Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
“ S O YOU WANNA TELL ME AGAIN what we're doing here?" Meg asked Rayne as she picked up a spotted cherry tomato and tossed it into a plastic sack filled with other similarly blighted fruits.
"We're culling the bad fruit from the good," Rayne said, studying the plump fruit she'd purchased from a farmer outside of Tyler, Texas, earlier that day. The farmer's market had been a lovely find. When she managed to circumnavigate all the obligatory rosebushes for sale, she found a sprinkling of homegrown vegetables paving the way for more variety as the spring progressed. She'd even scored some lavender-infused honey.
"Oh, yeah?" her assistant said, wiping her hands on the damp flour sack towel beside the sink. "Because it feels like some kind of weird back-to-the-future thing."
Rayne made a face. "What do you mean?"
''This." Meg waved a hand around the kitchen. Her fingernails were painted turquoise and she wore a pair of striped purple tights with a black puffy skirt and tight ballet-style top. Rayne wondered how Meg picked out her outfits each morning. It was either with little thought or too much. Whenever she asked, Meg said it was a vibe.
''This is a kitchen," Rayne said.
"Yes, I have a brain. I meant Serendipity Inn. Henry. Brent."
"Brent?"
Meg blew out a breath. "I got eyes, sister. I see what's going on."
Rayne could feel irritation rise within. She was doing exactly nothing with Brent. Her parting action several nights before had been rash, a way to gain control over the way he made her feel. Add that to the late night sighting outside her window - a drunk Brent and a SUV full of women - and she had plenty of reason to stay away from the simplistic ball of self-serving machismo. His bad-boy grin may have made her knees weak when she'd been sixteen, but as a grown woman she could fight against the feelings he stirred in her. "Nothing going on, Megan."
"When you use my real name, I know I've hit a nerve."
For a moment the kitchen fell silent. The only noise reaching Rayne's ears was the sound of Brent's hammer on the front porch followed by the whine of a table saw. He was nearly done repairing the rotted boards. He'd start sanding soon.
"Seriously, why aren't we in Austin talking to a real estate agent about scoring us a pad in Manhattan? The network would be stupid to pass up the idea for the show. It's brilliant. Rayne, this has been your dream, our dream, for the past few years and it feels like you're losing focus with this inn project. This feels wrong," Meg said, sliding onto a stool and contemplating her iPhone.
Meg could rearrange a schedule, scold the back of house, and plan a menu all at the same time. No one could line up people and events the way Meg could. She'd stepped right into Phillip's shoes without blinking. Rayne didn't know what she'd do without the woman she'd hired right out of the University of Texas, the girl no one else would give a job to because she looked different and had a colorful past that included a stint in rehab.
But as much as Rayne respected Meg, it didn't mean that her assistant knew what was right for her.
"I made this decision based on many things. I'm worried about Henry. And Aunt Frances is not getting any younger. I don't want her scrambling to make ends meet. My success can help her.” Rayne finished culling the tomatoes and tied the handles of the plastic bag together. She'd deliver the unworthy fruit to the compost bin Brent had hastily constructed for her the day before. By the fall, she should have a nice rich layer of soil ready for the winter garden. Of course, she wouldn't be here in the fall so what did it matter. "It doesn't matter if it feels wrong to you. It feels right to me."
Meg narrowed her gaze, causing her smooth forehead to crinkle. She tapped her chin. "So I guess I shouldn't point out that Aunt Fran could sell this house and live nicely on the profits? And her dear niece has plenty of money to resettle her adored aunt into a nice retirement community without a yard to mow and planned activities like golf and bingo. And Henry is seven years old. Every kid that age has fears. Methinks this a diversionary tactic. Like you're afraid to move forward."
More than irritation bubbled within her. She didn't need Meg pointing out the fact she currently floundered around with no true direction. She would gain control and move forward. Soon.
The past weekend she'd gone to Austin to check on the restaurant and do a Saturday morning cooking show. She'd talked to her agent and expected word on the network deal by the first of next week. Two weeks at the latest. Maybe three. The thought of not getting the offer made her stomach hurt, but there was little she could do about it. So she was taking steps in a direction. Even if she didn't know if it was the right one.
