Escaping Valentine's Day, page 13
“Rory, what’s wrong?”
She couldn’t ask for a better segue. She could ask for a better time, but this was about progress, not perfection. “Since you ask? And said with all possible love and respect? You two are the problem. The way you continue to try and control my life as if I were a child.”
“We don’t,” Richard said, affront raising the tenor of his voice.
“You do. The coddling—which feels a lot more like smothering—is well-intentioned, but nevertheless, it’s got to stop. We can have a more in-depth discussion once I return, but the thesis statement will remain the same.”
“Taking care of you is not a crime.” This time he sounded more stern and factual. Like when he used to point out mistakes on her calculus homework.
“True. But after a certain point, it isn’t helpful. It’s detrimental.” Rory grabbed the tablet. Spun to look at Rowan and dropped to her knees with a beseeching outstretched arm. No time to call in a favor like a whopping three minutes after it was offered. Rowan nodded and gave her two thumbs-up, albeit with utter confusion scrunching up her face. “When I land, I’ll be moving in with Rowan and Jeremy until I find a new place. Thanks for the update. Gotta go. Love you.”
She jabbed at the screen with so much force it was shocking it didn’t flip right out of her palm.
Rowan clapped. “You did it!”
“No, no, hold that thought. Pretty much freeze in place. I’ve got momentum now. Give me two minutes.” Emboldened by finally drawing the line, she plopped onto the floor and fired off a pithy note of instruction to her landlord. Followed by a longer but still pithy email to her boss. Then she carefully set the tablet on the coffee table and scooted away, as if it were a ticking bomb.
“Can I move now? I’ve got an itch on my shoulder.”
Whoops. She hadn’t expected Rowan to actually freeze. “Sure. You can. I think I’ve forgotten how.” Rory looked up. “I just quit my job. Well, I’m not a jerk, so I gave two weeks’ notice as of the day I return, but, yeah. That’s done, too. Which was probably a hasty move. A hasty and unwise move.”
Rowan sat down next to her, draping a steadying arm around her shoulder. “No. No second-guessing.”
“Are you sure about that? Because I’m quite good at it—”
“I’m positive. Sure, you set your safety net on fire. That’ll just make you focus better on next steps. You’ll work harder, and better, because you’ve got no option but to make this career switch a success.”
Rory looked down at her hands. The right one was shaking. The left one, however, wasn’t. So at least half of her believed she could do this. Good enough odds to start with, at any rate. She covered her right hand with her left, stilling it.
“I’m proud of myself.”
“Probably not as proud of you as I am. That was an epic thing to watch.”
“Proud…but also scared and more than a little desperate.” And thinking about Huck. This must be what he’d felt when he left everything he knew behind to compete on television. He’d done it alone.
As much as she felt compassion for him, Rory felt relief that she didn’t have to.
Because she was with a whole gaggle of smart, talented, experienced women.
“C’mon.” She grabbed her tablet and headed for the living room. Or, il soggiorno, as they’d been told to call it. “Will you pull up a siren and play it?”
“Sure. Isn’t that random sort of thing the whole fun of mobile phones?” Rowan had it blaring before they crossed the main entrance hallway. The widows clustered at the door, looking at them in concern.
“Nobody’s bleeding. Or on fire. I just very much need your help. If you don’t mind my co-opting your vacation mindset for a few hours. I respect you all and need a brain trust to save my new career before it even gets off the ground.”
“Are you kidding?” Gertie rubbed her hands together in glee. “That’s a lofty goal. Sounds like the perfect vacation activity to me.”
As Rory sat on the squishy leather sofa, Liz draped a blanket over her shoulders. Andrea set a glass of limoncello in front of her on the coffee table. And Huck…stood, arms crossed at the opposite end of the room. Watching.
“You all know this trip is my big test. To see if I want to/can change this marginal contracting job with Rowan’s agency—a gig purely from the goodness of her heart—into a full-time career as a content creator. Circumstances have changed.”
