Epilogue
One year later
Graham pokes his head into the back office. “Does he have any idea?”
“None at all.” I roll my chair back from the desk. “He thinks I came in early to work on payroll, so he volunteered to walk Oscar.”
Graham looks down at the stack of glittery party hats on my desk. “He’s going to hate those, you know. They’re very off brand.”
I raise a finger. “That’s why we’re doing this during brunch, before the restaurant opens. We’ll have all the streamers taken down before the doors open for dinner.”
Graham offers to blow up the balloons, which I appreciate. He takes them out to the dining room to summon help from Becky, who’s out there hanging streamers.
I roll my chair back under the desk and find myself staring at the framed group selfie of me, Nate, and the kids, and Oscar in my arms, with a gigantic pine tree behind us.
It was taken last year when we went on a camping trip to Kejimkujik National Park to connect with nature.
It was a planned celebration of my full recovery.
We’ve come a long way. Today is Nate’s forty-fifth birthday and also a significant milestone because it’s been twenty years since he announced to his family that he was quitting law school.
Since that day, he’s succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, and I, too, have been blessed with a new career I didn’t even know I wanted.
Shortly after Martina resigned, and not long after I was discharged from the hospital, I decided to step into the role of temporary restaurant manager until Nate could find a replacement.
At first, I worked from home, because those were the early days of my recovery.
But the demands of the job turned out to be good for me, physically, and good for the restaurant as well.
My past experiences running my own company were invaluable to Oblique.
(Not to toot my own horn, but I did a much better job than Martina ever did with the financials, along with everything else, except maybe flirting with the older male patrons.)
My phone rings, and it’s Arthur. I answer the call. “Where are you?”
“Alex and I just picked up the kids,” he replies, “and we’re parking.”
“Wonderful. But make sure you park down the street because he knows your car.”
“Will do. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”
I end the call and text Amanda. Where are you guys?
She immediately responds. Jeff just arrived and Dad is feeding Oscar. Then we’re heading for the car. ETA: Fifteen minutes. I’ll text you when we’re two minutes away.
I thumb a reply: Awesome! Make sure you come in the back door so that he doesn’t see the decorations out front. And tell Connor not to let anything slip. He’s terrible at keeping secrets!
I set down my phone and prepare to wrangle everyone into the walk-in cooler.
The cool, crisp air inside the cooler was refreshing at first, but we’ve been hiding in here for almost two minutes, and we’re all starting to shiver.
I’m at the back. Hugging my arms around myself, I rise up on my tiptoes and look for Graham.
He’s at the front, just inside the door, and he wraps his arm around Becky and rubs furiously at her upper arms to warm her.
They’ve become close friends since I began working at Oblique, which is fine with me because he’s a good man.
Being an incurable romantic and an optimist, I can’t help but anticipate something more happening between them. Eventually.
A drop of condensation lands on top of my head, and I look up. I hear voices and drop my gaze. It’s Nate and the kids in the kitchen.
The air inside the cooler is dense and still, filled with the muted hum of the cooler’s motor working to keep the temperature low. We all remain silent, despite our shivering. Then the latch clicks and the door swings open.
“Surprise!”
Nate jumps back and lays his hand over his heart. He starts laughing. “Thank God!” he says. “The kitchen was empty, and I didn’t know where everyone went. I thought you’d all quit on me!”
“Never!” Graham shouts. He steps out of the cooler and hugs Nate. “Happy birthday.”
Becky hugs him next.
“Happy birthday, Flapjack,” Arthur says, and Alex, Andy, and the twins hug him, followed by the employees.
I stand back and watch it all with profound contentment.
“I didn’t expect this,” Nate says, and then his eyes meet mine. “Babe. Come over here. Let me kiss you.”
Everyone cheers and whistles as he takes me in his arms and kisses me—hard. I laugh when he steps back.
“I’m a lucky man!” he shouts.
I glance to my left and notice Jeff giving Amanda a kiss on the cheek. She looks up at him with affection, and it’s sweet. First love is so important, and thankfully, the bar has been set high for my daughter.
“Wait until you taste the cake,” Graham says to Nate. “Mary Jane did something special. You might want to consider it for the new menu.”
Nate raises an eyebrow at his talented pastry chef, who’s been with us since the beginning. “I’m eager to dig in,” he says.
He holds his hand out to me, and we all saunter to the dining room for the first official reboot of the Palmer Birthday Brunch tradition.
Tonight, the restaurant is crowded as always.
The lights are dimmed, and the white marble bar is aglow above warm ambient lighting, topped with gleaming glassware and bottles of premium spirits.
It’s past nine o’clock, and every guest on the reservation list has been seated.
The pressure is off, so I move discreetly between candlelit tables, checking on plates and drinks and making sure all guests have everything they need and desire.
This is the time I like best. For me, as house manager, it’s the other side of the uphill climb.
The reward. The fulfillment of joy, laughter, and good conversation among our guests.
I delight in watching each of them marvel at the exquisite culinary presentation on each plate that is set down in front of them.
This is a setting for special occasions, and my husband has created a dreamy and intimate background for moments that will live forever in our guests’ memories.
Isn’t that what makes life meaningful? These precious moments of joy and love, to be remembered and appreciated?
I’m grateful that life, though tough and cruel at times, has taught me this.
