Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
Carter
“You know how they say that no good deed goes unpunished?” Jo asks, smiling wryly. “Well, apparently it’s true.”
It’s three days later, and she’s just strolled into my restaurant, taken a seat at the bar and ordered a Spicy Texas Paloma—sparking all sorts of memories for me of other times and other places. Or do I mean other bars and other evenings? Same drink, different day?
Well, you get the picture.
I was on the brink of pointing out that this is not the type of bar where people drop in to get their drink on. It’s the kind of bar where maybe, if you show up early for your reservation, my hostess might suggest you take a seat, and maybe order a drink while you wait for your table. And since we’re close enough to the end of the dinner service that we’re no longer seating anyone, they’re not going to be doing that now, either.
In short, there’s no earthly reason for Jo to be here. But, just as I’m about to mention that, she sidetracks me with that line about good deeds.
“I’m not even sure what that means,” I tell her. Weirdly, just minutes before she got here, I’d been congratulating myself at having successfully navigated her return to Heartwood. By which I mean I’ve been conferring with Ms. Vi’s nurses on the phone and have thus managed to avoid having to see or speak to Jo since the day she arrived. So clearly, I have no psychic ability whatsoever.
“It means that you went out of your way to be kind to my aunt,” Jo explains. “And now she wants to reciprocate. And, apparently she’s decided the best way to accomplish that is for me to help you plan your event.”
“I thought she’d forgotten about that by now,” I admit. I was relieved (because that was another bullet dodged) but also somewhat disappointed. I’m not saying I’ve taken to stalking Jo on social media in the past few days, but I might have seen the pictures she’d posted of various events she’s put on.
And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want that magical touch for this dinner—I do. I want it as much as I wanted my first truck, as much as I’d wanted her , back in the day. There’s no chance I can do as good a job on my own, which means I guess I need her help.
I’m just not sure I can afford the emotional price I’ll end up paying. Being around her, even a little bit, is hell on my heart.
“Well, you thought wrong,” Jo says taking a big sip of her drink. “Which you would have known if you’d hung around at all these last couple of days. She’s been nonstop talking my ears off about it. So, here I am, offering my services.”
I shake my head. “That’s not necessary. I did little enough to help—and I was glad to do it. I wasn’t expecting anything back. I owe Ms. Vi a lot. A handful of meals is nothing in comparison. You know how much she helped me in the past.” Actually, she doesn’t know the half of it—which is probably for the best.
“I think we both know it’s more than just the meals.” Jo’s wearing that stubborn expression that makes my heart sink. I don’t think I’ve ever managed to sway her about anything once she’s dug in her heels. “But also, it’s not ‘nothing’ to her—or to me, either, for that matter.”
“Jo…”
“It means a lot to me, Carter. You had every right to be mad at me, what with the way things went down between us. No one would have blamed you if you’d wanted to wash your hands of me and my aunt after that.”
“ I’d have blamed me.” I’m so angry that I grab a rag from beneath the bar and start scrubbing at the bar top that doesn’t need cleaning. I don’t need to be back behind the bar here, either, by the way, and Miguel, the bartender on duty tonight is shooting me curious side-long looks that I ignore. After a moment, even cleaning isn’t helping. So, I abandon the rag, fist my hands on my hips and glare at her. “Fucks sake, Jocelyn. After everything we’ve been through? I can’t believe you think I’d do something like that.”
“I don’t!” she replies, looking startled. “That’s not what I’m saying. But…look, my aunt is my responsibility, all right? She doesn’t have to be yours—even if she is still claiming you as family.”
“I think of her as family, too,” I reply, covertly scanning Jo’s expression. She doesn’t seem angry, so I’m guessing she doesn’t know all the ways in which Vi and I have used that supposed family connection to our advantage over the years. “My relationship with your aunt has nothing to do with you, Jo. You don’t need to concern yourself with it.”
