Chapter 12 Sam
SAM
“Bloody hell, would you cut out the racket?” Bas shuffles slowly into his kitchen.
“What are you going on about?” I quickly turn my back to face the stove so he doesn’t catch me watching his awkward, sluggish, and clearly painful gait.
The rago?t de boulette simmers, small bubbles rising to the surface of the rich brown liquid. Stirring, I fight the urge to help him, forcing patience and pretending all is normal.
Slowly, he sidles up beside me, resting a forearm on the counter and slumping over. “What’s got you tearing my kitchen apart? What happened?”
Hot anger roils within my stomach at how much weight he’s lost. I see him every day and even then, it’s impossible to miss. He’s rail thin. Disturbing and heartbreaking. He’s being eaten from the inside and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
He won’t talk to me about it, even when I push, and I’m lucky if I find out about his appointments or what the doctors are saying. I’ve only managed to tag along by sheer force of will. And I’m not alone; even Alec is being shut out.
Bas most probably thinks it’s easier on us. For our own good. He won’t say it, but he’s given up. The treatments are only prolonging the inevitable. My father is preparing to die.
I press my hands into the counter as my knees weaken. The thought is unbearable but hard to deny. Bas stares intently, and I quickly run through the last words he spoke to me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Two can play his game. “Your kitchen is in one piece, isn’t it?” I arch a brow and try for casual, for our usual easy banter. “Exaggerate much?”
I want this moment to be normal, to enjoy whatever time I have with the man I consider a father. A man I can’t imagine a world without.
“Look, Samson, come clean and save both of us a lot of trouble. I’m not letting it go. You’ve been here nearly three hours now, and from the moment you stepped foot in my house, I’ve known something is bothering you. Is it the new restaurant?”
“Not really. I mean, I still don’t have any investors. Thibault’s interested, but he wants to know the location before he’ll commit, which is understandable. I’m just not sure where I want it to be yet. I’m thinking Toronto or Vancouver.” I float the idea by him.
That should get a rise out of him.
Bastien Villeneuve is as Canadian as they come, but first and foremost, he’s Québécois. I’ve been holding off on mentioning that I might open my next restaurant outside of the province because he’ll call me a fool.
“Daniel Thibault?” He surprises me with his question as his ocean-blue eyes darken. “Find someone else.”
I pause, waiting for further explanation. When it’s clear he doesn’t intend to offer any, I press, “Why?”
He runs his hands through his short, silver hair. That too is thinner than it used to be. His once-formidable jaw now looks sunken, his skin gray and cheeks hollow.
Bas grimaces as he shifts from one foot to the other. The pain deepens the hard lines of his face and tight lips. Still, he pushes off the counter, heading toward the kitchen table.
Without thinking, I reach to help, but he swats my hand away. Two more steps and he lowers himself gingerly into a chair with a smug expression that says Look, I can do it. I’m not dead yet.
I grin, though there is no real joy behind it. Instead, my worry shrinks under the facade, if only to give him this moment. His pride. He’s earned it, and I’ll let him have it as long as I can.
“Daniel Thibault is a bloodsucking leech. He will invest in your restaurant, then think he owns you. And I hear his daughter—what’s her name?”
“Yasmine.”
“Yes, that’s the one.” He points, nodding. “She’s a chip off the old block. The price of their backing is that you will answer to them. They don’t know the meaning of a silent partner.”
I run a hand over my scruff. “Hmmm, yeah, I’ve seen some of that.”
He’s just described Yasmine to a T, and sadly, I saw a bit of that manipulation that night at the bar.
This is my top concern and one I will keep in mind. Although I’m not thrilled with potentially having to start from scratch in finding an investor.
Robert Simard and Sabine Boucher have backed my two existing restaurants, and if only the timing was right, they’d be in again. I could wait to open my third and final restaurant, but now is the time.
My name is hot right now. I’m coming off the success of three seasons on the Chef’s Network. They wanted me to sign for another, but I want to get back to cooking. My brand is at an all-time high, and I need to capitalize on that.
Besides, I’m itching to start a new project. There’s nothing like opening a new restaurant, working to see your vision come to life. Bas knows all about this.
