Chapter 3
Linsey
Ipull into my driveway, grab the container of leftovers off the passenger seat, and let myself in through the kitchen door.
The television is going in the living room.
I immediately recognize the program. It’s the narrator from one of Noah’s military documentaries.
Being a history buff, he loves those things.
Aunt Carol is on the couch curled up with a mystery novel. The recliner where Noah usually sits is empty.
“Noah made it to nine fifteen, before he started falling asleep in his chair,” she says without looking up from her book. “He wanted me to tell you that the documentary was educational and therefore should not count as screen time.”
“My son is going to be a lawyer when he grows up,” I tell her.
“Or a great orator of some kind. Sit down, girl. Tell me about how the class went.”
I put the leftover ribeye in the fridge and pull out a can of soda before sitting on the other end of the sofa.
“I’m excited because this was the class that was sold out. Every single person showed up. What do you think about that?”
“Well, look at you, honey.” She beams at me. “In addition to being a Michelin chef, you’re now an entrepreneur.”
She mutes the television and turns sideways so she can look at me while we talk.
When her expression turns serious, I sit up and pay attention.
This woman has been able to see right through me, ever since I was nineteen years old and showed up pregnant on her porch with a black eye and a suitcase.
She’s the one who watched Noah while I went to college.
After building a successful life in LA I realized I needed my family more than I needed accolades.
Aunt Carol was the reason I decided to make the move to Las Salinas. She’s the only family I have left now.
“Something’s changed. You look happier than usual,” she says.
“I have reason to be happy. It was a good class, and I finally feel like I’m building something of my own.”
“That’s true, but you’re practically glowing,” she says, closing her book. “What has changed?”
“My class was full of all kinds of new and interesting faces. I even had a biker in this class.”
“What kind of biker?” she asks, frowning.
I don’t mention the one-percent patch. Instead I keep it vague. “I don’t know. He was wearing a cut with his name on a patch. The back said Savage Legion MC.”
Her eyebrows crease. “One of those bikers from the Legion came to your steak class?”
I’m surprised Aunt Carol knows them. She must see my raised eyebrows because she says, “Everyone here knows the Legion. They’re good men.”
I’m pleasantly surprised by that. I continue, “He signed up like everybody else. He’s even signed up for another class I’m taking. He brought his own knives and apron. Strange, I know.”
“Do you think he’s their cook?”
“No. He said he works in security. But he had good knives.”
“Having good equipment doesn’t mean he knows how to use it,” she responds.
“Well, he was pretty good with a knife,” I tell her excitedly. “It surprised me and everyone else in the class.”
She gives me a slight smile. “You seem rather taken with him.”
“What? No. Aunt Carol, don’t even go there.”
“Your mouth is saying no but your expression is telling a different story,” she says with a smile. Setting her book down on the end table, she says, “Whatever you say, dear. Did you happen to catch his name?”
“Of course. I know all their names because they were on their paperwork.”
“You said his was on his cut.”
I tell her what she wants to know. “Sabre. His name’s Sabre.”
“Like I said, they’re mostly good men, but you take care. I know you don’t want to risk getting back into what you got out of when you left Billings.”
I feel my face flush. “No, I surely do not. I’m trying my best to make a decent life for me and Noah. I’m focused on growing my side hustle into a viable full-time business and keeping us safe. I’m not looking to add trouble to our life.”
“Good.” She pats my arm reassuringly. “For what it’s worth, noticing how handsome and seemingly nice a man is, isn’t a moral failing. You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
***
Morning starts early at our household. Aunt Carol sleeps in. Noah and I get up at six thirty, shower and land at the kitchen table. He reads one of his library books while I make eggs and toast.
“What are you reading about this morning?”
“It’s a book of interesting military facts. Did you know camouflage isn’t supposed to make you invisible? It’s just supposed to break up your shape, so the enemy doesn’t notice you as fast.”
“I did not know that,” I tell him, sliding his eggs and toast in front of him. “Eat up. We need to head out to school in about twenty minutes.”