“C’mon, Carter,” she says, in placating tones. “I’m just trying to make things easy for you. So cut me a break, okay? I think I can help you with this dinner thing; I know I can. And…and I want to. All I’m trying to say is that it’s your call. If you tell me that you’ve got everything under control, that you don’t need or want my help with your dinner, I promise I won’t say another word about it. And I’ll do my best to channel Vi’s appreciation into a more acceptable venue. I should warn you though; if that’s the case then you should probably prepare for an onslaught of Texas Trash Pies, if I know my aunt.”
“Yeah, well. You can never have too many of those, can you?” The thing is though, I know her aunt, too. In fact, I know her a damn sight better than Jo does, at the moment. And I seriously doubt she’ll be up for baking anything at any point in the foreseeable future. Which is a damn shame, if you must know. It’s the end of an era. Ms. Vi’s red velvet cinnamon rolls and Dr. Pepper brownies were legendary here in Heartwood.
Unfortunately, however, unless I’m willing to either cut my nose off in spite, or tell a bald-face lie, I can’t say that I don’t need help. And I especially can’t say it now ; what with Miguel shooting Are-you-crazy? Take-the-assist! looks at me.
I drop my head back and stare, for a moment, at the pressed tin ceiling—original to the building, painstakingly stripped and repainted. I’ve put too much into this project. Too many people are depending on it to succeed. I can’t let it fail due to a bruised ego or hurt feelings. Or the potential for new heartbreak.
It’s time to man up and start adulting. “Fine,” I say, sighing heavily as I bow to the inevitable. “Thank you. I guess I… I guess I could use your help, if you’re willing. What did you have in mind?”
Any suspicions I might have had about whether Jo was only doing this to appease her aunt, are immediately dispelled when she pulls out her phone and starts reading from a seemingly endless list of notes; offering ideas and making all kinds of suggestions—mostly for things I never would have thought of on my own, and now desperately want to try. Like renting a photo booth, hosting a silent auction, printing up souvenir menus, raffling off centerpieces, creating signature cocktails. And that’s all before she gets into things like advertising and promotional opportunities.
I’m listening bemused, exchanging impressed glances with Miguel, when my brother saunters in and bellies up to the bar—like it’s something he does every day of the week, which he doesn’t. Or, again, like this is that kind of bar. Which it also still. Is. Not.
“Cash. What’re you doing here?” I ask, after he’s ordered a pint from one of our local breweries. He’s looking a little belligerent, and I’m guessing I know exactly why that is.
“Hey, Bro,” he replies. “Nothing much. I was just passing by, and I thought I’d stop in and have a drink and maybe shoot the breeze.” Then he turns to Jo and says, “Hey there, Lucille. Didn’t expect to see you back in town.”
Lucille? Aw, that’s just fucking great . Nobody within hearing distance misses the reference to one of Kenny Rogers’ earliest hits. I roll my eyes. Miguel quickly turns away—which hides his smirk, but not the snort of laughter that escapes him. Jo’s cheeks turn fiery red, which in turn triggers my protective streak.
“Cut it out, Cash.” I scowl at my brother. “Leave her alone. This is not your fight.”
I mean…in a way, it kind of is. Jo didn’t just hurt me when she left town without a word; she let the whole Donahue family down. And I guess that includes Cash, even though the bad blood between the two of them stretches back to practically their first meeting, near as I can tell. They’re like fire and ice and always have been. Which—I’m not gonna lie—has not gone unremarked. Their behavior has led an irritatingly large number of people to suspect they’re secretly attracted to each other.
Is there any truth to the rumors? I can’t rightly say. All I do know is that it’s never appeared that way to me—and I think I know them both pretty well.
But the whole Lucille dig wouldn’t have landed so hard if there weren’t a kernel of truth to it. Jo did leave me at the worst possible time; I think we’re all in agreement on that point. The difference is that she had no idea when she left that my whole world had just tipped sideways. And if we’re being honest, that was partly my fault, too. I could have called her. I could have found a way to reach out, to communicate, to tell her what was happening. I chose not to.
But hey, I’ve made my peace with that. And since we’re already referencing song lyrics, here’s a tip of the hat to Miss Bonnie Rait: you can’t make someone love you if they don’t. So there.
