He quickly crosses the room, embarrassed to be caught in the act of…Well, I’m not sure what he’s doing.
“Kevin,” I say, and he turns around, a pained smile on his face.
“Mrs.Gardiner?”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for us. The rose petals. The candles. The wine. Dinner the other night was wonderful. You’ve spoiled us, and I really appreciate it.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” he says. “We love to pamper our newlyweds.”
I cringe. “I feel terrible about this, but George and I aren’t actually married.”
He blinks and then starts to laugh.
“Oh, sweetie. I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do!”
I smile. “What? How?”
“I knew as soon as you walked in. Neither of you are wearing rings, and I had a long call with Mr.Nathaniel Bacon the day before you checked in. He told me that you were going through a hard time.” Kevin winces. “He told me about the wedding…drama. He wanted me to take care of you, to give you anything you wanted, and to put it on his credit card. He told me you’d be arriving alone, but then you walked in with a man you called George.”
“But…” I sputter a laugh. “You’ve treated us so well. Why would you go along with it?”
His smile is one for the angels. “I’ve seen a lot of couples here. First loves, newlyweds, empty nesters, retirees. I’ve witnessed couples celebrating anniversaries and birthdays and family milestones. I know what love looks like.”
Goose bumps erupt over my arms.
“When you arrived,” Kevin says, “you went straight to the windows, and George looked at you with so much love, I blushed.”
I stare at him, thinking that he must be exaggerating. A hopeless romantic, like Aurora.
“So you’ve been playing matchmaker on his behalf?”
He demurs. “As the head of guest experiences, it’s my job to makeallof our guests’ time with us exceptional. But,” he adds with a smile, “sometimes I do have favorites.”
• • •
Kevin has lefta white lidded box with a wide green satin ribbon around its middle. The tag is addressed to me. Inside, sitting on folds of tissue paper, is a simple white card.
To Francesca,
With all my love,
Nate
Inside is a chef’s knife and a slim, cloth-bound journal. I take the knife out of its case. It’s stunning—with Japanese characters etched into the steel and an ebony handle. It’s obviously hand forged. Knowing Nate, it will be the best of the best.
But I’ve had my knives since I was eighteen. I bought them with George on one of our first days living in the city. Together,we browsed the shelves of a restaurant supply store in Chinatown, searching for the items on my culinary school’s equipment list. A honing steel. Baking sheets. Mixing bowls. Ladles. Piping tips. Knives. I’d never spent so much money at one time. We lugged it all back on the streetcar, and I washed each tasting spoon and mixing bowl in the kitchen sink with reverence. George stood beside me, drying them carefully.
I take a closer look at the book. It’s not a diary; it’s a recipe journal, with pages formatted for writing down lists of ingredients, cook times, methods, and tips and tricks in tidy boxes. It’s beautiful but too restrictive for the way I create recipes. I use a laptop, spreadsheets, and a cheap spiral notebook full of scribbles, strikethroughs, and coffee rings.
I turn the book over in my hands, then put it back in the box with the knife and close the lid. They’re exquisite—perfect for someone else, but not for me. Just as Nate wasn’t for me.
I take my phone out to the deck, finding it strangely easy to make the call. He picks up almost immediately.
“Francesca,” Nate answers. His voice sounds like a memory.
