Chapter 2
Rhyland
I once read an article that asked a popular painter how he developed his ideas.
It’s the number one question everyone wants to know.
He said that he would stand in front of a blank canvas with his hands held up in a rectangular shape, similar to a photographer scoping out the shot, and could picture the completed artwork.
Every stroke and swish of the paintbrush becomes a clear vision in their head.
It was almost as if the canvas itself was speaking to them.
The answer has stuck with me for years because I feel the same way about my cooking. I can take one ingredient and envision the end creation of the dish. Holding it in my hands, I can smell the aroma, hear the sizzle, and taste the flavors exploding on my tongue.
Once a week, I stroll through the town’s farmer’s market and allow the ingredients to speak to me.
I love supporting local families with farm to table.
Rows of white tents line the fairgrounds with local vendors that don’t include just food, but also flowers and arts and crafts.
The farmer’s market has been around for as long as I can remember and has only tripled in size over the years.
I can remember coming here as a kid with my best friend Ollie’s family. It was thanks to his mom, Connie, that I discovered my love of cooking. Honestly, it saved my life.
My mother left when I was just a baby, leaving my father to raise me alone.
The only thing I know about her is that we shared the same bright shade of green eyes.
My father worked two jobs to keep a roof over our heads, so I spent most of my time at the Mosby house.
I was constantly feeling lost in life, not sure where I belonged, and every day, Connie would give me a job in the kitchen to keep me focused.
It gave me something to look forward to, a purpose of sorts.
Maybe it was because I watched my dad work himself to death that I was determined to spend my life doing what I love. What was the point of wasting your days away at a job you hated? Life is too short for that.
When Ollie and his older brother, Archer, approached me about joining them on their new venture years ago after I graduated from culinary school, how could I possibly refuse?
I knew from the moment they sat me down and talked over beers that I wanted to be a part of this, but I had to let them sweat it out a little.
I didn’t want to sound too overeager and jump up and down like a kid on Christmas morning when they said I could have full rein over the kitchen and the menu—a fucking chef’s dream.
“Hello, Rhyland,” Terri James, a local farmer I closely work with, says as I approach his table.
I adjust the canvas bag full of my purchases thus far to my other arm and shake his hand. “Hey, Terri, how’s it going?”
“Can’t complain. The missus says my voice is too annoying to list my issues.” I chuckle. “Anything new with you?” He frowns when I shake my head. “When you gonna go find yourself a nice girl like your friend, Mr. Mosby?”
That makes me laugh even harder. “Oh, Terri, you know food is my soul mate. There’s not much more room in my heart for anything other than these amazing ingredients you provide.”
Lifting an ear of corn, I smell the rich aroma.
I swear he once made a deal with the devil because I do not know how his crops turn out so remarkably.
The vegetables always seem so much crisper and brighter than others.
He claims it’s a mixture of the dirt he uses, but I’m not sure I believe that fully.
Whatever it is, I hope it never changes.
With the sweet smell of corn lingering around me, a few dishes instantly come to my mind, with corn being the star that has my mouth watering. I run my hand over my jaw to make sure I wasn’t drooling.
“I can tell the wheels are turning in your head.” Terri pulls me from my thoughts.
“You think I can arrange for delivery later today?” Typically, we have deliveries Monday morning, but today, I’m feeling overly inspired.
“For you, absolutely. I’ll set your order aside and then bring it all by the bar when I leave here.”
“Perfect, you spoil me.” I grab a few items that are enough to create sample dishes back in the kitchen and hand them over.
“Oh, please, you spoil us all with the magic you create with these ingredients. It’s the least I can do,” he responds as he sets the items in another bag and passes it over to me.
“I’ll see ya later, Terri,” I shout after paying for the order and head off in search of a few more items.
With steady hands, I place the ribbons of basil on top of the last dish and let out a breath when I examine the finished product. Taking in the dishes in front of me, I smile. They’re just as I envisioned.
“Fuck, it smells good in here,” Archer says as he walks into the kitchen. It’s no surprise that both of us are here on our day off. “What have you been up to, man?” He leans against the counter, crossing both his ankles and arms.