“Cash,” Jo replies evenly. “Still as big a dick as ever, I see.”
Cash quickly downs half his beer, causing me to eye him worriedly—he’s never been a big drinker. “Am I?” He pauses, as if thinking about it, then says, “Well, I guess I’ll have to defer to your greater knowledge of the subject.”
“What subject? Dicks?”
Cash’s smile turns nasty. “Exactly.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” I exclaim tiredly. “Would y’all just give it a rest? This is not that kind of bar, damn it.”
I glance at the clock on the wall and then ask Miguel if he wouldn’t mind telling the kitchen to shut things down—if they haven’t already started. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, we can get everybody out of here before any fights break out.”
Miguel nods. “I’m on it,” he says, as he squeezes around me and leaves.
“Seriously, though,” Cash says, once it’s just the three of us. “Why the hell is she even here? Please tell me you two aren’t taking up with each other again—you’re not are you?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” I tell him. “But Jo’s here to help plan some promo for the Valentine’s dinner.”
“Oh, c’mon.” Cash levels a scowl in my direction. “You’re gonna let her mess that up for you now, too? Whose bright idea was that?”
“It was my aunt’s idea,” Jo tells him.
“Your aunt ?” I wince at the look of disbelief on Cash’s face when he turns to me to ask, “Please. Tell me she’s joking?”
“Stop it,” I tell him yet again, shutting down that line of questioning. “It’s not like that. Besides, you know how important this dinner is—it could literally make or break us—and I don’t have the background in marketing that I’d need to have to really make it a success. Jo does.”
Cash shakes his head. “Well, I guess you really can’t fix stupid, can you?”
“How dare you?” Jo says, coming to my defense—when I really wish she’d just stay quiet. I’m used to my family’s dismissive attitude; I’ve been dealing with it all my life. That’s just one more thing I’ve made my peace with. “Your brother’s a great guy,” Jo continues angrily. “He’s a better man than you’ll ever be. And he’s hardly stupid.”
Cash looks at her in silence for a beat then nods in agreement. “ I know how great he is. It’s just too bad that you only seem to remember that when it’s convenient.”
“Look,” I sigh. “In case you missed the memo, we’re closed now. So, if you both could just finish your drinks and leave, that’d be great.”
Cash is still shaking his head as he downs the rest of his beer. “Fine. Have it your way.” He tosses a few bills on the bar then, as he turns to leave he adds, “It’s your funeral.”
And yup; there it is. What did I tell you? I knew I’d be hearing that again.
“Was that aimed at me?” Jo asks in that soft voice she only ever uses when something has really hit her hard.
I look at her in surprise. “What are we talking about?”
“That ‘it’s your funeral’ crack. Was that his asshat way of reminding me—of reminding us both, I guess—that I wasn’t here when your dad died, that I missed his funeral?”
“No,” I say automatically. “Of course not.” Truth is, I guess it could be. I have no idea what goes on in either of my brother’s heads most of the time—and that’s fine by me. But it doesn’t sound like something Cash would think to say. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty sure Jo’s statement isn’t even accurate. I think she probably was still here when Dad died. She just hadn’t known it at the time. “I think that’d be a little too on the nose, even for Cash.”
“Well, whatever,” Jo replies in unconvincing tones. “Thank you for defending me.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, and then quickly shut up, before any unwanted words fall out of my mouth. I’m vividly aware that she’d also defended me . And that I should probably be thanking her, as well. But I can’t. It’s entirely too likely that what I’ll end up saying is something along the lines of, “I’ll always defend you.” And while that’s more than likely true, it’s also more than a little pathetic.
“Look Jo, it’s getting late and I’m tired. So why don’t you clear out now—all right? We can pick this up again tomorrow.”
Jo nods once and picks up her glass. But then she hesitates. She puts the glass down again, untouched, and says, “You know, Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. Which means we’ve got a lot of work to do, especially if you want this dinner to really slap, and not a lot of time in which to do it. I’d really like to be able to get started first thing in the morning. Can’t we just talk a little bit more about it tonight? It doesn’t have to be for long, but I’d sure love to hammer out at least a few of the details.”
