Chapter Two
Colby slammed on the brakes to avoid flattening Stitch in her mom’s driveway.
Her mom had always hated being alone, so it had surprised absolutely no one when that tabby cat arrived just as Colby went off to college. Although her mother never stopped complaining about the vet bills, Colby suspected she’d be devastated whenever Stitch died. If he didn’t stay out of driveways, that might happen sooner than later.
The aging, gargantuan beast had grown stubborn in his old age, refusing to budge, even for cars. Shifting into park, Colby removed him from the driveway.
“Stitch, you’re going to be a pancake if you don’t learn to scoot.” She deposited him on the porch of the small bungalow where she’d grown up. Quite a different neighborhood from where her half sister, Gentry, had been raised. Colby had never cared much for material things, but her mom liked to bring that disparity up . . . often.
“Mom?” From the so-called entry, Colby could see most of the cozy living room and dining room and a bit of the kitchen thanks to a renovation she’d underwritten several years ago for her mother. Almost everything had been replaced. Only the orange-and-brown patchwork afghan quilt her grandmother had made in the seventies and the “antique” secretary desk in the corner that had been handed down for two generations—its sole value being sentimental—remained as reminders of yesteryear. A quick scan proved the main area to be empty. She strode to her mom’s bedroom and knocked on the door. “Mom?”
No answer.
Walking to the rear of the home, she opened the French doors to the tiered deck—also a recent addition, courtesy of her checkbook. “Mom?”
“Over here!” Her mother dug her trowel into the dirt beside her, stood, and brushed off her knees. Unlike Colby, she was petite, with womanly curves that had always attracted men. At sixty, age-appropriate wrinkles collected around her eyes, forehead, and neck, yet she still looked vivacious thanks to her energetic cobalt-blue irises. Her mom reminded her of a rabbit, actually—twitchy and ever alert. Gesturing to a newly established garden, she asked, “What do you think?”
Colby’s heels sank into the damp ground as she crossed the yard. “Wow! When did you plant this?”
The plot itself looked to be at least fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. Neatly labeled mounded rows—lettuce, carrots, potatoes, long pole beans, and others—stretched from one side to the other.
“I’ve been working on this for two days.” Pride shone in her eyes as she tucked her graying blonde hair behind her ear and kissed Colby’s cheek. “If you stopped in more often, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
Colby let the lighthearted dig slide without mentioning that she usually stopped by at least twice a week. Maintaining a sense of humor about these things helped keep her sane. And despite the parrying, she and her mom loved each other deeply. “It’s very nice.”
“Maybe you can use some of these fresh vegetables at your restaurant later this summer. Farm-to-table is all the rage, you know.” An elfin smile popped into place. “My garden could be a footnote on your menu!”
“You never know.” Colby grinned. Her mom’s legendary history of starting projects without finishing them suggested it would lie fallow within the year. Cute, though, that she wanted to be part of Colby’s new venture. “So tell me, why’d you call me over today?”
Her mother’s hands flicked toward the garden in a gesture that basically said, “Duh.”
“Your garden?” Colby repressed the sigh pushing against her lungs. “What’s urgent about this?”
“How will I keep critters out if I don’t enclose it?” Her hands rested on her hips, brows pulled together in sincere concern. “I need a fence right away, or all my work will be for nothing.”
Oh, the melodrama. At thirty-one, Colby should have been used to her mother’s special brand of crazy. Sometimes it could be fun—whimsical excursions and projects that could entertain and educate, like the spontaneous day trip south, to Florence, to go on a dune buggy tour. Other times, when things weren’t going her mother’s way, not so fun.
Colby now knew where this conversation was headed: money.
Since childhood, she’d listened to her mom note the differences between the clothes, cars, and jewels her father bestowed on Jenna versus anything he’d ever given Colby’s mom. Although Colby had no influence over any of it, seeing her mother’s hurt and envy filled her with guilt whenever her father was generous with her. Whether or not with intention, her mother could always exploit that guilt.
