The Chef's Choice (15 page)

He leaned in to nuzzle her neck. “Did you bring clothes so you could stay?”

“Tomorrow's Monday, remember? It might be your Sunday, but for the rest of us poor schleps, Monday's the start of the workweek.”

A logical enough explanation, still…“It would be nice to have you here in the morning, one of these times.”

“Then we'll have to work on that,” she said, kissing him.

It wasn't an empty promise, Cady told herself. She just had to get to the point she could. What was between them was nothing she'd expected, nothing she'd gone looking for. A month before, Damon Hurst had only existed as a distant and improbable presence on television. She'd never in a million years expected to ever see him, let alone be spending time in his bed—or any man's bed, for that matter.

And that was the problem. She needed to catch up. It was extraordinary to believe that this was her life. When he slipped his arms around her and pressed his mouth to hers, it felt like the most natural thing on earth. The rest of the time, it simply seemed impossible.

In a way, she felt as though she was living a double life. There were the hours she spent at the Compass Rose, and with her family, and then there were the precious hours when it was only Damon and her and she felt herself turn liquid in his arms. In some ways, it was the easiest thing she'd ever done. In some ways, it was the hardest.

The rave reviews continued to come in. The Sextant was suddenly a destination for foodies—and for food groupies who were there purely for Damon. The glamorous, beautiful groupies who ordered the chef's tasting so that they could meet and flirt with him.

It was hard for Cady to put it out of her mind. The two of them had gotten involved when he had been flying under the radar, when his focus had been on the Compass Rose and the Sextant. And her. Now, he was being pulled in a dozen different directions at once. Now, everybody seemed to want a piece of him. And although it didn't seem to bother him, it just made Cady uneasy.

She couldn't compete with the groupies. She couldn't compete with the women from his past—and she didn't want to. Sure, she loved the meals he cooked for her but she was equally happy with pizza and beer. She wasn't part of the high-powered world he was used to. He seemed to have changed, but what if the real Damon came out now that the cult of personality had reformed? What if the man she'd known for the previous month was just Damon on downtime and the things he seemed to want—Grace Harbor, the Sextant, her—were forgotten? He would go on and be fine, but if she gave him everything, she wasn't at all sure how she'd survive.

And so she tried to keep a small bit of distance between them. She tried to remind herself that it wouldn't last. It was only a matter of time, and if she were smart, she'd enjoy it while she could.

This was the man who hadn't spoken to his father in almost a decade. This was a man who could leave the past behind without missing a beat. If she were smart, she'd run as far and as fast and as hard from him as she could. But standing like this, with her arms around him and her head on his shoulder, it all felt right. And she was powerless to do anything but stay.

“Cady.”

She raised her head. There was a note in Damon's voice, an intensity, a barely suppressed excitement. When she turned and looked to where he was pointing, she understood why. She saw what she would swear hadn't been there just a moment before. Saw, perhaps, the answer to her questions. Coming out of the ground in barely visible filaments were the green shoots of dill and cilantro, celery and corn. And thyme.

And thyme.

The seeds they had planted together were sprouting.

K
eeping the grounds of the Compass Rose perfect was Cady's job. Knowing that family and friends were coming to visit was a whole different thing from anonymous guests, though. She'd spent the better part of the week manicuring the property, making sure everything was immaculate.

And now, at midday on Friday, she needed more time.

She crossed the back lawn of the inn to drop a rake in the toolshed, automatically waving to her father, out on the lawn. Then her footsteps slowed as she took a closer look. He wasn't talking to a guest as she'd so often seen him doing. He wasn't repairing a railing or walkway. He was just sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the grass, looking out at the water.

“What are you doing here, you slacker?” She walked behind him to rub his shoulders. “People see you sitting around too much, they're going to start talking.”

“I'm trying to decide whether I like the harbor better in the morning or the afternoon.”

“You have to pick one or the other?”

“It seems like the kind of thing I should know. I've been here long enough.”

There was a strange note in his voice that had her looking at him more carefully. “This wouldn't have anything to do with your birthday, would it?”

He put a hand over hers. “That obvious, is it?”

“Lucky guess.” She sat down next to him.

“It's always the birthdays with the zeros in them that make you take stock,” he said.

“I'd say you'd have to come out pretty well in any stocktaking,” she said. “Beautiful wife, three good kids, if you ignore that incident with the lobster pots and the outboard—I mean, how was I supposed to know that Tucker had tuned the throttle? Anyway, look around,” she said, emboldened by his faint smile. “You've got this beautiful inn that's a national historic landmark, you live on the water, everybody in town knows your name and respects you.