“Gimme a minute,” I tell her before heading into the kitchen. One of the nice things about owning a restaurant like this is that I rarely have to cook dinner for myself—there’s almost always something left over that I can snack on. And one of the best things about having a competent staff, is I can trust them to know their business and to close up on their own.
Apparently, however, I can also trust them to meddle in my personal business whenever they feel the need; even going so far as to give my baby brother a call whenever they think I’m at risk of making a fool of myself.
Or was I actually supposed to believe that Cash’s showing up here tonight was nothing more than coincidence? Not too likely.
If I can meet with Jo now and avoid having her stop back here tomorrow; I figure that’s gotta be a good thing, right?
Even so, I’m about ninety-five percent certain that what I’m about to do is gonna turn out to be an even bigger mistake than whatever they thought they were saving me from.
“C’mon,” I say as I re-enter the dining room, a short while later—bag of food in hand. I head toward the interior door that leads to the second floor and nod at Jo to follow. “Let’s go upstairs—we can talk there.”
She gets to her feet, slinging the strap of her messenger-style bag over her shoulder, and crosses the room to join me. “So, what’s upstairs, anyway?” she asks as I’m unlocking the door that leads to the stairwell.
I answer without thinking.,“My apartment.” I hear the sharp intake of breath, along with the startled hitch in her step and turn in time to catch a look of wide-eyed trepidation on her face.
I shake my head, feeling weary. “What now? You wanted to talk, right?”
“Yes, but…”
“Well, this is probably the only place in town where I can guarantee we’ll be able to talk without being either overheard or interrupted. Besides, my personal computer is up there. And I have all my notes for the dinner on it. So if you’re gonna need any kind of details, we’d probably have ended up there, anyway.”
“Okay,” she says, shrugging as though it doesn’t matter either way—which it shouldn’t.
“Okay, good,” I reply, still hoping I know what I’m doing, still halfway convinced that I don’t. Then I hold the door open and motion her to precede me.
Jocelyn
Carter’s restaurant is housed in one of the historic buildings that line downtown Main Street. I’m impressed with what he’s done with the space, so proud of him for everything he’s achieved. And I really wasn’t lying when I told him that I wanted to help him with this dinner he’s planning. We made a good team, once upon a time. And, especially now, since I have to be in town anyway, it just makes sense.
I really did think I’d be able to keep things professional between us, but I guess I hadn’t considered how hard it would be to ignore all the same things that always fucked us up before. Things like chemistry, force of habit, FOMO, sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness—his and mine—and my own, out-of-control imagination. Everything that kept us from walking away from each other when logic, logistics, common sense and even public opinion, were all suggesting that we should.
I did think we were doing okay when we were in the restaurant. But that’s a public place, after all. And I guess I thought the knowledge that we were being observed would keep us both on our best behavior—which might even have worked, if Cash hadn’t stuck his nose in. But taking this private? Moving our conversation to the intimate confines of Carter’s apartment? That’s just added to the complications. Because there was a time when his home was supposed to be mine. And there are parts of my heart that still remember that.
The apartment in question takes up most of the building’s second floor. The rooms are spacious and uncluttered—by which I mean there’s not much here in the way of furniture. Ceiling fans, set high in the steeply pitched ceiling, probably help to keep the temperature in the apartment at reasonable levels—when they’re turned on, which they’re not currently. All classic Carter.
One of the first things I noticed when I walked through the door is the bank of windows (big enough to walk through) that line the front wall and open onto the covered balcony that runs along the length of the building and shades the sidewalk below.
I can imagine standing out there on the Fourth of July, cheering as the annual parade passes by below me. Or on New Year’s Eve—drinking a glass of champagne as fireworks light up the sky. Or even sitting out there, any day at all, to enjoy an early morning cup of coffee as I watch Heartwood wake up around me.
Not that any of that’s ever going to happen, of course. Not for me, at least. But hey, I can still dream, right?