But ever since Joe’s and Mark’s deaths, Colby’s patience with First World problems had grown thin. Her mother, however, was still one person she’d placate, because her mom was someone who’d loved her unconditionally.
“Well?” her mother asked.
“I agree. You need a fence.”
“I saw a beautiful home-garden fence in a magazine. It had a two-foot-high stone base and a picket-style gate.” Her mother smiled, erroneously sensing victory within her grasp. “Wouldn’t that go perfectly with the stone accent on the house?”
“Sounds very pretty, Mom.” And pricey, which was really the point. Not that her mom would admit it. And so the dance began. “However, that’d take a lot of time to build, so it wouldn’t protect this crop. Why not start with something less permanent and easy to install? Then, if you still love gardening at the end of the summer, you could explore the stone-and-picket option for next year.”
Her mother frowned. “It hurts my feelings when you undermine my enthusiasm.”
“I’m not undermining you. I’ll even take you to Home Depot and help you install a serviceable fence some night this week.” She raised her hands at her sides. “Truthfully, a stone fence will be costly. You can’t bring equipment back here without destroying that hedgerow, so masonry would have to be done by hand.”
Her mother waved dismissively. “If Jenna even thought about gardening, your father would have a massive garden and fence constructed in their yard.”
“Please, Mom. I can’t answer for Dad.” Her parents had now been divorced for almost three times as long as they’d been married. Not that that made a difference to her mother. She’d been hopelessly in love with and devoted to that man, and devastated when he’d left. Rather than mope, she’d donned an armor of righteous anger to shield her broken heart.
“I see. You’re just like him and your brother now. Tired of me.” Her mother’s eyes glistened. “None of you ever appreciate or understand me. You all can’t wait to get away from me.”
Colby knew those tears to be genuine. Perhaps her mom’s perceptions were distorted, but they were real to her. An important distinction Colby had come to understand after living with Mark’s illness. Unlike then, she’d never again underestimate the depth of another person’s sorrow.
She slung an arm around her mother’s shoulder. “I appreciate you. But you know I’m gearing up to open the restaurant and don’t have as much free time to drop in.”
“Fine.” Her mother huffed, squaring her shoulders. Colby stifled a smile. The woman really should’ve been an actress. “I ran into Julie Morgan the other day. Imagine my surprise to learn that you’d hired Alec. Once again, I’m the last to know anything.”
“Hunter hired Alec, so Julie might’ve even known before I did, Mom.”
“Humph. So now you know how it feels.” Her mother gave a sharp nod.
Oh, for the love of God. These circular conversations made her dizzy. “Speaking of Alec, I need to go meet with him about the menu.”
“He was always a bit of an odd duck, wasn’t he?” Her mother glanced toward the Morgans’ house.
Nowadays overgrown shrubs blocked the view of their backyard and obscured the path leading through the woods to the tree house. Many fond memories of Hunter, Joe, Alec, and herself lingered back there.
Perhaps Colby should camp out in the old fort, where life had been simple. Where she’d felt secure and certain that people were exactly what they appeared. When she’d been free to give her heart away without fear. A time and place when everything had been easy and anything seemed possible.
“Odd?” No. Alec was shy. Awkward, at times. But interesting and talented.
“Joe was more normal. More fun.” Her mother touched her own cheek and shook her head.
Colby didn’t like exalting one brother over the other. Joe was an extrovert to Alec’s introvert. Joe had been athletic; Alec, intuitive. Both had been her friends.
“What’s normal, anyway?” Surely no one in Colby’s acquaintance fit neatly into that mold. “There’s nothing wrong with Alec. The key is that he’s always been an amazing cook, and that’s all I care about right now.”
Not entirely true, but her mother didn’t need to know that Alec’s return had thrown Colby mildly out of sorts.