“Huh-uh. Own it.” Rowan pointed at her. “You changed it all.”
“For better or worse, yes. So my timeline has just moved up to right-the-heck-now. I need to brainstorm a proposal. For our friend the prince.” Because if business was all about who you knew? She’d be an idiot not to start with the only mover and shaker she knew in the whole country. “Something big. Something smart, doable, and unignorable. Which I am fully aware is not a word I can use in the proposal.”
“Huck, this is serious work we’re hunkering down to. Got anything sweet you could whip up fast to power us through?” Gertie asked. “The best brain food is sugar and alcohol. At least, it is once you get to my age.”
Everyone laughed.
They all looked ready to rumble on Rory’s behalf.
“It’d be my pleasure.” Huck pushed off the wall. “Then, if it’s all right with Rory, I’d like to come back in and help.”
Oh.
He was being so polite. Nobody watching them would realize the emotional eruption they’d shared that afternoon.
Only a coward would turn him down. But that wasn’t why Rory nodded.
Having Huck help? On this pivotal project? Just thinking about it felt so similar to the old days, when they did homework together. When they were a team. When he’d been right next to her for years of important changes and turning points.
Was there any hope of recapturing their former closeness? Or even a level of friendship?
He’d hurt her. Rory could forgive it, because, hello, maturity. She wasn’t sure she could accept it.
Maybe all she could do was accept the gift of his presence like a brief walk down memory lane. Enjoy it for now and then, once the trip was over, put him behind her forever.
That’d certainly be the smartest thing to do…
Chapter Eleven
This all felt like home to Huck.
True, his homes had been the basement of Rory’s home, a dorm room, and then a series of crowded shoebox apartments in San Francisco, Manhattan and Bologna. Not this expansive and exquisite villa belonging to generations of nobility, attached to a winery and an olive grove.
But Bologna was only three hours north of Perugia. The air here felt the same, the rolling hills looked the same, and even in winter, there was something about the sun completely different in Italy than in America.
Maybe it was the slower pace. Maybe it was being in a country with so many centuries of histories that it made Huck’s own problems feel insignificant in a totally freeing way. He loved it here.
And he didn’t know when he’d be back.
So he’d stand here, hands on a marble balustrade with the rich scent of frying pancetta teasing his nostrils, and take a minute to drink it in.
This trip kept hammering home how he’d been happier in the past. Being with Rory. Being in Italy. He couldn’t do anything about Rory, but maybe he could wrangle a way to work here again?
It’d put the ocean between him and Rory. The idea had a finality to it that had him turning away from the view that had resonated so deeply just a moment ago.
“You look good standing there. Like you could be the prince, instead of Nic.” Liz joined him, her hair a red nimbus in the stiff breeze.
Hilarious. Except Huck wasn’t so much ready yet to laugh about the nobleman who’d swooped in on Rory. So his tone had all the bitterness of radicchio as he said, “I’m no prince. Trust me.”
“Nonsense. You’ve got the creds.” Liz bonked elbows with him companionably. “Handsome. Talented. Charming.”
“Those could also be the credentials for a street magician. What I’m missing is the money. The impeccable reputation.”
“Those things don’t matter.”
Yeah. He’d heard that before. More times than he could count. But the comment only ever came from the top to be delivered down the social ladder. “No offense, but that’s easy for a woman with enough expendable money to book this tour to say. I’m the hired help, remember?”
There were crinkles around her green eyes. It was…pitying? Softly, she said, “Every man is a prince to some woman. You just have to find the right one.”
Been there.
Done that.
Screwed it all up.
Huck knew his food was superb. No false modesty about his kitchen skills. This morning’s wild mushroom leek frittata with black truffles and Gruyere had been a thing of beauty.
Being a damn good chef wasn’t enough to explain the level of Liz’s enthusiasm. “You’ve been rooting for me and Rory to be together since the first day. How come?”
