family and found wanting that she braced herself automatically.

“You're an original,” he said, surprising her. “You don't like being reminded of how you came on to me at the party, but no one's done anything like that to me before, at least not so ingenuously. The alcohol may have boosted your nerve, but it didn't put the
idea in your head. You saw what you wanted and you went after it. Just as you did when you started your own business.”

“I get my passion for cooking from my grandmother, Jessie Jarrett,” she explained, reluctantly pleased by his appreciation.

He frowned. “I thought all your family were doctors.”

“Dad's father is an oncologist, but Gramma Jessie is better known for writing cookbooks.”

“I worked with Greg Jarrett Sr. during my residency,” Nate mused. He showed no interest in Jessie's activities, Emma noted without surprise.

“And the Kenners?” he prompted.

She gave a sigh. “Trudy Kenner met my grandfather when they were both in a civilian surgical and medical team during the Vietnam War. You might have heard of him—Howard Kenner.”

“I'm familiar with his work in antirejection therapy for transplant patients,” Nate said. “Your mother goes by Kenner-Jarrett, but I didn't make the connection.”

“She'd probably be glad to introduce you.” Emma knew how proud Cherie was of her father. “He travels overseas a lot and we don't see much of him, but he's due back in Australia next month.”

“He might be here in time for the party,” Nate observed.

“You never know your luck.” Emma felt cheated.
For a few brief minutes, he'd seen her as an individual instead of a member of a medical dynasty, and a misfit at that.

She gathered her things together. “Since none of my menus is to your liking, I'd better get back to the drawing board.”

His hand closed over hers, and it took an effort not to jerk away. “There's nothing wrong with your menus. I'm sure your clients love them all. And I saw your eyes light up when I asked you to prepare something extraordinary for me, so the problem isn't the challenge. Something else I said got your back up. What is it?”

“Isn't my lack of facilities enough reason to turn you down?”

He shook his head. “You strike me as the type of cook who can perform miracles with a campfire if you have to. Something else is bugging you.”

He
was bugging her, but she didn't say so. “I don't like being railroaded.”

He withdrew his hand. “By a walking ego with delusions of godhood,” he finished for her.

“You said it this time, not me.”

“You were thinking it.”

The last thing she wanted him knowing was how conflicted he made her feel. Half of her wanted to walk away to avoid dealing with his world and all the negatives it represented in her life. The other half
insisted on remembering how it felt to kiss him. She kept her voice level. “I'm entitled to my thoughts.”

“Of course.” He nodded tightly. “What do you think Jessie would do?”

Amazed that the name had registered with him when Jessie's cookbooks were so far beneath his notice, she said warily, “Why do you ask?”

“She was the odd one out in her family, yet she's a success in her own right. She didn't let herself be overshadowed by a well-known husband.”

“Jessie is one of a kind.”

“What about Trudy Kenner? She practiced medicine in a war zone alongside her husband. And not your mother.”

“Only me,” she said under her breath.

He heard anyway. “There's one way you can trump them if you choose. Make such a success of what you do that they end up living in
your
shadow.”

She almost choked with suppressed laughter. The idea of Cherie being described as Emma Jarrett's mother instead of the other way around was as unlikely as it was appealing. She imagined a TV interviewer asking Cherie, “What's it like having a culinary genius in the family?”

Nate's phone rang. He turned slightly away and rattled off instructions, then closed the phone. “This time I have to go. Can I drop you somewhere?”

Reality check, she thought. She'd almost let herself believe he was different, understanding her passion
instead of dismissing it. “I drove here, I'm sure I'll remember the way back.”

His gaze softened. “Good, I wouldn't want you to forget. Take your time finishing your drink. Then Joanna will show you around the kitchen. I'll drop by your office next Tuesday after work. That should give you time to put together a menu to knock my socks off. We both know you want to.”

Without giving her the chance to contradict him, he bounded down the steps and headed toward the house, taking for granted that she'd do exactly what he wanted.

