Chapter 21
Another spout of creativity took hold Monday morning—right after my small quiet moments with Lucy—and since then, I’ve lived, breathed, and (not) slept all things grilled cheese sandwiches.
I push a hand through my hair and slump against the back wall of my food truck, my eyes working to stay open while a final sandwich cooks on the grill top. The last three days—at least, I think it’s been three days—have had my creativity in hyperdrive, and I’ve produced five new recipes that have gone on the menu.
Five new recipes I’m convinced will inspire rave reviews from critics once I implement them at the new restaurant.
A pang hits me in the temple, and I reach up to rub the spot. I really need to go home tonight at a decent hour instead of staying up until two a.m. experimenting in this tiny kitchen. I may only be thirty, but I’ve been abusing my body this week, spending hours of extra time on my feet, tensing with anticipation when I taste a sandwich that isn’t quite right.
I’ve also been holding myself in place instead of running next door to the Robin and feeding the experiment to Lucy so she can help diagnose what’s wrong with it.
Reaching for my spatula, I flip the sandwich, let it cook a bit longer, then place it in the waiting basket filled with chips and a pickle. I turn, ding the bell, and call out “Painter!” before ducking back inside the truck. I start to shutter the window.
“Hey, Blake,” a voice calls out.
Ducking down, I find Thomas there, collecting the sandwich. We haven’t chatted for a while, except over text messages to go over a few details of the upcoming festival—which, believe it or not, is in two weeks from yesterday. “Hey, Thomas,” I say, trying to hold back a fierce yawn that’s itching to overtake me. “How’s it going, man? You grabbing Chad’s food for him?” The owner of Rainbow Ice was my last customer, but I don’t see him anywhere.
“I’m good, and yeah, I was sitting at one of the tables while he waited for his order, but something came up inside. He asked me to grab this for him.” Thomas shifts his sandwich basket from hand to hand, as if it’s too hot to handle. The bottom of his bright blue Hawaiian shirt blows with a gust of wind that’s picked up. “I actually was waiting for you to finish up so we could chat. Do you have a minute? I’ll run this back to Chad and then…?”
The guy’s now shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and his normal genial smile isn’t present. My eyebrows go up. “Everything okay? My permits are still good through the end of the summer, right?”
Not that I know I’ll be here that long. Dale and I haven’t talked since last Friday and no decisions have been made, but his words about coming home early still reverberate in my mind.
“Oh, yeah, nothing like that.” Thomas waits, eyes wide. “So…?”
“Sure. Let me close things down here, and I’ll meet you at the Rainbow Ice tables in a few.”
“Great.” Turning like he’s a soldier on a mission, the guy practically sprints away.
I shake my head and finish lowering the window shade, then flip off the stove and start to tidy up. My phone rings, and it’s like Dale’s heard my thoughts because his name appears on the screen. I hit speakerphone so I can keep working while I chat. “Blake here.”
“Blake, good, glad I caught you.” Dale sounds like he just hiked Mount Olympus. “Are you sitting down?”
“Should I be?” My stomach twists. Is something wrong with the restaurant deal?
And why is there a bit of relief at the idea?
“Kidding, kidding. But I do have some news for you. Excellent news.”
“Wow.” Trying to sound enthusiastic, I gather some spare disposable baskets and stack them. “What is it?”
“Remember how I mentioned my friend at a local network here?”
“Like TV network?” Of course, the second the words leave my mouth, I know I sound like an idiot.
Dale chuckles. “Yes, TV network. Anyway, they had a celebrity chef lined up to do a spot next Tuesday on the morning show, but he had to cancel due to a family emergency. I slipped my friend your name and resume a while back, and he said he’d keep you in mind for things like this.” My business partner pauses. Meanwhile, my insides feel hotter than the stove, which is still putting off heat. “He wants you to fill in.”
Whoa. My hands scramble for a rag in the sink, and I hastily wipe crumbs off the counter and into the small trash can I keep in the truck. I force my brain into business mode. Next Tuesday? That’s not much time to come up with a recipe, to prepare. To drive to L.A., I’d have to close the truck for a few days…
Of course, I’d be back in plenty of time for the festival. That’s the only commitment I actually have.
Still, my mind is spinning. “What exactly would it entail?”
“It’s just a five-minute spot. You’d be showing fans how to make a dish for Fourth of July or their summer picnics. Of course, it’s the perfect opportunity to show off a grilled cheese recipe you don’t mind sharing with everyone.”
There’s chatter in the background. Is Dale spending his Wednesday evening at one of his restaurants? Probably. The man’s as much of a workaholic as I am.
“Blake, this is your chance. We can plug the upcoming restaurant—at least hint at it—and you can prove yourself to be the charming guy I know is under all that starch somewhere.”
Ha. “But that’s not really me. I don’t…pander. I just cook.”
