I tossed back the quilt and padded half a flight down to the bathroom, feeling my way in the familiar dark, my feet wincing from the cold plank floor. Trying to soothe myself with rituals like a child, one more drink of water, one more trip to the potty, before I returned to bed.
A message lit my phone screen. I snatched it up.
He ordered the fish,Chef had typed.
I grinned foolishly. In the hustle of service, I’d missed the orders going out to the VIP table.They always do,I typed back.
I climbed into bed, staring at the little screen, my heart beating unaccountably fast as three dots appeared, followed by,How was your dinner?
Not a terribly personal question.
Good,I replied.Thanks for the time off.I hesitated. I’d read the restaurant menu: turkey two ways and planked salmon, grilled lobster and roasted root vegetables, brussels sprouts with lardons.
I made green bean casserole,I confessed.
A pause.
With the little fried onions on top?
Yep.
A longer pause. I pictured him sitting alone in his office as the clamor of the kitchen faded, surrounded by paperwork, the task lists and shopping lists for the morning.
My ex makes that. The boys love it.
Aw.The boys. His sons, Bryan and... Who was the other one? Alex? Alec. They must spend the holidays with their mother. I wondered if he missed celebrating with his family or if he was glad to be in New York, cooking dinner for paying guests with discriminating palates. But then why bring up his sons at all?
Chefs at the holidays. It would make a great blog post.
Not that I could ever ask him.
Maybe you should put it on the menu,I typed.
Nothing.
I swallowed. Right. What was I doing, feeling sorry for Chef? Imagining we’d forged an intimate connection over green bean casserole. I was an idiot. The man was God. I flopped back on my pillow. Turned out the light.
My phone screen glowed softly, like a message from heaven.We could have used you tonight, March. I hope your mother is well. Happy Thanksgiving.
Simple words. They filled me, satisfied me like bread. I had purpose. I was appreciated. Valued.
Smiling, I typed,Happy Thanksgiving, Chef.I fell asleep holding the phone like a talisman that would take me back to my real life.
The next day, I had to put my phone on airplane mode for the flight to New York. So I missed the call from Meg.
It wasn’t until I was on the ground in LaGuardia that I saw her text:Mom back in hospital. Call me.
CHAPTER 6
Meg
Icould take care of this. I took a deep breath of cold air and knocked on Hannah Mullett’s door.
I was good at taking care of things. Helping people with their problems. That used to be my job, helping people who needed money, making the numbers work so they could get a loan, buy a car, start a business, everything in black and white. Now... Well. I didn’t see the solutions so clearly now. I shivered in the yellow porch light.
The moon shone over the skeletons of trees. Through the bare branches, against the twilight sky, I could see the pitched shadow of the old mule barn—our barn. The Mulletts’ trailer sat on Laurence land, near the edge of our property. Our mother did most of the farmwork herself. But even before Miss Hannah’s retirement—she had been the science teacher at Caswell Middle School—she crossed the fields to help our mother make and pack the cheese. After all, you couldn’t raise a family on a teacher’s pay, John always said. Not in North Carolina.
The door cracked and then swung wide.
