The Baby Truce (11 page)

“I know.”

“I just wanted to throw that out there so it isn't lurking under the surface, like it was last time.”

“I appreciate that.” He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his chef's jacket. “Anything else?”

“Don't make Patty cry?”

“Got it.” He touched Reggie's waist as he moved past on his way to the door. “I'll give a yell if I have any questions about the meals.”

A second later he was gone, but Reggie could still feel the exact place where his fingers had been.

 

T
OM OPENED
E
DEN'S NOTEBOOK
and flipped through the pages. Eden, for being such a whirlwind, had notes that would have made an engineer proud. Meticulous. She'd made tiny adjustments to ingredients, amounts. Had a rotating set of menus, shopping lists for each one.

Okay. Tom set the book down and went to the cooler. He had a full day's work ahead of him and he was looking forward to it. He'd been throwing food together in his kitchen the past few days, but he missed cooking for others. Even people getting dinners in plastic containers because they were too busy to cook.

He put the pasta water on to boil, the Italian sausage on the burner, whistling under his breath.

And thinking about how Reggie's body had practi
cally vibrated under his fingertips. He'd touched her without thinking, as he'd touched her a hundred times in the past, but he hadn't expected to feel a response, and it had jolted him.

 

R
EGGIE STAYED IN THE OFFICE
and concentrated on orders and schedules, assuring herself that now that Tom was here, they'd pull off the wedding and the dinner just fine. The only problem was that Eden knew the routine and she and Reggie worked together smoothly, with their own separate duties. Tom, not being familiar with wedding preparation, needed to be directed. As did Patty.

But, Reggie thought, abandoning the computer mouse and leaning back in her chair to take the kink out of her spine, Tom needed only minor direction, and Patty…Patty was steady and would do whatever she was told. With only a couple dozen questions. A lot of this stress eating at Reggie was self-generated, and she needed to relax. This tension couldn't be doing the baby any good.

Relaxation proved elusive, however, with another minor emergency—no twenty to twenty-five shrimp available until Friday morning—and the florist calling to say she was still having trouble with the small orchids. Seems there'd been a run on them.

The orchids Reggie could work around. If the shrimp didn't come in on schedule…well, Reggie didn't want to think about how she was going to make shrimp cocktail without them.

Then, to add to her joy, Eden called four times before
noon, checking and double-checking on Tom and the schedule for the week. Reggie suggested that, since she was injured and on pain medications, she might want to take it easy, but Eden was having none of that.

“Listen,” Reggie finally said, “I'll email you a list that can be done from the sofa.”

“Excellent. How are things with Tom?”

“If you mean is he following your recipes, for the twentieth time, yes, he is.”

“No…I meant how are
things
with Tom? Is it tense in the kitchen?”

Reggie debated for a moment. How were they? “Better,” she finally said. “I unleashed him and he's cooking away.”

“How's Patty?”

“Good question.” Reggie glanced up at the carrot-shaped office wall clock, a gift from a client, and grimaced. “Eden, I've got to go. I'll send the email, then no more communication. Okay?”

She hung up and rubbed the back of her neck. Stress. But for once Tom wasn't the source.

T
OM WAS MORE THAN READY FOR A
beer when he got home after a long-ass day, made longer by the fact that Reggie was stressing over both Eden and a big wedding scheduled at the end of the week. She'd tried to hide it, as she hid all major stress in her life, but he recognized the signs. He kept his mouth shut and let her work. The last thing Reggie needed was to be told that everything would be all right, because, obviously, until the Wednesday business dinner and the Saturday afternoon wedding were over, everything wouldn't be all right.

Platitudes never helped and his platitudes were rarely well received, since they usually ran along the lines of “get over it.”

So as Reggie made and destroyed lists and schedules, Tom did her a favor and kept his head down, cooking. But every now and then he noticed her watching him, when she didn't think he was looking.

So what did that mean?

Damned if he knew. But in spite of Reggie's tension, they'd had their best day ever in the kitchen together—probably because she wasn't trying to control him and he wasn't seething at wasting his skills.

Tom dumped his keys on the counter on his way to the back door to let the rat dog inside. She scrambled
in, dancing around his feet as he opened the fridge, not yet understanding that beer came first. He was reaching for the bottle opener when she suddenly went on alert, hair standing on end, and started making a hellacious yipping. A few seconds later, there was a knock on the back door.

It was Frank, without his brother, and carrying a tin-foil-covered bowl. Tom opened the door and as soon as the dog recognized her neighbor she dropped her intimidation stance and trotted over to greet him, making Tom smile.

“Hey,” he said. “Come on in. Want a beer?”

“No beer,” Frank said, stepping inside. He held up the bowl. “I was wondering if you'd give me an opinion.”

Tom closed the door. “Sure.” Was this the Western equivalent of dropping by the neighbor's to borrow a cup of sugar?

Frank stepped inside, glanced around at the nearly bare interior. All Tom had in the kitchen was a table with two chairs, a stockpot sitting on the stove, a French press coffeepot on the counter and a bunch of dog toys in the bed his dog didn't use. Because she had his bed.

