Chapter Thirteen
One can’t garden without flowers; one can’t become a woman without love.
—Italian proverb
The radishes were ripe for the ripping. She had planted them only three weeks ago, and now they had matured and were ready to be harvested. The perfect, renewable resource.
Casting about her vegetable garden, pride expanded in her chest and pushed aside more negative emotions. The lettuce and pea seeds she had nurtured indoors just six weeks ago were now showing healthy growth. It may be on her brother’s property, but she still considered it her garden and the achievement she felt at having created something from a patch of nothing got her every time. Just a five-minute walk from her flat, she tried to get here at least every other day.
“Want out!” Evan pumped his fist and strained at the straps pinning him back in his stroller.
“Sorry, Demon. If I could trust you not to bash your head on something, I’d let you roam free.”
“Want juice!” came his next offer in the negotiation.
More sugar, she could do that. In yet another plug for Worst Mother of the Decade, she placed the sippy cup in his hand and watched as he chugged away merrily. Simple pleasures.
She picked up the trowel and thought about how it might make a nice tool for a lobotomy.
Tad hadn’t called.
She was unbelievably annoyed about that, not just because he hadn’t called but because her reaction to it was so ridiculous. Waiting for a guy to call was old, desperate Jules. They were friends—he didn’t need to call her. She could call him because that’s what friends do.
Of course she hadn’t given him much reason to call. Two days had gone by since she had practically handed him his Armani suit and told him his sexually therapeutic services had primed her good. Evan had been sick the next day so she hadn’t been able to go in to work. In true coward’s fashion, she had texted Tad to let him know.
Something she never, ever did.
Texting was her bête noir. She always preferred to call someone but this time, she had dropped a, probably, misspelled sick note to her boss-slash-lover, letting him know she wouldn’t be in.
No problem, he texted back. Let me know if you need anything. She knew enough to get the gist.
It was exactly what he would have said in the old days, as in two days ago before they moved from friend zone into bone zone, with one shocking difference.
Pre-shag, he would have called right back and insisted she accept his help. Soup, a ride to the doctor, a shoulder to lean on. Not that she needed it, but she craved the assurance that they were still in the same place.
Nice job keeping the status quo, Jules.
“Derry told me but I didn’t believe him.”
Jules turned from top soil she had been moving around aimlessly to see Jack sauntering over from the back door. Panic flooded her chest. How could Derry have possibly found out about Tad?
“Told you what?” she fronted.
“That you’re cooking at Vivi’s.”
Phew. “It’s just an experiment.”
Jack hunkered down and unclasped Evan, who looked like all his Christmases and birthdays had come at once. “More than that, I hear you’re getting on the menu.”
“Not every day. And it’s mostly my chutneys and jams.” She felt a sudden rush to defend her presence among gleaming steel counters, as if she had been caught playing dress up in her mother’s clothes and make-up.
His mouth drew into a pinch. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to work in a kitchen?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t even sure I did myself until Tad suggested it. He tried my bruschetta and he offered.” An uneasy thread wormed through her. “Should he have run it by you first? With you being an investor?”
“No, not at all. Tad can hire whomever he wants. I just… sometimes I’m not sure I know what’s going on inside your head. I wish you’d talk to me more.”
Oh, God, talking, her other bugbear. She and Jack had been doing a lot better since she moved to the States but years of sealing every hurt inside was a hard habit to break.
When she was five years old and they had gone to live with her aunt and uncle after her father died, Jack had promised to look after her. He would become her guardian when he turned eighteen—just three more years, baby girl!—and she had believed him. Not that Daisy and Pete were unkind, they were just stereotypically miserable East Londoners. They didn’t like Jack, who was always in trouble, and their care for Jules was tone deaf and obligatory. Once Jack turned eighteen, he was already in Paris for his apprenticeship, and those whispered promises to look after her were forgotten. By the time Jules was eleven, he was putting in eighty hours a week at his new restaurant in Covent Garden. TV and New York would come calling a few short months later. He soared while she plummeted further and further, unable to explain her problems in school with anything other than an insolent shrug.
