Chapter One How It Started
“Okay, they do make you buy their knife roll and chef’s whites instead of a generic brand or bringing your own knives from home, but that’s not a problem. We can definitely afford it.” Claire Langdon spoke from behind her laptop, perched on the wide leather loveseat in her father’s office.
Luke Langdon of Double L Investing looked up from his quarterly projections with a deep frown on his thin face. “But you graduated with your business degree already.”
Claire laughed, an exhausted, mirthless sound.
“Well, I had to, didn’t I? That was the deal.
If I wanted to go to culinary school, you needed to see that I wouldn’t be just another ‘hopeless restaurant flop.’ I had to have the business brain to make it a success.
” Claire shut her laptop and swiveled her wide hips and pumpkin-shaped rear out of the loveseat that threatened to swallow her.
“Half the people I fired last year had a degree. A master’s.” Her father bent his head over the manila folder in his hand again, scribbling something in red.
Claire silently counted to ten. Maybe you shouldn't have fired them, then, she wanted to snap. It didn’t pay to snap at her father, a wealthy investment portfolio consultant who handled millions every day and thought he was God’s banker. “That was the deal. I got a business degree.”
Don’t get mad. Don’t get emotional. Her father mocked emotions—which was one reason she would rather indulge in her preferred form of therapy—baking.
“Now prove that you actually learned something. Come and work for me for two years, and then we’ll see if you want to go play in the kitchen.
Trust me, when you make a yearly salary that most restaurateurs will never see in their lifetime, especially with Manhattan rents—you’ll be happy you listened to Daddy.
” Langdon closed his folder and slid it into a dark, monogrammed leather briefcase. “I’ve got to run.”
Claire sprang up, refusing to move out of the doorway her father was approaching.
“I don’t need to make it in Manhattan. And I don’t want to open a restaurant, I want to open a bakery.
Maybe it’ll have tables for customers, but that won’t be the main income.
I can do catering, high-end pastry, and dessert trays. I want to start small—and affordable.”
Her father’s eyes raked down her form, several inches shorter than his and quite a bit wider. “You mean trashy and cheap. You haven’t learned a thing from me. You’re in my office—dressed like that. We call that dressing for failure.”
Claire looked down at her outfit. Her jeans hugged her double-XL curves, and her umber tunic-length sweater hung low enough to cover the thick pouch belly she was self-conscious about.
Her brown chunky suede ankle boots were comfortable and ungodly expensive, the only concession she made to power dressing—and even they weren’t up to her father’s standard.
“What do you want me to wear? A power suit just to pay a visit to your ‘temple’?” She waved a mocking hand around the charcoal and white office that was devoid of decorations or personal pictures.
It was a mistake to mess with her father, something she’d learned early on. But that hadn’t stopped her from continuing to plot and plan for the day when she’d be out from under his thumb and financially independent.
Today was supposed to be the start of that. Today was the day he was supposed to write the check to the Culinary Institute of Manhattan, Main Campus. She’d already been accepted. She’d already played by her father’s rules.
Perhaps if she’d been subservient, or even a little more artful, her father would have negotiated. But with her show of defiance and her mockery of his glacial monument to money, his anger was calling the shots.
“This ‘temple’ has provided very nicely for you kids and your mother. It paid for your education and your brother’s education. You don’t hear Jay complaining.”
“Jay wouldn’t dare, even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to! You’ve taught him that as long as he has a lot of money and can afford to take his wife and kids on big, splashy vacations three times a year, he’s got it made.”
Her father didn’t smile. “He was the smart one. He learned.”
Claire swallowed. Jay was smart, but not smarter than her. He was more obedient, less independent—and happier. But, didn’t they say ignorance was bliss? “Daddy, face it. Investing money and banking don’t make me happy. Baking and cooking make me happy.”
Langdon snorted. “That idea that a job should make you happy is a fallacy. A job should make you wealthy and secure. Or at least comfortable. A job should give you standing in the community. Can you imagine what my clients would think if they found out you owned a cake stand?”
Claire pretended to swoon in shock, hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. “Oh, they’d be shocked! They’d wonder why I wasn’t in rehab or at the spa like all the other little princesses,” she spat.
“Maybe you could use some time at rehab—if that’s what they call it these days. Don’t be so high and mighty just because your drug of choice is sugar.”
Claire balled her fists and raised her round chin high.
Since her mother’s death when she was sixteen, her father had constantly tried to mold her into something more svelte and conventionally attractive, something that would compare to the trophy wives and girlfriends that were paraded around at business dinners.
That included trying to shame her into attending fat camp, while also moaning about how much it would cost to send her.
“Maybe I eat my feelings more than I should because there’s no other outlet! God knows I can’t talk to my father!”
That did it. Claire could see the anger in him boil over.
His lined, hard face turned a burst-berry red.
“The only check you’ll ever see from me is from a salary you’ve earned.
And since my ‘temple’ means so little to you, I’ll be happy to start you off at a receptionist position in a branch office, making thirty thousand a year!
Good luck making rent in this city with that kind of money!
Or did you expect to keep living in the penthouse with Daddy and have him take care of that little problem, too? ”
For a second, Claire was speechless. Then she drew herself up to her full five foot, three-inch height and gave her father the same kind of look he had been giving her. Disdainful. Contemptuous. Downright finished. “I quit.”
Her father laughed and then stopped to sneer, “You didn't even take a job yet, pumpkin.”
“I quit this.” Claire stamped her foot and gestured to the room around her.
“I quit all of this! I’m done being under your thumb.
I quit being one of your investments. I'm only useful to you as a future employee.
You only paid for my education because you were sure that you'd reap the benefits. It had nothing to do with me being prepared to run my own restaurant or bakery. It had nothing to do with being a parent who makes sure that their child succeeds and develops their own dreams and personality. It had nothing to do with watching your kids become independent.”
You're a fine one to talk about independence! I paid for your degree, and now you want me to pay for the next one!”
“I won't make that mistake again.” Claire swallowed. “I don’t need you to pay. I don't need you to put a roof over my head, either.”
Langdon’s sneer vanished. Something cold and dead traveled from his eyes across his face. “Well then, I guess I'll be seeing you on Skid Row.”
“I don't think you'll be seeing me at all, Dad.” Claire gave him a pitying look. “If you ever decide that we can have a relationship that's not based on money, give me a call. I’ll give your secretary my new number.”
“You’ll be back in a week!’
She didn’t look back.