“’Kay. Love you.Callme,” Jo said.
“I will,” I promised.
John straightened, his arms full of twins, DJ’s little head resting trustfully on his shoulder. He looked kind and calm and utterly trustworthy. Coach John.
I swallowed. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course,” John said matter-of-factly.
I wanted to hug him. I repacked the board books and DJ’s blanket. John watched as I wiped the kids’ hands again with Purell and buckled them into the stroller.
He seemed to be waiting for something.
“What?” I asked.
“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
Darling John. He’d left work in the middle of the day to be here. How could I tell him how overwhelmed I felt? How scared?
I shook my head. “I’m still waiting for Dad. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m staying home.”
I stared at him in mute gratitude. “What about work?”
“The dealership can run without me for one afternoon. You should be here.” He bent and kissed my forehead. “With your mom.”
Tears flooded my eyes. I blinked and looked away before I started bawling like Daisy.
Somewhere beyond those steel doors was my mother, separated from me by cold hospital corridors and regulations. My entire life, our mother had been there for us girls, calm and sure, guiding and reassuring.
Now I had to be there for her.
CHAPTER 3
Jo
Thwack. I smacked the cleaver down. I was cleaning sardines for the appetizer special, bloody guts and pinbones all over my board.
The Gusto kitchens looked like a casting call forChopped, seasoned pros rubbing elbows with misfit stoners sporting mohawks. I was one of Chef’s charity cases, along with Frank-the-ex-felon and Constanza, single mother of four. Although they both pulled more weight in the kitchen than I did, my previous restaurant experience being limited to a couple years in campus food service. My occasional contributions to the What’s Cooking? column for theEmpire City Weeklyapparently didn’t count.
I tossed a fish head into a stock pan.
Technically, prepping the plats du jour was the sous chef’s responsibility. But the sous—who ranked right below Chef at Gusto, which in the kitchen hierarchy put him two steps below God—had delegated the task to me after I’d requested Thanksgiving off.
Of course he’d said no. And then punished me anyway, for daring to ask.
I didn’t mind doing the sous chef’s dirty work. But there was no way I could accept his decision.
I thwacked the head off another sardine.
The back door burst open on a blast of cold air from the loading dock, and Chef blew in, his big voice booming, electrifying the air. He moved down the line, greeting everyone from the sous chef, Ray, to Julio, the morning dishwasher, clapping shoulders, shaking hands, shaping us into a team. “Ray, my man,¿va bien?Hey, Constanza, how’s your little girl? Julio,¿que onda?”
The replies echoed back. “All good, Chef.” “Much better, Chef.”“¿Todo bien contigo? Gracias, jefe.”
In the kitchen, his authority was absolute. He was alwaysjefe, “Chef,” never dude or dawg or bro. With his Michelin-star-studded résumé and James Beard Award, he could have been a consultant or celebrity chef anywhere. Paris. London. The Food Network. But here he still made food, cooking almost every day by choice. Gusto was his livelihood. His life. His mission.
Which made what I was about to do really stupid.
