The Place I Belong (8 page)

Adam was not admiring the huge sheets of glass framing vistas of gray-green mountains rolling away in the gathering dusk, nor the hand-wrought bronze chandeliers shedding a warm light over the gleaming crystal and silver. Instead he was checking to see if any table was missing its arrangement of burgundy calla lilies, crabapple berries, and chartreuse spider mums, if a
single
gold velvet-upholstered chair was set crooked, or a utilitarian serving tray had been left out on the floor. He checked water goblets for spots and smoothed the folds of a white linen napkin.

He nodded in approval when he saw Lucy adjust a flower arrangement as she passed one table; she’d convinced him to let her provide flowers for the restaurant in addition to her hostess duties, and her work was outstanding.

When members of his staff approached, he greeted each one with a smile and covertly inspected their black suits and
burgundy
shirts and ties, all of which he provided and had individually tailored. He took care to train his employees thoroughly, never asking them do a job they weren’t fully prepared to do. However, he expected them to live up to the standards he set. Those who did were paid well and treated with respect; those who didn’t were politely let go. After five years in Sanctuary, he had virtually no turnover in his personnel, seeing as jobs at
The Aer
ie were coveted.

Once Adam made a complete sweep of the room and reviewed the table assignments with Lucy, he passed through the heavy mahogany doors into the kitchen. The transition from the serene elegance of the dining room to the brightly lit frenzy of the gleaming kitchen never ceased to enthrall him. This was his true home.

“Chef, we’re still waiting for the lobster delivery,” Bobby, his chef de cuisine, greeted him.

Adam swore under his breath and jerked his cell phone out of his pocket to punch in a speed-dial number.

“I’m turnin’ into your parking lot right now,” said the voice on the other end of the call. “Had a flat on the interstate.”

“Sounds like you need a new truck,” Adam said, pinching the
bridge of his nose. This was the third late delivery in t
wo week
s,
all supposedly due to the truck’s mechanical failures. He needed to find a new supplier for the fresh lobster he had trucked down from Maine.

“Pay my boss more for these danged crawdads and he’ll
buy one
.”

“Hmm,” Adam said. “I’ll send someone out to help you unload.”

He ended the call. “Donnie, go hustle those lobsters in here.” Gripping Bobby’s shoulder, he said, “I’ll make sure you don’t have this problem again.”

Bobby nodded and moved away, issuing a string of instructions to various underlings as he walked.

The urge to rip off his jacket and tie and seize a sauté skillet nearly overwhelmed Adam. Instead he closed his eyes and inhaled the scents swirling past his nostrils, parsing the ingredients by smell alone, a game he’d played with his mother in her kitchen when he was a child. It had turned out to be a useful skill. Satisfied that all the aromas fit somewhere into the menu he’d created for the evening, he opened his eyes and left the kitchen, walking down the hall to his office to research an alternate shellfish vendor.

Sitting down at his sleek walnut-and-brass desk, he reached for the computer mouse but changed his mind, instead unlocking the center desk drawer. Inside lay the rubber band-wrapped manila folder he’d been given by the social worker who’d been assigned to Matt’s case. Adam had opened it exactly once before and slammed it shut again.

Now he took the thick, dog-eared folder out of the drawer and put it on his desk. He splayed his right hand on top of it, wondering why he felt drawn to it at this moment. Maybe it was because Hannah had given him new hope of connecting with his son. He slipped the rubber bands off and, taking a deep breath, flipped it open to find the same photograph that had sent pain ripping through his chest on first sight. Prepared for it now, he stared down at the little boy standing on a kitchen stool with a wooden spoon in one hand, a stainless steel mixing bowl in the other, and a huge grin on his face. He realized that previously he had seen both his son and himself in the photo; the pain was so piercing because it twisted together strands of guilt and regret from both his past and his present.

The boy in the kitchen had yanked him back to the afternoons he’d helped his mother in their kitchen, when she’d taught him the sniffing game, as she called it. Those were rare, happy times when his father was out of the house, either at work or, as he later learned, in a bar drinking away his paycheck. Either way, he and his mother were safe from the slashing criticism—and worse—his father ladled out, whether he was drunk or sober. They would experiment with ingredients to create dishes which his mother gave colorful names to. His favorite was a wildly inventive variation on macaroni and cheese she dubbed “Mac the Cheese Wizard.” The memory was so vivid he could taste the combination of cheese, bacon, croutons, and pasta they had concocted.