“Remember those delicious fruit tarts he used to make? It was fun to be his test audience.” Her mother smiled now, apparently thinking back to the days when Alec would deliver shoe boxes of food he’d prepared. Colby and her mother never met a sweet they didn’t love, including Cherpumple and deep-fried candy bars. “Maybe he’ll make me some, now that he’s working for you.”
Like clockwork, her mother swung the conversation back to herself and her wishes.
“Actually, you’ll get a chance to ask him at the soft opening in about three weeks.” Colby’s stomach pinched as the words left her lips, because that made everything more real. In the beginning, this enterprise had been as wispy as a wish and a prayer. Suddenly it seemed fraught with obligations and responsibilities.
“I suppose your father and Jenna will be there.” Her mother tugged at her shirtsleeve. “And Gentry.”
“They are part of my family.”
“Like I could forget. Jenna and Gentry always make sure I know I’m on the outer circle.” She glanced down at her clothes and then up at Colby. “I’ll need a new dress.”
Colby wouldn’t invest in the preposterous fence, but she would buy her mom something pretty to wear. It would be a nice thing to do, to assuage her mother’s discomfort about seeing the “other” Cabots. “I’ll take you shopping at Pioneer Place on Sunday. Sky’s the limit. A whole new ensemble just for the party.”
Her mother smiled and patted her cheek. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I think I’ll bring a date, too.” She twirled a lock of hair in her finger, as if the gesture alone could transform her into an innocent young girl.
“Who?” The question escaped as more of a demand. Had her mother been seeing someone? It had been more than a year since the last “love” affair.
“I met a man last week at the dog park.”
“You don’t own a dog.”
“He didn’t know that. I pretended I was checking out the park to see if I wanted to bring my dog.”
“Your imaginary dog?”
“I could own a dog. Maybe I’ll get one.” Her mom shrugged with a pout. “It is lonely around here.”
Ignoring the bait, Colby rejoined, “That’s why you have Stitch.”
“He’s a loner.” Her mom flitted her hands in the air. “Like all of you.”
Round and round. Colby smacked her hand to her forehead. “Let’s get back to this man you met.”
“Richard.” An extra twinkle lit her mom’s eyes. “He’s very distinguished and has a poet’s heart.”
An image of a man with long, slicked-back silver hair, a trimmed goatee, and coal-black eyes sprang to life. Did he have a dog, or was he also a poser like her mom? “Really? A poet’s heart?”
“Don’t judge, Colby. He has a very sweet manner and zest for life.” Her mother grasped Colby’s hand and fingered her wedding band. “Come to think of it, maybe you should go to the dog park. There are lots of younger men there.”
“You want me to pretend to have a dog, too? No, thanks. Besides, I’m not interested in all that.” Her throat tightened unexpectedly, almost as if at the idea of romance. Her mom must’ve heard her voice catch, because she released Colby’s ring finger. Her family thought she still wore the platinum band because Mark had been the one true love of her life. She’d once thought he was, too, until he wasn’t. In truth, she wore it because, having failed to save Mark from himself, she owed it to him to keep some part of him alive.
In order to avoid another conversation about Mark and moving on, Colby added, “But please do bring Richard to the party. I’m filled with curiosity now. Should we squeeze in a trip to the pound this week? Are you thinking teacup poodle or golden Lab?”
“Now you’re just making fun of me.”
“Playfully teasing, Mom. There’s a difference.” She smiled and squeezed her mom’s hand. “But honestly, I’ve really got to go.”
Colby turned to go back through the house.
“What about my fence, Colby?” Her mom held her hands out to her sides. “If your father had been more generous, I wouldn’t need to ask for your help. Are you sure you can’t spare a little of the dividends you get from his business so I can build the stone wall? I thought you’d be proud of my new hobby.”
Her father had been generous at the time of the divorce, although Cabot Tea Company had still been in its early years. Her mom had opted for a cash settlement and alimony over stock. Bad decision in hindsight, although no one—not even her dad—had predicted CTC would become one of the largest privately owned tea companies in the country.
