Chapter 7
NOEL
We were all sitting around, eating pie, when a knock came at the door. Hopper jumped, looking uncomfortable. “Probably my dad. I’ll get it. If, uh, if it’s too late—”
“Nonsense, honey,” my mom said. “Invite him in.”
Strangely, Hopper cast me an uneasy glance.
Was I really such an asshole that he expected me to turn away his dad on Thanksgiving?
Until Mom told me, I’d had no idea Hopper’s family had fallen apart.
I knew they’d lost the farm when his mom got sick—but she must have died after I left for culinary school.
“The more, the merrier,” I said lightly. “We have enough food to feed an army.”
Hopper smiled tightly and pushed away from the table. “Okay, then.”
He went to the door and opened it, and a moment later, an older version of Hopper entered the room.
Oy. This version had been living rough. He was tall and broad, just like his son, but he hunched forward, as if there were an invisible weight across his shoulders.
His hair was a lighter, washed-out color, threaded through with gray, his beard scraggly and unkempt.
His cheeks and nose were flushed red, eyes glazed with a sure sign that he’d enjoyed quite a few alcoholic beverages for the holiday.
“Come sit down,” Hopper said gruffly. “I’ll get you a plate of food. Geez, Dad, did you drive over here?”
His dad waved a hand. “Nah, ole Gerald brought me over. We watched the game together earlier and had a few beers.”
Judging by his dad’s unsteady gait, it was more than just a few beers. But at least he hadn’t driven.
Mr. Kelly sat down heavily and looked around the table. “Mighty nice of ya to feed us bums.” He gave a rusty laugh.
I smiled. “From what I’ve seen, Hopper works pretty hard.”
“Oh, sure, sure. He loves it over here.” He cast a baleful look at Hopper, who’d gone to the kitchen to plate up some leftovers. “Can’t spare a minute for his old man, though.”
Mom made a pained noise. “He loves you, Richard.”
He blew out a breath, grumbling, “Dunno why. Not much to love.”
All this was painting Hopper’s insertion into my family’s life in a different light. Was it possible he wasn’t after their business or their money but just a proper home?
“I’ll go help Hopper.”
I stood up, and Richard blinked at me in confusion. “Who are you?”
“Uh, I’m Noel.”
“Our son, Richard,” my dad said, sounding exasperated. “You knew we had a son, too.”
“Oh. Huh. Never seen him around before.”
Out of the mouths of old drunks. Richard wasn’t wrong, though. I’d been away a long time, and even before that, my visits had been sporadic. I hadn’t enjoyed revisiting memories of my difficult years at Riverton High, and as a result, I’d started avoiding my home. My parents.
It hadn’t been fair to them.
Hopper was closing up a plastic container as I entered.
“I’m just giving him some of the backup food,” he said when he saw me. “Your other stuff is too good to waste on him.”
“He’s your dad,” I said gently. “You can give him whatever you like.”
He shook his head, jaw clenching. I could see he was struggling to hide his emotions. My heart thawed a few degrees. Maybe Hopper was a decent guy going through a hard time, and I’d ascribed some untrue motives to him.
I moved in beside him, opening the container of stuffing and adding it to the plate he was fixing for his dad while he spooned out sweet potatoes. “Listen, Hop—”
“I was wrong about you,” he said abruptly.
“What?”
Wrong about me?
“You’re a gifted chef. I always thought you should have stayed here. Cooked somewhere in town. But I see now…” He shook his head. “You’re better than anything we’ve got around here.”
His eyes met mine, and a frisson of shock went through me. Was that…
Hopper was straight, right? There was a look in his eye that made me think of the hookups I’d met in bars. A look of appreciation and…longing.
But it was probably just for my food, right? A guy like Hopper loved a good meal.
I shook off the strange tingle down my spine. That I was attracted to Hopper was a no-brainer. He was everything I liked in a man: big, strong, ruggedly handsome.
Assuming he was willing to kneel for me. Beg for me. Take whatever I wanted to give him.
I didn’t yet know if Hopper was that kind of man.
But he was straight, so it was a moot point, anyway.
Probably for the best. I was only here for a few days.
I wanted to make sure my parents could handle the farm, make sure Dad was really recovering okay, and then head back to Chicago.
I’d have to figure out what to do about my failed career.
Hell, maybe Hopper had the right idea, and I should start over somewhere more humble.
I’d be a smash hit in Granville or Riverton—hell, even Omaha—but in Chicago, I had already burned through a lot of bridges.
Still, that felt an awful lot like giving up. I hated the idea of quitting on my city. It was too close to failing for my tastes.
Hopper put the plate in the microwave and started reheating it. He cast me a curious look. “Something I said?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “I didn’t only leave here because I wanted to be a chef, you know.”
He considered that. Nodded. “High school wasn’t easy on you.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I tried to help, but—”
“I couldn’t let you,” I said brusquely. “It would have made everything worse. Like I needed a protector. Would have made you a target, too, maybe. More likely, they’d have convinced you to torment me, as well. To prove you were the all-American jock they needed you to be.”
“I wouldn’t have done that,” Hopper said flatly. “I might not have known—”
“Where’s that food?” his dad bellowed from the dining room. “I’m starving!”
Hopper swore under his breath and pulled the plate out of the microwave. “To be continued,” he muttered.
I followed him back to the dining room and retook my seat, wondering just what Hopper hadn’t known back then. Maybe he just didn’t know how bad it was for me or how other people would react to him helping. It wouldn’t be what I was hoping he was about to say.
I may not have known I was gay.
Yeah, that was about as likely as Hopper confessing he was hot for me and begging me to take him apart.
I cut a bite of pumpkin pie and slipped it into my mouth. A lot of people liked to get fancy with their pies. Chocolate-pecan, or pumpkin-chocolate swirl, or raspberry-rhubarb, and so on. But there was something to be said for the purity of a classic, especially when done right.
The blend of pumpkin and spices was a savory delight. I took my time finishing my plate, sipping my cooling coffee, and watching Hopper’s dad put away mounds of mashed potatoes and stuffing. At least he’d brought his appetite.
Mom and Dad tried to make small talk about town, about the tree farm, about Richard’s job. It wasn’t going too well.
“Got fired at the lumberyard,” Richard said. “Bunch of judgmental assholes.”
Hopper sighed. “So, how are you paying rent?”
“Not sure yet.” His dad looked at him. “You could come home and rent your old room.”
“Oh, it’s so busy this time of year,” Mom said. “Ed’s still recovering from surgery.”
Richard flailed a hand toward me. “Your son is here now.”
“Just for a few days,” I said. “I live in Chicago.”
He grunted. “Figures.”
I wasn’t really sure what he meant. Hopper sighed. “I can help you with rent this month. We can talk more about it later. Let’s just enjoy Thanksgiving, okay? Noel worked hard on all this food.”
“Is that why it all tastes different?” Richard said. “I thought Maggie was pulling one over on me.”
My mom laughed good-naturedly. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Noel’s a chef in Chicago,” Hopper added.
He sounded just as impressed as he had in the kitchen.
It wasn’t like I needed Hopper to tell me I was good at what I did. I had diners, sous chefs, and food critics to tell me that over the years.
My stupid heart warmed anyway.
I hadn’t come here to get all sappy about the farm boy next door, though. I needed to remember that regardless of Hopper’s relationship with his dad—or his compliments to the chef—that he was still the guy who’d moved in and taken my place while I was gone.