BRAVE, Episode Three - the Color of Danger (5 page)

“Logan, I mean Chef.” Her interruption halted his slight bend from the waist, and he paused. “This is wonderful, truly divine, but can’t you join me? It’s lonely being here by myself.”

No answering smile, only a lift of the square chin and a glint of the green eyes. “One more course, my lady.” Then a repeat of the formal bow and away he went.

Chloe sighed. If this was some drama he’d prepared along with his menu of rich dishes, then she’d willingly go along to the finish. Just because it was Logan.

Business proceeded around her, sights and sounds and scents emphasizing the real appeal of this place, with a clink of cutlery, a subdued thrum of conversation, a framework of classical music. She checked around her again —just in case— and tasted the sauce, then worked her way through the rest. Nirvana. She scooped up every morsel.

Logan reappeared carrying a small white tray. Upon it sat a custard dish of dessert drizzled with a bit of glaze, powdered sugar, and fruit. The preparation. “Strawberry crème brulee, my lady.” The presentation. “Please enjoy.” The bow.

“Logan!” she wailed her disappointment.

He gave a hint of a grin, and a tiny salute. No explanation, just the disappearing act again.

Chloe looked at what he’d served.
Red. Favorite color—red. Why favorite? The color of passion. The color of intensity. The color of danger.
No. No, she wouldn’t think of that now. She wouldn’t let David intrude.

She was employing her spoon with enthusiasm and expertise when the familiar, free-and-easy man of her acquaintance reappeared, wearing his off-work uniform of jeans and tee. Smiling, he put down his full entrée plate and seated himself across from her.

Chloe greeted him with delight. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally able to join me! Logan, this has been marvelous. Everything is delectable and I really made a pig of myself.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said with smug satisfaction.

“If you wanted to show me how talented you are, you’ve succeeded. Thank you so much—not only for the meal and the service, but for the night out. I’ve loved this whole experience.”

He looked at her with his whole heart in his eyes. “That’s it, then. That’s all I hoped for.”

“Oh, Logan,” she whispered. Who could resist a man like this? She touched the brawny wrist lying atop the stiff white tablecloth with reverence. “You are the most…”

He put down his fork and regarded her in the ambient light. She straightened her semi-dressy leopard-print top (under which resided the sassy leopard-print lingerie) and smacked her lips – she’d glammed them up with her favorite red lipstick. He swallowed and said, “Yeah? Go on.”

“…amazing, remarkable, awe-inspiring, outstanding, superlative..”

“Hmmmph. You forgot attractive. And sexy. Damned sexy.”

“…attractive, sexy, damned sexy… Now what’s this ‘my lady’ stuff?”

Logan laughed loudly. “Oh, I dunno. It just seemed to fit in with the role. And I wanted to cook for you, Chloe. I wanted to show off a little, show you what I could do. Did you really like it?”

“Logan. I
loved
it. And I
lo
—” No. Still too soon. Still too many problems to deal with. She bit off what she’d been about to say and replaced it with a question as to how he’d learned to cook.

“Oh. Well.” He took a sip of water, mopped up the tasty Marsala sauce with a small chunk of bread, and considered. “That’s part of my life story you wanted to hear. I thought maybe we could get into that tonight.”

“I’d be glad to listen. But,” she paused and glanced around at the contained activity, “don’t you have to get back to work?”

“Work? Nope. Off tonight. Free just to sit here and let somebody else run things.”

“But this?” The small sweep of her hand indicated the tabletop, and the remains of her dessert. “Oh. Logan. You came in tonight, just to do this for me?”

“Well, sure,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Chloe struggled gulping down a lump in her throat the size of a Staten Island ferry. “Being you, Logan Farrow, of course you couldn’t do anything else. Now, let’s hear this life story of yours. I want to know all about you, from the time you appeared on this earth until a week ago when you rescued me from the streets.”

Logan grinned. “Oh, hell, the streets were too high class. No, I picked you up right outa the alley.”

“Logan, you—!”