“I’m always proud of how you try new things, but I need to conserve my extra income now so one day I can buy Dad out of the restaurant. Otherwise I’ll be answering to Hunter forever.” When her mother frowned, she added, “We’ll go to Home Depot together. But at the moment, you might be wiser to fence in Stitch rather than those vegetables.”
“Where is that wanderer, anyway?”
“I put him on the porch after I almost ran him over.”
“Would you please take him inside? I need to finish up out here, even if the rabbits are going to eat everything before we get a fence installed.” She fluffed the back of her hair again, like some old-fashioned TV housewife.
Miraculously, Colby didn’t roll her eyes or mention the fact that perhaps her mom should’ve constructed the fence prior to planting. “I’ll grab him, then I’m leaving.”
Colby trotted through the house, but Stitch was no longer lazing on the porch. “Stitch?”
She meandered around the driveway, calling out his name before spotting him in the Morgans’ front yard. As a kid, she’d probably spent as much time in the Morgan home as she had her own. Ever since Joe died, she hadn’t crossed the invisible line that now existed between the two.
It seemed difficult to reconcile Mr. Morgan with the man who had once been so helpful to her mom after her dad left them—helping put up Christmas trees and string lights on the house, mowing the lawn until Hunter was old enough to take over. He’d always liked Colby when she’d been Joe’s buddy. Now he couldn’t stand the sight of her.
As if crossing hot coals, she dashed across their driveway to grab Stitch, who sat there staring at her with a bored expression on his furry face. She hoisted him up and tickled him under his chin. “I’d love to know what you’re thinking, old boy.”
That question reminded her of when she and Mark had been cat sitting while Mark had been manic. He’d spent two full days “talking” to Stitch, then relaying the cat’s thoughts to Colby. He also hadn’t been able to stop petting the poor animal, having been fascinated by the soft texture of his fur. She’d worried the cat would be bald by the time her mom returned.
Sighing, she forced the memory aside and started to cross back over the driveway, but Mr. Morgan pulled in. She froze, having only spoken to him twice since Joe died. Neither time had been particularly pleasant.
He rolled down the window, expression grim. No wonder he could effectively terrify criminals. “Tell your mom I won’t be responsible for that furball’s fate if she doesn’t keep him out of my yard.”
The window rolled back up before she could say a single word, and then Mr. Morgan pulled into his garage. Stung by the abrupt “greeting,” Colby took Stitch home and then got in her car, thankful she hadn’t peed her pants from fright. Clearly Alec’s return hadn’t diminished his dad’s grief.
Alec leaned against the gazebo railing and stared across the lake at the distant tip of Mount Hood. Lake Sandy, like most of the greater Portland area, was lushly populated with enormous lodgepole pines and other trees, swaddling the town in various shades of green.
The eco-friendly neighborhood, its retail outlets adorned with stuffed flower containers, surrounded the gorgeous lake. A paddleboarder took advantage of the break in the weather, idly crossing the lake’s dark, glassy surface. Hypnotic ripples fanned out in his wake. Peacefulness: a status Alec rarely sustained. Maybe someday.
For now, he’d simply enjoy the view.
Mougins, France, an ancient town fifteen miles from Cannes and populated with pine, olive, and cypress trees, had been a picturesque place to live for several years—at least, for those rare free hours he escaped the kitchen—but it had never awakened his senses like home.
Home. The word—the concept—didn’t quite fit. Not yet. Too many ghosts whispering in his ear: his brother, his father, his conscience.
“Alec.” Colby’s voice called from behind.
He glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes on the nose. He smiled before turning around to watch her stroll down the lawn. She wore a pencil skirt that skimmed her knees. Its silk-blend fabric—painted with navy-blue and gray watercolors—contained a splash of red to match her short-sleeve button-down shirt. Classic, like her. A sun ray broke through the clouds, glinting off the gold and red streaks in her light-brown hair, and she joined him in the shade of the gazebo.
“This is gorgeous.” He gestured toward the lake, although she was just as pretty. His finely trained nose detected a new citrus scent in the air. Maybe her shampoo or perfume? He kept himself from being too obvious about catching another whiff.
