Return to Glory (Hqn) (19 page)

No, that wasn’t true. He was a little more than barely. A month ago, he wouldn’t have considered trying to scale down the ledge, and neither would he have laughed at himself when he got a root tangled around the titanium limb and he almost had to remove it to get free. No, he wouldn’t have laughed. He wouldn’t even have been outside, much less down by the river with Betsy.

He held the blanket close, and the familiar scents wafted around him. He gripped the blanket so tightly his knuckles were white with the effort.

She said he’d been drowning before—drowning in the whiskey and the dark. But he hadn’t felt as if he was drowning; he didn’t know he couldn’t breathe. This...this absence of her, this was drowning, this was suffocating.

Betsy took all the air with her, all the light.

And suddenly he was so very thirsty, so very empty. There was a hollow space inside him that needed to be filled.

He told her that he was all right, but he wasn’t.

Jack didn’t want to die. He wasn’t going to go home and eat his gun. But he couldn’t feel all of this now. He needed something to give him some silence. A reprieve to that blessed numb nothing he could only find in the bottom of a bottle.

He knew it was wrong, he knew it wasn’t the answer, but he drove to the liquor store anyway. He sat outside in his car for a full fifteen minutes before he went inside. Jack kept telling himself to start the car, to drive home, because he didn’t have to do this. Jack knew he could choose.

And he made the wrong choice.

He went inside and bought a nice bottle of aged scotch. As if it weren’t sordid because it was expensive. Jack wasn’t fooling himself. He knew exactly what he was doing and why it was bad.

But he was so unbearably empty.

“Need someone to share that with, handsome?” He looked up to see Mindy Kreskin behind the counter. “I get off in an hour.”

Part of him wanted to say yes. The act would be as empty and meaningless as what he was feeling now.

She wasn’t Betsy, though, but neither was the scotch.

He closed his eyes and breathed.

“Maybe some other time.” He pulled out his cash for the scotch.

“You sure about that? I hear Betsy is leaving for Paris again.”

News traveled like wildfire in a small town. “Yes, she is. I’m so happy for her.”

“So happy for her you’re going to drink yourself into a stupor all by your lonesome, McConnell?” She gave him half a smile.

“What’s best for the people we love isn’t always what’s best for us, now, is it?”

The haunted look in her eyes told him that she knew exactly what he meant. “No, it’s not.” She sighed. “Does that woman know how lucky she is?”

“I don’t think she feels very lucky at the moment.”

“You, Paris, the career of her dreams? What more could she want?”

“Everything, I hope.”

“What about you, Jack? What do you want for you?”

“That is for me.” Suddenly the pain wasn’t so empty, his insides not so hollow. For Betsy to be happy, it really was enough. He exhaled heavily and smiled. “Buy yourself something pretty, Mindy. I changed my mind about the scotch,” he said as he handed over some money.

He walked back outside before she could say anything else, or he could change his mind.

Jack drove home. He was still hurting. There was that giant black hole inside him, but there was that flickering hope, too. The candle in the dark that burned because of Betsy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

B
ETSY HAD A
lot of time in her own head on the flight to New York, and she knew she’d have even more on the flight to Paris. She didn’t mind so much; she was glad that Marcel didn’t expect her to entertain him. She didn’t have anything to discuss anyway. The scene with the mushroom bordelaise kept replaying itself over and over in her head on a loop.

It was like watching a horror movie where she’d scream at the heroine not to run in heels, or not to go check the inhuman noise coming from the dark woods, but she did it anyway and the audience kept watching even though they knew what was going to happen.

She watched herself prepare: picking the mushrooms, talking to Marcel, tossing them merrily in her basket as if she hadn’t a care. Betsy had been so sure of herself, utterly absorbed in the experience of the moment rather than paying attention and keeping herself grounded in the present.

Stupid, naive Betsy, always with her head in the clouds.

Not anymore. She decided she was going to keep both feet firmly anchored to the earth. It was the only way to get by. Her stomach twisted in on itself and nausea climbed the back of her throat.

She wasn’t ready to face the man who’d laughed her out of Paris.

Maybe they were all right. Maybe she’d run away from this, just as she was running away from Glory.

Betsy sighed. She supposed she should’ve thought about that before she went off like a rocket and cashed a check she didn’t want, boarded a plane to a place she didn’t really want to go and basically threw a tantrum.

Her emotions had been all over the map lately, and it seemed the slightest things upset her. Not that Jack telling her that he didn’t want to be with her was a slight thing, but she knew that going in. She’d told him it was okay, and if it wasn’t, she shouldn’t have said it.

She’d get him a cashier’s check and have Caleb drop it off to give him back the money. Betsy couldn’t spend it. It felt like blood money.

Although Caleb, she was still angry with him and she didn’t see that changing any time soon. He was sorry that she was pissed, but he had no remorse for what he’d done. He had to learn that it wasn’t okay for him to meddle in her life.

She really wished her dad had been home, or he’d at least been somewhere where she could talk to him. He was always the voice of reason.