The front door of the restaurant opens. It’s almost ten o’clock, and the kitchen won’t expect any additional orders, but sometimes patrons come in off the street to make reservations for another night, or they’re simply looking to have a drink at the bar.
An older couple has entered, so I cross the dining room, reach the podium, smile, and say hello. Only then does a stark recognition hit me. Time seems to pause, hanging motionless for a breath. Those cold eyes have been imprinted on my brain forever. The man before me is not a stranger.
“We’d like a table for two,” he tells me.
He doesn’t recognize me, which confirms so much about the hollowness of his heart and the apathy of his character.
I clear my throat and reach for the leather binder on the shelf beneath the podium. “I’ll check and see if we have any availability.”
I flip through the pages, but I already know that we are full to capacity—but there’s always space for an extra table to be brought out for unexpected VIPs.
But Bill Palmer is not a VIP. Not in my books. He’s my father-in-law, but he has never met my children, and he’s the reason my husband has been in therapy for the past year.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” I ask. “I’ll have to speak to the chef.”
“Of course,” he replies with a patronizing look in his eyes.
As I turn and walk past the bar toward the swinging doors to the kitchen, I suddenly remember a very different kitchen .
. . I see an antique woodstove and a farmhouse sink.
I see Jacob, who never harbored any hate or judgment toward anyone.
He was a warm and loving soul with a forgiving heart, and I loved that about him.
I push through the door to the kitchen, where Nate, with extreme care and delicacy, is positioning seared scallops on two plates.
I don’t want to disturb his focus, so I wait patiently as he arranges the scallops in elegant patterns, each one placed atop a velvety cauliflower puree.
He adds a drizzle of rich, vibrant herb oil and stands back to evaluate his creation.
“We have a VIP in the door,” I tell him.
His eyes lift. He signals Thomas, one of our servers, to collect the plates.
“Who is it?” Nate asks.
Without hesitation, I state plainly: “Your father.”
Nate hesitates, his gaze flicking away for half a second before settling back on me. A crease forms between his brows, slow and tense. “Who’s he with?”
“A woman. His wife, I assume. Your stepmother.”
Nate has never met his stepmother. Neither have I.
Nate places both fists on the stainless steel table and bows his head. “I wasn’t expecting this tonight.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. He’s probably here because it’s your birthday. And maybe he saw the review in The Globe and Mail yesterday.”
I know all too well how deeply Nate’s sense of self-worth is tied to earning that man’s approval. We’ve had many conversations about it, over the years.
I want him to walk into my Michelin-star restaurant, have the best meal of his life, and ask me to come to the table so that he can tell me how good it was, and that he was wrong to doubt me, and I did well.
Nate hasn’t earned a Michelin star. The inspectors still haven’t come to Nova Scotia, and maybe they never will. But Oblique is the best restaurant in the city, and everyone knows it. Nate knows it. I know it. His father must know it too.
Nate hangs his head and shakes it while I wait for him to decide about setting out the VIP table. Finally, he lifts his gaze and speaks to me firmly, with conviction.
“Tell him we’re full.”
I freeze, stunned yet pleased. We stare at each other for a few intense seconds until I smile. “I’ll take care of it.”
Nate nods and mouths to me, “I love you.” Then he turns his attention to three sparkling dessert plates with crisp, golden pound cake. They are placed in front of him to await a final flourish of hand-piped chocolate, impossibly thin and intricate.
I push through the swinging doors to the kitchen and walk past the bartender, who is filling a cocktail shaker with ice.
A sense of quiet satisfaction rises in me as I approach the podium to turn Nate’s father away.
If he wants to come back another night, we will most certainly welcome him.
But he will need to make a reservation, just like everyone else.
Later, after closing, Nate and I shut off the lights in the restaurant, step outside, and lock the door behind us.
The night is clear, the moon full and bright, as we walk silently, hand in hand, along the sidewalk.
Not a single breath of wind touches the air, and I feel a lightness in my chest, a fresh optimism because I believe, in my core, that Nate has finally let go of the past. His father has no more hold over him.
Before we reach the car, Nate pauses to look up at the stars. “It was a really good night,” he says, tracing the constellations with his eyes.
I stare at his handsome face, at the elegant slope of his nose, and at the lips I’ve memorized without ever meaning to. I’m so very proud of him.
“It was an amazing night,” I reply. “The lobster ravioli was a culinary triumph.”
His eyes meet mine, and he slowly shakes his head, as if spellbound. “You were the best part about it.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe, and heat rises to my cheeks. All I can do is move toward him, cup his face in my hands, and lay a soft kiss on his lips. “You make me so happy.”
He pulls me into his arms and holds me—warm and steady, safe and sure. Then he whispers in my ear, “Let’s go home.”
I step back, and as I place my hand in his open palm, I am grateful for the clarity in my heart.
Everything has become so clear to me lately, ever since I was pulled from the mighty ocean waves at Peggy’s Cove.
All I want now is this messy life that Nate and I have built together and our timeworn, weathered love—because somehow, we’ve managed to survive what should have undone us.
Through our healing, we’ve grown into something new, and it’s wonderful.
Tonight, under the stars, standing in the calm after all the chaos, I know this: I choose you, Nate. I will always choose you, for better, for worse. Today, tomorrow, and forever.