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Bourbon.
He poured another, then went to the window and stared out at the building behind his, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. This time he sipped, allowing the alcohol to warm his throat slowly. The tension started to ease out of the muscles of his neck and shoulders, but his mind was still whirling.
If Reggie was two months pregnant, then he had seven months to figure this all out. He’d be employed by then. Have a new business manager, be able to set up a college fund, or do whatever dads did. His father had done two things—hauled him around the world with him when he could, or sent him off to boarding school when he couldn’t. Not the most normal of upbringings. His dad had been more like a friend than a father…when they’d been together.
So what the hell did Tom know about fatherhood?
“Damn.” He tossed the bourbon back, then reached for the bottle and poured another shot.
TWO INTERVIEWS DOWN AND ONE TO go. So far, not so good.
Eden and Reggie exchanged glances as the second of their three candidates walked out the door. Reggie’s stomach was in a tight knot, but this time it had little to do with morning sickness.
The first candidate hadn’t known how to hold a knife and, when shown, had preferred to do it her way. That was fine. She could do the wrong thing in her own kitchen, but not the Tremont kitchen. Oh, and she couldn’t work on weekends.
The second candidate had skills, but also had a schedule Tremont would have to work around. That kind of defeated the purpose of having a prep cook, who had to be able to prep when they needed her, not when she was free from her other job.
If these were the top candidates, Reggie didn’t hold out much hope for numbers four, five and six.
“If this person can breathe and work our schedule, I say we hire her,” Eden whispered to Reggie as a roundish woman in her mid-forties, with short brown hair and a no-nonsense expression—candidate number three—walked in the door exactly five minutes before her interview.
She approached the desk where Eden and Reggie were sitting and set a bound résumé before them.
“I’m Patty Lloyd. How do you do?” she said. “I’m here for the interview. I realize that I have large gaps in my employment history, but I assure you, I can cook.”
Eden met Reggie’s gaze with raised eyebrows as Patty took her seat on the other side of the desk.
The interview went well. Despite her somewhat arrogant, take-charge attitude, she’d been employed at a private care facility kitchen for the past two years and proved to be slow yet meticulous. And part time was fine with her for now. What the woman didn’t know they could teach her.
The only problem was that Patty was very, very serious, in her speech, in her dress, in her attitude, which made Reggie wonder if the woman could handle Justin. Justin, when not dealing with pregnant sisters, tended toward irreverence.
Eden obviously had the same concern. She smiled up at Patty and said, “I want you to meet my brother for a second interview tomorrow, and then we’ll have you make a couple standard dishes on our menu. Would that work for you?”
“Certainly. Let’s say ten?” Patty stood, extending her hand.
“She scares me a little,” Eden said after the door shut behind her. They watched through the front window as she got into a small blue Ford that had to be twenty years old, yet appeared almost new.
“That,” Reggie said, carefully setting down her pen, “makes two of us. But if we keep her in the kitchen and away from clients, I think she’ll do fine.”
“We’ll have to tell Justin to behave.”
“That goes without saying. I’ll get going on the tapenade,” she added, because Eden had that touch-base-to-see-how-you’re-feeling look, and Reggie wasn’t in the mood.
She was still recovering from her phone conversation with Tom, would most probably have to have another in the near future, and wanted time to stew. Alone.
TOM WENT TO THE WINDOW OF HIS apartment and leaned his forehead against the cool glass, watching the people on the sidewalk five stories below. A lot of them were probably going to work. The bastards.
It was hard to believe, but Montrose appeared to have him by the short hairs. As near as he could tell, he was blacklisted.
But for how fricking long?
Tom left the window and stepped over the clothes he hadn’t bothered to pick up during the past few days. It was time to call Lowell, admit that he needed his help.
“You’re totally screwed,” Lowell said shortly, after hello. “I’ve been keeping tabs.”
“I don’t buy ‘totally screwed.’” Maybe he was temporarily screwed, and for the zillionth time Tom wondered how getting fired for stuff that had nothing to do with his cooking ability could interfere with his ability to get a job cooking. “What do you suggest I do about that?” he asked with more patience than he was feeling.
“Keep out of trouble for, say, a day or two and let this blow over.”
