“Mad?” He lifted my hand from the water and examined my red fingertips. “Why would I be mad? The customers can’t stop raving about your desserts. Lunch hour is always busy, but we haven’t sold thismany desserts in—ever. It’s incredible. Now we have to get this hand healed up so you can do it again tomorrow.”
I blinked. “I can come back?”
His brow pinched as he dried my hand, then applied a bit of salve. His eyes moved to examine my face. “Did you hit your head? Of course we want you to come back. When word gets out about my new pastry chef, I’ll need to make lunch by reservation only too.”
I smiled at his use of the wordwe. No one was upset with me for the mess I caused? For the meal and dessert ruined? The added work to clean up both?
Could this level of acceptance be real?
Lucas worked a small tube-shaped sleeve over my burned fingers. “This will keep the tender skin from tearing or getting dirty while it heals.”
“You’re good at this,” I said. I couldn’t recall the last time I was on the receiving end of first aid treatment. Maybe when the nurses cared for me following Camilla’s birth.
“I’ve done this about a thousand times,” Lucas said, his expression going soft as he released me. “Margot burned her fingers at least once a week. She was a free spirit, creative, and always living in the next moment instead of the present one. I bought stock in this stuff during our marriage.” He gathered his supplies with a smile.
I cradled my bandaged hand to my chest, feeling valued and important in ways I hadn’t in a very long time. “Lucas,” I said, my words barely more than a whisper. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Promise me you’ll be back tomorrow.”
I came back every morning for the rest of the week.
Lucas worked at my side, patient and attentive while I learned and mastered his recipes. He told stories of his life in France while we prepped batters and sauces. Then, later, as our cakes baked, he sharedhis feelings of overwhelming anxiety in the days before the restaurant first opened. I related, profoundly, to his joy and fear in every decision. Would it be the right one? Could he fix things if he failed? I’d felt exactly the same way since filing for divorce.
Somehow, in the loud, steamy kitchen, Lucas made me feel as if anything was possible. And if, at any point, I became unhappy with my circumstances, I had the power to change it all. I only had to believe I could and be brave enough to take the next step. Like telling my longtime bully I was leaving.
Lucas made it easy to be at ease. I especially appreciated the way he spoke about his late wife as though she might walk through the door at any minute. His bond with her was so honest and true, it was hard to remember why I’d ever expected him to behave like Robert.
And sometimes, when he spoke of his commitment to Margot, I wondered if perhaps romantic love wasn’t always used as a tool for control. If maybe that was my trauma talking. Maybe my childhood experiences ruined my ability to have a healthy adult relationship.
Maybe instead of raising the bar on the kind of treatment I was willing to accept, I’d blindly followed my mom’s example.
I sent up a prayer of protection for Camilla’s tender heart. She loved Jeff completely, the way only a young, unjaded woman could. I didn’t want that blind trust and devotion to be thrown in her face when she said “I do.”
“What are you thinking?” Lucas asked, walking me to the door, as was his custom.
“I was thinking it’s nice to hear you talk about Margot,” I admitted. “I would have liked her, I think.”
“She would’ve liked you,” he said. “She preferred strong, independent women, especially those with a soft spot for the arts. Baking is clearly your art.”
I smiled. “That’s what I’m talking about. You say things like that, and it’s just so—refreshing. It’s too late for me, but I think Camilla isheaded to the altar with her boyfriend, and I worry. I want so much better for her.”
“Better than marriage or better than her boyfriend?”
“The first,” I said. “Maybe both. Jeff seems fine, but the women in my family have a habit of making horrible decisions where love is concerned.”
Lucas made a dismissive throaty sound. “Impossible.”
I laughed. “I assure you, it is not.”
“You’re shifting the blame,” he said. “You gave your heart to a man who didn’t take care of it. That’s not your fault. You loved. That is a brave thing. And look.” He smiled. “You showed your daughter it’s okay to walk away too. That’s a great example, if you ask me. For what it’s worth, I think you’re both going to be just fine.”
I certainly hoped he was right.
Chapter Seventeen
Two weeks later, I parked in the community lot downtown and watched the busy street for Alicia’s arrival. Anticipation danced along my skin when she finally pulled into the space beside me.
Her dark hair swung around her chin as she climbed out and closed her door. “What’s this?” she asked, scanning the area, then me. “Are you wearing a concert T-shirt from freshman year?”
