The Baby Truce (12 page)

Tom poured a half glass of wine, then stood swirling it as he watched the dog dig into her food. He should probably give her a name, because there was no sense
pretending he was going to turn the little beast over to animal control. As he'd told Reggie, he was no dog murderer, and he wasn't going to take the chance that she wouldn't get adopted before zero hour. Besides, she kept his feet warm.

He'd find her a home—a real home—when he left. Maybe with Eden. She looked like the rat dog type. Reggie had that spoiled cat he'd seen the night he was there, who'd probably hog all the dog's food and knock it around when Reggie wasn't looking.

The dog looked up at him, cocked her head, then went back to eating. She'd undoubtedly once had a name, given to her by those bastards who'd abandoned her. He'd ask the boys next door.

As Tom approached Frank and Bernie's shop, the metallic squeal started again. He knocked on the door, but no one answered—probably because they couldn't hear over the racket—so he let himself inside.

The brothers were at the far end of the cavernous building, next to a screaming saw Bernie was feeding wood through. Both men were wearing hearing protection, and Tom wished he was, too.

He clapped his hands over his ears until the noise stopped, and Bernie popped Frank on the chest, then pointed at Tom.

“Hey,” Frank said.

“I see you guys do more than cook ribs.”

“You gotta fill your hours after retirement,” Frank said.

“What are you retired from?” Tom had wondered
what they'd done before moving in together and cooking ribs.

“Construction. We built a lot of the houses in this neighborhood.”

“Home boys, then.”

“I guess,” Frank said dubiously, obviously not one for puns. “We're building a picnic table now.”

“I've never built anything in my life,” Tom said.

“You never had shop class?”

“I didn't go to a regular high school. Got stuck in boarding school a lot.”

“Oh. I see.”

Frank seemed at a loss as to whether or not he should offer sympathy, so Tom said, “I was wondering…did that dog that came with my house have a name?”

“Muffin.”

He made a face. “Those people abandoned a dog named Muffin?”

“You never know about people,” Frank said. “Hey, you need a picnic table? We're making a prototype, but it's not quite right.”

“Why don't you guys keep it?”

“We have three picnic tables. Hobby of Bernie's. Making picnic tables. Pretty soon we won't have room for grass in the backyard.” Frank laughed.

“I'm not going to be here for long, unless something radically changes.”

“After this, then what?”

“I hope to have a new job,” Tom said simply. “How's the sauce coming?”

“Made some adjustments. We'll be grilling tomorrow if you want to try it.”

“I might not be here,” he said.

“Well, anytime you see smoke rising, come on over. We're always happy to have people by.”

It probably did get lonely, just the two of them. Tom wondered if they'd once had separate lives, wives and such, or if they'd always been together. Kind of like Reggie and her siblings.

“Well, I gotta go,” Tom said. He raised a hand to Bernie, who was measuring a board. Bernie waved back.

“That's a nice dog,” Frank said before Tom turned back to the door. “I'm glad you're giving her a chance.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I'm becoming a believer in second chances.” And so, even though they had to part company eventually, the dog was getting a name, and it wouldn't be Muffin.

As soon as he walked into the house, she trotted over, cocking her head. He picked her up and held her out at arm's length, studying the little animal for inspiration. She stared back with her bright eyes. Small and brown. Warm and comforting. Muffin was appropriate in some ways, but Tom wasn't a muffin kind of guy.

Petite Brioche.

Perfect.

“Come on, Brioche. Let's go surf the net.” He tucked her under his arm and headed for his laptop, where he found a ton of junk in his email in-box, plus one very unexpected message from Lowell. Tom hadn't heard
from the guy since their “you're screwed” conversation six weeks ago.

The message was short: How's your French?

He wrote back Bon. Lowell was well aware that his French was adequate in most places, fluent in the kitchen. Tom knew all the curse words.

He leaned back in his chair, a sense of excitement building in him. Lowell wouldn't ask unless there was a reason, but he worked in his own way. Tom knew better than to ask questions, which tended to make Lowell react in a contrary manner. Tom began to feel a faint hope, though, that maybe he wouldn't be unemployed or face underemployment for much longer.