“It’s been a goddamn day or two.”
“Calm. Down.”
“This is your advice? Calm down and what? Helpful, Lowell. Really helpful. At least tell me if you hear of anything…”
“Yeah…but like I said. Right now? Screwed. Hope you have some savings.”
Tom hung up so he didn’t have to tell Lowell what he could do with his bloody useless advice. One thing about Lowell—you might not know what he was going to do next, but you knew where you stood with him.
Staring at the phone, Tom became increasingly aware of an unfamiliar feeling unfurling inside him. Desperation. Coupled with fear.
He grabbed the phone and threw it across the room, where it smashed into the wall. That felt satisfying. He refused to give in to fear.
He had to plan for this baby.
Tom had no idea how to handle fatherhood, but regardless of Reggie’s glib assurance that she would handle everything by herself—or maybe because of it—he’d have some say in his kid’s life. Even if that kid didn’t seem real. Yet. Seven more months and he’d be real. A new Gerard in the world.
Tom went into his kitchen, bypassed the bottle of bourbon for a glass of tap water, which tasted of metal, then went back to his phone and called Pete at home. He was getting his business manager back and his life on track. All he wanted to do was cook and cook well—for someone other than himself. And get himself into a position where he could at the very least support his kid.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DOCTOR WAS RUNNING LATE BY almost an hour, and if he didn’t hurry, Reggie was going to have to abandon ship in order to make a meeting with a prospective client. A bride.
Several other women sat in the waiting room with her, most very pregnant, and she studied them out the corner of her eye while pretending to read. What did it feel like to no longer have a waist? Or in some cases ankles? Oh, she hoped she got to keep her ankles.
How did seat belts work when one didn’t have a lap?
Was she going to have to get a special order chef’s jacket? Hers was roomy, but judging by the slender-except-for-her-belly woman who was just called from the waiting area by a nurse with a chart in her hand, not roomy enough. Maybe Reggie could wear Justin’s jacket? Not working wasn’t an option. Working kept her sane. It also kept the business afloat and money in the bank.
Her heart gave a mighty thud when her name was called and she followed the nurse to the room where she was weighed and her blood pressure taken.
“First pregnancy?” the nurse asked.
“Yes.” Reggie stared at the opposite wall, at the collage of happy babies.
“We’ll have to run a blood panel,” she said briskly.
Reggie automatically pushed up her sleeve to expose the veins in her arm. “How often will I have appointments?”
“First we have to make certain you’re really pregnant.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “I took three pregnancy tests.”
“We’ll just run a blood test anyway,” the nurse said.
What if she wasn’t pregnant? What if she’d been so afraid of becoming pregnant, of tying herself to Tom, that she just showed the symptoms?
“Do you get many false positives?”
“Not with three positive home tests, but we have to follow procedure.” The woman slipped the needle into Reggie’s vein, filled first one vial, then another. “Was this an unplanned pregnancy?” she asked as she labeled the small containers.
“You could say that.”
“Do you want to make an appointment to speak with our wellness counselor?” Reggie frowned.
“About the pregnancy.” The nurse popped the needle into the sharps container. “Unplanned pregnancies cause stress. Especially if the mother is going through it alone.”
Did she have the look of someone going through her pregnancy alone?
“I want the baby,” Reggie said coolly, not taking a particular shine to this nurse. “I just hadn’t planned to become pregnant. It happens.”
“Boy, does it,” the nurse muttered. She smiled at Reggie, though. “I didn’t mean to offend. If a woman isn’t comfortable with her pregnancy, she needs to confront the issues both for her health and the health of the child. I offer the service to all mothers-to-be.”
Reggie didn’t believe her. Or maybe she was just nervous and cranky.
The doctor was a very likable, if somewhat harried man. He did a quick exam, pronounced Reggie fit to have children without a C-section, and prescribed vitamins. “Now, do you have any questions?”
“About five hundred,” Reggie said.
He laughed. “I’ll answer what I can and point you to some excellent online sources for the questions that pop into your head as soon as you leave.”
Reggie left the office with a handful of literature and web addresses, a prescription for vitamins and a November due date.
“Well?” Eden said, looking up from the manicotti she was filling when Reggie walked into the kitchen.