“Hard to beat, right?” She stood beside him and glanced toward Mount Hood, unaware of the way every muscle in his body tightened from being so close. “The weather around here makes planning outdoor events iffy, but I hope some people will take advantage of the grounds.”
Working with the Cabots had been a gamble. His mother tolerated the idea. His father hated it. But Hunter had been a true friend to Alec, in good times and bad. Colby had been . . . Colby. There, but not there. Friendly, but beyond his reach.
Now she would be within reach. Every day, right there in front of him. It would be a fantasy come true if not for Mark’s note. That damn note he’d never shared with anyone.
“Getting the inside scoop on this property might be one of the best things to come from my old job,” she rambled on, blessedly oblivious to the conflict in his head and heart.
“I thought you enjoyed that work.” He leaned forward, redirecting his thoughts.
“I did at first. But lawyering is basically solving other people’s problems. No one comes to us when they’re happy. It can be draining.” She shrugged with a soft smile. “I needed a change. Here I’ll be working with people who are planning a wedding or celebrating another milestone. People who are already happy.”
Not for the first time, he noted a difference in her. Her former spunky attitude had been subdued. Did it lie dormant, or was it as dead as Joe and Mark?
“Just beware. Customers can be draining, too. Particular, demanding.” He leaned closer and murmured, “They don’t call some Bridezillas for nothing.”
She chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Her laughter seemed to brighten the sky. Of course, she usually had that effect on him.
“How’s Leslie?” Alec still remembered when Mrs. Cabot had insisted he call her by her first name. She’d always been a funny woman, so different from his more traditional mother.
“The same.” Colby grimaced. “Always looking for something new to fill the void. A cat, a garden, a dog, a poet . . .”
“A poet?” Alec could only imagine what that meant.
“Don’t ask.” She shook her head and grinned. “But I almost feel sorry for a stranger named Richard.”
Alec faced her. “Hunter used to call your mom the ‘black hole of neediness.’”
“One he had no interest in trying to fill.” She smirked.
“Unlike you.” He’d spent years watching Colby leap through hoops and over fences trying to keep her mother happy. To keep everyone happy, actually, including him. She’d sat with him, chatting away in the kitchen. He knew those visits had mostly been about sampling his food, but he suspected she’d also thought he’d needed company. Colby had never liked seeing anyone be lonely.
She glanced up, chagrined. “We both know Hunter was always smarter than me.”
“Not really. Just more focused, and less compassionate.” For a second he allowed himself to pretend that the warmth he saw in her eyes was more than a melancholy memory of faded friendship. “I always thought your mom was fun.”
“To think I thought you were smart, too.” She playfully punched his arm, like the old days.
He laughed. The foreign feeling caught in his chest, and for the first time in forever, a thread of real hope weaved through him. “You know, you’re a lot like your mom, or you used to be, anyway.”
“In what way?” She sounded horrified.
“Are you really going to pretend you were never outlandish?” When she raised her brows in question, he continued. “Remember when you wanted to be a hair stylist and asked me to let you cut my hair after you’d destroyed all your old doll heads?”
“And you let me.” She grinned, one brow raised. “You were brave.”
Or stupidly infatuated, which maybe was the same thing. Having her fingers running over his scalp had been worth every penny he’d spent later to fix the bad haircut.
“Or before that, when you were desperate to see the Seattle Space Needle, but your mom refused to drive you, so you decided you could bike there . . . at night.”
“Well, I did have that new ten-speed,” she teased. “Meanwhile, you crushed my dream. After you told on me, my mom locked up my bike for weeks.”
“I had to tell. If you and Joe had sneaked off like you’d threatened, it would’ve been a disaster.”
The mere mention of Joe—whose life had ended in disaster, anyway—soaked up every hint of humor like a dry sponge.
“I just ran into your dad . . . sort of.” Colby gripped the railing.
