When I See You (14 page)

My life is fucked up. I'm fucked up. Is he finally going to notice?

"You are not fine." His French accent thickens with these simple words. "Every day, you come here. Every day, you oversee the finer details of this restaurant, but I see the way you hide your suffering and carry on as if everything is normal, as if, nothing has changed, when everything has." He gets this sympathetic look. I cringe when I see it. "And, your temper is getting the best of you now."

He heard about the delivery guy.
I hang my head.

"You're falling apart from the inside. And, I can't stand by and watch."

His sympathy is reflected by so many of the people I know in this town. I'm reminded of the pastor at church, the mother of one of Max's friends, the girl at Walgreens who rung up Max's antibiotic a few months before. Their looks are all the same. Louis has the same look that Beverley Maston did, when she held my hand a little too long when we first discussed her anniversary party a few months ago. The older woman had hugged me and told me how sorry she was about Ethan.

"Everyone is so fucking sorry, but it doesn't change anything for me. I just wish they would stop saying anything. I pride myself on how well I've coped with everything over these past months. I'm the poster child for how a widow should handle grief. The God-damn poster child for widowhood. Now, if everyone would just stop asking me how I feel, I'd be
fine
." My silent soliloquy has come to life and has been said aloud.

Louis looks at me with genuine surprise and growing dismay as if he suspected all along I was crazy. And now, that it's been confirmed; he's saddled with the unpleasant task of doing something about it.

I blink back tears and then look at him. Helpless. Wordless.

Silence fills the room and the two of us.

The man, with the most words, a lesson for everything, who is the most inventive culinary talent I've ever known, with the kindest heart, and the biggest smile, has no words for me.

I glare at him and he holds up his hand towards me as if to stop me from saying anything more.

"I'm not finished," he says. "Dr. Liz called here yesterday. She told me you missed your doctor's appointment with her."

I shrug. Indifferent. Undone. Liz Cantor can wait. She's a good friend, besides being my gynecologist, but I haven't even told her about what I now suspect was a miscarriage early on just after Ethan died.

"I got busy. I was going to go. It's just a physical; I'll reschedule."

I stand up.

"I'm not finished." His chest heaves up and down indicating he's just getting started.

"Everyone loves you, Madame Holloway. Everyone here. But this pretending that you are okay, that everything is fine, it doesn't fool any of us. We all know it's only a matter of time before the grief consumes all of you. You can't fool anyone. You have to
feel
it, ma chérie. In order to move on, you have to
feel
it."

Defeated, I sit back down in one of the executive chairs, lean back, and close my eyes. I open my eyes, allowing him a glimpse of the devastation that losing Ethan has done to me.

"What would you like me to do?"

Louis gasps. Then, he grabs both my hands and kneels down in front of me. His face contorts with concern and remorse for his outburst.

"Take a break from all of this." He sweeps his arm around the office as he stands up. "I'll take care of it. Go somewhere,
anywhere,
for a few weeks or a month or two. Deal with the grief, because if you don't, it
will
win."

His grip loosens, and then, he hugs me tight. I'm taken aback by his display of emotion. Louis is normally all business. His concern reaches at me. He lets go first and seems momentarily flustered by our unexpected closeness.

"I'm sorry I got so upset with you. We're all just so worried about you."

"Are you trying to tell me that my continual search for the best kind of thyme is a waste of time?" I ask with a little laugh.

It effectively breaks up the seriousness of the moment. This is an inside joke between us. When I first came to work for Louis, we had a fascinating discussion about the best preparation of Lemon Thyme Chicken. We both agreed that it would be our mission in life to find the most organic process for growing this fantastic herb. We smile at each other now, sharing in this memory of our first meeting.

"Go find the thyme," he says. "Yes, that's what you need to do." He claps his hands together, then proceeds to open the blinds, and sheepishly shuffles to the office doorway. But then, he turns back and just stares at me. "Go home, Jordan. The Maston's party will be fine. See you in a month or so."

"Is that an order?" I ask in a low voice.

"Oui, it is an order," Louis says with satisfaction.

He dons his chef hat and coat from the shelf and adjusts the red neckerchief at his throat. Then, he leaves without another word. I stare at his retreating figure with my mouth half-open.

Have I just been summarily suspended as head chef?
The idea is both frightening and liberating at the same time.

I actually smile.

≈ ≈

I hold the estate paperwork in my left hand, absently fingering it, and thinking about its contents.
Why is Brock selling the Lazy J, and what does it have to do with me?
I glance down at the 'sign here' sticky notes. How is it possible that Ethan is part of a place that's worth ten million dollars? How is it that I don't know anything about it? And, where did he get that kind of money? So many questions, and the only one with answers, besides Brock Wainwright, is dead and buried in Austin, Texas.

"What's that?" Ashleigh asks, plowing through the side kitchen door. She carries two cardboard boxes of stuff. I attempt to sing the lyrics to Alice Cooper's song, "School's Out,
"
now that she's just finished up summer school and officially has three weeks off before the fall semester starts up. She grins at me and plops the boxes down on the kitchen table. "What is that?" She snatches the paperwork out of my hand.

"I own a ranch. In Texas. Ethan does. Did. With Brock. Now, it's mine. Ours. Brock wants to sell it."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because he wants to pay me back Ethan's share? I guess. I don't know. I haven't talked to him."

"Where did Ethan get the money to invest in a ranch?" Ashleigh glances at the real estate paperwork. "It's worth ten million?" she asks.

"Yeah. Something Ethan forgot to mention, I guess."