Even without talking to him, she knew what he’d say. He’d tell her to go to Paris. He’d tell her that even if her dreams changed, she had to finish what she started.

That didn’t make it easier to be
bouchon de mort
girl.

She looked over at Marcel and studied his profile. His dark hair, his perfect cheekbones and the way he drummed his fingers in time to the beat rocking through his headphones on his thigh. He was so familiar, yet foreign to her all at once.

Her stomach rolled again and she tried to turn off the loop in her head as she settled deeper back into the seat and thought yet again how much she despised mushrooms.

* * *

P
ARIS WAS JUST
as beautiful as Betsy remembered. The city of lights and lovers. There was a different scent to the air, something like wine and pastry, but she was sure that was more memory association than anything.

“Are you ready?” Marcel asked her kindly.

“Ready? For what?”

“The chef has sent a car for you. We will go directly to his flat. You will cook for him.” He motioned to the sleek black car that waited for them.

“What? No. I thought I was rejoining the group.” Panic seized her by the throat.

“You will, but you must cook for him. For us. I’ll be there with you, Betsy.”

So many different emotions bloomed and alternately wilted inside her as she thought about what it meant to cook for Chef Abelard. This really was an amazing opportunity. Her stomach rolled again, doing dips and turns like a roller coaster.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

Marcel gave her an indulgent smile. Jack would have told her that she was going to be fine. He would have held her hand. He wouldn’t have just given her that stupid smile, as if to say he was so much worldlier than she was. He would have told her that she had her own bakeshop and she was a successful businesswoman. He would have told her that she didn’t have to prove anything to anyone but herself.

And he’d be right.

But when would she ever be able to stop comparing everything and everyone to Jack and what he would do?

“Fine. I’m fine. Let’s go.” Betsy straightened her spine and steeled herself for what was to come.

She watched the scenery go by and before long, she was taking it all in with the joy and excitement of a tourist. There were lights everywhere, the Christmas markets were open and Betsy found herself in love with Paris all over again.

The car finally stopped in front of a swanky-looking white-marbled building. Of course Chef Abelard lived here. Just standing in front of it made her feel small and insignificant.

But Betsy wasn’t either of those things. She thought about her Better Than Sex donuts. She thought about the flavors she’d slowly brought back to Jack’s life. She thought about everything she’d accomplished.

And finally she thought about Marcel. She’d practically demonized him in her head for the way he’d made her feel about her skills, about her body and about herself as a person. He wasn’t the bogeyman, and neither was Chef Abelard. No one could make her feel anything she didn’t allow them to.

Even if she bombed this, it didn’t matter.

She realized this moment right here was what everyone wanted her to know. This was why they’d all pushed so hard to get her to come back.

Her nose burned with that prickle that made her eyes water. Damn, but she was so emotional. She couldn’t believe she was ready to cry standing there on the street. She hadn’t even cried (where anyone could see her anyway) when they’d laughed her out of the group and out of Paris.

A doorman held the way open for them, and Marcel led her inside.

She followed him and they were shown to an elevator that required a special key, where they were taken up to what Betsy could only call a penthouse. It was good to be an internationally celebrated chef.

The elevator doors opened directly into the flat and Chef Abelard greeted them.

“I’m pleased to see you returned,” he began in a heavy French accent. “When I spoke with Marcel, he seemed to think that you wouldn’t. That your small Midwestern life with Crock-Pots and hoedowns had swallowed you whole. I’d hate to see your talent so wasted.”

She thought again about India working in her kitchen. Her stupid brother stopping in for his daily donut. Jack. The guys at the V.A. That was wasting her talent?

Her first thought wasn’t that she should be glad that he wanted her to return. Or that at one time she’d agreed with him about Glory. It was that he was a pompous ass. She met his appraisal head-on and didn’t look down at her hands, or try to shy away from his inspection. She inspected him back and found him decidedly lacking.

Abelard was amused. “You’re going to need that fire if you’re going make it in this business. Come, cook for me,
Bouchon de Mort.
” He motioned to a counter in the most beautiful kitchen she’d ever seen. Everything was stainless steel and glass—an array of tools, machines, knives, they were all on display like some kind of museum exhibit. Betsy knew what each thing was for, and how to use it to deliver the best culinary experience.

Sweet Thing was smaller, and though she had stainless workstations, it was nothing like the sleek lines of the chef’s kitchen. It was intimidating, but Betsy knew she could do this.

She ignored his barb, even though it still wounded her deeply. Instead she turned her attention to the lovely, gleaming kitchen. She was more impressed with that than she had been with the glittering streets of Paris. For Betsy, that shine of stainless steel and appliances was more beautiful than the stars. It was a blank canvas and the foods her paints.

“What shall I make for you?” Betsy asked quietly.

“Your supplies are there.” He motioned to a prep table. “There is one catch. You must choose the proper mushrooms. There are three bowls. Two are edible. One is the death cap. You should be very sure about your choice because we will all dine together.”

