Chapter 15 Jessiah
Helena Weston appearing at my door was not on my bingo card for that evening, Or ever, in fact. It was such an unlikely turn of events that I couldn’t help but stare at her, until she asked if I had a minute. And her apology was just as much of a surprise. As was my response.
I had no idea why, when I looked at Helena now, my anger toward Valerie all but guttered out; why I felt the need to apologize because I didn’t want to cause her pain.
Well… I had some idea. But it was better not to look it in the eye.
Like I’d said, our families hated each other, and my mother’s earlier visit was a blatant reminder of that.
How was this supposed to end—except in all-out war?
And yet I couldn’t bring myself to stay away from Helena, couldn’t tell her it would be better for us both if she left.
Instead, I put a bowl of pasta in front of her and watched in secret satisfaction as she took off her leather jacket and sat down at the breakfast bar.
Smiling, she picked up the fork I’d gotten from the drawer, immediately speared a piece of pasta on the end of it, and put it in her mouth.
“God, that’s good.” An indulgent sound escaped her lips, sending the kind of shock wave through my body only she could, apparently. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
I had to laugh at her enthusiasm. “You make it sound like I served you an entire tasting menu. It’s just pasta.”
“This is not just pasta.” Helena shook her head vehemently. “I don’t think I’ve tasted something this good in a long time.”
“Well, you’ve been living in England, so that’s not much of a compliment.” I grinned. The Brits weren’t exactly known for their culinary excellence. Although I guessed we weren’t so good in the States, either.
“True, but I’ve been back a while now, and we have an excellent cook at home. So tell me—where did you learn?”
“Everywhere and nowhere.” I shrugged, serving myself a portion and taking a seat on the corner across from her. “My father used to take me to his restaurants; I picked some up stuff there.”
Helena looked down at her plate. “I’m sorry about your dad. I heard he died a few years ago.”
“Thanks.” I gave a half smile. “But if you keep saying you’re sorry, I might get used to it.”
“I can think of worse things,” she said breezily, taking another forkful of pasta. “So… you learned just by watching?”
“Not just. I taught myself most of it.”
She gave me a look that wasn’t so much patronizing—as I’d have expected from a Weston—as admiring. “Maybe we should hire you as our cook,” she quipped.
“Yeah, I’m sure your parents would love that.” I snorted in amusement. Then, more seriously, “Do they know you’re here?”
Helena raised an eyebrow. “No, of course not. If they knew, I think I’d be on a plane back to England by the end of the day.”
“So it wasn’t your idea to move there, I guess?”
Helena took another bite and seemed to hesitate for a moment before she replied. “It was not. If I’d had my choice, I would have stayed in New York. But nobody asked me what I wanted.”
“Was it hard for you to have to leave?” It was only after I’d said it that I realized it might have been an overstep to ask such a personal question, but I didn’t backpedal. I never did.
Helena looked up, and I registered surprise in her blue eyes—not at the question, but because she seemed to sense that I was genuinely interested.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “New York is… it’s like my sanctuary, my safe haven, and my parents took that away from me because they wanted to protect me.
What I wanted was never up for debate.” She gave a small shake of her head and then looked at me as if she’d just remembered who she was speaking to.
“I guess I’m the opposite of you in that respect,” she said quickly, picking up her fork again.
“Me?” I inquired.
“Yeah. I heard you’re not a fan of the city.” She smiled slightly.
“That’s the understatement of the century,” I scoffed. My hatred for New York was an open secret; I wasn’t surprised Helena knew about it. It might even have been Adam who’d told her.
“So how come you’re here?” she asked bluntly. “You said your life was in Australia—can’t you go back there?”
I hesitated before I replied. It still felt too risky for me to explain my family circumstances to a Weston. So I kept it vague.
“There are people here who need me.”
Helena gave me a knowing look, as if she knew who I was talking about, but didn’t inquire further. “Okay, I get it. But what I don’t understand is what you have against New York. I can totally see why you might prefer Australia, especially in winter, but… this is your home.”
“I was born and raised here, but that doesn’t make it my home.” The pushback didn’t exactly trip off the tongue—I might have told Helena about what had caused my outburst on camera, but it was something else to share my feelings about New York City with her. Why I felt so suffocated here.
She let her fork rest in her bowl for a moment. “So there’s nothing you like about it? Nothing at all? What about the Chrysler Building, or the High Line… or Little Italy? Everyone loves Little Italy. There must be something you don’t hate.”
“The airport is great,” I quipped, grinning as she rolled her eyes.
“I mean, there are a few places—some of my restaurants, this apartment, Rockaway Beach in summer. But I hate everything that makes New York what it is. The proximity, the traffic, the pace, the lack of friendliness. And the weather, obviously. Don’t tell me you love the weather too. ”
“As you’ve correctly identified, I was in England for over two years.
” Helena laughed, and my stomach gave a pleasant lurch.
“As far as weather is concerned, anywhere is better than that place.” She turned serious again and regarded me thoughtfully.
“Isn’t it crazy? You didn’t want to come back; I didn’t want to leave.
If we’d just swapped, everything would have been okay. ”
I nodded. “Seems like we’re both destined not to get what we want.”
She smiled sadly, and there was so much vulnerability in that simple gesture that I wanted to walk around the kitchen counter and take her in my arms. Not because I thought she was weak.
But because she was strong enough not to hide how she felt.
Helena awoke something in me that I couldn’t explain or even describe.
And in that moment, our eyes locked, and I knew I wasn’t alone.
What are you doing to me? I thought. From the first moment I saw her, she’d drawn me under her spell.
Had it been the same for my brother with Valerie?
Is that why Adam had thrown all caution to the wind, because he thought she was worth sacrificing everything for?
I wasn’t sure. But I suddenly thought I knew the meaning of the phrase “against all reason.”
I wanted to say something, but just then the moment was interrupted by a loud noise—the doorbell. I excused myself, getting up from my barstool and crossing to the entry phone to use the intercom for a change.
“Yes?”
“Hello?” I heard a woman’s voice. “Is yours the black pickup parked outside the Thai takeout? One of your neighbors told me it belonged to you.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Is there something wrong?”
“That depends. Maybe it’d be best if you could come take a quick look.”
“I’m on my way.” I glanced at Helena, who was sitting at the counter looking quizzical. “I have to go downstairs for a sec; something’s up with my truck. Help yourself to more pasta if you want. I’ll be back in a minute.”
I slipped on my shoes and left the apartment. But as I made my way downstairs, I wasn’t thinking about what could be wrong with my car—I was thinking about Helena. About how it suddenly seemed as though the vibe had shifted between us. And about how much I wanted that to continue.
Even though I knew, without a doubt, that it was a terrible idea.