“Sort of?”
“Stitch was camped out in your yard. Your dad pulled into the driveway before I made my getaway. He paused long enough to warn me to keep Stitch off the property.” She twisted her wedding band. “He still blames me for bringing Mark into Joe’s life.”
Alec knew that to be true and wouldn’t lie—at least not about that much.
“Do you?” Her stiff demeanor informed him that she expected a yes. He’d suspected she believed that and had been dreading working with him, which made sense given that she had no idea why he’d retreated from her these past years.
“No.” He didn’t blame Colby. If anything, she suffered as much as anyone. She’d loved Joe, and she’d loved and lost her husband, too. The irony of it all was how much Alec blamed himself for the entire mess.
“Thank you.”
“Saying goodbye to Joe wasn’t easy for any of us. My dad can’t seem to get over missing all the day-to-day things they’ll never do. It’s almost like he resents the future.” Alec rested his hip against the railing. “Maybe you do, too, having lost Mark before you had kids.”
Colby looked away, but not before he saw pain cross her eyes. He should’ve kept quiet. Now all he wanted to do was hold her, although that desire persisted regardless of a reason.
Mark. Like always, the name summoned the memory of the man’s bold signature. Alec’s stomach churned. He didn’t remember every word of the three-page handwritten letter, which had skipped from thought to thought. All he did recall was the part he should’ve told someone.
“I can’t eat. I can’t keep living this way, Alec. You and your family have to forgive me, please.”
Only words, he’d told himself back then, when he’d been too caught up in his own remorse to care about forgiving anyone else. Mark had always been prone to exaggeration. Moody. Sometimes entertaining, with his big ideas and energy, other times sullen and lethargic.
Alec had never for one second actually believed the guy was suicidal, so he’d tossed the note and ignored him. Said nothing. Warned no one. A week later, Mark dived off their balcony right in front of Colby.
The familiar pang of guilt wedged itself inside his chest now as he imagined her horror at that moment. Did it haunt her? Did she have nightmares?
She must. He did.
Maybe working together was too big of a gamble, after all.
“And what about you?” she asked. “Are your parents more clingy now?”
He snickered, God help him. “I think we both know my dad would rather it’d been me who took that dare.”
Accustomed to his father’s disdain, it barely even hurt to admit that aloud. Barely. He wished that he didn’t care at all. That he didn’t need to reunite his family. That the nonsensical, childlike part of him wouldn’t still like his dad’s approval. Approval he’d never win if his dad knew about his fight with Joe.
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Colby sighed. “I’m sorry for so much . . .”
She glanced at Mount Hood, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Her preoccupation gave his bleak thoughts another chance to rise. For two years he’d stewed in his own guilt until his skin hurt as if torn open like a tomato dropped into boiling water.
Perhaps if he’d come clean back then—about Mark’s plea, about his fight with Joe—he wouldn’t have lost his way, his reputation, his restaurant. Colby might not have lost a husband and the future she’d been planning. She’d still be warm and carefree. His parents would still have both of their kids.
With no way to go back and fix those mistakes, he could only atone for them now. If he confessed, she might fire him, and then he’d never be able to help her reclaim the life she was meant to have.
Colby wanted a fresh start and second chance at happiness. She might still grieve the death of her husband, but Alec would make her dream for A CertainTea a reality.
Ironically, doing so might make her see him as something more than the shy geek who liked to play in the kitchen. Years of slaving under the supervision of egocentric perfectionists had taught him about command. He’d honed those skills in a relentless pursuit of perfection to prove to his dad and Joe that he wasn’t a joke.
And then everything fell apart. Now he’d have to work twice as hard to reclaim his reputation and make his father see him as a “man’s man” like Joe.
Colby might see him that way, too. He smiled then, even as he knew his were futile dreams. “Let’s go inside and talk.”
Once they were seated at a table, he led the conversation. “I’m planning to rotate the menu on a weekly basis, selecting seasonally appropriate options. Hunter said it’ll be a dinner-only restaurant, open Wednesday through Sunday, excepting special bookings for weddings or other parties.”