Betsy was sure she was going to vomit this time. She hated mushrooms. She hated them so much. If she could obliterate them from the face of the planet, she would.

Her mother always said in for a penny, in for a pound. She knew that what she said next was exactly what the chef wanted to hear.

“I will prepare mushrooms bordelaise.” Her voice didn’t waver.

“Wise choice.” Abelard nodded.

With shaking hands, she inspected the mushrooms. She could do this. She could. They all looked alike to her, one blending into another like a swirl of velvety color. Since the incident, she’d avoided cooking—staying strictly within her comfort zone of pastries. She’d especially avoided mushrooms; she couldn’t stand the sight of them. She tried to remember what he’d said in the class before he set them loose to gather the mushrooms.

She looked for white gills, but they all looked white to her. She looked at the coloring on the caps, the shape of the caps. Again, they all looked the same to her.

Panic seized her again. If she made the wrong choice here, it wasn’t about her career, or her trip to Paris or even Marcel. This could kill someone.

She picked up a sample from each bowl in turn and inspected them very closely.

Betsy had thought it was stupid that he made the students gather them themselves, especially when one could order almost any ingredient needed. But she understood now. Preparing food was a privilege— it was intimate. Something she’d chosen, touched, it was entering a person’s body to nourish it.

Or alternatively, damage it.

Betsy had always known that, but it had never been driven home in such stark relief. That’s what the chef had been trying to teach her.

She needed to own her mistake. Betsy hadn’t accepted the gravity of what she’d done or the trust placed in her. She’d run home to her family and they’d given her Sweet Thing. She hadn’t done anything to earn it.

“I see you understand. This is good.”

Marcel looked at her askance. “I don’t. What’s he talking about?”

Betsy exhaled and inhaled.

Abelard spoke again, completely ignoring Marcel. “Do you remember your lessons?”

Betsy wanted to say that she did. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t. Not all of them. Panic clutched at her throat again with bony fingers and choked her.

The moment with Jack when he was thrashing on the floor, so wounded and in so much pain, came back to her in waves. She’d demanded that he ask for help. Demanded that he swallow his pride and just ask for help.

Maybe she wasn’t as broken as he was, but all the lessons she’d been trying to teach him, Betsy had the epiphany that she should’ve been trying to teach them to herself, as well.

She lifted her chin. “No, Chef. I don’t remember. I’m sorry. Can you please help me?”

Betsy waited on tenterhooks to see what he would do. If he would laugh at her again, call her stupid, send her from his house with the command that she never come back. And she realized that she could handle any of those things.

“Smell them,” he directed.

She picked up a mushroom from each bowl yet again and smelled each one in turn. They had a faint, generic earthy scent. Except for the one in the last bowl. The faint scent of roses clung to it.

Betsy remembered his instructions in class that day. He’d said if they had trouble, to remember that flowers were for the dead. She smiled and took the bowl and dumped it in the trash.

He and Marcel both gave her a nod of approval and she began preparing the other two kinds of mushrooms for the bordelaise.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Marcel asked when she mixed them.

“Yes.” Confidence surged. “Now get out of my kitchen.” She knew from the way her baked goods turned out that the food would capture her emotion, and she wanted this to taste like victory with no taint of doubt.

Betsy continued to cut and slice, adding parsley to the mushrooms. She turned on the stove and set cloves of garlic to brown in olive oil. It took her fewer than twenty minutes to finish and when she was done, she served the dish.

She had to take the first bite, but she did so with confidence. It had a nutty, earthy flavor and when she smiled, everyone else took their bite.

But it didn’t sit well on her stomach. In fewer than five minutes, she made a mad dash for Abelard’s bathroom and she was reminded just how much she hated mushrooms.

* * *

E
VEN THOUGH
B
ETSY
couldn’t keep it down, it was still a success and Abelard offered her his tutelage, which she accepted.

She discovered Marcel had been less than truthful about barely keeping his restaurant in New York open. He had moved back to France and was now working for Chef Abelard. He’d apologized for the lie but said it was hard to admit his failure to her.

Betsy found joy in cooking again. Not just baking, but everything Abelard was teaching her. November quickly merged into December, and while Paris was certainly beautiful, as was the apartment Abelard had secured for her with her unused tuition, Betsy longed for home.

She still longed for Jack.

And her mother’s cooking.

She found that more and more foods upset her stomach and that tepid tea and dry biscuits were more often than not the best choice. She wondered if she had some kind of intestinal bug. It wasn’t until she was sitting in the upscale café on the corner across from Abelard’s sipping that tepid tea that Marcel offered her another answer to the mysterious illness.

“Betsy, I’m not sure how to ask this politely.”

She looked up at him, curious. “I suppose you should just ask, then.”

“Could you be pregnant?”

Her hand flew to her stomach, as if somehow the answer would be there in braille under her palm. She thought about all the times she’d been intimate with Jack, and there had been two times that he hadn’t used a condom.