“I just like cooking. It’s fun.” Minimizing it was her default position. It had taken a few minutes in a kitchen with Tad for him to understand the uncontainable need to be someone other than Jack’s sister and Evan’s mother. It had taken a few minutes with her legs coiled around his hips like a python for him to get how raw and dirty she wanted it. How did this guy know her better than her own brother?
Because she wanted him to know her. She wanted to be known.
Jack tilted his head, assessing.
“You could do it properly. Go to culinary school.”
“That’s not for me.” She raised her eyes from the patch of earth she had been weeding with fervor. “I’m not really cut out for school.”
She braced herself for the Jack assault of fraternal affection, where he told her she could do anything and be anything. She loved him for it but sometimes it was just too much.
His indrawn breath was deep and pep talk-sapping. Thank you. “Well, if you ever want to cook together…”
“And have you breathing down my neck telling me everything I’m doing wrong?”
His smile was filled with compassion. “No, sweetheart. Just cooking. For fun.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. This Tad business was making her cranky. “I’d love to cook with you sometime.”
His grin faded. “So I heard something else odd. I mean, so bizarre that I’m finding a hard time getting my head around it.”
She grasped at a particularly pernicious weed that she was sure she had disposed of a few weeks before. Of course, certain problems have a habit of resurfacing just when you think you’ve made strides to eliminate them. Such as Simon St. James. He hadn’t followed up his call but she felt his presence like a sword teetering by a whispering thread.
Simon might want to be a part of his son’s life, but what good would that do? Seeing his father twice a year, or whatever Simon would think was appropriate, would confuse Evan. Any man in her life would have to want her baby, one hundred percent. No uncles-for-a-month or on-again-off-again step dads. No half measures.
Tad was amazing with Evan and he would continue to be there for her son assuming their friendship survived the mind-blowing sex. If she pushed for more and things soured between them, everyone would feel the shockwaves. He had made it clear he wasn’t boyfriend material and begging for a man to see the real her was no longer her style.
“Are you going to tell me what you heard or are you going to leave me hanging?”
Jack’s mouth hardened. “I heard that Tad stayed over.”
“Yep, he stayed the night. Nothing happened. End of.”
“I know. Sylvia said there were performance problems.”
They might have just got done with the latest episode of Super Fun Bonding Time with Jack and Jules, but they weren’t going there. “Tad and I were kidding around, putting on a show for Sylvia. He’s my friend and we’re not a couple.”
“Music to my ears. He’s not good enough for you.” He bounced Evan on his hip to her toddler’s delighted squeal.
“No one’s good enough for me, according to you.”
“True, but especially him.” The disgust in his tone surprised her.
She put down the trowel and leaned back on her haunches, luxuriating in the stretch to her back muscles. Between the gym (all right, one time at the gym), gardening, and her acrobatic sexploits with Tad, her muscles were singing songs that were usually out of their tonal range.
“What is with you and Tad? You’ve invested in his business and you always seem to be civil to each other, but there’s this weird vibe between you.”
Jack sighed. “I invested because he’s good at what he does, which is the ability to sell anything and charm anyone. Those are good skills in food retail and getting skirt but I don’t see much else beyond the surface.”
She suspected Tad was as adept as she at putting on faces. Sometimes, she caught him off in another world at the DeLuca family lunches, his face straining for smoothness whenever his parents came up in the conversation. When they spent time together at Vivi’s kitchen, she saw how he went inside himself to a place filled with painful memories.
The joy left him.
“He’s my friend, Jack, and I think you’re wrong.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t a nice guy, Jules. We get along just fine and he and Lili are close, so I recognize that he’s not all bad. But I don’t see much depth there. He was a bartender forever before he decided to break out on his own. He plows through women like a Frenchman guzzles cheap table wine. Everything is a game to him.”
He held her gaze boldly. “And deep down, I think you know that because so far, you’ve had the common sense not to fall for him. Your spidey senses recognize he’s bad news and no good for the long term. He’s not what you need.”
