Soon the kitchen was fully staffed; the noise escalated and the temperature rose along with the tension. Everyone had their territory, either vegetables or pasta or meat or fish or pastry. Durant saw something he didn’t like and poured the contents of a saute pan into the sink, calling the cook a stupid, incompetent bitch. It was a young female line cook he loved to berate because he could make her cry. “Matlock!” he yelled. “You watching this or just playing with yourself?”
She ignored him and brought out the filets and the salmon from the cooler.
Criticism poured from Durant; everything he saw sucked. Kelly felt her pulse pick up and her forehead bead with sweat. God, she hoped she wouldn’t pass out again. She was pretty sure she couldn’t afford another ambulance ride.
Her phone, which she was now keeping in her pants pocket, gave a short chime that announced a text had just come in. In spite of her good sense, she prayed it was Luca, texting her that the whole thing with his wife was untrue and that he loved her. She couldn’t imagine how that could be, but she hoped anyway. In this hot, packed, mean kitchen, she felt so alone. So alone she wanted to cry.
Funny, she hadn’t cried in the forty-eight hours since Luca’s wife had broken her down and ejected her from Luca’s life. Shouldn’t she have cried her heart out?
There was a picture in the text. A massive pile of pumpkins all tangled up in their vines came from Jillian. The message said, The leaves on the trees are changing as we watch! The pumpkins and melons are ripe and still growing! We sit on the back porch with lemonade and just soak it in—I’ve never seen such beauty. Wish you were here! xoxoxo
“Matlock!” Durant shouted. “No phones in the kitchen! Put it away or I’ll shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
She smiled and enlarged the photo of the pumpkins. I’ve never seen such beauty. Wish you were here!
“Matlock, you stupid cow, I said—”
And just like that, she’d had enough. She was done.
Kelly slipped the phone into her pocket and turned her back on Durant. She carefully slid her personal knives into the leather case, then she went to her locker. She never kept much there. She stuffed her large satchel with a couple of extra chef’s coats, a spare pair of kitchen pants, her second pair of clogs, printouts of the schedule and the menu. Her purse fit inside the satchel, though barely.
I have nothing here, she thought. I have no one. Luca isn’t going to find me my own restaurant. Durant is never going to let me get any farther ahead. Every day is going to be sheer abuse. Quality of life? Ha! All I have is high blood pressure, flat molars, anxiety attacks and no one.
She put the strap over her arm and headed through the kitchen toward the back door.
“Matlock, if you walk out of here, I’ll make sure you never work in this city again!”
She smiled over her shoulder. “Can you promise that?”
She walked out the door.
Applause and whoops of laughter coupled with Durant’s screaming and name-calling followed her exit. It was impossible to know if the line cooks were cheering because her position was opening up or because they admired her guts.
It didn’t matter. She went home to the apartment she hated to pack up her life.
Two
All Kelly really wanted was to be less lonely, relax enough to stop grinding her teeth and get away from that hellhole that was her kitchen! She looked at that picture of the pumpkins twenty times; she transferred it to her laptop so she could get it nice and big. She fantasized about sitting on the porch, watching the leaves turn.
Of course, being a chef, she envisioned hot soups, warm soft breads and a blazing hearth to go with the fall colors.
Her sister Jillian had gotten rich during her ten years with a software manufacturer, allowing her to buy a big old Victorian on ten acres of land in Virgin River, but sous chefs who didn’t have their own restaurant, trademark food line or TV show earned only decent salaries. Kelly had a little saved; she was far from flush, however. But while recuperating from Durant and company, Kelly knew Jill would be glad to give her a room and a bed. She thought she could scout around on the internet and through contacts for calmer chef’s positions. At the moment, money and prestige were far less important than a little peace of mind.
Without saying a word to Jill about all she’d just been through, Kelly packed up her place, leaving the boxes inside. She didn’t have much; it didn’t take long. With her in the car she took some clothes, her spices, recipes, knives and, because Jill wasn’t much of a cook and her kitchen not well-appointed, some of her favorite pans and table linens. She left the key with her neighbor so movers could be let in to load it all up, phoned her landlady to say this was her last month and hit the road. There was usually a long waiting list for city apartments in San Francisco; the landlady would have no trouble filling the space.
It was on her drive to Virgin River that Kelly started rehearsing her explanation for showing up without notice, without asking, without having told her sister of her circumstances. She felt the pressure build the closer she got. Of the two girls, Jill had always been the impetuous one while Kelly usually had firm, practical, long-term plans. Jill had been the one to leap into a job she’d had no training for because it intrigued her. Jill had been the one to fall in love with a man she barely knew. Kelly had always been the solid one, not the flighty one. Oh, Jill was brilliant in PR, marketing and business, no question about it. But Jill took chances. Kelly did not.
And yet Kelly had found herself working for an abusive, lunatic chef, lusting after a man who was married rather than separated, and flying off to a small town to escape before having a nervous breakdown. Kelly, who had been the one to get Jill through every trial from starting her period to starting college, had ended up acting like a flake. Kelly wasn’t sure if Jill would pity her or have a really good laugh.
By her estimation, she’d arrive in Virgin River by around six. She decided it would be a good idea to stop off at that bar in town, Jack’s, and bolster herself with a glass of wine, or something, before heading out to Jillian’s house. She had barely slept the last two nights and hadn’t eaten all day. How could she with the surprising turns her life had taken?
Lief Holbrook entered Jack’s and took a seat up at the bar. It being October and hunting season, the place was full of men in khaki shirts with red vests and hats enjoying that end-of-the-day brew. They were all in groups; however, he was the only guy in the place flying solo.
Not for the first time, Lief thought about how he fit in better here than in L.A. and definitely better here than in Hollywood. Originally from a big farm in Idaho, he was more likely to dress in jeans, boots and chambray than pleated slacks and Italian shoes.
But then, he was a writer, not an actor. Most of his work was either done at home and sometimes behind the camera, never in front of it.
He was also an outdoorsman as he was raised to be—a hunter and fisherman. It was while doing those things, either hunting, fishing or working with his hands, that the stories would come to him. Lately Lief had been doing more fishing than writing, more introspection than outpouring. His stepdaughter, Courtney, required a lot of mental energy. She had just turned fourteen, a troubled teen who’d lost her mother a couple of years ago. In just over two years, she seemed to be spiraling downward. He’d had to get her out of L.A. and to a quieter place, a place where they could try that bonding thing again.
It wasn’t happening this evening, though.
“Beer?” Jack asked him.
“Thanks,