“Nice place.” The man placed the bowl on the counter and took off the foil. Tom eyed it critically, sniffed, then tasted the sauce. “Okay,” he said, a few seconds after he'd swallowed. “This is better. The finish is superb.”

“Who are you?” Frank asked abruptly.

Tom lowered the spoon. “Meaning?”

“Are you a cook? A rib expert? A talented amateur? Or what?”

“I'm a cook,” Tom said. “Just not at the moment.”

“So you are Tom Gerard?” When he didn't answer, Frank said, “Bernie told me you were. I didn't believe him. He watches all those gossip shows. He said he recognized you. I told him he was nuts.”

“Maybe he is.”

Frank shook his head. “No. I think he's right. So…why are you here? In Reno?”

Tom set the spoon in the sink and put the foil back over the bowl. Better to meet this head-on than to let the boys spread rumors. “I used to live here. I decided to come back and enjoy some peace and quiet.” He emphasized the last words, hoping Frank would take the hint.

“Why? Too much good food and too many beautiful women?”

“It gets wearing after a while,” Tom replied.

“I should have problems like that.”

A sudden flash of orange in the backyard caught Tom's attention. He stepped to the window, frowning, then dropped the sauce spoon.

“What's wrong?” Frank asked as Tom bolted to the door.

“Your fence is on fire!”

The fire was taking hold by the time Tom got to the door. He raced through the back gate and was halfway down the driveway to the gate leading to Frank's property when the old man passed him at a dead run. Tom decided he would give the matter of a sixty-something-year-old guy outrunning him some thought later. Right now he wanted to make sure they still had a fence di
viding the properties and no big red trucks rolling into the drives.

“What in the hell—” Frank's question was drowned out by the hiss of the fire extinguisher as Bernie sprayed down the Weber kettle that stood beside the smoker.

Within a matter of seconds the fire was doused and the barbecue was covered in white foam.

“This is going to be a bitch to clean,” Frank said. “What happened?”

“Too much lighter fluid,” Bernie yelled. “I didn't realize how close to the fence I was. The wind came up and…”

“How long have we been doing this?” Frank demanded. “How long?”

“Don't talk to me like I'm some kind of a fool!”

Frank gestured at the charred fence.

“Could have happened to anyone.” He glanced over at Tom and then back at his brother. “Well, is he?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “You almost burn down the fence and you're on celebrity watch?”

“Are you Tom Gerard?” Bernie asked point-blank.

Tom put his hands on his thighs as he caught his breath. “I'm Tom. Your next-door neighbor. Can we leave it at that?”

“And also our sauce and rib consultant?” Frank asked shrewdly.

“Sure,” Tom agreed. “I'll consult.”
And you keep quiet.

 

“H
OW'S
E
DEN
?” T
OM ASKED WHEN
Reggie parked next to his car in the alley Monday morning. He'd gotten there
early only to find himself locked out. He'd gone for a coffee but still had had to wait another ten minutes for her to arrive.

“Fighting to come to work, but the doctor hasn't released her.” Reggie got out the keys. “And won't until the swelling in her ankle goes down enough to put it in a cast.”

So far the Johnson's wedding was going according to plan, except that Reggie also had the Wednesday luncheon for a businesswoman's sorority group, which she'd booked before the wedding and before she'd had any idea she'd be working without Eden. The luncheon was cutting into her wedding prep.

“I hope she's learned a lesson about looking both ways before crossing,” Tom said.

“I wish she
had
looked both ways.” Reggie glanced up at him as she turned the key. “My sister isn't the most patient patient, and it was my turn to stay with her last night.” She left it at that, since the phone started ringing the second the door was unlocked. Tom pulled it open and Reggie ran for the call, dropping her tote bag on the chair.

Because of a shipping issue, the florist couldn't get the Lady Slipper orchids she wanted for the wedding display. Reggie pushed her hair off her forehead and told the woman to keep trying. If she couldn't get fresh Lady Slippers, as the bride had requested, then they might have to go with silk. Which the bride had not wanted.

Reggie made a note: “Talk to bride about flowers.”

“Everything okay?” Tom asked from the door.

“Yeah. Just a flower problem.”

“You do the flowers, too?”

“For the cake table and the buffet.” She started her computer and kicked off her shoes, nudging them under her desk with the side of her foot. “I have to do the site check at the Masonic hall for the dinner and make a preliminary delivery today. Patty's nervous about being left alone with you.”

“Why?” he asked mildly. “No chaperone?”

“She's afraid of you.”

Tom snorted. “She is not. She just wants me gone.”

“Be nice to her. I don't want her to quit. Not on top of everything else.” Reggie reached for her apron, pausing when she saw the way he was looking at her. “What?”

“I promised myself not to indulge in platitudes, because I don't do that kind of stuff, but…”

There was genuine concern in his eyes. For a moment Reggie simply stared, feeling unexpectedly touched by that concern, and then she pulled the apron off the hook. “Everything will be okay?”

“Relax a little, all right?”