Maybe he could work in a decent kitchen again—where he didn't need to worry about making people cry. Make a decent salary so he could provide for his child's care.

And maybe he'd be smart enough to keep his mouth shut and cook.

But if it involved speaking French…Canada? Or France?

C
ATERING A WEDDING
, Tom discovered, was very much like preparing to fight a battle. Plans, details, to-the-minute time schedules.

There were also other less militaristic aspects. Florists, displays, rentals, temps…multiple details to juggle.

If one also had to create a business dinner a mere three days before the wedding, the tension and potential for disaster increased exponentially. Very much like a busy professional kitchen of any sort.

Reggie took it all in stride, despite Eden's return to the kitchen being delayed by two days because of the swelling in her foot and ankle. Tom kept in the background as much as possible, doing whatever Reggie asked of him without argument, trying to take some of the pressure off her. Patty tried to outdo him, finishing tasks in record time, reinforcing his belief that professional rivalry was a fine thing when used for the forces of good.

And through it all, deveining shrimp, chopping crudités, making biscotti and roasting chicken breasts, he thought about Lowell's email.

Lowell was a contrary bastard. He was also one of Tom's closest friends and wouldn't screw with him for too long. Tom hoped. Even this hint of possibility had
lifted his mood…and also made him well aware that if he was offered a job, he had more to consider than he used to.

“Hey, Tom.” Justin came out of his pastry room, the white cotton stocking cap he wore smeared with blue icing. “I'm starting to get into the juice here. Could you give me a hand?”

“Sure.” Half afraid of what he was going to have to do, Tom followed Justin into his lair, where the cake was taking form. Fortunately, no frosting was involved. Just frou-frou desserts. Justin explained how to make the éclair filling and then pipe it into the shells he'd made earlier that day.

“You'll do the final touches with the piping bag?” Tom asked, thinking that Justin probably didn't want his reputation riding on Tom's decorative skills.

Tom made the filling, cooking custard and then, after it had cooled, mixing it with whipped cream. He started piping filling into the éclairs, while Justin continued to work on his cake. Big piping he could handle. Leaves and flowers? Forget it.

Classic rock played through the speakers mounted on the ceiling, and Justin moved his head in time with the beat as his hands remained steady, creating petal after petal.

“Anything else?” Tom asked forty minutes later.

Justin looked up as if he'd forgotten Tom was there. He shifted the pastry bag to his left hand and flexed his right. “We just need to get them in the cooler, so I can spread out here.”

“Will do,” Tom said. He wrapped the pans and made
a couple trips to the walk-in, making room on one of the shelves for the wrapped trays. When he was done, Reggie was nowhere to be found and he needed another assignment, so he headed for the office.

The door was open a crack, and since Tom didn't hear Reggie talking on the phone, he knocked and then pushed it open without waiting for a response.

Reggie was sound asleep, her head resting on her folded arms on her desk.

 

R
EGGIE WOKE WITH A GUILTY
start, wondering where she was and why there was a warm hand on her back. Tom. She sat bolt upright.

She'd laid her head down for a minute and that was the last thing she remembered.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Fine. Yes. Just resting my eyes.”

“How much sleep did you get last night?”

She rose to her feet, straightened her apron, then looked Tom in the eye. “Plenty of sleep. Sleep is important, which is why pregnant woman fall asleep at odd times. Like now.”

“I see.”

“Are you finished with the chicken breasts?” she asked, cocking her head.

“As a matter of fact, I am.” Over an hour ago.

“Good.” She reached for her clipboard with the battle plan attached. “I have a million things that need to be done.”

 

T
OM ARRIVED AT THE KITCHEN
early the next morning, but Reggie was already there, deep in preparations.

How much sleep could she have gotten?

She greeted him with a smile, then turned back to her work, leaving him with a strong desire to go over and put his arms around her from behind. Like he used to do. Back when they were in love.