I think this place has the potential to be turned into something really special if someone who knew what they were doing (in terms of decorating and interior design) were to take it in hand. Unfortunately, those have never been Carter’s strengths.
We were together as a couple for nearly five years—the four years that I was in college, plus another five-or-six-months or so on either end. During that whole time, Carter was living in a trailer that someone had set up on his family’s land. The aesthetics are the same in both places. In other words, basic furnishings, minimal décor, and no discernible attempt at style; none of which ever seemed to bother him, to be honest. And it doesn’t look like much has changed, in that respect.
“Want something to drink?” he asks, stepping into the tiny alcove that passes for a kitchen. I’m surprised at first, because I know how much he loves cooking. And this set-up appears to be even more makeshift than the kitchen in his trailer. But I guess, when you have an entire restaurant right downstairs, you don’t need much more.
I nod in response. “Sure. What’ve you got?”
“Well, let’s see…” He opens the fridge then immediately checks himself, a small frown furrowing his brows. “Hmm. Well…” Since I assume his refrigerator is kept stocked by the same person who’s responsible for the unlived-in look of his apartment (AKA, him) I’m not surprised if it’s predictably close to empty. “There’s, uh…not that much, actually. I’ve got beer, cider, a coupla bottles of Topo Chico, some sweet tea…”
“Beer sounds good,” I say. And I guess it sounds good to him as well. He grabs two bottles and hands me one. I glance at the label and notice it’s the same craft brew that Cash had ordered, which could be awkward. But I don’t say anything, and neither does he, and the moment passes.
There’s a bottle opener built into the pony wall beneath the counter, with a bucket hanging beneath to catch the caps. Once we’ve opened our bottles, Carter leads the way toward a small dinette table in the main living space. He pushes aside the stacks of mail and paperwork that apparently live there, and invites me to, “Have a seat,” which I do.
“So, what kind of stuff do you need from me?” he asks as he starts unboxing the food he brought from downstairs.
“Hmm?” My mouth is watering and I’m momentarily distracted by the delicious aromas. “Oh. Okay. Hold on,” I say. I retrieve a notebook and pen from my bag, pull out my phone and navigate to the screen where I’d listed the topics I wanted to address with him.
“We already went over a lot of this,” I remind him. “I’ll need a copy of the menu, as soon as it’s finalized, along with any other details you have that I can use to spark interest—vendors whose food you’ll be using, etc. That way I can get to work on getting the souvenir menus printed. And I can also work up a basic press release to start sending out.”
Carter nods absently, but I can’t tell if he’s even listening. He seems preoccupied. I think the bulk of his attention is focused on the dishes of food he’s plating for us—which, don’t get me wrong, I certainly appreciate. Men who make it a priority to see that I’m properly and regularly fed are my kryptonite, for sure. But it’s also distracting as fuck. Because broody, preoccupied, uber-serious Carter is as much a snack as the food.
I don’t even realize that I’ve fallen silent until Carter glances over at me and asks, “So? Is that it?”
“What?” I blink at him while my brain struggles to process the question. The dawning surprise on his face causes my face to heat as I realize I’ve just been caught drooling over his biceps.
“I said, is that all you need ?” His lips are curled in a faint smile, but I can’t decide if he intends, or is even aware of, the slight emphasis I hear (or think I hear) on the word ‘need’. Are we back to playing games now? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?
Either way, frustration has me snapping in response, “No. Of course not. Since you mention it, I’ll also need access to the restaurant’s social media pages, so that I can create an event page and start sending out invites.” Ideally, of course, the restaurant would have a website by now, but they don’t. And spending time now putting one together isn’t a good use of anyone’s time.
“Okay. I can do that,” Carter says, sliding one of the plates in front of me and then seating himself. “Do you want to take a break while we eat?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. There’s no sense in that. We can talk while we eat.”
In truth, I’m afraid we’ll start chatting over dinner and it will begin to feel like old times. Like it did when we were young and na?ve, making plans for a future we’d never have.
