Tears fill my eyes, and Ollie pulls me into a bear hug.
“Come on, please don’t cry. You know I can’t handle tears. Don’t be stubborn, and let us help you.”
I nod, no words finding my mouth. “Thank you,” I eventually whisper.
Ollie kisses the top of my head. “Come on by the bar, and we’ll get you all set up.”
Stepping out of his embrace, I use the edge of my sleeve to wipe under my eyes.
“Now, come on. Your shit’s not gonna move itself, and,” he smirks, “if we get it done before Archer arrives, we have something to hang over his head.”
My brother slings his arm over my shoulders and leads me out the door. I glance over my shoulder at my childhood bedroom one last time and let out a deep exhale.
Maybe this will all be okay—it has to be because it’s not just me I have to think about. I’ll do anything to provide for my daughter and give her the life she deserves.
Chapter 2
Rhyland
Ionce read an article that asked a popular painter how he developed his ideas. It’s the number one question everyone wants to know. He said that he would stand in front of a blank canvas with his hands held up in a rectangular shape, similar to a photographer scoping out the shot, and could picture the completed artwork. Every stroke and swish of the paintbrush becomes a clear vision in their head. It was almost as if the canvas itself was speaking to them.
The answer has stuck with me for years because I feel the same way about my cooking. I can take one ingredient and envision the end creation of the dish. Holding it in my hands, I can smell the aroma, hear the sizzle, and taste the flavors exploding on my tongue.
Once a week, I stroll through the town’s farmer’s market and allow the ingredients to speak to me. I love supportinglocal families with farm to table. Rows of white tents line the fairgrounds with local vendors that don’t include just food, but also flowers and arts and crafts. The farmer’s market has been around for as long as I can remember and has only tripled in size over the years.
I can remember coming here as a kid with my best friend Ollie’s family. It was thanks to his mom, Connie, that I discovered my love of cooking. Honestly, it saved my life.
My mother left when I was just a baby, leaving my father to raise me alone. The only thing I know about her is that we shared the same bright shade of green eyes. My father worked two jobs to keep a roof over our heads, so I spent most of my time at the Mosby house. I was constantly feeling lost in life, not sure where I belonged, and every day, Connie would give me a job in the kitchen to keep me focused. It gave me something to look forward to, a purpose of sorts.
Maybe it was because I watched my dad work himself to death that I was determined to spend my life doing what I love. What was the point of wasting your days away at a job you hated? Life is too short for that.
When Ollie and his older brother, Archer, approached me about joining them on their new venture years ago after I graduated from culinary school, how could I possibly refuse? I knew from the moment they sat me down and talked over beers that I wanted to be a part of this, but I had to let them sweat it out a little. I didn’t want to sound too overeager and jump up and down like a kid on Christmas morning when they said I could have full rein over the kitchen and the menu—a fucking chef’s dream.
“Hello, Rhyland,” Terri James, a local farmer I closely work with, says as I approach his table.
I adjust the canvas bag full of my purchases thus far to my other arm and shake his hand. “Hey, Terri, how’s it going?”
“Can’t complain. The missus says my voice is too annoying to list my issues.” I chuckle. “Anything new with you?” He frowns when I shake my head. “When you gonna go find yourself a nice girl like your friend, Mr. Mosby?”
That makes me laugh even harder. “Oh, Terri, you know food is my soul mate. There’s not much more room in my heart for anything other than these amazing ingredients you provide.”
Lifting an ear of corn, I smell the rich aroma. I swear he once made a deal with the devil because I do not know how his crops turn out so remarkably. The vegetables always seem so much crisper and brighter than others. He claims it’s a mixture of the dirt he uses, but I’m not sure I believe that fully. Whatever it is, I hope it never changes.
With the sweet smell of corn lingering around me, a few dishes instantly come to my mind, with corn being the star that has my mouth watering. I run my hand over my jaw to make sure I wasn’t drooling.
“I can tell the wheels are turning in your head.” Terri pulls me from my thoughts.
“You think I can arrange for delivery later today?” Typically, we have deliveries Monday morning, but today, I’m feeling overly inspired.
“For you, absolutely. I’ll set your order aside and then bring it all by the bar when I leave here.”
“Perfect, you spoil me.” I grab a few items that are enough to create sample dishes back in the kitchen and hand them over.
“Oh, please, you spoil us all with the magic you create with these ingredients. It’s the least I can do,” he responds as he sets the items in another bag and passes it over to me.
“I’ll see ya later, Terri,” I shout after paying for the order and head off in search of a few more items.
With steady hands, I place the ribbons of basilon top of the last dish and let out a breath when I examine the finished product. Taking in the dishes in front of me, I smile. They’re just as I envisioned.