Bad news, no good, shallow-as-a-spatula Tad. Jack’s words made sense but it didn’t stop her from musing on what might have been, much to Good Girl Jules’s annoyance. Bad Girl Jules was always on board where Tad DeLuca was concerned.
Uncertain if she was annoyed with Jack, Tad, or herself, she turned back to her lovely radishes and used her frustration to dig a big, deep, unnecessary hole.
* * *
“So, guys, thanks for coming in early for a spot of staff training.” Tad arced his gaze around half of Team Vivi, his bright young staff members, who sorely needed an education about the finer things.
“You’re paying us to drink on the job, boss,” Kennedy said, a petite redhead who was permanently “on” in that way actresses had. He had been leery of hiring her as his manager, worried she’d bail as soon as she got a juicy stage role, but they’d hit it off during the interview so he gave her a shot.
“Everyone got their Vivi bibles?” With not a small amount of satisfaction, he watched as Kennedy lay her collection of laminated cheat sheets on the bar. It had been Jules’s suggestion to turn the binder into something brief, portable and—most importantly—spill proof. Now, he was using it as a training tool for the staff.
“Hmm, I forgot mine.” Bella, his hostess, wouldn’t be serving but it was important that she be able to converse intelligently about the bar’s lifeblood. Unfortunately this might be a problem because she was not the brightest bulb—more like halogen. During her interview she had detailed her disappointment that Cupcake Vineyards Red Velvet had not tasted like red velvet cupcakes. But she had an easy way with her that the customers seemed to appreciate.
He passed her a spare bible from behind the bar.
“Oh, hey Julia.” Another annoying thing about Bella was that she insisted on calling Jules “Julia.”
“Hiya, Bella.” Jules looked a little flushed—and as beautiful as ever—as she strode quickly from the kitchen with a plate of crostini, her contribution to tonight’s menu. “Tonight’s special appetizer. Goat cheese, bacon, and onion finger-panini with amatriciana jam.”
“Thank God, I’m starving.” Kennedy scooped up a slice and shoved it in her mouth before catching Tad’s eye. “Um, this was for us, right?”
Tad sighed. “Yep. We should all try the special.” Usually amatriciana was a standard sauce with bucatini, but Jules had used it as base for her panini. He loved how she wasn’t afraid to try new things. He also loved that she was using some of Vivi’s recipes and adapting them as her own, though they had yet to discuss it.
“Mother of Mary, this is fantastic,” Kennedy said around bites of the toasted goodness. “Great job, Julia.” She added a conspiratorial wink.
Jules’s expression jumped from hesitancy to relief to a particular brand of smugness that chefs had a patent on. Every cook Tad knew lived for the moment someone went into an orgasmic meltdown on tasting his food. Turning someone on to wine was gratifying in its own way, but not quite as much as cooking.
“So, see you tomorrow then,” Jules said after she had taken a moment to absorb Kennedy’s clear appreciation.
“Want to stick around for a few minutes and taste with us?” he asked.
Jules narrowed her eyes at the bottle of Chablis, the label facing away from her. “Is it Chardonnay?”
“No,” he lied. Chablis used the Chardonnay grape but Jules hadn’t reached that part of her education yet. She did have a particularly virulent hatred for the oaky, overly-toasted flavors typical of American and Australian chards but Chablis with its subtle flavors of green apple and pear had escaped the bad rap.
She took a seat at the bar. “Pour away.”
Like good little wine tasters, they all tipped, swirled, and buried their noses in the aroma of crisp Chablis.
“What do you smell?” he prompted.
“It smells fresh.” This learned conclusion came from Bella, who went on to take a healthy slug despite his previous efforts to instill in her patience.
“Citrusy,” muttered Kennedy, then eyeballed her phone that had just chirped urgently. Probably an audition.
He turned to Jules for support. Don’t let me down, honey.
“Tuscan summer breezes… no, wait.” She sniffed again. “Autumnal breezes. More specifically, Florentine.”
Right continent, wrong country. Though she was completely off base, he waved her on because he had a sneaky suspicion he was about to be thoroughly entertained.