So instead, I stay focused on the task in front of us. And in between bites of roast chicken (redolent of garlic, lemon and thyme, with a perfectly crisp skin), fluffy oven-fried potatoes and a creamy gratin of root vegetables) I quickly take us through the remaining items on my list.
Carter reluctantly vetoes the photo booth as being too expensive, which I can’t really argue with, much as I’d’ve liked to. And I reserve the right to price photographers, instead.
He’s enthusiastic about the idea of signature cocktails, and promises to work up recipes for those in the next few days. And I also get him to agree with my ideas for centerpieces. Originally, he wanted to go with generic flowers (roses or carnations, or something like that) in generic vases. But what did any of that have to do with Heartwood?
Instead, I talk him into letting me create individual centerpieces using candles from a local company (thereby adding another vendor to the mix) set in a selection of antique glasses and goblets that I’d source from several of our local antique stores. Initially, of course, I thought I’d just be pulling things from my aunt’s store. But Carter was adamant that we should not appear to be showing too much favoritism, so it looks like I’ll be paying Ms. Bev a visit after all.
“Well, I think we got a lot done tonight,” Carter says as he gets to his feet and starts piling up dishes in preparation to clearing the table and (unless I’m misreading him, which I don’t think I am) kicking me out.
“I agree,” I say, as I get up too and begin to help. “This was great. I’ve got more than enough info now to get started first thing in the morning.”
“Right. And, uh…speaking of the morning, I’ve got to be up early. So why don’t I walk you to your car now?”
“Okay, sure,” I say as I gather my stuff together—which basically consists of just shoving everything back into my bag. I feel unsettled. This is a new experience for me, being kicked out of Carter’s place. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before and…it stings.
And maybe I don’t deserve a second chance, but I need to at least try and clear the air a little. “Look, Carter, before I go… I know you said this wasn’t what Cash was talking about, but either way, I just really want to tell you again how sorry I was—and still am—about your dad.”
“Thanks,” he says, depositing the plates, boxes, and cutlery he was carrying into the sink—even though I’m pretty sure he’s not planning on washing out the to-go boxes. He turns to face me, looking tired and sad and borderline lost.
And I hate it. I want to wrap my arms around him and make the pain go away, like I should have done, wish I could have done, a decade ago. It kills me to realize that he probably wouldn’t welcome that now. That we’re no longer on those terms. And knowing that it was my fault, that I’m the one who wrecked things between us…that’s still the worst part. “I hope you know that I would never have left town when I did, if I’d known.”
“Yep,” he nods disinterestedly. “I know.”
“And do you also know how…how badly I’ve always felt that I wasn’t there for you? I would have wanted to be, if I...”
“I know,” he repeats impatiently. “You told me this already.”
“Yes, but?—”
“You do remember that part don’t you? How you texted me, when you first found out? How we covered all this same ground then?”
I wince a little at the reminder. Because, yep, that was me. That’s how I chose to handle—or mishandle, the whole situation. Via text. From thousands of miles away. What the fuck was I thinking? “I’m so sorry,” I all but whisper, blinking back tears of self-pity and regret.
Carter shakes his head, brushing aside my new attempts at an apology, in much the same way he did the last time around. “It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m sure we both wish things had gone down differently, but they didn’t, so...”
“So, what about now?” We’re standing in the narrow hallway in front of his door. I gesture at the space between us—just a handful of inches, no distance at all. “What about this?”
“What about it?” he asks. “You said it yourself, the other day. You’re just in town for a visit. No socializing—remember? That sounds like a good plan to me.”
I should let it go. I should take the hint and leave. But that’s the mistake I made last time. The biggest mistake of my life. “What if I’ve changed my mind?”
“Have you? Is that what you’re saying.”
“I think so?”
“You… think ?”
“Yes.” I take a single step closer. “I’m saying yes.”
And then… I’m not even sure what happens next. I think we both move at once. He dips his head to take my mouth in a scalding kiss. But I’m already clutching his arms to drag him closer; tilting my head to the side, pressing against him, as most of our restraint and all our good intentions go down in flames.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. Yes. Please.