Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Ford walked Miles to the door, feeling lighter than he had all week, then like a hot air balloon when he returned to his office and found Colby’s luggage there.
He darted back out, looking all over for her, but she, unlike her bag, was nowhere to be found, even though Miller and others in the kitchen had seen her earlier.
His calls to her went unanswered.
His Where are you? text too, until he was halfway to her house.
Ate something bad, her reply read.
I’m headed over with your luggage.
You shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.
For what? he was typing out when another text from her appeared.
Thank you. Just leave it by the door.
He got as much as a Colby sent before she texted, You don’t want to see me like this.
Wrong. He wanted to see her in any way, shape, or form.
The last week and a half without her smile, her laugh, her teasing had been more miserable than even the lonely days at the end of his and Josh’s relationship.
As he’d told Miles earlier, he’d loved Josh, had intended to spend his life with him, but those two weeks with Colby before she left, the months in her presence since he’d arrived at Chess, had shown him how much of himself he’d kept hidden in his prior marriage.
Tonight, though, Colby seemed determined to hide from him. No response to his I’m here text when he pulled into the drive. Ditto when he knocked on her door, despite her bedroom light being on upstairs.
He left the bag by the door like she’d asked, then sat in his car, staring up at her window. Are you okay??
I’ll be fine. Please go enjoy your night. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Worry ratcheted higher, and he was about to get out and give knocking another try when the light upstairs went off. A second later, his phone rang with a call from Griff, no doubt to finalize plans for the weekend ahead.
Fuck.
Please call me if you need anything, he texted Colby a final time before pulling out of the driveway and dialing his nephew back.
He would see Colby tomorrow.
Except he didn’t.
She called out sick Saturday and Sunday and didn’t make it in for Monday prep either.
Between cross-country travel and pushing herself to the brink, he wasn’t surprised her body had said nope.
But when she’d been sick this past winter, she’d wanted Ford’s company.
He’d dropped off food for her, live-watched movies together, and talked recipes for hours.
This time, her only contact had been with Clancy, a short video visit to get a diagnosis and prescription.
Something was wrong. More than just whatever bug had taken her out of commission.
Ford knew it in his gut, which had been a wreck with worry all weekend.
Had something happened on her trip? Something bad?
Or perhaps more frighteningly, something good?
Had she met someone? Had she decided to leave Chess?
Was she going back to New Orleans or California?
Was that why she’d been avoiding him? Was there no chance of the something more he’d also confessed to Miles that he was hoping he and Colby could talk about when she returned?
After five days of silence, on top of the ten of terse texts, he was fairly certain he could no longer expect the next day with her, couldn’t reasonably hope for that something more either.
But he at least wanted to talk to her, to confirm she was recovering, to make sure whatever decision she’d made was driven by something good for her.
She was his friend, first and foremost, and he needed to make sure his friend was okay, regardless of how she felt about him romantically.
He still didn’t get that chance when she finally returned to work on Tuesday.
He’d had to go to Boston for the final walk-through of Chess’s shell space there and to coordinate deliveries of equipment.
They weren’t opening to the public until August, but chefs and servers would start after July fourth, with the soft launch slated for late July.
By the time he returned to Martha’s Vineyard on Thursday, it was well past closing time at Chess.
His best chance to talk with Colby would be tomorrow before they each flew out in the evening, her to Chicago, him to Atlanta.
But first, he had checks to sign and a mountain of paperwork to tackle.
He rode the elevator up, and when the doors slid open, he was hit with the wail of Trombone Shorty’s horn and the scrumptious scents of fresh-baked bread, candied berries, and chicory coffee.
Colby was still here, the coffee and jazz a dead giveaway.
He hung his raincoat on the tree by the host stand and debated his approach.
Given the late hour and the travel on tap tomorrow, Colby was likely stress baking.
And given how much time she’d already missed, she’d be in overdrive, trying to make up for what she didn’t have to.
The last thing Ford wanted to do was add to her stress, but he didn’t want this avoidance and awkwardness to fester.