He looked down at the picture again and felt the sear of loss at missing his son’s childhood, of not being in that kitchen with him, sharing his passion with his child. He’d offered to let Matt work at The Aerie, thinking his son might enjoy the chance to cook and earn some money for it, but Matt had rejected the proposal as he did everything Adam suggested, with hostility and disgust.

It was only a small photograph, so Adam could see there were more under it, as well as a child’s drawing on top of a stack of papers, but he couldn’t get past the one picture. He closed the folder, gently this time, wincing at the agony washing th
rough hi
m.

How could he blame Maggie for not wanting him in Matt’s life? When she’d known him, he’d been drinking heavily and calling it normal for a hardworking, young sous-chef. He’d drowned any thought that he might be following in his father’s footsteps with another drink.

In fact, Matt had been conceived on a night when Adam
had gone bar-hopping after work with some of the staff at the
N
ew Yor
k City restaurant where he’d landed his first real cooking
job. Maggie was a waitress there, a young Irish girl come to the “golden shore” of Manhattan to make her fortune. They’d both gotten drunk and ended up in bed at his tiny, dingy apartment in Brooklyn.

When they woke up together the next morning, naked, hung over, and muzzy, she’d scrambled into her clothes and bolted. He’d tried to talk to her at the restaurant, but she just blushed scarlet and muttered she wasn’t that kind of girl before she walked away. Three days later she quit. He never saw her again.

The truth was he had nearly forgotten about her until he got the phone call that threatened to rip apart his carefully constructed life in Sanctuary. The call informing him that he had a thirteen-year-old son.

He snapped the rubber bands around the folder and shoved it back into the drawer.

Chapter 5

I
DON
’
T THINK
Adam Bosch could make a chicken cordon bleu any better than this,” Hannah said, putting down her fork and sitting back in the Victorian oak chair in the dining room of Julia Castillo and Paul Taggart’s renovated train station house. Before she and Tim left for Europe, Claire Arbuckle had practically ordered Hannah to have dinner with Julia and Paul, saying she needed to get out and meet people in Sanctuary.

Hannah had nearly cancelled. After a day of dealing with Matt and his father, she had wanted to collapse onto her couch, warmed by a puffy quilt and her pets. However, she dragged herself into the shower, pulled her wet hair back in a French braid, and tossed on a blue silk blouse over a pair of gray pinstriped slacks. She’d even shoved her aching feet into black pumps with kitten heels.

Now she was glad she had come.

Julia was a notable artist with a disconcerting but refreshing disregard for polite niceties. Her husband, Paul, balanced her perfectly with his rational legal mind and occasional intervention. Sometimes, when they looked at each other in a way that reminded Hannah of what she’d lost when her fiancé walked away, she’d take a swallow of wine to dull the jab of pain.

Paul smiled and shook his head. “I’m pretty sure Adam hasn’t made anything as basic as chicken cordon bleu since he was a teenager.”

“Do you know him?” Hannah asked, fishing for information about the man who kept popping up in her thoughts.

“Yes, he’s Jimmy’s—” Julia clapped a hand over her mouth and looked at Paul, exchanging with her husband one of those unspoken communications Hannah envied. Paul nodded, but Julia shook her head as she took her hand away. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell her. Not everyone understands.”

Curiosity had Hannah by the throat. This must be the revelation Sharon had refused to make. She leaned into the table to demonstrate her interest.

“He doesn’t try to hide it, and I admire his courage in putting it out there,” Paul said.

Julia looked skeptical. “I think he’s just a realist. He knows you can’t keep a secret like that in a small town like Sanctuary. But you’re right. He’s open about it and he does a tremendous amount of good.”

Hannah was trying to figure out what on earth they might be talking about when Julia turned back to her and said, “Adam’s been a great help to Paul’s brother, Jimmy. He’s his Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor.”

Shock made Hannah blurt out, “Doesn’t that mean Adam is a former alcoholic?” He didn’t seem at all what she expected of someone who was an addict. She thought of his clear, brown eyes and the lean body under the black clothing. There was none of the outward damage often left by alcoholism. Adam exuded health, strength, and self-possession.

“He’s been sober for some years,” Paul said, “which makes him an excellent mentor.”

“Of course,” Hannah said, embarrassed because she was afraid she’d insulted Paul’s brother as well as his sponsor. “I just didn’t…he doesn’t seem…”

Julia rescued her. “I know what you mean. He’s so smooth and
in control all the time. It’s hard to imagine him falling-down drunk.”

Hannah tried to rejigger her assessment of Adam Bosch. His alcoholism could explain his seeming neglect of Matt in his son’s younger years. It could take a terrible toll on a family.

“I’m surprised you’ve met him,” Paul said. “He doesn’t come down off that mountain much.”