“I think there might have been a herd of Chianina cattle the next field over. I’m definitely picking up hints of barnyard mixed with earthy. Am I close?”
“Uncanny.” Tad was having a tough time keeping his lips in a straight line.
Considering the glass, she continued with a touch of a finger to her chin. “Now the taste…” Taking a healthy sip, she sloshed it around her mouth, making sure to hit all the receptors. Just like he had taught her.
“Fruit-forward, attention-seeking, grabs you by the nuts and holds on until you scream “uncle”… how’m I doing?”
“The Court of Master Sommeliers better make room. There’s a new sheriff in town.”
“Well, with a palate as refined as mine, they could do a lot worse.” She laughed, warm and husky, and he felt like he had swallowed the sun.
He took a sip, then… just chugged. So much for his second level sommelier training. “Tastes good.”
Jules’s face bore all the strains of incredulity. “That’s the best you can do? Tastes good?”
“You’ve used up all the good adjectives, smart ass.”
Cue brazen Jules grin. Holy shit. He flicked a glance to see if anyone else was knocked flat by that molten ball of light. Only him? Alrighty then.
The phone at the hostess podium rang, drawing Bella away. Kennedy texted violently. She was prone to dramatics with her ne’er do well boyfriend and Tad suspected he was on the receiving end of that killer thumb tirade.
“Maybe I can come up with some exciting adjectives for your special sauce.” The sauce was supposed to be peppery-sweet with heat from the chili flakes. He slipped a bite past his lips and chewed. Robust flavors, a good kick, but something was missing…
“Did you use guanciale?”
“No, pancetta. I couldn’t find it at the store and Frankie said it was practically the same thing.”
He frowned. Frankie ought to know better.
“It’s not the same. Guanciale is cured pork jowl and it can be hard to find, but not impossible.”
His heart wrenched at how miserable she looked. “So it’s no good…”
Quickly, he backpedaled. “Are you kidding me? It’s fantastic, but let’s try it with guanciale next time. I’ll get you some and you’ll see the difference.”
The guanciale is key, Taddeo. It brings the dish together.
“My mother used to cure her own, you know.” Now what in the hell inspired him to share that nugget?
Jules’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yeah, she even slaughtered a pig once. When I was a kid, she kept it in the backyard and I’d go to pet it. She’d tell me, ‘No, Taddeo. Don’t get attached. He’s for the butcher’s block soon.’ ”
Sadness crossed her brow. “That’s awful!”
It was, but then as a kid, he had been a sensitive soul. He went into a funk when he lost at soccer. Girls were more likely to break his heart than the other way around. And that damn pig had plucked on every heartstring.
“I thought so, too. I ran away with him. Got as far as Tony and Frankie’s, but Cara turned fink when he ate one of her shoes.”
“Cara,” she muttered, shaking her head in sympathy.
“A week later we were eating bacon morning, noon, and night. Poor Ulysses.” At her arched eyebrow, he added, “I was on a James Joyce kick.”
“A pig in the backyard and no mercy. Sounds like your mom was quite the woman.”
“She was.”
Somewhere along the way, he had leaned on the bar and she had stepped in closer. Every time he opened up to Jules about his mom, another layer of the mortar cemented around his heart seemed to melt away. It still hurt, but not quite as much.
“So…” How are your dates going? Have you found the love of your life yet? Do you miss me even half as much as I miss you?
“So,” she said, backing away from what he now realized was a hot-enough-to-scorch stare. “I’d better get going. I have to relieve Frankie from Demon Watch.”
Her parting look was an “are we okay here?” and he returned it with a confirming smile. His face ached with how okay they were.
“Maybe we could do a movie and pizza one night,” he said as she walked away.
Her shrug cheered him by degrees. “Sure, you know where to find me.” And then she was gone, taking the scent of oranges and happy and Jules with her. Taking some piece of his chest as well.
It took him a moment to realize that Kennedy was waving a hand in front of his gormless face.
“Earth to Tad.”
“What?” he snapped, tearing his gaze away from the door.
“Just do each other already, would you?”
If only it were that easy. Doing each other was no longer going to cut it.