8. Pepper
EIGHT
PEPPER
I stepped into Ravello’s, the warm amber lighting washing over me like a dream. The restaurant sat perched on a hillside overlooking the Tennessee River, just far enough from home that nobody from Huckleberry Creek would accidentally spot us together. Smart move on Rhett’s part.
“Reservation for MacAvoy,” Rhett said to the hostess, his voice still carrying that slight gravel that always did things to my insides.
My ex-husband’s hand rested on the small of my back as we followed the hostess through the dining room. That simple touch burned through the fabric of my dress, reminding me of all the times those same hands had?—
Nope. Not going there.
“This is perfect.” I took in the white tablecloths, crystal glasses, and the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the twinkling lights reflecting off the water. “I’ve wanted to try this place forever.”
“I know.” The corner of Rhett’s mouth lifted in that half-smile I’d fallen for back when we were teenagers. “You kept that Cuisine of the South magazine with their feature on the chef for months.”
He remembered that? I’d mentioned it once, maybe twice, years ago.
The hostess stopped at a secluded corner table with a spectacular view. Rhett pulled out my chair, his fingers brushing my bare shoulders as I sat down. I suppressed a shiver.
“Your server will be right with you,” the hostess said, leaving us alone.
I fidgeted with my napkin, suddenly feeling like that nervous ninth-grader again, sitting across from the cutest boy in school at the Dairy Queen.
Rhett’s dark eyes fixed on me. “You look beautiful tonight, Pep.”
“Thanks.” I took a sip of water, needing something to do with my hands. “You clean up nice yourself.”
The candlelight softened the new lines around his eyes, highlighting those ridiculous cheekbones that had only gotten more defined with age. He’d filled out since high school, all hard angles and strength. I’d been around for that through the early years of his firefighting career. But there was something different now—a weariness that hadn’t been there before.
“How’s your shoulder?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Rhett rotated his shoulder in a slow circle. “Getting better every day. Most of my range of motion’s back, but doc says it’ll be a few weeks before I’m cleared for duty.”
I nodded, understanding what those words cost him. Rhett without something to do was like a caged tiger—all restless energy with nowhere to go. It had been that way since we were kids. Even during movie nights, he’d be folding laundry or doing push-ups during the slow parts.
“That’s got to be tough,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “You never were good at sitting still.”
“Tell me about it.” He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m going stir-crazy already.”
The server arrived to take our drink orders, giving us both a moment to breathe. Then he left again, and we sat in a few moments of awkward silence.
“So, what are you doing with yourself these days?” I immediately regretted the question. Asking about his days would mean hearing about his life now—a life I wasn’t part of. It would mean learning if there was someone else cooking him dinner, someone else’s name in his phone contacts. I wasn’t ready for that.
“Oh, you know,” he said vaguely. “This and that.”
I didn’t push.
We fell silent as we studied our menus, the conversation hovering in that polite space between strangers and people who once knew every inch of each other’s bodies. No talk of the past. No mention of the future. Just two people sharing a meal, pretending we hadn’t once shared everything.
“What are you going to get?” I kept my eyes fixed on the menu. Food was safe territory. We both spoke that language fluently, even when every other conversation felt like navigating a minefield.
Rhett studied the menu, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m thinking the blackened redfish with crawfish étouffée.” He glanced up. “Though I bet you’re eyeing the truffle and wild mushroom risotto with the herb-crusted lamb. Chef Gianni’s signature dish.”
I blinked, lowering my menu. That was exactly what I’d been considering.
“How did you know that?”
“You sent that feature on him from Southern Gourmet in one of your letters on my last deployment.” He paused. “Well, the one before this last one. You said it was somewhere you wanted to try when I got home, because the combination of earthy and savory was your idea of culinary heaven.”
It had been one of the ways I’d tried to keep his spirits up while we’d been apart. Giving us both something to look forward to when he came home. Except we’d never taken any of those trips, never visited any of the restaurants. We’d always put things off for “someday.”
I supposed, in a way, someday had finally come.
“I can’t believe you remember that.” My voice came out quieter than I intended. “That was years ago.”
Rhett shrugged, but I caught the slight wince as his injured shoulder protested. “Some things stick with you.”
I took a sip of water, needing a moment. Back then, we’d still been married. Still thought we had all the time in the world.
“I didn’t think you paid attention to stuff like that,” I admitted.
“I paid attention to everything about you.” His eyes held mine, steady and sincere. “Even when you thought I didn’t.”
