Chapter 26
CLEMENTINE
Imade it exactly three blocks from the market before the tears started falling. Three blocks of holding it together. But the moment I turned the corner, everything I’d been holding back came rushing out.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I found the one name that could fix everything, or at least make it hurt less.
Dad’s contact photo filled the screen. I smiled at the candid shot I had taken of him last summer, flour dusted across his apron, laughing at something my little brother had said while they worked side by side in our kitchen at home.
The phone rang twice before his familiar voice filled my ear. “Clemmie? Everything okay, sweetheart?”
Just hearing his voice made my chest tight with longing. I wanted my daddy to save the day. I hated that Rhett had reduced me to a blubbering mess.
I pressed the phone closer to my ear as if I could somehow absorb the comfort through the speaker. I found myself walking faster toward my hotel without really paying attention to where I was going.
“Dad,” I managed. My voice came out smaller and more fragile than I intended. It was my little girl voice. Not the voice of a strong, independent woman.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” The concern in his voice was immediate. I could picture him setting down whatever he was doing, giving me his full attention the way he always had since I was little. “Talk to me, kiddo.”
The endearment nearly undid me completely. I ducked into the doorway of a closed coffee shop, needing a moment to collect myself before I completely lost it on a public street.
“He’s such an ass, Dad,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Rhett Voss is a complete and total asshole. I don’t know why I ever thought he was anything different.”
“Whoa, slow down.” Dad’s voice took on that patient, gentle tone he used when one of us kids was spiraling. “What happened? Did he do something to you?”
“He’s just—” I struggled to find the words that would capture the depth of my frustration without revealing the complicated mess I’d gotten myself into.
“He’s moody and unpredictable, and he’s a bully in the kitchen.
He never says anything nice about anyone’s work, never gives credit where it’s due.
He’s completely incapable of saying a single positive thing unless there are cameras rolling and he’s performing for an audience. ”
I was pacing now in the small doorway, my free hand gesturing wildly even though Dad couldn’t see me. The words kept coming. All the frustration and hurt I’d been bottling up since Vegas poured out in an unstoppable stream.
“I thought he was different, you know? I thought maybe underneath all the celebrity chef nonsense, there was actually a decent person who cared about teaching and mentoring. But I was so wrong, Dad. He’s exactly what everyone says he is, an egomaniacal perfectionist who gets off on making other people feel small. ”
“What do you mean you thought he was different?” Dad’s voice was careful, probing gently in that way parents do when they sense there was more to the story than their child was telling them.
My stomach dropped. I couldn’t exactly explain that my impression of Rhett being “different” was based on the way he’d kissed me in that hotel hot tub. That wasn’t a conversation I was prepared to have with my father under any circumstances.
“Erm.” I grasped for something plausible, something that would explain my disappointment without revealing the whole mortifying truth.
“At the beginning of the tour, I thought we were becoming friends. He seemed to respect my work, you know? He actually listened when I had ideas, and there were these moments where I thought he saw potential in me.”
The lie felt bitter in my mouth, but it was close enough to the truth to be believable. There had been moments, especially early on, where I felt like we had a connection that went beyond the typical chef-student dynamic.
“But tonight, he just tore me apart in the kitchen for no reason,” I continued, building on the half-truth.
“And then during the press interviews, he took full credit for something I created. Something I improvised on the spot when one of the other students screwed up a crucial component of the dessert course. I saved the entire service, Dad, and he stood up there and talked about ‘his creative vision’ like he planned it all along.”
The anger in my voice was real now, cutting through the hurt and disappointment. That part, at least, I didn’t have to fake.
“Oh, honey.” Dad’s voice was soft with sympathy. “I know that stings. I know it feels personal and unfair.”
“It is unfair!” I protested. “I worked my ass off to create something beautiful under impossible pressure, and he just erased me completely. Like I was invisible, like my contribution didn’t matter at all.”
“You’re right,” Dad said, surprising me.
“It is unfair. And I’m sorry you had to experience that, especially so publicly.
But sweetheart, I need you to understand something—every great chef has lost credit for something they created.
It’s an ugly part of this business, but it’s not personal.
You’re there to make the head chef look good. ”
I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t been watching him operate for the past few weeks. This wasn’t some oversight or kitchen hierarchy thing. This was deliberate.”
“Maybe,” Dad conceded. “But consider this—Rhett is juggling an enormous amount of pressure with this tour. Multiple cities, high-profile events, teaching responsibilities, media obligations. He’s probably running on fumes and functioning in pure survival mode.
It’s possible he didn’t do it on purpose. ”
“Dad, you didn’t see him—”
“I’m not saying it was right,” he interrupted gently. “I’m just saying that sometimes when people are overwhelmed, they make choices they wouldn’t normally make. They take shortcuts or claim credit they shouldn’t because they’re too exhausted to think clearly about the consequences.”
I wanted to argue, to insist that exhaustion didn’t excuse cruelty, but something in Dad’s tone made me pause.
He wasn’t just offering platitudes. He was speaking from experience, sharing wisdom earned through decades in professional kitchens.
He probably inadvertently took credit for work he didn’t create, too.
“The restaurant business is brutal, Clem. You know that. It chews people up and spits them out, and sometimes even the good ones get twisted by the pressure. That doesn’t make it okay, but it might help explain why someone you thought you could trust would disappoint you.”