In spite of her annoyance, the challenge primed her senses like an explosive charge. How had he known? she wondered as she finished the pomegranate tea. He'd zeroed in on the one thing that guaranteed her cooperation, the chance to show that she was as first-rate in her world as the rest of her family was in theirs. Her feelings had nothing to do with the way Nate's touch affected her, or how tempted she was to kiss him again. This was purely professional. Or so she tried to assure herself.

 

A
S
N
ATE DROVE TO THE HOSPITAL
, his mind grappled with the complications his team had reported about one of their patients. Normally, he'd have options mapped out by the time he got there, but his thoughts were distracted by his meeting with the lovely Emma.

She didn't want anything to do with him, so why was he determined to have her mastermind his celebration dinner? Was he so used to his team jumping when he snapped his fingers that he'd forgotten how to handle rejection? He hated to think so, and yet…he felt an attraction for Emma Jarrett that he couldn't pin down, like the first taste of a weird and wonderful food. He craved more of her while suspecting she wouldn't be good for him. She didn't like him. She didn't like doctors, he corrected. Hardly surprising given the way her family regarded her choice of career. When Cherie had heard Nate's assistant joshing him about his upcoming birthday and asking what he was doing about a party, she'd recommended Emma, but had made far more of her daughter's single status than her catering skills.

Cherie was wasting her time matchmaking. Nate hadn't missed the way Emma frowned every time he took a call this morning, or the flicker of frustration when he announced he had to go to the hospital. He'd been through it all before in his own family.

When his mother could no longer stand the round-the-clock demands of his father's country medical practice, she'd carted twelve-year-old Nate back to Sydney, eventually moving them in with her lawyer. She and Josh were still a couple. His father, coming up to retirement age, was the country town's only doctor and worked much longer hours than he preferred. He had never remarried.

Three years ago, Nate had been practically engaged to Pamela Coyne, a stunningly beautiful journalist who'd turned his mates green with envy. Hot in every way a woman could be hot, she'd run cold after finding herself attending too many functions alone because he'd been called away by an emergency. The final showdown had been ugly, but short of abandoning his life's work, Nate couldn't see anything changing. A doctor's life was what it was. Eventually Pam had told him what he could do with his medical degree, and was now living with a stockbroker.

After so many years as an only child, Nate had been surprised when his mother presented him with a half brother, Luke, now fifteen. The gulf between their ages meant Nate felt more like an uncle to Luke, and they didn't have much in common. Luke was into skateboarding, fast cars and music Nate thought barely qualified for the name. The teenager stayed away from school when he felt like it, and hung out with a group that worried his parents. Nate had tried talking to Luke man-to-man, but the gap was too wide. Nate had always envied large families and hoped to have one of his own. But the mother of his kids would have to come from the medical world and understand its pressures. With his thirty-fifth birthday fast approaching, the prospects weren't looking good.

He hadn't exactly been a lone wolf. He'd had his share of romances, parting without too many regrets
on either side when the relationship ran its course. Now that he thought about it, he was shocked to realize that there'd been no romance in his life for nearly three months. No wonder he'd reacted so strongly to having Emma come on to him at that Christmas party.

Abstinence was his problem, not Emma, he decided, muttering as a white SUV cut in front of him. Who was he kidding? Only after meeting her had the craving for a lasting relationship really set in. It wasn't only sex he needed. He wanted a sense of home and family, the stuff hardest to come by. Kids might be too busy to meet dad at the door any more, and wives kept equally long hours as their partners did, but they could still be a team. The SUV stopped for a red light. A yellow tag in the rear window read Family on Board. How would it feel to have a sign like that in his car?

He drummed his palms against the steering wheel in frustration. Turning thirty-five was getting to him. He should go out with Emma, take her to bed and enjoy the experience until one of them moved on. The fear that he might not want to stopped him. She was definitely the wrong candidate. He'd seen too many danger signals already. Hands off was the only safe policy, even though the idea clashed with his instincts like a misdiagnosis.

