Chapter 20
The teaching kitchen at Northwest Florida State College was all Jonah’s on a Saturday morning.
No students, no professors, no one looking over his shoulder or timing his cuts. Just him and the stainless steel and the quiet hum of the ventilation hood, which he’d turned on out of habit even though there was nothing cooking yet.
Atlas was in his portable car seat on a prep table in the corner, gnawing his elephant’s ear. He’d had an early bottle, a diaper change, and was in the sweet spot of contentment that usually lasted about ninety minutes before the demands resumed.
Ninety minutes was all Jonah needed.
He’d booked the kitchen to practice his Brazilian shrimp one more time before the real test at Driftwood next week. Everything was laid out—the shrimp deveined, shells in a bowl for the stock, aromatics diced and waiting in small containers. Coconut milk. Palm oil. Cilantro. Thai chilies. Limes.
The rice cooker was already going—coconut rice, Broussard’s suggested detail that would tie the whole dish together and demonstrate that Jonah understood cohesion, not just flavor.
He started with the stock. Shells into the saucepan, water just covering them, heat low and patient. Fifteen minutes, not twelve, solid flavor-coaxing. He set the timer on his phone and began the aromatics, his knife finding the consistent, even rhythm Broussard had drilled into him.
This was where Jonah disappeared. Where the noise in his head—Atlas, childcare, money, the future—went quiet and the only thing that existed was the sizzle of onion hitting olive oil.
The smell of garlic blooming. The precise heat that transformed raw ingredients into something greater than the sum of their parts.
He was fourteen minutes into the stock and tasting the sauté when the kitchen door swung open.
Chef Marcel Broussard walked in wearing weekend clothes—jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled, no whites—which meant he wasn’t here to teach. Whatever it was, Jonah wanted the man gone.
At this point, he needed practice, not guidance. “Chef. I didn’t expect—”
“Neither did I.” Broussard scanned the kitchen, noting the mise en place, the stock simmering, the coconut rice in the cooker. His mustache twitched with what might have been approval. “I saw your name on the schedule and came to find you.”
Jonah stared at him, not even uttering the obvious question—why?—because he just wanted Broussard to leave. But the other man leaned against the pass, folded his arms, and stared at Jonah.
“What can I do for you, Chef?” Jonah asked.
“Make me proud. Prove me right. Show me what you’ve got.”
Dude, really? On a Saturday? “How can I do that?” he asked instead.
Broussard touched his moustache, smoothing it over his lip, something Jonah noticed he never did when wearing whites because he was too fastidious to touch his face.
“I just got off the phone with Isobel Vega.”
Jonah’s pulse spiked. Was the internship gone? Did someone beat him out before he had a chance to show Chef Vega what he had?
“One of her line cooks called in sick. Saturday night, her biggest service. She’s shorthanded and furious.”
“Okay…” Jonah wasn’t sure where this was going, but at least he hadn’t lost the opportunity.
“She wants your kitchen test today. Come in at two, cook your signature dish, and if she likes what she sees, the internship is yours. Along with service tonight, which just became your start date. Assuming you wow her with your skills.”
The words ricocheted like a starting gun. Cook today, service tonight, start date…bang.
“Yes,” Jonah said as excitement rolled up his spine. “Absolutely yes.”
“Good. Two o’clock. Bring your knives and don’t be—”
Broussard’s gaze drifted to the corner of the kitchen and his whole being stilled. He stared at Atlas in his bouncer, happily oblivious, the stuffed elephant now getting both ears gnawed simultaneously.
Broussard’s expression shifted into weary recognition that an unwanted twist had just been thrown into his mix.
“Look, Chef, I—”
“Figure it out, Lawson. You have three hours.”
With that, he left, and the kitchen door swung shut behind him. Jonah stood at his station with a saucepan of shrimp stock and a body boiling with…panic.
Three hours. Three hours? That’s all he had to find someone for Atlas, pack his knives, get to Driftwood, and cook the most important meal of his life and start an internship that could be a game-changer.
He pulled out his phone and stared at it, thinking about his speed-dial support system.
Dad was…gone. Jonah had been too wrapped up to get into the weeds with his father, but he suddenly went to Atlanta yesterday, mumbling about some client problem and as of this morning, he still wasn’t back.
He tried Kate. The call went straight to voicemail, which meant her phone was dead or she was avoiding the world. That was likely, given the tension he’d sensed between her and Dad the past few days…which probably explained why Dad bugged out to Atlanta.
