Chapter 53 World’s Best
World’s Best
Jack
Thanksgiving goes off without a hitch.
Poppy’s ultimate talents might lie in the front of house, but she’s capable of commanding a kitchen now, and she gets dinner
on the table, piping hot, right at four o’clock. My recent Thanksgivings were filled with work, offering to cover shifts so
my coworkers could spend the holiday with their families—and so a busy night would help me forget I didn’t have a family of
my own to spend the day with.
I’m not alone now, though. I’m at a table filled with everyone I care about. Poppy, of course, and the rest of her family.
Gator, who reunited with me earlier by flinging himself into my lap, purring contentedly. Chester and Kiara, who insisted
upon accompanying me to New York; they came in with Poppy’s family once Poppy and I finally got to cooking. Voices overlap
as story after story is shared and perfectly done dishes (minus a little hiccup with Miso and Gator and the sweet potato casserole)
are eaten. It’s new, but so easy and perfect that I know I’ll never be able to go back.
Poppy is still in her chef’s whites—well, pinks—holding court on the other side of the table.
She’s deep in conversation with her sister and Kiara, but every so often she glances at me and winks.
She’s terrible at winking. It’s more of an exaggerated blink than anything else.
My heart clenches fiercely at this new detail of hers, something else to hoard on the long list of reasons why I love her.
I jumped in to help bring the meal together under her direction, and I’m game to learn more about the rest of her family, but I won’t really calm down until I can get her alone to hash out the future.
That, and reacquaint myself with her beautiful body.
And after that, bring her back to Diamond Bay, where she belongs.
“Pop Rocks,” says Chester, ignoring the exasperated look I give him, “the weather here sucks. Hartman insisted on a walk from
the train to gather his courage.”
“This is good for November, man.”
“It’s not even that cold,” Julia chimes in.
“It’s in the forties!” Chester protests.
“Exactly, not bad at all,” Poppy says, laughter in her voice. “I miss Diamond Bay, though.”
Kiara exchanges a glance with me. I nod at the silent question in her eyes.
“We better get you back to Fable quick,” she says.
“Oh my god.” Poppy jumps up from the table, nearly knocking over her chair. Her eyes are wide and shining. “Does that mean
what I think it means?”
“I did say that you make me want to be a happy man.”
She throws her arms around me from behind, practically crushing me against the chair back. “Shut up. Jack!”
“I thought I heard something about San Diego,” I say as she tries to kiss me.
“Screw San Diego.” She must remember that her father is only a few seats away, because she gives him a sheepish look. “Sorry,
Dad.”
He just holds up his hands, smiling. “No offense taken.” With Poppy’s attention preoccupied, he nods at me. I know which way
to take it: it’s Douglas Winfield’s approval. I’m sure we’ll have a longer conversation later, just the two of us, but this
is good enough for now.
“This only works with you, sweetheart,” I say, pulse picking up in speed despite myself. “Because I told Kiara I’d keep the
restaurant if she’d come in as a partner. And she told me sure, provided you’re involved, too.”
Her wandering lips finally land on mine. “Yes. Yes times a million.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “When are we going to escape?”
“After dessert?”
“Perfect.”
“To talk, right?”
I hook my fingers underneath her chin, claiming another heated kiss. “To start.”
It’s evening by the time we manage to slip away from our families. Poppy changes into a pair of jeans and a sweater that,
apparently, she stole from me, and we bundle into our coats, evading goodbyes by going out a side door. The sky holds a half-moon,
shining brightly. The nearly empty train ride from Rye to Manhattan is hushed, quiet. As we meander away from Grand Central,
fingers threaded together, no one crosses our path.
Not quite a desert island, but close.
It’s a slow walk, mostly thanks to the fact I keep ducking into doorways and alleys to kiss her. Her eyes sparkle every time,
pretending to be surprised when my mouth captures hers. I breathe her in hungrily, gratefully. My heart skips a beat whenever
our bodies brush.
Later, I’ll take her to bed. I’ll worship every inch of her, and make her chant my name, and fall asleep with her tucked into
my arms. I’ll hold her so close, I’ll never have to worry about being alone again, and neither will she.
“Where are we going?” she finally asks. “A restaurant?”
“Not quite.” I skirt us around the edge of Central Park. “My first day in New York, I had a pretzel.”
“A pretzel?”
“One of my best food memories to date.” I’m relieved to see that the cart is right where I expect it, the smell of dough wafting
through the air. “Trust me, you’ll understand when you taste it. It’s the best pretzel in the city. Maybe even the world.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You brought me into the city after all that delicious food to eat a street cart pretzel?”