I start making his lunch, putting in his favorite crackers, an apple, cubes of cheese, and a few slices of last night’s ribeye in a container. “There is steak in your lunch from my class. Don’t trade it away thinking it’s meatballs or something.”
Noah looks pleased. “You brought some home for me?”
“I always bring you something from my class.”
“And last night was steak night! Did anybody cut themselves this time?”
“No. Last month’s class was a one-off thing, bug. I don’t expect it to happen again.”
“Sergeant Rock says a knife doesn’t jam, it doesn’t need to be reloaded, and it never runs out of ammo.”
“I didn’t realize you were still reading Sergeant Rock comics.”
“Of course I am,” Noah says around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “They might not be real, but there’s a lot of useful stuff in them.” “I guess all that it true. But I’m a chef, and we just cut food with knives.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean Sergeant Rock is wrong. He’s sometimes misunderstood but not wrong.”
I fold the lunch bag down and press the crease. “One of my students brought his own knives last night. He has a whole roll of really sharp and well-maintained blades. And he was very careful how he used them.”
Noah sits up straighter, and his chewing slows down as he thinks about my carefully crafted words.
They were designed to get him to understand the importance of being careful and safe.
The minute he opens his mouth, I know that I missed the mark.
“Then he’s like a soldier who keeps his own weapons in good repair. ”
“He was smart and safety conscious,” I point out.
“Cool,” Noah says before going back to eating his eggs. When he’s finished, he digs into his backpack and hands me a folded piece of paper. It looks slightly mangled, like someone crumpled it and had it in their mouth at some point.
“I need this signed. It’s for the heritage project in social studies. We’re supposed to do a family tree.”
I take the paper and read it over, dreading the part where we have to talk about his father.
It’s a cheerful handout with a family tree sketched on it.
The handout asks students to interview family members and collect stories about both past and present family members.
He’s to give an oral report to the class in six days.
“Okay,” I say, signing it. This isn’t really optional since it’s part of the classroom curriculum. “We can work on it over the weekend. You’ve got me, and you’ve got Aunt Carol, and I can tell you about your great-grandma Hale, who once chased a dog away who was barfing on her welcome mat.”
“Why didn’t she take him to the vet?”
“I’m not sure, bug. I’ll concentrate on remembering a better story.”
Noah grins mischievously. “I like the dog barfing story. It’ll gross the girls out.”
He tucks it into the folder with his good papers, and we hit the road. I love driving him to school. I don’t start my shift at the restaurant until eleven, and it gives me a chance to spend time with my son, and he hates taking the school bus, so it’s a win-win, I suppose.
***
I spend the day at work preoccupied with how I’m going to answer when he asks about his dad again, and I know he will because he’s working on this project.
One of the reasons I decided to move to Las Salinas and leave the restaurant in LA was Noah.
Being a head chef in a fine dining establishment meant working long hours.
I often wouldn’t be home until after midnight, and he spent more time with his babysitter than with me.
The Gilded Fig is different, it might be Las Salinas’ fanciest place, but service ends at eight, meaning I’m usually home in time for Noah’s supper and we can talk about his day.
“So, was my dad like me? Did he like airplanes and history and war stuff?” he asks as he eats his cereal.
The food in my mouth turns into a burden to chew and swallow.
Noah’s asked about his dad before. He brings it up every year.
The questions come in spurts and are always related to something he’s reading, watching, or thinking about.
And every year I answer it the same careful way, trying not to disappoint him.
“I’m not sure, bug,” I say. “We were very young when we first got together. And we probably didn’t know each other as well as we should have.”
“But you married him, right? So, you must know something about him.”
“We weren’t actually married. We were just dating. We broke up before you were born and I came here to live with Aunt Carol.”
“Is that why I don’t have his last name?”
“Say what now?”
“My friend, Tyler, says kids are supposed to get their dad’s last name. The mom’s too.”
“Well, that isn’t always true. Some women don’t change their last names and others hyphenate it. But you have my name because I’m your only legal parent. I raised you. Hale is a good name. Your great grandma from the dog barf story was a Hale.”
Noah looks worried. He stares down at his plate and asks, “Was he bad? Is that the reason he’s not here with us?”