Whatever, he had his own problems. Like the one that just threw an elephant on the floor and laughed like it was the funniest thing he ever did.
Walking over to Atlas, Jonah picked up the stuffed animal and tucked it in the side of the car seat, taking a moment to kiss his little problem while he frantically called his sister next.
Meredith was at Lakeside. On a weekend? Couldn’t Miss Perfect take a day off?
No, she was buried and in the middle of something “majorly important.” She suggested Crista, who turned out to be at their bungalow waiting for a furniture delivery and Nolie had a juicy cough, which would not be good for Atlas.
Maggie and Jo Ellen had gone to a craft fair in Crawfordville, wherever the heck that was. His grandmother did offer to pick him up a handmade potholder, as a consolation prize.
He’d asked hopefully if they’d be home soon and he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Jo Ellen say something about “ladies’ night” at…did she say Gator Jacks? And something about a brick?
No time to decipher what the grannies were up to.
Aunt Vivien’s phone went straight to voicemail, and Tessa and Dusty had Olive, who had the sniffles and their hands were full.
Jonah stood in the kitchen holding his phone with no names left to call. He felt the walls close in with the familiar, suffocating weight of being a single parent who’d run out of options.
He looked at Atlas. Atlas looked back with those blue eyes that were so much like Carly’s and offered a gummy, oblivious smile that said he had no idea what was happening but trusted his dad. And his elephant.
“Buddy,” Jonah whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
The kitchen door opened again and in walked a vision in…leggings.
Pepper Broussard was in dance clothes again, her dark hair in the signature messy knot. She had a canvas bag over one shoulder, a pair of ballet slippers over the other.
“I heard there’s an aspiring chef about to go up in flames in here,” she said, strolling in with that insanely adorable smile that almost made everything right in the world.
He couldn’t even think of a quip—which might have been because of his dilemma or maybe because she was cute as a button and he just wanted to…unbutton her.
“Not calling the fire department yet,” he managed, holding up his phone. “But close. Is it true people actually leave babies at the station? Because…”
“Stop.” She dropped her bag and shoes on the table—clearly did not inherit her father’s fastidiousness—and pointed to Atlas, who immediately abandoned his elephant to smile at the new arrival. Some genes were strong.
“Atlas, my sweet little man. Daddy wants to leave you at the firehouse.”
“I won’t, but I’ll…”
“Give up the opportunity of a lifetime?” she asked, then tipped her head toward the door. “I ran into my dad and he filled me in. Pro tip? He loves to squeeze you and see what comes out. It’s like you’re a human tube of toothpaste. Trust me, I’ve been flattened and rolled by him.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for the tip and pity, but I have to—”
“Pack your knives and give me a diaper bag, bottles, toys, and what I’m guessing is an endless list of instructions that I will promptly ignore. Is that his car seat? We’ll need that.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out because he could not process the offer. No, it was impossible. Too good to be true, and a little more risk than he was willing to take.
“Pepper, I can’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask. I offered.” She looked at him with an expression that was so calm, so certain, that it made the pain in his chest lessen by a fraction. “Please. My dad was downright gleeful and I…I’m a bit of a rebel.”
“You? Never.”
She winked at him, which basically should have been illegal.
“I’m serious, Jonah,” she said, turning to Atlas. “I want to help you and I can take care of him.”
“All afternoon and maybe evening?”
“Well, I have a class to teach at four. I can bring him.”
Bring him? “Where? When? Who’ll be there? Other kids? Sick ones?” Since every other kid in his orbit was contagious.
She laughed and wandered to Atlas, leaning over to look him right in the eyes and watch the poor child melt.
The Lawson men clearly had their kryptonite.
“It’s a very simple class, not the Bolshoi,” she said. “He’ll be fine. Babies love music. May I?” She was already unlatching the safety harness to lift him up. Atlas giggled and kicked his feet happily. “Hello, darling boy. Would you like to spend a Saturday with me?”
Who wouldn’t?
She settled him against her shoulder with that effortless touch he remembered from the first day in Broussard’s office. Atlas snuggled into her neck like he’d been waiting for her, then looked over her shoulder at Jonah with a downright smug look.
Look who I got, Pops.
He lost this battle. Much more time in her arms and he might lose his son, too.
“I have a bag,” Jonah said, his voice strange and tight. “Formula, diapers, the whole kit. He eats at—”