If the hope of a romantic future between them was truly gone, he’d take the weekend away to nurse his broken heart, and he’d find a way to come back from Atlanta and be professional.
To work alongside the best pastry chef he knew and just be her friend.
If she would still have that much of him.
If not, he’d find another job.
But first, they needed to talk.
The music was so loud she didn’t hear him enter the kitchen, and from where he stood at the expeditor’s station, Ford could tell all was not right with Colby Clarke.
She wasn’t swaying to the music, her shoulders were slumped, her greasy hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and her skin was an unhealthy shade of pale.
But more telling than all that was the state of the kitchen.
As many burnt loaves as good ones were stacked on the cooling rack, the staff coffeepot was one cup shy of empty, and a tower of pots and pans teetered dangerously in the sink.
It was ten times the mess Colby usually made in the kitchen, even when she was in a spiral.
She picked up the muffin pans she’d been filling and carried them to the ovens, stalling in front of them like she couldn’t remember what to do next. Like she was lost in another time, another place.
“Hey, Col,” he said softly, loud enough to be heard over the music but not so loud as to startle.
She jumped a mile anyway, dropping the pans and splattering batter everywhere.
“Shit,” she cursed, then disappeared behind the island in the area where the pans had fallen.
Ford hustled around the island and kneeled across from her. “Let me help.”
“I can do it.” There was no bite or hostility in her words, no energy either. Just resignation, same as her posture, as if she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. “I made the mess.”
He kept his distance, giving her space. “What were you making?”
“Clafoutis.”
“Julia Child’s?”
She nodded.
A dessert staple, it was one of the few dishes he’d aced in pastry class. “You finish cleaning this up,” he said. “I’ll get started on the next batch.”
“You don’t—”
“I can do it,” he said, repeating back her earlier words with the gentle earnestness she always seemed to respond to.
Some of the tension left her shoulders, and Ford was ready to celebrate the victory.
But then Colby lifted her face, and Ford had to bite back his gasp.
She was so pale, with chapped lips, a red nose, and dark circles under her bloodshot hazel eyes.
It was everything he could do not to reach out and pull her into a hug.
He settled for a hand on her forearm. “Please let me help you.”
An endless moment later, she whispered “Okay,” with a nod. He made sure she had what she needed to finish cleaning up, then stood and got to mixing batter. He was portioning it into a couple clean pans when Colby finished and joined him at the pastry station. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“How long?”
“Forty, I think,” she said with a helpless chuckle.
He slid the pans in and set the timer for thirty, just in case. “Help me wash,” he said as he passed by her, gathering the last of the bowls and utensils on the way to the sink.
They worked together, a routine they’d done countless times before, the silence between them only slightly uncomfortable. They were finished washing and putting away dishes when Colby spoke. “I made a fucking mess.”
“It’s okay.” He glanced over his shoulder between stacking pans. “Sometimes messes make the best things.” Her gaze snapped to his, something like hope flitting through her eyes, but then she shuttered it just as quickly and looked away.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked once he was finished.
“Yeah, though broth is all I’ve been able to eat for days. Amos picked up a norovirus bug at camp and shared it with everyone. I got sick the night I came home. I would’ve stayed away completely if I’d known. We’re so busy, I didn’t want to risk you, or Holland, or anyone in the kitchen.”
He still would’ve liked to help take care of her so she could rest and recover, but that was neither here nor there. He could do something about it now, though. “Can I leave you to make croutons out of those”—he tilted his head toward the burnt bread—“while I make you something to eat?”
“You don’t—” she started, and he shot her a side eye. It was a testament to how tired she was that she didn’t put up more of a fight. “Sure.”
He moved around the kitchen, gathering what he needed: a container of Miller’s vegetable broth from the freezer, spinach, ginger, and lemon from the fridge, canned white beans and ramen noodles from the pantry.
He got it all into a pot on the cooktop, and by the time Colby was finished with the croutons, he was ladling soup into bowls.