S
OPHIE STUCK HER HEAD
around Emma's office door on Tuesday morning. “Are you in for phone calls yet? I've had six inquiries so far and two new clients wanting to book events. One of them's a wedding a year from now.”

“The Nathan Hale effect?”

“Yup. Word's getting around.” Sophie carried in Emma's Garfield mug. “Chailatte. I thought you'd appreciate it.”

“Thanks.” Emma cleared a small space to let Sophie put the cup down among the recipe books, cards and handwritten notes swamping her computer. “You'd think my mother would wait until we've done the job before telling everyone she knows.”

Another mug in hand, Sophie sat down. “No pressure.”

Emma sipped her tea. “It doesn't help that Nate's closest friends have either cooked or eaten some of the best meals in the world. I looked up his gourmet group online and two Michelin-starred chefs are members. How do you think they'd like white truffle donuts and basil-infused snails?”

“About as much as I would.” Sophie linked her hands on the desk. “I prefer the food my Chinese grandmother makes, simple but delicious. A few fresh ingredients, mostly from her garden, although she draws the line at snails. To her the main thing is all of us sharing the meal. Although that's probably nostalgia speaking.”

With Garfield halfway to her mouth, Emma froze, staring at Sophie. “Nostalgia—that's the answer! Soph, you're a genius.”

Sophie gave her a measured look. “O-kay. I mean, you're right about the genius part, but what did I say this time?”

Ignoring the recipe cards and papers showering the floor as she moved, Emma leaned forward. “Remember I told you about seeing Nate's kitchen after our meeting last Friday?” Not waiting for Sophie's nod, she plunged on. “It's the kind I dream of putting in here—acres of stainless steel work surfaces, the latest Italian appliances, refrigerators big enough to live in. You could run a restaurant from his kitchen. And you know what?”

“No, what?”

“He hardly sets foot in the place.”

“Doesn't he employ a cook?”

Emma shook her head. “Joanna, his housekeeper, says cooking isn't in her job description, and he doesn't have any other staff. She told me he eats out almost every night, or has a restaurant deliver.
The most he ever does is put together a snack or a sandwich for himself in the butler's pantry, which is practically another kitchen.”

“What a waste. But knowing this solves his catering problem how?”

Emma stood up, her efforts to pace hampered by the papers on the floor, so she sat down again. “I did some research on our Dr. Hale.” She didn't add it was as much for her own interest as to get an idea of his lifestyle. “His parents split up when he was twelve. His dad is a country doctor living alone, and his mother lives in Sydney with her partner and their fifteen-year-old son.”

“Sounds fairly typical,” Sophie observed. “You and I are the minority these days with two parents still married and living in the same house.”

“Exactly my point,” Emma went on. “We all want what we don't have.”

“Including Dr. Hale.” Sophie sounded as if she was starting to understand.

“You got it. By chasing exotic foods and recipes, I'd be giving Nate what he already has, when I should be giving him what he
doesn't
have.”

“Meals like Mama used to make.”

“Except his mama never made them. If his life was like the family of most country doctors—or city ones for that matter—his father missed more meals than he showed up for. Or they'd sit down to eat when his father was home, then be interrupted by calls. Being
dragged out at all hours would be normal.” Emma knew she was talking about her own family as much as Nate's.

Sophie got her drift. “And when they moved to Sydney, his mother was working, providing for them both. I'm thinking pizzas and fast food.”

Emma dragged her fingers through her hair, spiking it. “No wonder he likes exotic foods now. And going out to eat must feel more normal than family dinners around a big table.”

Sophie grinned. “Is that what you're thinking of giving him for his birthday?”

“You betcha. I'm picturing wonderful homemade dishes, big bowls of fluffy mashed potatoes, fruit and ice cream and rum babas with cream. How long is it since you had rum baba?”

“A long time. I used to think they were so sophisticated because of the alcohol oozing out of them.” Sophie tilted her head to one side. “At least we'll have heart specialists on hand. This plan sounds decadent enough to send you straight to the cardiac ward.”