“And speaking of the inn,” she continued, “you also have a good head for business. Your gamble with Damon Hurst paid off. Mom says reservations have been going through the roof. Your chef's going to be the cover story of some high-powered food magazine. It's all coming together.”

“So what?”

“So what?”

“What does it matter? So we make it a success. Then what do we do, turn around and sell it off to the highest bidder to do whatever they want with it?” There was something almost angry in his voice.

Cady blinked. “Well, no.”

“We can't work it the rest of our lives. Who's going to take it over? You?”

“I'm not—”

“Exactly. And the other two don't even live around here.”

“Maybe Tucker wants it.”

“Tucker's already got two businesses. You know what it's like here, you know it's a full-time job.” He stopped and gave a dispirited sigh. “Ah, don't listen to me, I'm just running off at the mouth. It's just that some days I get up and wish I could just relax with a cup of coffee.”

She put a hand on his leg. “You know, you could hire a manager.”

“The Compass Rose has always been a family business. That's part of what makes it different.”

“I'm not saying you change that. I'm just saying bring in a person who can take some of the load so that you can afford to take a vacation, have the weekends off, God forbid. You can still be around and do what you've always done. Just less of it, that's all,” she finished.

“I don't know,” he said doubtfully.

“It can't hurt to check into it, can it?”

He considered. “Maybe once we get our finances back into shape, I'll look around.”

But the inn, she knew, was just a part of what was bothering him. “Dad, I know having a birthday with a round number is a wake-up call, but…it's just a number. It's not you.”

“Oh, trust me, sweetheart—” he shook his head in amusement “—it's not just a number. My back and my hands remind me of that all the time.”

“Sure, but you know what? When you're seventy, you're going to look back on today and say, ‘Man, sixty was great. I wish I were sixty again.' And at eighty, you're going to look back at seventy. It's always going to be that way,” she said, warming to her subject. “The thing to do is enjoy where you're at when you're there. And know that there are a hell of a lot of people out there who love you.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Including me.”

“And me right back at you.” He stroked her hair for a moment, then slapped his thighs and stood up. “You know what? You're right. I guess that means I'd better get making the most of fifty-nine while I've still got it.”

Cady grinned. “Go, Daddy, go.”

“Nice job with the lobster trio.”

Damon looked up from scrubbing the counter to see a tall, sinewy man leaning against the doorway, surveying the kitchen. His cropped hair was dirty blond, his face weathered. His gaze wasn't cynical, exactly, so much as calculating and unflinching. He scanned everything, missed little.

He never had.

“Hello, Jack,” Damon said to his onetime partner. “Looking to open up an outpost in Maine?”

Jack Worth grinned and calculation became affability. “I wanted to come see the superstar at work.”

Damon's gaze was steady. “Time was you didn't have to come to Maine for that.” Time was, they'd worked side by side, night after night, building an empire. Damon had been the food and the face of Pommes de Terre; Jack had been the moneyman, the guy behind the scenes. They'd hatched big plans over cognac at the bar of the closed restaurant: a bigger location when the lease was up at the end of the year, a second restaurant in the Meatpacking District.

But then had come the television success and with it, the fizzy bubbles of fame that had floated Damon's feet off the ground. There weren't enough hours in the day for the things he needed to do, let alone wanted. Days in the studio and late nights in the kitchen had bled into early mornings in the clubs. And it became harder and harder to remember what really mattered.

When the Cooking Channel had canceled his show, it had almost been a relief. He could focus again, could go back to what really mattered, which was the food. Instead, Jack had called him into his office and broken the news: he wasn't renewing the lease. They weren't moving, they weren't opening up a second location. He was closing the restaurant and ending their partnership.

Free fall had begun.

Damon looked now into those gray eyes. Jack had succeeded in the restaurant business for almost twenty years because he was willing to do what was necessary. His had been the final rejection, the final betrayal. And yet it had also been the start of the way back.

Standing before him now, Damon wasn't sure what to feel. “Manhattan to Maine. It's a long way to come for lunch.”

“It was worth it, though. You haven't lost your touch.”

Damon tossed the sponge back in the bucket. “That's a relief.”

“People are talking, you know.”

“About me?”

“Who else? You always were one for reinventing yourself, but this is a strange choice, even for you.”

There were eyes on him, Damon reminded himself, and a dozen pairs of ears pricked up to hear what came next. “I need a break,” he said. “Let's go take a walk.”