“First, I'm not afraid of my future. Just cautious. I have many people to think about. Henry. You. All my employees. It's not just me exploring a new venture. It's all of Rayne Rose Enterprises. I have to be sure," Rayne said, unwinding the band from her braid. She got a headache if she wore it too long. Or maybe Meg was giving her one.
"Fine. I'll shut up and do my job."
Meg's expression was unreadable. Rayne wasn't sure if her friend was giving up the battle or the war. Who knew with Meg? "Good. Agreeing with me is part of the job description."
Meg shook her head, slid off the stool, and headed toward the door. "No, my job is to keep you straight. Totally not the same thing."
"Are you going to pick up the extra fabric for the place mats?" Rayne asked, transferring the tomatoes to the sideboard beside the huge Viking stove. The cushions for the front porch rockers had been completed and Meg had the brilliant idea to use the excess fabric to make matching place mats for the table they'd use in the magazine spread. Dawn Hart, who currently served as a senior care center director, had once owned a furniture redesign center in Houston and still did extra work on the side. Work that was incredible. In fact, she was so good, Rayne had sent several antique armchairs to her workshop for refurbishment.
Meg turned. “Later. Right now I’m going fishing."
Rayne blinked. "Huh?”
"Fishing. I believe you put a worm on a hook and drop it in the water. Then you wait for a fish to bite it."
"I get the concept. But why are you doing it? And dressed like that?"
Pink swept across Meg's cheeks. "I've always wanted to try it, and Bubba Malone said he'd take me. As an apology for his rudeness, as he put it. Besides, I'm wearing boots."
"Bubba? Malone? The guy who slapped your butt?"
Meg made a face. “Yes, that one. I tore him a new one and he was man enough to apologize. Besides, I feel sorry for him. He needs a little training but he seems like he could be almost normal eventually. Besides, he did compliment my ass.”
Rayne grinned. "Oh, now I see."
Meg flipped her off.
"Have fun," Rayne called as Meg tromped off in her black combat boots. At least she wouldn't come back with chiggers. Heck, even snakes would be deterred by Meg's steel-toed boots.
Rayne glanced to the Persian walnuts she'd imported from the Balkans. She'd spent the past few days working on a basic menu for the launch of the inn. She wanted the menu to be modeled after her flagship restaurant, yet simpler, with a smidgen of home cooking. This inn would be her first attempt at branching out since the Austin restaurant had taken off nearly five years ago.Only one shot to prove she wasn't a flash in the pan. One shot to prove she could make magic again.
Her thoughts swung back to Meg's words. Was she using this project as a diversion? As a way to slow down the careening roller coaster of her career? Her success had happened fast. One day she labored under Claude Freret, one of the best chefs in the South. The next she and Phillip were leaving Atlanta to fill out loan forms and pick out cutlery. Serendipity was the culmination of blood, sweat, tears, and dreams. And Phillip hadn't lived long enough to see his part of the hard work bloom into a success.
He'd shared her vision. From the very beginning.
Their dream was what had drawn them to each other. That, and the fact they were both from Texas. She a lowly line cook fresh out of culinary school, alone and unfamiliar in a new city. He, the assistant to the front of the house, fresh out of University of Texas business school with an MBA and an accounting degree. They'd commiserated over leftover wine late at night when the sous-chef slipped out for his date with the dishwasher. It became a nightly habit that grew into a healthy respect and shared goal. Then two years later, she was the sous-chef and he ran the front of the house.
One thing led to another and before they knew it, Rayne wore a diamond wedding band and Phillip held the deed to a deceased aunt's farmhouse in a burgeoning section of Austin. They left Atlanta and embarked on a journey that earned them rave reviews from critics all over Texas. Then all over the country.
Phillip and Rayne had lived their dream - they bought a house, grew a business, and made a beautiful baby boy.
Neither of them had been head over heels for the other. But they loved each other. They liked the same movies, laughed at the same comedians, and had pretty decent sex once they scheduled it into their weekly list of demands. She hadn't needed a grand, all-consuming love. She and Phillip had suited just fine.