Hannah pulled her mind back to the conversation. “His dog was injured, so he brought him in to the hospital.”

“Again?” Paul said. “Tim had to patch Trace together a few years ago. He lost a fight with a black bear.”

“I felt the old scars. This time it was a gunshot wound.” Hannah debated a minute. “Do you know Adam’s son, Matt?”

“Not well,” Paul said. “He’s around my nephew’s age, but he just came to live with Adam a few months ago. Why?”

“He shadowed me today to see what a vet does.” Hannah decided it wasn’t fair to Adam or Matt to reveal why. “He got interested in a pony named Satchmo at Sharon Sydenstricker’s stable.” She made a wry face. “Sharon says Satchmo’s his whisper pony.”

“A whisper pony,” Julia said. “Why not?”

“You know about Sharon’s whisper horse theory?”

“Remember that big, cranky black stallion at the stable?” Paul asked.

“Darkside,” Hannah said with a nod.

“That’s Julia’s whisper horse.”

Hannah swiveled around to stare at Julia. “But I thought whisper horses were supposed to be soothing and supportive.”

Julia gave her a serene look. “It depends on what you need from your whisper horse.” She reached over to touch Paul’s hand. “Darkside helped me show Paul and my family I was stronger than they thought.” She held up her left hand, where an unusual horseshoe-shaped ring glinted with a dark light. “Paul even had my engagement ring designed as a symbol of Darkside’s importance in bringing us together.”

“Er, I see. The ring is lovely,” Hannah said, not sure how to deal with the artist’s conviction. All these seemingly normal people believed in Sharon’s whisper horse theory. It was beginning to make Hannah feel like
she
was the odd one. She understood that owning a pet could be therapeutic, but much as she loved them she didn’t think animals could solve human problems, much less play matchmaker.

Paul took pity on her. “Are you ready for some apple pie?”

“Yes, please,” she said, throwing him grateful look.

Julia stood and picked up her dishes, waving Hannah back into her seat when she started to follow suit. “I can manage to slice pie and scoop ice cream, despite my general lack of culinary talent.” She gathered up all the dishes on a tray and carried it into the kitchen, leaving Hannah and Paul at the table.

He leaned back in his chair. “I hope you won’t be offended, but Tim’s told me something about the events that brought you here to Sanctuary, and I think I could help you out.”

Hannah stiffened as the memories of her flight from Chicago scorched through her mind. She remembered Paul ran a prominent national legal organization that provided pro bono legal assistance to those who couldn’t afford it, and her guard went up. Given his job, he would have to be well connected in the political world, and she suddenly wondered just how much of her story he already knew. “It wasn’t really a legal issue,” she sa
id to
d
eflect him
.

“Senator Sawyer claimed you could have contacted him via cell phone before you made the decision about his children’s dog. Tim says you tried every channel available to you and were blocked by his staff. That’s slander,” Paul said. “What was written about you on social media and in the local paper was libelous. Those are both legal issues.”

“It’s nice of you to offer, but I prefer to leave well enough alone. It’s behind me now.” Nothing could undo the damage of being abandoned and denounced by her ex-fiancé when the story blew up. Robert Sawyer had tremendous influence and Ward had high political aspirations, so she became a liability to him. She sometimes wondered if he’d ever been in love with her, or if she’d just been a useful accessory for photo ops.

Paul nodded but she could tell her answer didn’t satisfy him. “Think about it. You might want to set the record straight so it doesn’t affect your future if, say, you wanted to leave Sanctuary someday. Not that Tim wouldn’t give you a glowing reference, of course.”

Everything he said was true, especially about Tim’s generosity. After all, he’d hired her in spite of her tarnished employment record. However, she didn’t have the stomach to face either Ward or Sawyer again. That’s why she was hidden away in the town of Sanctuary, protected by the Appalachian Mountains. Perhaps the ugliness wouldn’t find her here. “I’ll think about it, thanks,” she lied.

Julia reappeared with the tray, this time laden with wedges of warm pie à la mode and cups of fragrant, fresh coffee. “Don’t mind Paul. He can’t help himself,” she said, with an affectionate glance at her husband. “He’s a crusader for truth and justice.”

Paul shifted in his chair. “Nope. Just a lawyer.”

His discomfort at his wife’s description was disarming, but she was still uneasy. Paul must have sensed it because after dinner he walked her to her car. “Julia’s got a point about my crusading,” he said, his tone rueful. “Sometimes I don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

“You’re a good person to want to help,” she said, trying to smooth over her lack of enthusiasm. “It’s just that some things can’t be fixed.”