The server returned with our wine, breaking the moment. I was grateful for the interruption, for the chance to collect myself. Because hearing Rhett say that—knowing he’d carried these tiny details about me through years and distance—made something dangerous flutter in my chest.
With an expectant look, the server held his pen above the notepad. “Are you ready to order?”
We made our choices and handed back the menus. As he walked away, an awkward silence settled between us again. I fiddled with my wineglass, trying to think of something—anything—to say that wouldn’t lead us into dangerous territory.
Rhett cleared his throat. “So, I heard about that food critic who came through town a few months back. Austen said you practically threw him out of Kiss My Grits.”
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. “I did not throw him out! I just... strongly suggested he might be more comfortable dining elsewhere.”
“After he asked if your biscuits came from a can?”
“The audacity!” I threw my hands up. “Twenty years of perfecting my grandmother’s recipe, and this Yankee with his fancy pen and his fancy website has the nerve to ask if I use Pillsbury!”
Rhett’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. “I’m surprised you didn’t chase him down Main Street with your rolling pin.”
“I considered it,” I admitted, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. “But Mabel talked me down. Said it wouldn’t look good for business.”
“Mabel always was the voice of reason.”
“She still is. Keeps me from going off the deep end at least once a week.” I took a sip of wine. “Last week, she stopped me from adding ghost peppers to the breakfast special after Mrs. Hornsby complained my grits were bland.”
Rhett threw his head back and laughed that full-bodied laugh I hadn’t heard in so long. “Mrs. Hornsby still hasn’t learned, has she? Remember when she said your peach cobbler needed more sugar?”
“And I sent her home with that special batch just for her?” I grinned. “Her face turned so red I thought she was going to spontaneously combust right there in the diner.”
“You always did have a vengeful streak when it came to your cooking.”
“It’s not vengeful, it’s educational,” I corrected primly, fighting a smile. “I’m simply teaching people to appreciate proper seasoning.”
“By setting their taste buds on fire?”
“If necessary.”
We fell into our old rhythm, the years of separation melting away as we traded stories back and forth. For a moment, it was just us again—the way we used to be before life got complicated.
“Oh, and then there was the great Huckleberry Creek Chicken Incident.” I leaned forward as the server cleared our appetizer plates. “You missed that whole fiasco.”
Rhett raised an eyebrow. “Chicken incident?”
“So Mayor Wilson decided the town needed more ‘rural charm’ for the tourism brochures.” I rolled my eyes. “He bought twenty chickens and set them loose in the town square for a photoshoot.”
“He did what now?” Rhett’s eyes widened.
“Oh yeah. Professional photographer, the whole nine yards. Except nobody told him that chickens don’t just pose nicely.” I took a sip of wine, warming to my story. “Those birds scattered faster than teenagers at a busted party. Three ended up in the fountain. One got into the library—your mom nearly had a heart attack when it started pecking at the rare books display.”
Rhett’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Please tell me someone got this on video.”
“Are you kidding? It was the most viewed post on the Huckleberry Creek community page for months. Your dad was out there with his net, trying to wrangle them while still in his uniform. Chief of Police, chasing chickens down Main Street.”
“Dad never mentioned this in any of our calls,” Rhett said, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Would you? Your mom got the whole thing on her phone. She calls it ‘Jim’s Finest Hour.’”
We both dissolved into laughter again. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed this hard—especially with Rhett. Something warm and familiar unfurled in my chest as I watched him across the table, his face lit with genuine amusement.
“I missed this,” I admitted before I could stop myself. “Talking to you. Laughing with you.”
The words hung between us, more honest than I’d meant to be. But it was true. For all our problems, conversation had never been one of them. We’d always been able to talk for hours, about everything and nothing.
Rhett’s smile softened. “I missed it too, Pep.”
I should have felt panic at the intimacy of the moment, should have changed the subject or put up those walls I’d spent years building. Instead, I found myself relaxing into it, savoring the easy back-and-forth we’d always had.
“I’m really glad you made it home okay—shoulder notwithstanding.”
Those deep, dark eyes warmed. “Me, too.”
The server appeared again, breaking the intimacy of the moment. I sat back in my chair, telling myself it was for the best. Before I let nostalgia drag me down a dangerous path.
“Will y’all be having dessert this evening?”
Rhett’s smile dialed up to a grin. “I think dessert is an absolute necessity. What do you think? Crème br?lée and the bourbon pecan pie?”
“Well, who can say no to that?”