And she still missed him fiercely. Missed his warm hazel eyes and good foot rubs. Missed the way he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in traffic intent on recreating the drum solo from his favorite Rush song. Missed the way he took care of the bills, the dry cleaning, and her. But her wishes hadn't stop the freak aneurism that had claimed her husband at the age of thirty-four. One minute they'd been talking to each other on the cell phone while he was en route to pick up Henry. The next she was calling a funeral home.
Rayne shrugged off the memories and focused on the salads lying before her. Arugula? Perhaps the Bibb lettuce divided into pillowy wedges? A fresh creamy buttermilk drizzle would complement the soft flavor of the lettuce. She quickly cut the Bibb lettuce with the knife, artfully arranging it on the uncomplicated purity of the salad plate. She halved the tomatoes and lined them in a semicircle on the plate.
Too simplistic?
But wasn't that the theme?
She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. She counted to five and released the breath. Maybe cornbread croutons and pralined walnuts? Use the simplicity of the salad as the canvas for southern flavor.
"You okay?"
Rayne jumped, opening her eyes. "Oh. Aunt Fran. You scared me."
"Sorry ‘bout that,” the older woman said, slipping her arms around Rayne's waist and giving her a squeeze. She peered over Rayne's shoulder. "That doesn't look as if it took all the starch out of you. That's just lettuce and tomatoes."
Rayne stared at the plate. “That’s the base. I have some tricks up my sleeve and I still got some starch left in me.”
"Good." Aunt Fran tugged one of Rayne's curls."I'm gonna be tied up with the landscaper, and Dawn Hart called for the second time today requesting we pick up the cushions and chairs. She has another project and needs the space. Brent said he'd swing by and grab them. Why don't you ride with him and settle up with Dawn if you’re at a stopping point?”
Because Rayne didn't want to ride with him. Didn't want to smell the scent that was his alone. Didn't want to see the way the denim stretched across his toned thighs. Didn't want to make awkward small talk after their encounter last Thursday evening. Didn't want to remember staring at him from her bedroom window like the morality police. But most of all she didn't want to ride with him because he tempted her. He made her want to jump into a place she'd never been before-his bed. And that might be temporarily satisfying, but not lasting. That would be a mistake of epic proportions.
Brent spelled absolute heartbreak to any girl who did a half gainer into his sheets. And several nights before as she'd stared out the window at the full moon, she'd been seriously contemplating stepping onto the springboard to perform that particular dive. She’d been envisioning padding barefoot across the cool grass, knocking on his door, falling into his arms.
But then she'd seen him tumble out of the Suburban. He'd popped from the depths of the vehicle, landed on his behind in the grass, all the while holding a condom. That image was the equivalent of a shovel slamming upside her head, knocking any fantasy of Brent and percale sheets from her brain.
He was a piece of forbidden fruit she wasn't going to take a bite of him. No matter how nice he was to Henry or Aunt Fran or to her.
"Rayne?" Aunt Fran's voice checked her back into reality.
“I'll run the payment over to Dawn later."
Aunt Fran frowned. "I would think since this venture is so important to you, you'd want to check the job Dawn did before we haul them all the way here. Not to mention, she'd probably appreciate payment on delivery."
Point for Aunt Fran. It did make sense. Rayne looked at the salad experiment station like a lazy chef de garde manger. The second salad on her menu would have to wait. She untied her apron. "Fine. Just make sure the landscaper puts marigolds around the veggie garden in back. They are natural deterrents, and since we're all organic-"
"Right-o," her aunt said with a rather satisfied smile. Rayne knew that if it were up to Aunt Fran she'd have Rayne wrapped in a satin bow and delivered to Brent's bed. For some messed-up reason, her aunt thought Brent would be good for Rayne. But Rayne knew she couldn't play with him like all the other women in town did and not fall under his spell. Her heart was too vulnerable.
Rayne sidestepped the new bedside tables that had arrived via UPS earlier that morning and glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the foyer. Only five minutes until Henry jumped from the top step of the bus into the cushion of the St. Augustine at the curbside. Lucky her. Henry could ride with them and provide a buffer.
She stepped onto the porch. Brent wasn't there, but she heard clanging sounds coming from the truck he'd parked at the side of the house. She slipped on the flip-flops she'd left sitting on the front porch steps and headed toward him.
"Damn it!" were the words that met her as she approached the back of the construction-scarred truck.