She nibbled at the edge of a pine nut cookie. Even though they were to spend the day cooking and eating with all of the prince’s locally produced food, Nic had laid out a spread of sweets to welcome them.
Because on top of being rich and funny and freaking nice? The man had to be a warm and generous host, too. Yet another stack of the deck against Huck.
“Didn’t Rory tell you what I do?”
“No.” Man, that was a pointed question. Huck wasn’t wild about the obvious answer. “Therapist?”
Snorting, she sprayed cookie crumbs over the railing. “In a way. Not officially, of course. I’m a matchmaker.”
Literally the last thing Huck needed in his life. The only thing he could think of as less necessary was maybe an octopus wrangler.
He leaned his forearms on the railing. That way he wouldn’t risk seeing another dose of pity in her eyes. “Remember when I said I didn’t have enough money to be a prince? I definitely don’t have the cash to pay you to tell me that Rory’s perfect for me. I’ve know that since I was fourteen.”
“Ah, but what I can tell you—as a freebie, don’t worry—is that you’re perfect for her, as well.”
Wow. Huck wished he’d picked up a cookie, too, so that he could do a spit-take. “Hardly.”
“She’s the light to your dark. The perkiness to your whole brooding Heathcliff thing. Which really works for you, by the way.”
Brooding? Dark? Nah. When life kicked you in the nuts—repeatedly—you just stayed hunched over in a protective stance. Huck still enjoyed a good sunrise. Salty cheese and olives. The Cubs going to the playoffs.
He straightened up. Pulled his shades off his belt loop and put them on against the bright sun. “I love Rory. Always will. Getting to be with her these last six days has been better than winning the lottery. It gave us a do-over at being, well, at least friends. Then she found out about something I did five years ago that pissed her off. Deservedly so. Now I’ll keep loving her, while she’d probably like nothing more than to drop-kick me over this railing into that rose garden below us.”
Liz…laughed.
Huh. Didn’t see that coming.
She adjusted the cream scarf around her neck. “Huck. Are you listening to yourself? You made a mistake five years ago.”
“A big one.” And one that Rory was being forced to relive as if it was fresh.
“For goodness’ sake. I buy a new car every five years. That’s more than an Olympics cycle. Unless you killed a family member or a puppy? Doesn’t matter. Apologize. Move forward.”
Liz made it sound simple. Huck knew it wasn’t. Plus, he knew he was running out of time. It was pointless to waste what little they had left together making her angrier. The smart move would be to give up.
It was what he’d been telling himself for twenty-four hours.
Be mature. Be strategic. Accept that maybe the friendship was salvaged and that was enough.
Repeating it like a mantra wasn’t working, though. He didn’t have any hope left that they’d rekindle things. But he couldn’t fully give up, either.
“I tried to apologize. Rory’s mad. Hurt. Re-hurt. She doesn’t want to give me another chance.”
“Really? You helped her with the proposal last night. To jump-start her whole new career. Looked like a bonding time to me.”
It’d given Huck a mega dose of déjà vu. Just like all the times they’d hunkered down to do homework together. When he’d brought her dinner every night for two weeks as she finished her thesis.
But just like this week together, it was a flash. A streak of reminiscence and fun. Not the beginning of something lasting. Huck had hoped—they’d been back in their old groove, and everything felt right.
Until Rory found the check yesterday.
Fat chance that she’d give him a second second chance.
“She allowed me to stay. Because we’re trying to be professional and not involve you guys in our drama.”
Another rollicking laugh from Liz. “That’s ridiculous. There’s nothing a middle-aged group of women want more than to be involved in the twists and machinations and turns of a complicated romance.”
“Then I guess you’re getting your money’s worth this week.”
“Huck. I’m going to impart some wisdom that you are probably too worked up right now to believe. However, it may be the most important life lesson ever shared with you.”
He wasn’t one of those guys who ignored advice. Why make the same mistake someone else had figured out how to avoid? “What’s that?”