Emma shook her head. “Food can taste decadent without the artery damage. We could create the family dining experience by making grown-up versions of all that comfort food.”

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

Emma couldn't see what. “It's perfect, I know it is.”

“The idea is brilliant, but who's going to produce
this bounty? I can help you with the prep work ahead of time, and I'll be on the spot for the first hour, but I have an important oral exam I can't skip. Carla's working that night, and Margaret will be in Bali, so they can't help. You'll be doing the lion's share of the work on your own.”

Emma spread her hands. “I can't
not
do it, Soph. You said yourself we're getting inquiries purely because word of mouth has us working with Nathan Hale. Can you imagine what will happen once we actually deliver the goods?”

“The business will go from struggling to booming,” Sophie said. “Why couldn't this chance have come up
after
I finished my course?”

“Murphy's Law. We'll manage somehow.” Emma spoke with a confidence she was far from feeling. “If you don't need me in the kitchen, I'll turn this harebrained scheme into a workable proposal to show Nate when he comes here later today.”

Sophie stood up. “I can manage, thanks. I've finished prepping lunch for the lady bowlers. Plenty of time before I have to deliver everything to their club room. What can I do to help?”

“You can contact some furniture rental places and find out what it would cost to rent a stack of big, old-fashioned dining tables and chairs.” Emma's mind was racing. “The chairs wouldn't have to match. In fact it's better if they don't. They should look like
they came straight out of Grandma's dining room. I'll include the costs in the budget for Nate's approval.”

“On it, boss.” Sophie sounded excited. “Where are you going to get the nostalgic recipes?”

“I don't have to look far for inspiration.” Emma rummaged among the pile of books on her desk and came up with the one she wanted. “
Jessie's Kitchen,
by Jessica Jarrett.”

Handling the well-thumbed book bathed Emma in happy memories. As a little girl visiting her grandmother, she had enjoyed many of the foods described in the book. As well as her own recipes, Jessie had included some her mother and grandmother had handed down to her, creating a fifty-year history of family food, studded with anecdotes of her life as a young mother on the outskirts of Sydney. Early in their marriage, Jessie and her husband had lived not far from East Hills, then the last stop on the suburban railway line. Their house was set in the middle of acres of rugged bush between East Hills and Heathcote.

The book fell open at Jessie's never-fail sponge cake recipe and Emma's mouth watered, recalling the feathery lightness of the cake filled with cream and Jessie's home-made strawberry jam, the top cloudy with icing sugar. Gramma had given her a big wedge of the cake as consolation for getting lost in the bush. Emma had been picking flowers when a bee flew at her. She'd screamed and run, not stopping until she stumbled into a shallow creek, splashing water
around to scare the bee away. Only then did she realize she didn't know the way back.

Remembering how the branches of the eucalyptus trees had reached for her like ghostly arms could still make her shudder. She'd tried walking back to the house, but went round in circles, always returning to the creek.

She'd never felt more relieved to hear her father calling her name. He'd been so angry, she was almost sorry she'd answered, but the sun was setting and she was afraid to spend the night alone by the creek. Without a word, he'd carried her back to Gramma's house and sat her down on a stool in the kitchen. Gramma and Cherie had fussed, but Emma's father had silenced them with his gruff doctor's voice as he tended to her scratches and bruises.

“She's fine, aren't you, girlie?” he'd asked when he finished.

There was only one answer he wanted to hear. “Yes, Daddy.”

He'd patted her shoulder. “Good. You won't go running off and getting lost in the bush again, will you?”

Not if it meant getting such a cold reception. When she was found, her fantasy of cuddles and warmth in tatters, she'd promised herself to be more careful next time. She'd rather have a bee sting her nearly to death than make her father that angry with her.

Gramma Jessie's compassion had eased some of
Emma's wretchedness. “Give the child a break, Greg, she's only four.” She'd lifted Emma off the stool. “You sit at the table and I'll get you some sponge cake. And you,” she said, glaring at Emma's parents, “might like to help yourself to something from the cocktail cabinet.”