He overrode her feigned indignation with another lopsided grin. Then he caught the attention of their server and they waited until the table was clear and a silver carafe of coffee and two cups was brought out. Then he began.

“Well, I was born in a small town not far outside of Akron. In the poorer section, actually—what you’d prob’ly call the wrong side of the tracks.”

From the time he’d been old enough to understand its significance, he’d seen emotional and physical abuse from his father: towards his mother, towards his younger brother, towards himself.

“That’s why I knew right away what was goin’ on, when you came tearin’ through my kitchen,” he explained.

He paused for a few minutes and poured cream into his coffee and stir, then he sipped.

The strings of a violin soared over the strains of Ravel as an accompaniment to their conversation, and the lights had dimmed just a little in deference to the later hour. Chloe watched him, watched the movements of his hands, watched the expression on his face as he recounted old memories—distant, yet still so much a part of him.

“And I knew I had to help you,” Logan finished the thought. “Anyway, my mother managed one thing that someone beaten down by too much abuse often doesn’t try: she got away. Sound familiar? Yeah, she took me and my brother, Sam, and we lit out.”

Their next home was in an even smaller town, in an even poorer section. With two young boys to support, his mother found a position working at one of the big rubber factories for which Akron was famous: long hours, low pay, few benefits, periodic cutbacks of staff.

“Mom did the best she could. She loved us, and we always had enough food and clean clothes, and somehow she was able to pay the rent and utility bills. But there wasn’t enough money for extras, like sports uniforms or supplemental classes or some of the toys other kids had. No car, either, so we took buses or walked to wherever we needed to go. And Sam and I were on our own a lot. Here, want some more coffee, Chloe? No?”

His gaze was fixed on the ornate spoon handle with which he used in drawing aimless circles over the tablecloth.

In his mid-teens, wanting to help out—
needing
to help out—Logan applied for the job as cook at a small nearby restaurant. He got it; and, much to his mother’s dismay, he quit school immediately. Earning a paycheck came secondary to his discovery that, not only did he enjoy what he did, but he had a real talent for the culinary arts even in a poor excuse for a kitchen.

“Guess I woulda stayed there forever.” He looked up to meet her regard full on, and her heart bumpety-bumped a few helpless beats in response. “Except that I got myself in trouble too often. Strangest thing—I never went lookin’ for it. It just seemed to find me.” He shot her a look of amusement. She’d divided her attention between Logan’s words and the room’s surroundings.

“Trouble,” she repeated. “Such as?”

“I got in with a bad crowd. It was a rough area, where I lived and worked, and there were too many bars and too many fights.” Shame scrunched up his brow. “And a few arrests, I’m embarrassed to admit.”

“Arrests?” She was startled. “But you were just a kid?”

“Yeah, and a damned stupid one at that. I landed in the clink, but Mom bailed me out before I had to spend time. Man, did she read me the riot act about my behavior, and what kinda bad stuff I was teachin’ my brother. After a while, my boss at the greasy spoon got tired of all the boozin’ and brawlin’ and let me go.”

“Well, you must have still needed an income,” Chloe pointed out in reasonable tones. “Where did you go from there?”

“Downhill, to hell in a hand basket,” he said gloomily. “I ran with a coupla friends of mine from high school days—Nick and Kevin—and we started boostin’ cars. See,” he shifted position, leaning forward to explain his position, “I’ve always liked workin’ with cars. Computers—hell, no, couldn’t work one of those to save my life. Can’t even type. But cars—that’s another thing entirely. Tinkerin’ around with motors, findin’ out what makes things run—God, that’s cool stuff.” The glow of enthusiasm lit his face.

Trouble, trouble, trouble. A poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Looking for a way out.

“We were in Akron by then. We made money. Oh, yeah, we made plenty of money. Sent some to my mother, got Sam into a good school, but then we tried jackin’ a Mercedes. Damn. What a beauty. It purred like a woman in—well, it purred. Only problem was, it belonged to one of the city officials. And we got caught. Fast.”