It was one of those near-perfect days, warm without being hot, the air off the ocean soft and sweet. They walked to the edge of the property, looking down to where the calm waters of the harbor lapped against the stone breakwater. “God's country, up here,” Jack observed.

“This, coming from the man who swore Manhattan was the center of the universe?”

“Manhattan
is
the center of the universe,” Jack replied. “That doesn't mean I can't appreciate a place like this. After all, you can.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“You're out in the sticks, no doubt about it. You've got a decent kitchen and a staff that appears to know what it's doing. But it's strictly small-time.”

“What about you? You're out of the business.”

Jack snorted. “I'll never be out of the business. I have other restaurants. I just shut down Pommes de Terre because you were beginning to be too much of a pain in the ass. There's no one as talented as you in the kitchen, you know that, but talent isn't always enough.”

“Did you come up here to lecture me?” Damon asked with a little edge in his voice.

“No. I admit, I'm curious to know just how long you plan to continue this little…exercise. Or have you lost your nerve and decided to make it long-term?”

“Lost my nerve?”

“You could have found a job in Manhattan if you'd wanted one. More eyes on you there, though. Your missteps would be more public. So you come up here to do your finger exercises, figure out if you've still got what it takes.”

“Is that what I'm doing?” Damon said drily. “Thanks for clarifying that.”

“Anytime. And it looks like a tight operation. After the meal I had, I'm sure you'll get the reviews in
New York
magazine and the
Times
.”

“And
Dining Well
. Francesca called me a couple of days ago about doing an interview.”

“Ah, the black widow spider,” Jack said. “Watch out for that one or you're likely to find out she's dining well on you.”

“She says she's giving me the cover on her Hot Chefs issue.”

“Congratulations. But the place still isn't enough. What can you do, a hundred, hundred and fifty covers a night if you're lucky? It's small-time. And if you stick here, you're going to be small-time, too.”

Damon frowned. “Whoa, Trigger. Slow down. You're getting way ahead of things. I'm here and I'm cooking, that's it.”

“A Michelin-starred chef working at a country inn?”

“For the time being. It's letting me concentrate on what I want. The day it stops seeming like the best thing to do, I move on.”

“So it's just a stopover?”

“Call it what you want. I figure I'll work here for a year or two, get my chops back, and when I find the right opportunity, I'll move on.” It was the plan, as it had been from the beginning.

So why did he suddenly feel guilty saying it?

Across the lawn, he saw Cady coming toward him over the grass, carrying her cell phone. She wore shorts that showed off those gorgeous legs and a T-shirt the color of olives that brought out the green in her eyes.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she began.

“Not a problem,” Damon said easily. “This is an old friend. Cady, meet Jack Worth. Jack's up from Manhattan. He and I were partners in the restaurant business back in the day. Jack, this is Cady McBain. Her parents own the Compass Rose.”

Jack was already reaching for her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

She looked at him just a fraction of a second too long before shaking. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Your parents have a beautiful place here. I see you can take credit for some of that.” He nodded at the gardening gloves in her pocket.

“I just work here. The rest of it is all them.” She smiled faintly. “And our rock star chef.”

Jack glanced over at Damon. “Sounds like she's got your number, bud.”

“Listen, I won't keep you. Damon, Max is on the phone asking if we need anything from Portland before she heads out of town.”

“Nothing I can think of,” he said.

Cady nodded. “All right, I'll let you guys get back to it. Jack, it was nice to meet you. Have a safe trip back home.”

She walked away, cell phone back to her ear. And Damon watched her the whole time.

“Not your usual type,” Jack observed.

Damon turned to him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Is this part of the new you, the wholesome small-town girl thing? I got to say, like her a lot better than some of the fashion victims you used to run around with.”

“Why are you here, Jack?” Even he could hear the sharpness in his voice. “It's a long way to come just for lunch, and it isn't just a friendly visit to see how I'm doing.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Someone once told me there are no friends in this business, only people you do business with. I believe that was you, Jack.”

“You believe wrong,” Jack shot back at him. “We were friends, until you went spinning off the edge.”

“And you were happy enough to give me a push.”

“Do you really think I wanted to do that?” The gray eyes iced over to pewter. “I walked away from a hell of a lot of money closing Pommes de Terre. If it had been just business, I would have kept raking in the dough and let you keep throwing your life down the toilet, and when you finally crashed and burned, brought in a sous chef to do the work for you. I closed the restaurant because it was the only thing I could think of that might wake you up. Talking sure as hell hadn't. At that point you didn't know who your friends were. It looks like maybe you still don't.”