Emma ate her cake and the homemade lemon drink her gramma served her in the brightly lit kitchen, surrounded by delicious cooking smells and an atmosphere of warmth, while Jessie had sat across the table from her and listened to her adventure.

Realizing she was stroking the book's cover, Emma let her hand fall to her lap. Was it any wonder she'd rejected her parents' world in favor of her grandmother's? As she grew older, she'd come to understand that being in medicine meant walling off many of your own feelings in order to do your job. She admired her parents and brother for their lifesaving skills, but surely life wasn't only about clinical survival? What about emotional well-being? Maybe it was up to people like Jessie and Emma to balance out the medical side with their own form of caring. “There's room in Heaven for all kinds of angels,” Emma remembered Jessie telling her one day when she asked why she was the only one in her family who had a problem with the sight of blood. The answer had puzzled her for a long time, but now she knew exactly what Jessie had meant.

Nate was a doctor, she reminded herself. Would
he appreciate what she wanted to do for his birthday dinner? There was one way to find out. She pulled her keyboard toward her and went to work.

 

F
EELING HER BACK MUSCLES
complaining, Emma stretched and glanced at her watch, startled to see how much time had passed. There was no sound from the kitchen. Sophie had a lecture this afternoon, and had probably gone straight there after delivering the food to the bowling club. Emma realized she was hungry and headed for the kitchen, where she made herself a chicken wrap, eating it standing at a bench, imagining the room with the new fixtures and fittings in place. Why couldn't Nate's birthday be a few months later? Then she could have really shown him what she could do.

It wasn't as if Emma cared about impressing Nate. He'd been quick enough to leave her with his housekeeper after their meeting. She was lucky he was making time to see her today.

At least she thought he'd suggested today. Emma checked her diary. The date was right. So where was Dr. Hale? She hesitated a moment then called his cell phone.

After several rings, she began mentally composing a message for his voice mail when a masculine voice snapped, “Hale speaking.”

“Nate, it's Emma Jarrett.”

“Emma?” He sounded a million miles away. “Did
we have a date tonight?” Before she could reply, he said, “Oh, hell, you're not that Emma, are you?”

Tension gripped Emma. Who was
that
Emma? Someone he'd dated, or possibly still did? Not that
this
Emma cared. She said coolly, “You requested a meeting at my office today to review ideas for your party.”

This wasn't about him as a man, she reminded herself tautly. This was business.

“I did?” he asked vaguely. “Look, something came up. I'm going to be another hour or so.”

In the medical world, something always came up. “I can email you my notes and prices if you prefer,” she said, trying not to let him hear her disappointment. She'd looked forward to sharing his enthusiasm for her plans. And seeing him again. She swiftly suppressed the thought.

She heard his muffled voice as he spoke to someone else, then he came back on the line. “No need. How about I pick you up at your place as soon as I can get away?”

The increased beating of her heart irritated her, sharpening her tone. “And go where?” If he thought she was having dinner with him, only to be interrupted constantly by his relentless cell phone, he was out of luck.

“I'll let you know when I get there,” he said.

Before she could demand more details, he'd hung up.

Her knuckles whitened around the phone as an all too familiar feeling washed over her. How many times had she been left dangling by her family when something had come up? She resisted the urge to slam the phone down. If Nate thought she'd wait for him to spare her a few crumbs of his attention, she had news for him.

She printed out her proposal, copied the pages to disk and slid the lot into one of the monogrammed folders she'd had made up when she started the business. Placing the folder into a large envelope, she scrawled his name on the outside. Then she called a cab and gave Nate's address and the envelope to the driver. As soon as they were gone, she sat down, feeling drained. But there was one more step to take.

She texted Nate to say she was unable to move their appointment, but the information he needed was on its way. He could get back to her when he was ready. Then she surveyed her chaotic office. She should tidy up before retreating to her flat at the back of the building, but couldn't muster the enthusiasm and closed the door on the mess. It would still be there tomorrow.