“Everything’s good.”
“No pictures? No boy or girl?”
“Not yet. Several more weeks before they can tell.”
“Hope it’s a girl,” Eden said.
Obviously the aunt was settling into this pregnancy better than the mother.
PATTY PASSED HER SECOND interview with flying colors, because Justin was more than happy to rein in the irreverence if they could get some additional help. She started work the day after Reggie’s doctor’s appointment, bustling in fifteen minutes early and then carefully stowing her purse in the locker assigned her. She’d brought a chef’s jacket that was so stiff it seemed to creak when she put it on. Once it was buttoned to the top, she rolled her shoulders and asked, “Where do I begin?”
“Inventory,” Reggie said, leading the way to the dry storage area.
Patty pulled a small spiral book and pencil out of her pocket. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
“Not at all,” Reggie said. “Although honestly, the procedure isn’t that complex.”
“Everyone has their own way of doing things.”
Indeed. Counting could be tricky. But Reggie reminded herself that the woman had primarily worked in hospital and care facility kitchens. There were probably set procedures for everything.
Once she and Patty were in front of the open stainless steel shelving, she said, “It’s important that we have emergency stock and an adequate supply of basic ingredients, but having too much of anything is a waste of money that could be earning interest.”
Patty nodded sagely and made a notation in her book.
“I have a master list here…” She went through her procedure, letting Patty do the actual inventory. “Justin’s cake supplies are on a different sheet, and vary according to what he needs for the week. I take care of the orders, but he fills out this list.” Reggie was just flipping to it on the clipboard when the phone rang.
“When you’re done here, move on to the cooler. The sheet is on the very bottom of the stack.”
“Will do.” Patty didn’t salute, but Reggie had the feeling she wanted to. Please relax, she wanted to say.
The call was from Eden. She was leaving the site for the Italian dinner party they were giving that evening and heading for the linen supplier. She’d discovered that the order was short. “Be sure you make a notation on the invoice,” she said. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I’m tired of you asking that every morning.”
“Better?”
“Good enough.”
It had been only two weeks since Reggie had found out she was pregnant, but her body had definitely become different. Not her own. It was acting on autopilot, responding to ancient signals from deep within her DNA. She only wished those signals would stop making her feel queasy because she wanted the Italian dinner, not to mention the bridal shower the day after tomorrow, to be perfect. Or if not perfect, to at least give that impression.
Funny how the success or failure of Tremont Catering had taken on a whole new significance since discovering she was pregnant. Yes, she’d been driven to make the business a success, but it had been because she loved to cook and cater. Because she enjoyed the challenge and thrill of running her own company and enjoyed working with her brother and sister.
Now success was a matter of necessity, because she was going to have a child to support.
As soon as Patty finished the inventory, Reggie put her to work chopping veg for the salad and vegetarian courses for that evening’s dinner. Reggie waved at the mail lady from the kitchen, as the woman came and went, and minutes later Justin walked through the front door. Reggie kept her eyes on her knife as she sliced mushrooms, but she heard her brother sorting through the mail, envelopes hitting the bottom of the metal trash can every few seconds, then silence.
He was yawning as he walked in, and Reggie was about to say something along the lines of how much sleep did you get last night, despite her intentions not to, when he held up an envelope with a distinct blue-and-green design.
Reggie almost dropped her rolling pin. “Is that…”
“I hope it’s not bad news,” Patty said.
“Bad news doesn’t come in a blue-and-green envelope, Patty.” The prep cook turned a little pink at Justin’s tone.
“Are we in?” Reggie asked, stunned. The deadline for acceptance into Reno Cuisine had passed two weeks ago—just about the time she’d discovered she was pregnant, and hadn’t given two hoots about a catering competition. Not even a big one.
Justin pulled the contract and a letter out of the envelope and handed them to her. “We’re in. Sutter’s Catering had to drop out and we’re first on the waiting list.”
“I’ll write the check and get it in the mail today,” Reggie said, skimming the letter. This was good. Really good. Now to make a decent showing. Thank heavens for Patty. “How much time do I have? Do we have to notarize the contract?”
“They need word by the end of the week. No notarization.” Justin had obviously read every word before coming in.