I leaned against the coffee shop’s window, feeling some of the fight go out of me. Dad always had this way of reframing things that made my problems feel less catastrophic, more manageable.
“I just thought he was better than that,” I admitted quietly.
“Maybe he is. Maybe this was him at his worst, not his truest self. People are complicated, sweetheart. Even the ones who seem larger than life.”
We were quiet for a moment. I could hear the familiar sounds of home in the background. The television murmuring from the living room, the distant clatter of dishes being put away in the kitchen. It made my chest ache with longing.
“You know what?” Dad said. “I’ve been dying to tell someone about Henry’s game tonight. You should have seen your little brother out there, Clem. Three touchdowns in the first half!”
Despite everything, I felt myself smile for the first time all evening. “Three? Seriously?”
“I’m telling you, the kid was unstoppable. Coach moved him to running back for this game, and he just took off like a rocket. Your mom was screaming so loud I think she scared the other team’s parents.”
I laughed. “I can picture it perfectly. Was she doing the thing where she jumps up and down and claps her hands like a seal?”
“Oh yeah, the full performance. She nearly knocked over a couple people. Then spent ten minutes apologizing and explaining that her baby boy was having the game of his life.”
The mental image was so vivid I could see it. Dad would have been more contained but no less proud, standing with his hands in his pockets and that satisfied grin he got whenever one of his kids succeeded at something they’d worked hard for.
“I wish I could have been there,” I said. The homesickness hit me like a physical blow. “I should have been in the stands with my ridiculous air horn, embarrassing him in front of whatever girl he has a crush on these days.”
“Jenny Morrison,” Dad supplied helpfully. “Blonde ponytail, on the JV cheerleading squad. He turns bright red every time she says hi to him in the hallway.”
“Jenny Morrison!” I exclaimed. “She must be what, a sophomore now?”
“Yeah, and apparently no longer has braces. Jake’s been casually asking about her favorite candy for the past two weeks, trying to work up the courage to buy her something.”
The sweetness of it made my heart squeeze. My little brother was growing up into someone who got nervous around pretty girls and scored touchdowns and made our parents cheer until their voices gave out.
“I miss so much being away,” I said softly.
“I know, sweetheart. We miss you too. But you know what? You’ll be home in just a few weeks for Thanksgiving, and we’ll all be there for the grand opening of the new soup kitchen.”
The soup kitchen had been Dad’s pet project for the past two years—his way of giving back to the community that had supported our family’s restaurant for so long.
He’d been working with the city and several local organizations to renovate an old building downtown, turning it into a proper community kitchen that could serve hundreds of meals a day to anyone who needed them.
“How’s it coming along?” I asked, letting myself get distracted by something positive.
“Better than I hoped,” Dad said. I could hear the excitement in his voice.
“Yeah?”
“The whole building is coming together beautifully,” Dad continued. “Fresh paint, new flooring, proper ventilation systems. It’s going to be everything I dreamed it could be. I can’t wait for you to see it. I know you’re going to love it.”
I had no doubt I would. The soup kitchen represented everything I admired about my father.
Everyone would get to see his generosity and his belief that food was about more than just profit or prestige.
He believed a good meal could change someone’s entire day.
It was the kind of project that reminded me why I’d fallen in love with cooking in the first place.
We talked for another few minutes about logistics and timelines, and by the time I finally hung up, I felt lighter than I had all evening. Not completely better, but somewhat. The hurt and anger from my confrontation with Rhett was still there, but not nearly as heavy.
Dad had reminded me there was a whole life waiting for me beyond this tour, beyond Rhett’s approval or disapproval.
The hotel lobby was nearly empty when I walked through the automatic doors, just a few guests sitting in the bar area and the night desk clerk reading a paperback novel behind the reception counter. I headed for the elevators, already thinking about a hot shower and maybe ordering room service.
I was almost to the elevators when I heard voices from the hallway that led to the guest rooms. Familiar voices, one of them slurred and stumbling, the other tense with frustration.
“Come on, Conroy, work with me here. Just a few more steps.”
I paused, recognizing Rhett’s voice. He sounded irritated.
Curiosity got the better of me. I peered around the corner to see him half-carrying, half-dragging Conroy toward the elevators.
Conroy was clearly drunk as a skunk. He had that loose-limbed stumble that made him look like a marionette with cut strings.
“I’m fine,” Conroy was insisting, his words sliding together in a way that suggested he was anything but fine. “Perfectly capable of walking by myself.”
“Sure you are,” Rhett muttered, adjusting his grip on Conroy’s arm as the other man swayed dangerously to the left. “That’s why you tried to tip the cab driver with your room key and asked him to drive you to ‘wherever the bourbon lives.’”
I found myself almost smiling at the scene. Rhett looked like he was wrestling with a particularly uncooperative scarecrow.
They were making slow progress down the hallway, Conroy stopping every few steps to gesture emphatically at something. I should have just gone to my room, pretended I hadn’t seen anything, avoided any interaction that might reignite the emotions I had finally got under control.
Rhett looked up and saw me. “Can you give me a hand here?”
“It looks like you have it handled,” I said, the words coming out cool. “Goodnight.”
The elevator doors slid closed, and I left him to finish dragging Conroy to their own elevator.
I felt a little guilty, but just because he was taking care of his drunk friend didn’t erase what had happened in that storage tent. It didn’t make his cruel words any less cutting.