Brent stood staring at a length of board. He threw the tape measure down. It clanged against the scratched metal of the truck bed.
"Measure twice cut once," Rayne said, moseying up and propping her arms on the truck bed as if she stalked sexy contractors every day.
"I taught you that," he said, rubbing a hand over his dark hair. Small flecks of sawdust stood out on the velvety richness like dandruff on a black dress. He had taught her the rule when they'd made birdhouses and feeders one summer. He used the kit his uncle had given him for constructing the houses and she'd painted them bright colors. They'd taken most of them to the Shady Oak Retirement Village to place outside the atrium. The feeders had been a hit.
"I knew I'd learned it somewhere. I put that into practice when I'm cooking, too," Rayne said, noting that the man looked extraordinarily good for someone who'd been working all morning. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and she could see the veins on his forearms. She didn't know why it was sexy. It just was.
Brent opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment the squealing of brakes interrupted the tranquility of the afternoon. The bus ground to a stop in front of the driveway, opening the doors before actually stopping. Henry flew out, taking five steps before spinning and throwing a wave toward a window at the back of the bus. Rayne saw the flash of a small hand along with a blond ponytail. A girl's voice shouted, "Bye, Hank."
Rayne rolled her eyes.
A smiling Henry ran their way.
"Hey, Coach!" he shouted, heaving his backpack onto his shoulder as he pounded toward them. He swerved around a root, and the backpack shifted and fell from his sturdy shoulders, hitting the ground and spewing its contents on the grass. He stopped and tried shoving everything inside, but pencils, erasers and papers littered the ground.
Rayne sighed and moved toward him. He never zipped his backpack. She'd told him a dozen times.
Henry rifled through the workbooks and binders, pulling his copy of Throwing the Stinky Cheese from the depth. "I finished the book!"
Brent tossed the board he held into the back of his truck and strolled toward Henry. “Nice.”
"I can't believe Ben was so mean to Charlie. I mean, he was on his team and everything. I felt real bad for Charlie." Henry handed the book to Brent. “Thanks for letting me borrow it. It was way better than that mouse book."
Rayne knew the look on Henry's face. He wanted to ask Brent something more, but didn't know how to do it the right way.
"So you wanna borrow another one? I have one about a kid who thinks he's bad at sports but finds out lacrosse is his game," Brent said.
Henry cocked his head. "What's lacrosse?"
Brent smiled. "I guess you'll find out."
Henry nodded "Cool."
"Henry, put your things back in your binder and next time zip up before you bail off the bus," Rayne said.
Her son shot Brent a look that said, "See? This is what I get all the time," before squatting and shoving papers in willy-nilly.
Rayne almost smiled but instead she redirected her gaze to Brent. "Aunt Fran said you were going to the hardware store and would be willing to pick up some items from Dawn Hart. Do you mind if I ride with you? I want to settle up with Dawn and check the work before we haul everything back here."
"Can I come, too?" Henry asked, biting his lip in effort to seal the bulging backpack.
"Sure. Let's grab an ice cream at the Dairy Barn," Brent said, digging in his pocket for his truck keys. “I’ve had a hankering for something sweet.”
"Yes!" Henry abandoned the bag to give a fist pump. "I want a chocolate shake."
Rayne watched as her son scurried toward the front porch, dumped his backpack, and leaped into Brent's truck. She blinked. Then looked at Brent. "Where does he get all that energy?"
“I think they put something in their milk at school.”
Rayne shook her head. “More sugar is the solution, right?”
***
Brent veered off the square and looked for a parking place in front of the Dairy Barn. No spaces out front so he grabbed one in front of the bank and killed the engine.
“I want a chocolate shake. Or maybe strawberry. What about you, Mom?” Henry hadn’t stopped talking since they’d climbed into the truck. Rayne had shared that Henry had crippling anxiety, but so far Brent couldn’t tell anything remotely anxious about the kid.
“I’m probably going to pass on the shake,” Rayne said, climbing out of the truck. She wore a pretty skirt that swirled and thong sandals that looked hand-crafted. Her shirt was some poofy thing that reminded him of the clothes women wore in the sixties. Woodstock sort of stuff. The thin material draped gently across her breasts but gathered at her trim waist. Her curly copper hair looped around her shoulders, soft tendrils highlighting her collarbones. He’d never seen a more naturally beautiful woman.