"Austin, huh?"

"Austin," I say it like it's a bad word. Ashleigh smiles at me.

"Austin could be fun. Cowboys. Jazz music. Dell."

"Four things I never thought I'd hear you say in the same sentence," I say with a little laugh, then frown. "I should take Max to see the Holloways. If I do it now, I might be able to escape the obligatory Christmas visit."

My best friend rolls her eyes.

"Christmas in Austin doesn't sound all that inviting," she says.

"Would you come with me this weekend? We could stay downtown in a hotel, or at this place, the Lazy J? I own half of it. Brock probably won't mind."

I sigh with exasperation. The thought of seeing Brock sends me in a new way. I'm still angry with him, unforgiving.

"I just want my life back," I say.

Ashleigh gives me an appraising look. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"What are you doing
home
anyway? It's only four o'clock. I thought the Maston's party was tonight?"

"Louis is handling it." I keep to my simple explanation, despite her quizzical glance. I shrug for effect.

"Louis is handling it," she echoes. "Okay. That makes sense. It's only the biggest party of the year for Le Reve, but, as head chef, you're not there?" Her eyes narrow as she scrutinizes me more closely.

I get up abruptly and seek solace with Viking refrigeration, attempt to focus on dinner, and generally ignore her probing stare.

"What about Coq au Vin?" I ask.

"Sure. And, Pouilly Fuisse and Baked Alaska for dessert."

"Okay," I answer automatically.

"
See?
I knew something was wrong because you aren't drinking white wine these days, and you never make Baked Alaska because you said it's too much work with too little payoff. That's what you say, anyway. So, what the hell is going on?"

In defiance, I set out two wine glasses and pour the white wine into both of them, while Ashleigh just watches in fascination. I hand her one of the glasses. "Nothing's wrong."

"That's not true either," she says slowly.

I load up my arms with all the ingredients for Coq Au Vin while she looks on.

"Where's Max?"

"Play date." I glance over at her and force myself to smile. "What about you? Big Date? Big plans with Michael?"

Michael Carswell has been Ashleigh's latest conquest, an up and coming actor, normally a taboo for Ashleigh, but this guy has been completely different. He's British. Ashleigh seems taken with his wonderful accent and his blond, princely looks. They've been hot and heavy for more than six months. Even Max likes Michael, but that's probably because he brings my child a gift every time he comes by the house for Ashleigh.

"No. I'm beat. School's out. What's left of summer lies in front of me. No plans." She sips at the wine. "I've got all night." She gets this guilty look. "Louis called me two hours ago and told me he told you to take at least a month off. I think it's a great idea."

"Louis called you?" I ask, irritated. "I was going to tell you."

"Uh-huh. When? A month from now? So. Okay. You have some time off. So, what are you going to do?

"Go to Austin. Settle this thing. Whatever it is. See the Holloways. Get my head together and decide what to do next."

"I'm coming," Ashleigh says.

"I was hoping you would. I should call Brock."

"You should."

"But, I can't talk to him." I chop at the raw chicken with newfound zeal and refuse to look at her.

"I
get
that to a certain degree. But, baby, at some point, you're going to have to stop blaming Brock Wainwright for what happened to Ethan. Whatever happened out there in that God-forsaken land was—" Ashleigh stops talking when I look over at her.

I don't attempt to hide my grief. She must see it. The silence stretches forever. Me, wielding the chopping knife mid-air, while Ashleigh just stands there looking at me, as if debating what her next word should actually be. "It was…an
accident
, Jordan. That's what I believe. And you know it, too. Brock
loved
Ethan. He would never do anything to jeopardize his life. You have to believe that."

"Do I?" I ask in a low voice.

Heartbreak takes over. I put down the knife, move over to the sink, turn on the hot water, and begin washing my hands, like a cardiac surgeon, over and over. I can feel Ashleigh studying me from behind.

"I just want my life back. I just want Ethan back."

"I know." Ashleigh takes a deep breath and rushes on. "I went to see Brock. In D.C., when I was there for that teacher's conference four months ago."

I turn around and look at her, stunned into silence.

"He refused to see me.
Refused.
I know it was just a fling, nothing serious, but his refusal to see me—" Ashleigh waves her hand through the air. "Well, I was surprised. His doctor came out to meet with me. The blond? She was the one with him at Ethan's funeral. She said he was weak and still recovering from a second emergency surgery and didn't want to see anyone. She told me he barely allowed his parents to see him when they were there. She said he was so broken up over Ethan's death that he refused to see anyone. That doesn't sound like a man who would jeopardize Ethan's life; does it?" Ashleigh asks me quietly.

"He promised me," I say simply.

"I know. But he shouldn't have." She shakes her head slowly. "It was an impossible promise. And, you
know
it."

She hands me a kitchen towel, and then the untouched glass of wine I left on the counter. I take a tentative sip, and then another.

"So, let's go to Austin." I hold up the paperwork. "And finish this thing."

"Austin," she says.

Her words from earlier echo back to me.
Whatever happened in that God-forsaken land; it was an accident.
I shiver, hoping she's right.

≈ ≈

When Ashleigh goes off to take a shower, I make a call to the phone number Brock has been leaving on his messages. Ashleigh has penned it across the white message board with a red dry erase marker with the words 'Call Brock!'' It's underlined.

"Janie Wainwright," says a lyrical voice. The woman sounds like a mother. Her voice is soft and unhurried, as if to say everything is all right without actually ever having to say those words. I fumble for a response.