“Yes, well, if you want our restaurant—your restaurant—to be a raving success, you’ll pander your pants off.” At that, Dale chortles. “And if the network likes you, if the audience likes you, then my buddy says there are more opportunities. They’re actually looking for a chef to do a podcast, a regular TV spot, plus—and this would be later this fall—a thirty-minute segment all his own. You could eventually be this generation’s Wolfgang Puck.”
“Uh.” I clear my throat and yank at the collar of my shirt, then unbutton the top button. “Don’t you think that’s a little far-reaching?”
“I think the sky’s the limit. What about you, Blake? Don’t you want this? Don’t you ache for the success this will bring? I know it’s probably overwhelming, but these are the ways we create a dining experience people can’t live without. That people will pay loads of money for. They’ll be making reservations to taste your food a whole year in advance. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
But is it? I can’t help but think of something my mom said once: “Good food should be accessible to everyone.”
I’ve been so busy creating recipes here—which is what I came to Hallmark Beach to focus on—so Dale and I haven’t really hashed out the details of the restaurant. I know he wants it to be more upscale than I do. Maybe now is the time to bring up our differences of opinion.
But then there’s a knock on the back door of the truck. Right. Thomas. I’ve kept him waiting. “Okay, so Tuesday?” The five-minute spot doesn’t sound too hard. I can at least commit to that much if it’ll help the restaurant. Besides, it sounds like Dale’s already told him I’ll do it.
“Yes. You’ll need to get in Monday afternoon. You sublet your room in the apartment, right? You can stay with me.”
Of course I can. Dale is a perpetual bachelor, married to his work, and he’s got a mansion in Beverly Hills. “All right. Text me the details and I’ll see you Monday.”
“Excellent.” And with that, the call ends.
Another knock sounds. “Coming,” I call as I hurry over to open the door.
Thomas is waiting on the grass. “I thought maybe you forgot.”
“No, I just got a business call.” Taking the steps, I turn and close the door, then follow Thomas to an empty table outside Rainbow Ice. Many of the others are occupied by families and couples. From here, I can see through the alley to the beach, where the stars light the way to the busy boardwalk, the sand, the ocean. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What’s up?” The conversation with Dale may have woken me up, zinging adrenaline through my whole body, but I’m just waiting for the inevitable crash and would prefer to be home when that happens.
Thomas drums his fingers on the white resin tabletop. Then he stills abruptly. “I’m just going to come out and ask, man to man.” He huffs. “Are you and Lucy…together?”
I sit up straighter, wide awake now. “Why?”
The guy kind of shrinks at the sharpness of my tone. “Look, if you are, that’s fine. Great. I’m…happy for you.” He swallows. “But if you’re not, then I’d like to ask her out. But I didn’t want to step on any toes.” His hands make fists, and he pounds them lightly on the table. “So. Is there something between you that I should be aware of?”
Oh man. I want to punch this guy. To stand up, beat my chest, and scream that Lucy is mine and he’d better stay away. My insides tighten and shrivel. My lungs constrict. What is happening to me? Why do I feel on the verge of something like a panic attack?
Thomas is a good guy. Honestly, what man that I know in L.A. would even bother to ask before encroaching on another guy’s relationship? He may be a bit odd, kind of a misfit who tries too hard, but at his core, Thomas Montrose is an upstanding citizen. He’s well established. As far as I know, the citizens of Hallmark Beach like and respect him.
And he’s just the kind of guy who would treat Lucy well.
I should say no. That there’s nothing between us.
But I can’t. Instead I sit there, staring the man down. If I were Superman with his laser vision, Thomas would be a heaping pile of ash right now (a bit gory, but that’s the direction my thoughts have turned).
And in my silence, Thomas sighs, nods. Holds out his hand. “I thought as much. But I had to be sure.”
What? I didn’t say anything. But according to the flat line that Thomas’s grim lips are making, my silence said something. I let him grip my hand, shake it, and let go, then watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, head bent.
I blink. That wasn’t right of me. I should have told him the truth—but the truth stares me right back in the face.
I don’t want any other man to have Lucy Reynolds. To take care of her. To spend small quiet moments with her.
Because I love her.
Or, at least, I could, if I let myself.
But there’s all the stuff Dale just told me. The restaurant, my career, in motion. Things swirling and moving. The pressures, building and mounting.
I can’t stay here, can’t let things fall apart there. I’ve worked too hard to reach my dreams to just…give them up.
But somewhere along the way, Lucy became part of that dream. And I don’t know how to reconcile the two parts. Maybe, though…maybe it’s possible to have both. Somehow. Maybe I could take whatever time I have left here in Hallmark Beach and spend it with Lucy.
Spend them seeing if this thing between us could grow. If we could figure something out.
Because I have the sneaking suspicion that my sister was right about regrets. Of course, I’ll never know for sure what Dad thought in those last minutes of his life flashing before his eyes. But I do know that if I never explore what this is with Lucy, I will probably regret that all of my life—no matter how successful my life ends up being.
And I have to find Lucy now and tell her how I feel before I lose the nerve.