Reggie tied the apron, then made an effort to smile. Sure. She'd relax. Just as soon as this week was over.

 

R
EGGIE LEFT ABOUT AN HOUR
after Patty came in, leaving Patty with an extensive prep list and simply telling Tom what she needed him to do—brie-stuffed chicken breasts, a gourmet version of scalloped potatoes, poached Bosc pears in a cabernet sauce.

Tom cubed the brie and then sliced pockets into the chicken breasts, stuffing a few cubes of cheese in each
one before sautéing them and then placing them on a baking sheet.

Patty was baking the sheet cake and cutting crudités. Slowly cutting crudités. It was almost as if she was doing it on purpose to drive him insane, but this wasn't his kitchen. He didn't need to fix the problem. And if he turned his back to her, he could almost believe it.

And if he couldn't believe it, he'd fake it.

Once the chicken was stored, Tom disinfected his area then started on the potatoes. Regardless of what Reggie wanted, he had to do a few fixes to this sauce. While he was making the white sauce, he started to smell the distinct scent of burned vanilla and glanced over his shoulder at Patty, who was arranging carrot sticks and radishes.

“Patty?”

Her chin jerked up.

“Cake?”

She gave him a haughty look, then glanced at the timer next to her crudités plate. Her eyes bulged and then she whirled around to the oven.

“Oh, no. Oh, no,” she repeated over and over as she jerked the pan out, dropped it on the rack waiting on the counter. Tom was surprised she'd slowed down long enough to put on an oven mitt.
Forget to set the timer, Patty?

“Ruined,” she moaned. “Look at it. Look at it!”

Tom could see the black edges from where he was finishing the white sauce. “Don't cry!” If Reggie came back and this woman was bawling, there'd be hell to pay.

Her eyes suggested his command came too late.

“No,” he said, as firmly as he could without raising his voice. He was tethered to the white sauce that had yet to thicken, so he called, “We'll fix it. Just. Don't. Cry!”

Had he ever said those words in his kitchens?

Never. And now he'd just said them twice.

“How will we fix it?” Patty practically shrieked. “This is for an event!”

“I know.” Tom's sauce had thickened to the point that he could take it from the burner. He set it aside and crossed over to where Patty stood wringing her hands next to the cake.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” he said.

She glared at him. Platitudes really didn't sound convincing coming out of his mouth.

“You have time to make another cake.”

Patty gestured dramatically at her prep list. “When? Reggie is depending on me to do all of this.”

Tom scooped up the paper and quickly read through it. Child's play. He set the list down on the counter and put his hand on top it. “I'm good at this kind of thing. I'll handle your list and mine while you make another cake.”

“But Reggie—”

“Doesn't need to know.”

Come on, woman.
He was offering the easiest fix, the quickest fix, and yet she was dithering… But he hadn't taken her head off.
Good, Tom. Very good.

“All right,” she said with a sniff. “But I will have to tell Reggie.”

“Patty…Reggie considers herself lucky to have you.” For reasons Tom didn't quite get. “She'll be all right with this.”

The prep cook gave another slight sniff. “Then we'd best get going.”

Finally.

“Yes.”

By the time Reggie returned, both prep lists were done and a perfect cake sat cooling on the rack.

“Wow, Patty,” Reggie said. “This is beautiful. Justin will have to watch out.”

Patty blushed, hesitated, started to speak, then glanced over at Tom. He shook his head and her mouth closed again. A second later she simply said, “Thank you.”

 

T
HERE WAS A CAKE IN THE TRASH
. A yellow sheet cake, parchment still attached to the almost black underside, doubled over and lying beneath a few eggshells and vegetable peelings.

Both Tom and Patty had left, so Reggie had no one to ask about it. But whatever had happened, Patty hadn't been in tears and Tom hadn't been raging—which made Reggie wonder if he even knew.

No. If Patty burned a cake, he'd know. He had an extraordinary nose.

Strange… And perhaps best to let the cake go out with the trash and ask no questions. Even if she was dying of curiosity.

She touched her belly after closing the lid of the garbage can. “Your father's going soft.”

Your father.

It still gave her pause when she thought of Tom as the father of her baby.

He was biding his time now, waiting out the aftermath of his professional faux pas, but he didn't belong in a catering kitchen. He'd actually made the right choice seven years ago, and so had she. She wouldn't have been happy globe-trotting from restaurant to restaurant, trying to roll with the punches when he'd gotten fired more than once, trying to put down the roots she would have needed so badly in such a fluctuating environment.

So, yes, they were having a baby together.

But she didn't see how they could possibly make a life.

 

W
HEN
T
OM PARKED HIS CAR IN THE
driveway that evening, an awful high-pitched mechanical squeal came from his neighbors' oversize shop, followed by muffled shouts.

Ah, suburbia. What were Frank and Bernie up to now? Hopefully, this wasn't part of their new sauce-making procedure.

The rat dog was waiting on the back porch and shot into the kitchen when Tom opened the door, skittering across the floor as she tried to stop her momentum.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked, getting the food out of the fridge and scooping some into the ceramic dish next to the table.