“Sam, walk away from them. Let me invest.”
Not this again. From the day I decided to open my first restaurant, he has wanted to invest. As much as I love him, I need to prove to him, and most of all to myself, I can do this on my own. I know he understands. Still, he always offers.
From day one of my career, I’ve faced whispers and rumors that I’m only where I am because of my father.
There’s no doubt Bas was and still is a formidable force in my life and without him, it’s true, I might not be where I am today.
But he never gave me a leg up. If anything, he was harder on me because I was his son.
“No. If I have to, I’ll find someone else. I’m not saying no to Thibault, right now. I’ll ask around more and feel him out before I sign or walk away.” Rubbing at my temple, I sigh. “Dinner’s ready. Let me dish it out.”
“I’m not hungry.” Elbows on the table, his pensive gaze drops to the grain of the wood. “So, Toronto or Vancouver, eh?”
“Yes.” Here we go. He may be sick, but he’s still sharp. “What do you think?”
His opinion matters to me, even when I may not agree or like it.
“It’s a good idea. Either location will need someone you trust to run it when you can’t be there. And Vancouver may be harder because of the distance.” He voices all the things I’ve been mulling over.
“Yeah. I have someone in mind to run things—Pierre Gagnon.”
“Good choice. Pierre can be trusted. The question is, will he want to leave Québec?”
“I know. I haven’t broached the subject with him yet. I want to determine the location then feel him out. I’m going to Toronto for an upcoming fundraising competition, and I’ve got a few locations to look at while there. I still have to book a trip to Vancouver.”
“Excellent. Good approach. If you want some other options, in case Pierre says no, I have a few thoughts on an executive chef.” He glances at me, a smile pushing out his now all too usual weariness. “That is, when you’re ready.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”
“Okay, now come sit, eat, and tell me her name.”
“What?” I stop mid-stride.
Once more, his wise gaze holds mine, filled with unspoken truths. Some we’ll never say out loud and others we’re running out of time and courage to delve into.
“Get your food and come sit.”
I do as I’m told and slide into the seat across from him. Steam rises from the spoon I lift to my mouth and I blow on my stew, the dish I made for him. It’s his favorite, yet he has no appetite to enjoy it.
“Who is she? The woman who has you preoccupied, has you destroying my kitchen.”
I snort at his exaggeration. “Her name’s Olivia. I met her a few weeks ago at Beaulieu’s. She’s from Toronto and I can’t stop thinking about her. I miss her.”
With my confession, our kiss flashes through my mind. A vision of her dark eyelashes sloped downward, fanning her blushing cheeks. Her lips wet and swollen after I took them, licking and savoring her taste, the gratifyingly subtle sugariness.
My heartbeat throbs in my ears and my body hums as if she’s here, as if her small hands are gripping my shirt.
Her fingers pressing into my torso and her breathy whimpers, encouraging and torturous.
Her big, expressive eyes—the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen—gazing longingly up at me, so innocent yet beguiling.
Shit, I want to kiss her again. Taste her again.
“Ah, that is a dilemma. Was it a one-time thing? Or were you smart enough to get her number?”
I guffaw once more. “What kind of question is that? I’m smart. We text every day, talk when we can. It’s…” I place the spoon back in the bowl. “It’s not enough. I didn’t expect to feel like this.”
We have always been brutally honest with each other. Well, except for when he got sick. Cancer and what’s inevitable seem to be off the table, and for now, I try to respect that.
He was the first person in my life to tell me like it is and I’ve always valued that. We’ve never beaten around the bush, and I’m not starting now. Besides, I could use his insight. He’s married to the love of his life and has been for over thirty years.
Nodding, the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “She must be something.”
As if sensing I need some time to get my thoughts together or maybe he’s hungry, he lifts a spoonful of the thick stew to his mouth and swallows with visible effort. The wince that follows causes my throat to tighten.
He pretends it’s hot. It isn’t. “Needs some garlic.”
“It doesn’t.”