“It was a great morning at the market. Terri had the most amazing sweet corn at his table today, and I couldn’t help myself.
I’ve got three specials lined up.” I carefully slide the first plate in front of him.
“First, we have an appetizer of pan-seared scallops over a bed of fresh corn, peppers, onions, and bacon.”
I swear I see cartoon hearts floating over his head as he brings the plate up to his nose and takes a deep inhale. He uses the fork to slice through the scallop before stabbing the other ingredients, so he makes sure he has a bit of everything in one bite.
“God, this is good,” he mumbles with a mouthful of food. At least he has the manners to cover his mouth as he speaks. “And what’s this one?”
I can’t hold back my chuckle. He hasn’t even finished his first bite, and he wants to know more.
I explain the two main dishes—a grilled cheese with corn and Calabrian chiles with a side of hand-cut shoestring fries and a creamy shrimp pasta with homemade linguine, garlic shrimp, fresh corn, cherry tomatoes, and basil.
Archer twirls a helping of pasta around his fork and nods his head as I speak.
“Jesus, you’re like the Chuck Norris of cooking—just kicking ass, taking names, and making each ingredient your bitch, aren’t ya?” He laughs, shoving another forkful into his mouth.
“So, what do you think?” I’ve never made a dish that either Archer or Ollie didn’t like or approve of, but each time someone tries my food, I don’t know how to explain it, but I become a small boy seeking validation. I want to bring others joy with my food, and with that comes my happiness.
As if he senses my nerves, or maybe he can read me like a damn book, he reassures me. “Relax, will ya? It’s all delicious and amazing. That’s why I put you in charge of food. Get me the details of the dishes, and I’ll have the specials printed up and put out front.”
Archer all but licks the bowls of food before carrying them to the dishwashing station.
“Hey, so I just wanted to let you know Payton is swinging by shortly,” he says.
I’m thankful I have my back to him so that he can’t see my reaction. I swallow slowly and grit my teeth to keep from showing any sign of excitement at the mention of not only the youngest Mosby but that she’s coming here. “Oh?”
“Yeah, Ollie and I wanted to help her out, so she’s going to replace Tracey.” Tracey was one of our servers who quit last week.
“Well, that’s good.” I busy myself wiping down the already spotless counter. “I’m sure Mama Mosby is happy to have her back.”
I lost my shit the day that Ollie had told me what the dickhead had done to her, or, well, had been doing all along.
The first time that Payton had brought him home for a visit, I instantly didn’t like the guy.
There’s a difference between cocky and confident, and he was certainly the former.
I didn’t like the way he all but demanded that Payton wait on him.
“Hey, babe, get me a drink, will ya?” I hear his whiny voice in my head.
She deserves more. She deserves a man who would treat her like the queen she is.
I’m not sure the exact moment things changed for me.
I’ve watched her grow up from the little girl who used to beg me to play Barbies with her to a stunning woman who doesn’t even realize how beautiful she is.
But at some point, my thoughts and feelings turned from something brotherly to something more—not just protective, but possessive.
I had trouble coming to terms fully with the shift in my feelings, so I was thankful to have cooking and the kitchen to immerse myself in to keep myself busy.
But when she announced she was pregnant and having essentially a shotgun wedding, I got shit-faced. I was too late. But in the long run, I saw it as a good sign because I could never cross that line with her. Her brothers would both kill me.
I’ll be honest, though, there are moments—more than I should ever even admit—that I can’t help but think about the what-if. What if I had manned up and done something about my feelings? Could I have saved her from this heartache? I guess we’ll never know.
“Yeah, she is, but…” He trails off, not needing to finish it because I’m sure of all of us, Connie Mosby is happy to have her baby girl and granddaughter home but wishes it were under other circumstances. Archer pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it up, revealing his mom’s name.
“Speak of the devil.”
I let out a loud laugh. “Ooh, I’m telling her you called her that.”
Archer flips me the middle finger as he brings the phone to his ear and exits the kitchen.