“Aw, come on, Mom. You never eat the good stuff.” Henry leaned down to tie his shoe into a knot that Brent knew wouldn’t hold for ten paces. He needed to teach the boy his trick for tying laces so they didn’t drag the ground and stayed tied.
“I beg to differ. Everything I eat is good. And good for me.”
Henry looked up with a grimace and crossed eyes, making Brent laugh. Funny guy.
They strolled down the street, and Brent held the diner door as Rayne and Henry entered. The place wasn't too busy. Charlie Mac, the ancient owner, stood behind the counter wearing a white apron and paper cook hat. He pulled a pencil from behind his ear. "What can I get you, Brent?"
Brent looked up at the board. "Hank here wants a-" he looked at the boy "-chocolate shake?"
Henry nodded. ''A large one."
"Rayne?"
"Um, a bottled water," she said.
Charlie Mac made a face. "We ain't got no bottled water, but I can get you some outta the soda foundation."
Rayne shook her head."Nothing for me, thanks."
Brent shrugged. He thought she took healthy eating a bit too far. Didn't she know water was water? "I'll take a banana split with chocolate sauce, butterscotch, and caramel. Oh, and a cheeseburger, all the way, hold the onions. And a root beer."
"Can I have fries?" Henry peered over the counter at Charlie Mac.
"I got curly fries," the older man said, scratching on his order pad. Henry nodded with the same enthusiasm Apple showed when it came time to eat her kibble. Concentrated hunger.
Rayne opened her mouth, looked at Henry's face, then pressed her lips together. She crossed her arms and tried to seem vaguely disgusted, but the twinkle in her eye when she glanced at her son gave her away.
Brent took out a credit card, pressing Rayne's hand back as she tried to hand him a twenty-dollar bill. "I got this, Rayne."
Charlie Mac swiped the card and stared hard at the woman standing slightly behind him."I do declare. Rayne Rose, ain't it? Ain’t seen you since you was a girl."
"Hi, Mr. Charlie," Rayne said. Brent turned to look at her. She wiggled her toes and twirled one curl around her index finger. "It's nice to see you again."
Charlie Mac grunted. That was the end of the conversation.
Brent took the plastic number set on the counter and scanned the place for a good table. He grabbed the soda and Henry's shoulder and steered toward a nice booth by the window where the sun tumbled in to warm the zealously air-conditioned diner.
Henry hopped onto the faded red faux leather and Rayne slid in next to him, pinning him against the squeaky-clean glass of the front window. Brent sat opposite and took a swig of his soda.
"Been a while since you've sat here and looked out at the park, huh?"
Rayne glanced out the window at the square that held a huge fountain flowing at the feet of Rufus Tucker, the founder of Oak Stand, and the broad swath of newly green grass. Pansies still flourished in the raised beds at the square's entrance and squirrels scampered left and right, digging frantically for stored acorns. "It's still a pretty place."
Henry stabbed the windowpane. "Where are the swings and junk?"
"It's not that kind of park. Just a town square with paths and flowers, and though you can't see it, a small gazebo to the left of the footbridge spanning a dry creek bed." Brent pointed in the direction of the structure where he'd given Rayne her first kiss. He still remembered how sweet she'd tasted. How surprised she'd been.
"Oh." Henry glanced at the counter. Obviously, school had made the boy ravenous and he couldn't wait for his food. He looked at his mother. "Did you play in that park?"
Rayne nodded. Brent thought back to the place where they’d gathered acorns for a war with Bubba Malone and Talton Drake nearly every day one summer. And many afternoons he and Rayne had ridden their bikes to the library which sat across the square, stopping in the park to kick off their shoes and climb the ancient oaks bending toward the stone paths radiating from the fountain. They'd detached locust shells and covered themselves with them, splashed in the fountain until an adult ran them off, and raced across the footbridge to climb on the roof of the gazebo.
"I've got an idea," Brent said, scooting out from the bench and heading toward Charlie Mac.
He looked back at Henry and Rayne. "Charlie, make that order to go."