“Like we aren’t going to sneak more pie when we get back to your parents’ place later.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes fondly, hand squeezing mine in my jacket pocket. “But I don’t want too much salt.”
Gilbert pretends to fall over with shock when he spots me. He looks more stooped than I remember, and his hair is entirely
white now, but the smile is the same.
“Long time no see, Chef. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving. It’s been too long, Gil.” I pay him in cash and tip liberally, getting back one perfectly golden, piping
hot soft pretzel slathered with mustard in return. “Glad to see you’re still around.”
He leans in a little. “Finally got yourself someone special?”
I glance over my shoulder at Poppy, whose attention has been captured by a frisky squirrel snagging a bag of peanuts by the
curb. Even in the near-dark, it’s easy to spot the delight in her eyes. The sleeves of my sweater are hanging past both her
jacket and hands. A frisson of warmth gathers in my chest. I rub over my breastbone. “Yeah, Gil. I did. She’s my future wife.”
I hold the pretzel out to Poppy once we’re underway again. She gives me a dubious look but takes a piece. Instantly, her face
transforms.
“Wow,” she says, voice muffled. She breaks off another piece. “This is amazing.”
“He doesn’t buy them premade. It’s his dough recipe.”
“I’m in awe. How did you even find him?”
“When I first moved here, I didn’t know anyone.” We’re still walking, slower now, tearing into the pretzel with little dignity.
“I mean, obviously. The semester hadn’t started yet, and Owen wasn’t here, so I just wandered and ate everything I could get
my hands on.”
“Including this?”
“Yeah. Street carts, bakeries, pizzerias, bodega egg sandwiches, noodle shops, vegan spots, ice cream parlors, diners, every
kind of cuisine I could think of. I went to the higher-end places, too, and offered to pick up work as a dishwasher or doing
prep in exchange for a meal.”
I savor the last bite of pretzel, a perfect blend of saltiness, heat from the mustard, and a touch of sweetness in the dough.
“I told myself I was going to learn how to make everything I ate. I was going to work so hard, I wouldn’t be thinking about what I left behind.
” I shake my head, marveling at how easy those words come now, when I couldn’t manage to tell myself the truth for far too long. “I’ve never shared that with anyone.”
Poppy guides me to a bench; we’re still wandering along the edge of Central Park. Not too far from Pastiche, actually. “That
sounds lonely.”
There’s a bit of mustard on the corner of her mouth. I wipe it away with my thumb. “Lonely, but effective. Poppy, I want to
keep telling you these things. I don’t want to hold everything in anymore.”
Her hand covers mine. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’ll really come back to Fable?”
“If you’re in, I’m in.” She smiles, a little impish, and leans toward me like she’s sharing a secret. “I have lots of ideas.”
“I figured you would.”
“Here’s one: how about we close down the restaurant for a month every year.”
“And do what?”
“Travel.” Before I can reply, she goes on, “Think about it. We can travel the world. Gather inspiration for the restaurant.
Take that trip to Sardinia or go to Japan or wherever else you want to explore. I want Diamond Bay to be our home, but that
doesn’t mean we’re stuck there. I want it to be the place you’re always happy to return to after a long”—her eyes dance—“flavorful
trip.”
She might have kept going, but I muffle whatever she would have said with a kiss. She smiles against my lips. Her mouth is
cold, and a little salty-sweet. I had no idea it was possible to feel love like this. Exhilarating, pure, uninhibited. It’s
terrifying. It’s remarkable. It’s as though she reached into my chest and scooped out my heart, and now it’s hers for safekeeping.
I’ve never been so glad to give something up.
“We’re in a city of millions of people,” she murmurs, fingers plucking at the ends of my scarf. “No more desert island.”
“Eight million, give or take.”
“Would you still choose me?” She pulls away slightly, clearly nervous to hear my answer despite everything that has happened between us. “I mean, over everyone else?”
“Of course.” I gather her into my lap, arms wrapped around her tightly. “I love you, Poppy. You’re brilliant and clever and
mine. On and off the desert island.”
“We’re doing this then, Chef?”
“It’s happening.”
“We might kill each other.”
“Then we’ll end up in hell together.”
“As long as that’s a promise.” Her thumb strokes over my beard, eyes alight. “I just have one request.”
“Anything.”
“We find somewhere else to live. The houseboat can’t handle me.”
I crack a grin. “We’re definitely getting an apartment.”
“As long as there aren’t cockroaches.”
“Definitely no cockroaches,” I agree.
With her heartbeat fluttering against mine, I kiss her.
The first of a lifetime to come.