“Time marches on. Ask any one of us in this group. There’s no waiting for the right time, the right setting—” she swept out her arm to indicate the neatly staked rows of grapevines “—and there’s definitely no waiting and hoping that time will magically resolve things. Time is like a tank. Nothing stands in its way, and nothing stops it.”
Shit.
Liz was talking about losing her husband unexpectedly. These women were so upbeat and fun that the tragedy which glued them together had slipped his mind.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Instead, don’t give up. Go after her. Fight for her. Make her see your side. Temper and bruised feelings? They’re no match for the depth of true love.” Liz enveloped him in a brief hug, smelling of the perfume he recognized from their first day in Rome, which half the group had purchased.
Her words were exactly what Huck wanted to hear. A woman’s perspective. The last thing he wanted was to annoy Rory any more.
Liz’s urging, though, filled him with hope. Real hope, that he could act on. Maybe treat her naturally through all of today’s activities, and try to get her alone at the villa tonight?
Of course, this was the prince’s villa. Huck’s waiting all day would give the man more opportunity to try to impress Rory.
Never give the opponent an advantage…
“I’ll think about it. Maybe brood about it,” he teased. “I promise. Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Then I do believe I’ve earned another cookie.” She went back inside through the French doors as Josie hustled out.
“You’ve got a call.”
Huck felt the oblong shape of his phone in his hip pocket. “Uh, that’s your phone.”
“Don’t nitpick. Take it.”
Confused, he looked at the phone—and saw a familiar brown face smiling back at him. Familiar and exhausted, since it was three a.m. her time. Must’ve been one heck of a restaurant shift, followed by a long wind-down after.
“Hiya, Huckleberry.”
Even a continent away, that nickname grated on him. Scowling, he said, “Don’t call me that, Keisha. Ever. Which is what I said the last time.” Layering on more fake anger, he shook his head. “Maybe I should just hang up on you.” Huck pretended to hand the phone back to Josie.
“Okay, I’m sorry, wait a sec!” Her white chef’s toque slid sideways, revealing the black curls underneath still tucked into a hair net. “Josie, help me out here.”
Josie sighed. “Keisha wants me to grease the skids. I told her you weren’t in the best place right now and to call you when we get back. But—”
“But Keisha doesn’t wait for anything except water to boil.” It was an ancient cooking-school joke, but that didn’t make it less valid.
“Yeah. Look, I know your head’s all caught up in Rory right now. You need to put all of that aside for five minutes and listen to Keisha. Seriously.”
Guess it was the hour to take advice. Huck liked Liz. He respected and adored both Josie and Keisha. So he’d lock down his heart and listen with just his head.
“Sure. Fine.” The smile he beamed into the phone was genuine and wide, to make up for pretending to grouse at her. “You know you’re one of my top five favorite people to bump elbows with over a hot stove, K. What’s up?”
“Only top five? We’ll revisit that later. When I can chase you with a wooden ladle.” She licked her lips. “We had a loooong strategy session after close tonight. The upshot is…well…Emmanuel wanted to make this ask, but I wouldn’t let him.”
“Emmanuel, the manager at Bella Vita? You’re both still there?” It was the restaurant he’d worked at with them, about eight months ago. Until Huck became the fourth chef in four weeks to quit under the tyrannical and explosive leadership of the executive chef. He’d assumed that Keisha would’ve been the next out the door behind him.
“Yes. Long story short, we’re still here, but Ricardo isn’t.”
That was major. “He quit?”
“Better.” Keisha’s toque flew completely off as she did a jerky dance. “Emmanuel got to fire his ass. And threaten a lawsuit.”
Was it bad to enjoy someone else’s downfall when they were a complete garbage person? Huck allowed himself a moment of pure glee at the comeuppance. “Jesus. What happened?”
“You’re making my short story long. Basically, he did his usual thing of throwing pans across the room. This one went through the door and clocked a busboy. He’s fine, but he needed ten stitches. That kind of abuse is actionable, so Ricardo was gone, that night.”