Patty came into the kitchen within moments of his arrival, calling a cheery hello to Reggie and giving Tom a curt nod. They may have made an uneasy peace during the burned cake incident, but she was by no means a fan. Justin showed up next and the kitchen seemed almost crowded.

Or maybe Tom had simply wanted a few minutes alone with Reggie.

It wasn't to be. Everyone worked steadily, cooking, packing, wrapping and loading, right up until midafternoon when Reggie and Patty took off to finish cooking at the Masonic lodge hall where the dinner was being held.

Justin rolled his shoulders as the van pulled away.

“More time on the cake?” Tom asked.

“Nope. I'm going home, having exactly two beers and then sleeping until it's time to come back and help Reggie and Patty unload the van. Tomorrow is going to be a killer.” He opened the door to the kitchen. “I prescribe the same for you.”

Tom did indeed go home, leaving Justin to lock up. He was determined to beat Reggie there the next morning. It still bothered him that he'd found her asleep the day before—to the point that after feeding Brioche and
making himself a salami sandwich, he settled on the futon with his laptop and punched “pregnancy” into a search engine.

What he found was hair-raising.

The stages of pregnancy themselves were matter-of-fact. But on the various websites he'd explored, he not only saw photos of the fetus—which was not a handsome creature by any stretch of the imagination—he also read about the many things that could go wrong with a pregnancy.

And then the birth…

He finally had to force himself to turn off the computer.

How on earth could Reggie be so calm when faced with so much potential for disaster?

 

T
HE LIGHTS WERE ON IN THE
kitchen when Reggie pulled the van to a stop near the rear entrance. Justin was here as planned. Or not. The rear door opened and Tom, not her brother, stepped out into the alley. What the heck?

“Is something wrong?” Patty asked from the passenger seat. Instead of answering, Reggie got out of the van, as did Patty and Jenna, the temp for the evening, and went around back to where Tom already had the doors open.

“You're still here,” Reggie said in surprise, pushing a few loose tendrils back from her forehead.

“I borrowed the key from Justin so I could help you unload.”

“Why?” She reached in for the first thing she could get her hands on, anxious to get the unloading done so
she could go home, go to bed. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.

Instead of answering, Tom took the box she'd just lifted from the van, and handed it to the temp, who carried it inside. And then another. And another. For a few minutes it was like a bucket brigade. Reggie would grab a box or cooler and either he or Patty, not to be outdone by Tom, would take it away from her. “Why are you doing this?” she finally asked.

“Are you getting enough sleep?”

It sounded more like an accusation than a question. “Yes,” she snapped. “Are you?”

“I'm not pregnant,” he snapped back, close to her ear, so no one else would hear.

Reggie stared at him.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe I didn't do that well. I'm worried about you overworking yourself while Eden's out.”

“You're worried about me,” she stated flatly, as she took hold of another container.

“Yeah.”

Making a face at him, she lifted it and walked around him. He grabbed a cooler and followed. The van was almost empty, and Patty and Jenna could handle it while she put stuff away.

Within twenty minutes, everything was stowed, and the two women left.

“Let's go grab something to eat,” Tom said after the door finally swung shut behind them. “Then you can go home and get some sleep.”

Reggie regarded him warily. “Would you believe that the last thing I want is food?”

“You need to eat,” he said. “Either I take you out or I cook something here.”

She shook her head wearily. “I need some sleep.” The perfect argument.

Tom's shoulders slumped in defeat. “A peanut butter sandwich?”

They'd practically lived on peanut butter for a time, while they were still in California, before moving to Reno. Cooking school was expensive and time consuming. PB and J was fast and cheap. She actually had very warm memories about peanut butter and jelly.

“I don't have the good jelly here.”

The good jelly was a plum-and-ginger chutneylike concoction. Sweet but with a bite. Reggie had to special order it now from a company in California. She always had at least two jars in her pantry at home—although it had been a while before she could eat it after Tom went to Spain.

“We'll make do.”

Tom took her by the shoulders and steered her over to a high stool and sat her down. “Stay,” he said. “I mean that nicely.”