“That’s the plan. Well, that and the Saturday-afternoon tea service.”
Tea service?
“I’ll come back to that in a second. First, you might consider making Sunday a brunch and closing early. Brunches can often draw a bigger crowd than dinner on Sundays. With Monday and Tuesday off, the early dismissal also extends the staff’s ‘weekend.’ Given that during normal days, they’ll be clocking twelve or more hours on their feet, that can be a much-appreciated break.”
“I hadn’t thought of brunch. I suppose that’s worth considering.” She retrieved a rough copy of a menu from her bag. “Here’s the menu the former chef and I agreed upon, which I’ve sent off to the printer. Standard fare with weekly specials.”
“That’s uninspired and boring.” The abrupt response landed between them like a hammer, making Colby flinch. Then pride flickered to life in her hazel eyes.
“Or comforting.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Favorite dishes keep people coming back.”
He shifted in his chair, stunned she’d condescend to him about the industry he’d lived and breathed his entire adult life. “What keeps them coming back is curiosity about what might come next. Consistent quality. Unique twists on old favorites. The freshest ingredients. Beautiful presentation.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want this to be a place only foodies can enjoy. People like me, which are most people, enjoy basic, recognizable options. A fussy menu will limit our reach.”
Alec sensed his steely expression but couldn’t relax. Not with something this critical at stake. After scanning the menu, he tossed it on the table. “Do you actually expect me to churn out the same meals night after night?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
The fact she’d even asked sent him shooting out of his chair. Merde! Hunter told him he’d have control over the menu, not be relegated to run-of-the-mill cook.
“Everything.” He began pacing. He needed this job, but he couldn’t imagine being content preparing things as commonplace as chicken marsala year after year. “Ninety percent of restaurants fail in the first year. If you don’t want to be a statistic, then listen to me. I’ll make A CertainTea a destination—someplace that draws people from farther away than the neighboring suburbs. But to do that, we need to think bigger. To create a menu worth traveling to experience. You need to trust me, Colby.” Oh, the irony.
“Maxine and I went through a lengthy analysis to come up with this menu.” She tipped up her chin. “I’ve already paid to have leather-bound, embossed menus created.”
“I don’t know Maxine, but this overly extensive menu is going to cost you a lot in wasted inventory, not to mention making it harder for the cooks to be efficient in the kitchen. And don’t get me started on the distraction of a gimmicky Saturday-afternoon tea service right before the busiest night of the week.”
Colby folded the menu and stuffed it in her purse. She looked paler, despite the grim line of her mouth. “If this is going to work, you need to respect me. This is my place. My dream, not yours.”
“Except that Hunter hired me, and, unlike you, I know this business. I’ve succeeded at the highest levels.” He crossed his arms.
“Until you didn’t.”
It smarted. He wouldn’t lie. He hated reminders of his failure almost as much as he hated seeing her so hard-nosed. To her credit, she looked as if she wished she could take that last remark back.
“If all you want is to mimic every country-club menu in the Portland area, why hire me?”
“I didn’t.”
He went still then. Torn between hating and admiring her honesty. Between feeling responsible for restoring her happiness and needing to reclaim his own. “I don’t think I can settle, Colby.”
“Settle?” Although her expression remained firm, he noted the pulse point of her neck throbbing.
He’d upset her. He should feel bad about it, but he couldn’t let her win this argument. “I can’t be the executive chef and not be free to control the menu. To create and experiment. That’s the quintessential purpose of my job.”
Colby finally stood. He thought he noticed her lip tremble, but then she decreed, quietly but firmly, “Then perhaps you should reconsider this position. I understand your feelings, but I can’t work with you if you’re going to belittle my opinions. Let me know by tomorrow afternoon. If you choose to stay, I’ll assemble the team on Wednesday morning.”
Before he could respond, she grabbed her purse off the back of her chair and marched out the door.