Chapter 20
CHAPTER
While Ferne appreciated Bette bringing over dinner, she couldn’t wait for her new friend to leave.
From the moment Bette had mentioned Jesse and the restaurant’s proximity to the apartment, Ferne had known what she needed to do.
Less than ten minutes after Bette left, Ferne shrugged into her jacket, slipped her phone into the pocket along with the key card, propped the crutches under her armpits and hobbled to the lift.
Thank goodness she had a walking boot and not plaster, because she wouldn’t have got far if she’d had to hop, but the boot supported her leg as well as taking weight as she moved at a snail’s pace down the street.
She couldn’t stop thinking about how, if she hadn’t made the connection between Jesse and Lee’s House of Fusion, she could’ve popped in for takeaway one evening and run into Mac’s boyfriend.
The thought made her chest tighten and she had to take several steadying breaths before rounding the corner that would bring her within a few steps of the restaurant.
She’d be lying to herself if she hadn’t admitted a certain curiosity about Jesse and had contemplated looking him up online but had resisted.
Every time she thought of Mac lying to her for decades, treating her with barely concealed disdain despite Ferne doing everything in her power to be a good wife, she wanted to strangle him, and her anger spilled over to Jesse too.
When she’d first discovered Jesse’s existence and Mac’s other life, she’d been furious.
She’d alternated between wanting to have his cremated ashes flushed down the toilet and wanting to publicly shame him.
She’d yearned to know if anyone in town had been privy to his secret but hadn’t wanted to taint Cruz or have her son hearing rumours about his father’s sexuality, knowing how fast gossip travelled in a small town.
So she’d ended up fuming in private, lying awake at night, staring at the moonlight dappling the ceiling, wishing she’d lived her life differently.
But after the initial shock wore off, she’d determinedly ignored Mac’s secrets and faked sorrow through his funeral, graciously accepted condolences from townsfolk, having already mentally checked out and looking forward to starting her new life far from Rosevale Grove.
Her curiosity now didn’t stem from wanting to know about Jesse. It came from a desire to know if her husband had been a different man, one who’d taken his anger out on her because he’d had to hide his true self.
As she spied the restaurant, the irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d travelled hundreds of kilometres to escape Mac’s reach, only to be confronted by yet more evidence of his treachery. As if the apartment wasn’t proof enough.
The restaurant appeared trendier than she’d imagined: large floor-to-ceiling windows, stainless steel double doors, and ‘Lee’s House of Fusion’ etched in gold lettering on polished ebony wood.
A tiny bamboo garden flanked the entrance, with embedded spot-lights casting shadows against the stalks. Elegant and classy.
The double doors opened and Ferne almost toppled in her haste to hide.
Not that she expected Jesse to walk out if he was a chef as Bette had said, but still, she didn’t want to be seen.
As a young hipster couple walked past her, the tempting aromas of sizzling garlic and ginger wafted out of the restaurant and she inhaled, remembering the many stir fries Cruz had cooked for her even at the end of a long day working on the farm.
She’d known that had been his downtime, a way to reorient after a day spent with his father barking orders at him and still finding him lacking, and she loved those times dicing veggies alongside him and watching him combine hoisin and oyster sauces, sesame oil and shallots, concocting the perfect balance of marinade with a few ingredients.
Tears prickled her eyes at the memory of cooking alongside her son.
Ferne took a few steps forward, wanting to get a peek inside the restaurant before heading home. She wasn’t sure why, she only knew she couldn’t shake the compulsion.
The door opened again and this time, she glimpsed a screen decorated with intertwined koi fish separating the entrance from the rest of the restaurant.
‘Are you coming in?’ Kika, her neighbour, held the door open for her, her perfectly shaped brows drawn together in impatience before her eyes widened in recognition.
‘Hey, you’re staying with Mac, right? How are you settling in?
’ Kika’s gaze focussed on her crutches and walking boot.
‘Yikes. That doesn’t look good. What happened? ’
Ferne’s heart sank. She didn’t want to make small talk with a virtual stranger, but perhaps now would be as good a time as any to tell the young woman about the reason behind her new residency.
‘After we met, I tripped while getting a coffee at the local café. I’m Ferne, by the way.’
‘You poor thing. But for what it’s worth, I love that place, because their coffee is the best in the city.’ Kika pointed over her shoulder.
‘This restaurant is great for a local haunt too. Though this is the first time I’ve eaten in, I usually get takeaway.’
Kika still hadn’t mentioned Jesse, which meant she’d probably never met him. Ferne should feel relieved, but a small part of her wished Kika had known Mac’s lover so she could quiz her.
‘Is Mac with you?’ Kika glanced over Ferne’s shoulder, as if expecting to see him materialise. ‘I need to have a word with him about ghosting me.’
Ferne refrained from laughing at Kika’s inadvertent pun. She may not be grieving, but Mac’s neighbour had obviously liked him.
‘Kika, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mac passed away a few months ago. He was my husband, and I’ll be living in the apartment from now on.’
Shocked, Kika’s face crumpled. ‘My condolences. Is there anything I can do?’
Touched by Kika’s concern, Ferne shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’ve come to terms with it.’
Kika focussed on her shoes before her gaze swept up to Ferne.
‘I’m not sure if I should tell you this, but I used to hear laughter and voices coming from Mac’s apartment sometimes into the early hours of the morning.
He was probably entertaining friends, but …
’ she trailed off, the implication clear, and Ferne had to put the considerate young woman out of her misery.
‘It’s okay, I know about Mac’s secrets.’
Relieved, Kika’s wobbly smile made Ferne want to hug her. ‘If you need anything at any time, don’t hesitate to knock on my door, okay?’
‘Thanks, Kika.’
‘So, are you picking up takeaway?’
If Ferne said no, she’d look like a fool, hovering at the entrance with no intention of going in, so she nodded.
‘I can get it for you next time, just let me know.’ Kika squeezed her arm. ‘I really am sorry to hear about Mac. Feel free to drop in for a cuppa any time.’
‘Thanks,’ Ferne said, as Kika held the door open wider for her to enter the restaurant, before waving and closing it behind her.
If the aromas outside had been good, they had nothing on the combination of lemongrass, coconut milk and spices that made her salivate despite the dinner she’d eaten not that long ago.
The place gave off an understated yet opulent vibe: red and gold dragons on charcoal walls, inverted crimson lanterns casting a golden glow on the ceiling, polished concrete floor and a bar that spanned one side of the restaurant, backed by striking jade tiles.
She loved the place on sight and would’ve happily taken a seat at one of the few empty tables and ordered a yuzu-infused margarita or a sake, but the open kitchen meant that not only could diners watch flames leaping high from beneath woks, but the chefs could also see into the restaurant and she’d risk being spotted.
Not that Jesse would recognise her. If Mac had kept Jesse a secret from her, she assumed his lover wouldn’t have wanted to know a thing about the clueless wife stuck on the farm.
Casting a final glance around the restaurant, she took a step forward to leave but stopped as the clatter of a dropped frying pan rang out through the restaurant.
She glanced towards the kitchen and froze as the man she’d seen in an intimate embrace with Mac on her husband’s secret phone stared at her in open-mouthed shock.
Guess that answered the question about Jesse recognising her.
Their eyes locked for an interminable moment—hers accusatory, his stunned—before she hobbled away as fast as her walking boot and crutches allowed.