Our ritual. Any chance he gets, he advises me on how I could improve a dish, and even if he’s right, I defend. Though mentally, I take notes on everything he’s ever taught me. It’s comforting in a way, our shorthand for love.
“She’s something. I’m out of my depth.”
“What about Chantal?” His question about the last woman I was seeing, over a year ago, is rhetorical.
We both know Chantal and I were never going anywhere and were over long before we ended it. But again, it’s his way of easing me into opening up.
“I never felt like this, and come to think of it, other than Thérèse, no woman has tied me up in knots like this.”
“Thérèse?” His brows rise. “Who was she?”
I chuckle at the absurdity of what I’m about to say. “Grade ten. Remember? She went to the lake all summer and ended up with Marc Picard.”
Recognition dawns, followed by laughter so hearty his frail frame shakes. The sight of it fills me with warmth. I exaggerated for his benefit, but the bones of it are true. I just wanted to make him laugh.
When he wipes the tears from his eyes, I grin. Mission accomplished.
“I’ll never forget,” he says between chuckles. “You were insufferable that summer.”
In retrospect, I chalk it up to teenage angst. I’ve never felt anything remotely similar with another woman since.
Sure, I’ve had girlfriends, some serious relationships, and breaking up was never fun or easy.
But still, I don’t recall this ache at separation or the deep beat of anticipation constantly and uncomfortably drumming through my chest.
“Yeah, but this is worse.”
“Then call her. Go see her.” He dabs at his eyes with the napkin.
“See who?” Alec enters the room. The tall, striking man elegantly glides to Bas’s side and leans down to kiss him on the cheek. “Mon cher, how are you?”
His big, manicured hand cups Bas’s jaw tenderly. Bas grumbles and shrugs.
I stand and hug Alec. “I’ll get you some food.”
He stops me, hands on my shoulders, gently squeezing before I can serve him a dish. “How are you?”
Those three quiet words are filled with such meaning. We are both dealing with the same thing, the inevitable loss of such a great man. A great love in our lives. And while we have each other, we still are also alone.
“Good.” I don’t want to burden him and turn before he can read the truth on my face.
With Alec, I’m not as open as I am with Bas. I can’t explain it. It has nothing to do with the man himself. I love him and trust him with my life, have known him for as long as I’ve known Bas.
When Bas took me in, he introduced Alec to me as his husband. These two brilliant, caring, loving men adore me and raised me like a son, but I’ve always gravitated toward Bas naturally.
Things are different with Alec. I need to be strong for him, for Alec.
Knowing the torment and anguish I battle whenever I think of Bas’s fate, I can only imagine what he is feeling.
Bas is the love of his life. To watch your partner, your lover, your best friend dying—it must be slowly killing him too.
As I dish up, my phone lights. Olivia.
Hey handsome, how are you?
I quickly respond.
Missing you. What are you doing?
The little dots immediately light up and I smile. I didn’t miss the opportunity to speak with her.
Olivia: Just dropped my kids off at their dad’s. All alone. I’ll most likely take a bath and then bed. And you?
Me: Wish I was there to wash your back. I could keep you company. I really like sleepovers.
Olivia: LOL. Tempting. What are you up to?
Me: Having dinner with Bas and Alec.
Olivia: Didn’t mean to interrupt—talk tomorrow.
Me: You are never interrupting. Think of me in your dreams and the tub.
Olivia: Night, Sam.
Me: Night. Sweet dreams.
“Hey, how long do I have to wait for my meal?” Alec teases. “This restaurant has poor service.”
Chuckling, I grab his bowl and stroll to the table, my chest a little less hollow now that I’ve heard from Olivia.
“Maybe the service would be faster if I knew there was a generous tip coming.”
The three of us eat, talk, laugh like old times. Except it isn’t. There’s a quiet urgency to every moment now. Every word feels borrowed.
As I sit with them, I feel the familiar ache of helplessness. I’d give anything to take this cancer from Bas. Anything.
And still, beneath that ache, Olivia lingers in my thoughts. If I’d met her two years ago, she might be here or I’d already be on a plane to see her. Now, I hesitate. I don’t want to leave Bas—not for a day, not when I don’t know how many days we have left.