Nick’s father, a local sheriff, managed to negotiate the release of all three would-be criminals into his custody; instead of driving them to the county hoosegow, however, he drove them personally to the regional recruiting center. As an ex-military man himself, Jack Shepard felt—and probably rightly so—that boys desperately in need of discipline would fare better with rough handling. And so they did.

“We joined the Marines,” said Logan, and extended his left forearm to show the tattoo “Semper Fidelis” running almost the length from inside elbow to wrist. “Went to Parris Island for trainin’, then got sent to Iraq.”

Chloe shivered. “Logan.”

He returned his attention to the tablecloth, smoothing a wrinkle with the tip of his fingers, arranging his knife and fork. “Mosul,” he said quietly. “Stupid stuff goin’ on back and forth between there and Fallujah. We got hammered with mortars from the one side and insurgent RPG’s on three others. Jesus. I still see it in my nightmares, all the blood and noise and screams and dust. So much damned dust.” Beads of sweat oozed onto his forehead, and his hand worked itself into a clenched fist.

Silence. Chloe didn’t break it. She couldn’t.

“That’s where Kevin bought it. I saw him hit, I tried to get to him and couldn’t pull him outa the Stryker they’d blown up. Couldn’t pull him free. Nick came to help and we realized that Kevin was already gone.”

Tears beaded on Logan’s downcast lashes and Chloe caught her breath. There wasn’t any way she could help ten years after the fact, but god she wanted to. She wanted to wipe the pain away. Hell, she wanted to go back in time and change it. She covered his hand with hers and tried to share his pain.

“And then Nick got wounded.” He glanced up, shook himself a little and swiped surreptitiously at his eyes. “His leg was all shot up, so I slung him over my shoulder and we hauled ass.”

“How long,” she cleared her throat and asked carefully, “how long before you could come home?”

“Well, Nick right away, o’course. Another six months for me. A lifetime of six months. I did my part, and I learned to keep my head down, and I made it through without gettin’ hurt. And I found out that war only breeds more war.”

“The violence, you mean?”

“Oh, yeah. I hate all that stuff anyway,” he admitted. Her bare hand lay over his, offering the simple comfort of human touch, and he hitched in a ragged breath. “The Marines gave me some topnotch trainin’, so I can handle myself okay in just about any situation. But I don’t like fightin’. I don’t like what happens to me, who I become, or what happens to the people I’m fightin’ with. It doesn’t solve any problems, Chloe. It only makes things worse.”

“I think you’re probably right, Logan. And Nick? Did he recover okay?”

He brightened. “Nick is good. Took quite a while to recuperate. But later on he went to the Academy and joined the force with his dad, and he’s doin’ well. I was his best man when he got married a year ago.”

“A happy ending. I’m glad to hear it. No girls in your life?”

Logan sent her a slow, significant glance from under his lashes. “Here and there, now and then. None to mean anything.”

She paused and digested that, then asked curiously, “How did you happen to come back to restaurant work?”

“That’s easy enough. I found out I’d never lost my love for puttin’ recipes together and feedin’ hungry customers. You, included.” He smiled, the teasing, crooked smile she ached for. What would she do for that smile? Just about anything. “So first I got my G.E.D., then I went for an Associates degree in culinary arts at a school here in the City, then my Bachelors. Meanwhile I’d found a job and worked my way up to where I am now.”

Chloe leaned forward, elbow resting on the table with chin propped in her hand. “Amazing. Logan, I have so much respect for you and how far you’ve come and what you’ve done with yourself. Have you stayed in touch with your family?”

“No idea where Pop is after all these years. But I see my mom and Sam once in a while, and we call each other. I’ve got a nice picture of ’em at home. I’ll show you.”

She’d benefited by the way his protective instincts had taken over where she was concerned; she’d heard about his sense of duty in watching over family and friends. Now she was finding out how hard work and ambition had gotten him to where he was.

“And where from here?”

Logan shrugged and took a last sip at the coffee - no doubt it was lukewarm by ow. “This is fine for the time bein’. I work a lot of hours—maybe 70 or 80 a week—but the pay and the prestige make up for it, and till now it hasn’t mattered how long I’m here. But things are changin’.”