Reggie couldn't help smiling as he backed away, keeping an eye on her as if she was going to jump to her feet and bolt for the door. He disappeared into the pantry, returning with peanut butter. “No bread,” he said. “What kind of a catering place has no bread?”

“Delivery tomorrow.”

“This makes it difficult for me to feed you tonight.”

“Bring me a spoon.”

He smiled, a wonderful sensual curving of his nearly perfect lips, then went to a utensils drawer and took out two spoons.

Reggie lifted her eyebrows as he positioned a stool next to hers. “Having dinner with me?”

“I am.” He went to the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk, poured Reggie a tall glass, then brought it to her.

She already had the top off the jar and had dipped in. “Food tastes better when you're pregnant,” she said, pulling the spoon out of her mouth and closing her eyes for a moment, savoring the taste and texture. The peanut butter was freshly ground and tasted of roasted peanuts. Good stuff.

“I may never know about that,” Tom said, taking a scoop of his own.

“After the nausea disappears, that is.”

“It's gone?”

“Yes. It just—” she shrugged “—went away. I'm starting to feel surges of energy.” She reached across her body with her free hand to rub her shoulder. “Or I was.”

“How was service?”

“Flawless. Patty relaxed and moved a little faster, and she got a stain out of a guest's blouse.” Reggie put the spoon into her mouth again, slowly drew it out. Tom never took his eyes off her, which made her feel warm. Exhaustion. Nothing to do with a hot chef on the stool opposite her.

“Are you sure peanut butter is enough?”

“I've been noshing all day.”

“But you need actual meals, from all the food groups,” Tom said with a frown.

“Trust me. I ate from all the groups today, including the ice cream group at lunch.” She took a drink of the milk. “Are you going to be my pregnancy sheriff now? Because if you are, you need to know that it's going to drive me crazy.”

“I did some internet research on fetal development,” Tom said. “Learned a few things.”

“You have?” Reggie asked. “Like what?”

Tom met her eyes. “At this point, our kid is really,
really
homely.”

Reggie almost choked on the peanut butter. Tom automatically reached out to pat her back a couple times.

“I mean,” he continued, when she'd finally got control of herself, “it looks like an alien—all head, with little black eyes and a tadpole body.”

“Rumor has it they get cuter as time passes.”

“Man, I hope so.”

Reggie drank her milk, licked the spoon, then got up to rinse it in the sink.

“Done already?”

“Honestly, I am tired, and tomorrow is another long day.” And the unexpected intimacy between her and Tom was throwing her off. It was pleasant at the moment, but she didn't trust him, or herself, enough to encourage it.

“Call me when you get home?” She opened her mouth to protest and he added, “Just so I know. Okay?”

“Okay.” She went into the office to get her purse.
When she came out again, she said, “Thanks for dinner.”

“Someday maybe we can have a real dinner.”

In the old days, real dinner would be followed by…

She drew in a deep breath. “Yes. Maybe. But probably not anytime soon.”

Tom walked to the door with her and held it open. “But…maybe someday?”

“No promises, Tom.” She reached up to touch his cheek, because she didn't seem to be able to stop herself. “But…thanks for dinner.”

 

A
S
J
USTIN HAD PREDICTED
, wedding preparations consumed Friday, when most of the food had to be prepped and then stored, to be transported and finished on site the next day.

Tom took over the kitchen, since Reggie had a herd of temps to manage, all of whom she knew by name. She rehired the same people over and over, and they appeared to like working for her. More importantly, they knew their jobs.

Eden showed up that morning, hobbling in with her foot in a compression boot. She would not be much help in the kitchen at the event, slow and awkward as she was with the contraption on her foot, so Tom offered to go along, take up slack.

Reggie shook her head. “It's the bride's day. If anyone recognizes you, it would shift the attention.”

“I don't think that's much of a possibility,” he said. Especially if he was in the kitchen. But Reggie held firm and he agreed to stay at Tremont, answer the phone and
tweak some of the dishes Eden had come up with for the Reno Cuisine competition. Which he also didn't get to attend. But he was hoping by that time Lowell might have come up with something for him. So far, he hadn't heard another word from his alleged friend.