I’M ROCKING ALLYSON CLAIRE IN HER ROOM Saturday morning, trying to give Meredith a few minutes to herself because, of course, Dad’s nowhere to be found. Ally’s dozed off and I’m feeling very proud of myself, having lulled her to sleep for the very first time, so when the doorbell rings, I wait for Mer to get it. I listen as she and Max greet each other, then smile when he peeks around the corner. “Almost ready?”
I nod. “You can come in.”
He does, leaning up against my sister’s crib, sorely out of place among the chic white furniture and frilly pink linens. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid button-down in shades of blue, and he’s hatless again, which I love.
I lay Ally in her crib. She does that funny twitchy thing Meredith calls startling, and Max does a poor job of stifling his laughter. I drag him out of the nursery before he wakes her.
He stops me in the hallway. “You’re the greatest big sister ever.”
“Oh, really? What would your big sisters have to say about that?”
“Who cares? They were borderline abusive when I was a kid. Ivy still is, sometimes. You’re, like, gentle and caring and sweet.”
“I can be gentle and caring and sweet with you, too.”
“Yeah? Prove it.”
I lift up on my toes to kiss him. Pressing his hands against my back, he eases me closer. He lets go of a sigh when I tease his mouth open, and then we’re full-on making out in the hallway—until the dainty sound of Meredith clearing her throat interrupts us. Max shoves me away like I’ve burned him.
“Just checking on the baby,” she says, breezing past. She avoids my eyes, but she’s biting her lip, hiding a smile.
Max tugs me toward the front door, muttering, “So much for sweet and gentle.”
Out in the truck, he cranks the key in the ignition. “Islands in the Stream” blares from the speakers. I wince. He waves his hand toward the stereo. “Go ahead.”
I fiddle with the music while we drive north on I-5. When I can’t find anything I like that won’t send his head into a spin, I turn the radio off. “Quiet’s better than Hank or Johnny or Merle.”
“You shouldn’t talk about the legends that way. I’ll convert you to a country girl one of these days.” He combs his fingers through my hair. “Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.”
“Thanks, Holden. Back at ya.”
“What’d you do this morning?”
“Made fondant.”
“What the hell is fondant?”
“Heated powdered sugar and water, like Play-Doh for decorating cakes.”
“Teach me how to make it someday?”
I laugh. “Okay, but I’m not sure you’ll ever use the knowledge.”
“Oh, I definitely won’t, but you’ve educated yourself on all things football. The least I can do is get a handle on fondant. Despite my recent track record, I can be a pretty decent boyfriend. You’ll see.”
My heart skips a beat, but I keep my voice light as whipped cream. “Oh, you’re my boyfriend now?”
He pulls his attention from the road to blink at me. “Uh, aren’t I?”
“I guess? I wasn’t sure we were doing the boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”
“You don’t want to?”
“No, I—”
“Because I can look somewhere else,” he interrupts, reaching over to tweak my hair. “If you’re not willing to step up to the plate, there’s gotta be someone who is.”
I roll my eyes. “You can be really idiotic.”
“And you can be really dense. Are we on the same page?”
“Officially.”
He lifts the center console out of the way. “Then get over here.”
Blissfully, I scoot into the middle seat and rebuckle. I lean into him as I say, “In case you’re unaware, our fellow freeway travelers probably think we’re a couple of rednecks.”
“I could give two shits,” he says, taking my hand.
* * *
I’m glad I let Max plan our Seattle adventures. First activity on the itinerary? Forty-three seconds spent shooting five hundred twenty feet into the air.
In all the years I’ve lived in Washington, I’ve never been to the top of the Space Needle, so this first excursion is well received. Max grips my hand as the glass elevator rockets into the cloudless sky, and up on the observation deck, we walk a slow circle, pointing out landmarks: the Cascade Range, the downtown skyline, Mount Rainier, the Puget Sound, and the Olympic Mountains.
We stop walking when we’re facing north. Though the sun’s shining, it’s freezing. The wind whips my hair into a snarl. I smooth it out of my face, shivering, and lean against the rail to gaze at Queen Anne Hill. A seaplane touches down on the sparkling waters of Lake Union while silent, toy-sized traffic zips about directly below. Farther in the distance lies the University of Washington, Max’s first choice in institutes of higher education.
He wraps his arms around me, blocking me from the relentless wind, and rests his chin on my shoulder. Quietly, he looks out upon Seattle, then nuzzles his nose against my neck. “Are you gonna apply to the U next year?”
“Maybe as a fallback.”
“Still got your eye on NYC, huh?”
My stomach drops. New York City. The International Culinary Institute. A lot like my parents’ marital issues, talk of higher education and its challenges feels personal and embarrassing and just … off-limits. But I want to trust Max like he’s starting to trust me. I want to be honest about what’s good and bad. “I’ve kind of let New York go, actually.”
“What? Why?”
I shrug, feigning indifference. “Too expensive.”
“But the International Culinary Institute’s your dream school.”
“There’s no money for it. Not after Meredith’s fertility treatments. Not after Ally.” I feel a blast of residual guilt; I spent a long time resenting my unborn sister for stealing culinary school from me, but the fact is, none of this is her fault. It’s not Meredith’s fault, or my dad’s, either. It just is.
Max squeezes me close. I feel his sympathy, his solace, as plain as I see the sun’s light. “Sorry, Jill,” he says, and then, tentatively, he broaches the topic I’ve spent the last couple of weeks musing. “Couldn’t you go to one of the culinary schools in Seattle?”
“I could. There are a few good ones. But I want to go to the best culinary school.”
“There’ve gotta be scholarships, then. Loans, even, right?”
“I’ve looked into financial aid. I’m pretty sure I could get close to covering tuition with scholarships, but living expenses are astronomical, and I don’t want to finish school with a mountain of debt. There’s no way, Max. New York’s out of my league.”
“Then put it on hold. Go to school around here for a couple of years, then see where you’re at.”
I consider, leaning into him as I say, “That’s … not a bad idea.” I don’t know why this hasn’t occurred to me—attending a Seattle culinary school doesn’t have to mean giving up on New York; I’d only be tabling it. “I could get my associate’s locally,” I say, thinking aloud. “I could keep working at True Brew while I live at home and save up. For a couple of years, I could focus on general culinary arts and the business side of restaurant ownership. When I get to New York, I could concentrate on pastry arts.”
“By then,” Max says, “you’ll have made such a reputation for yourself, the International Culinary Institute will be begging you to study with them.”
I smile; his faith is endearing. “It’d be nice to stay close to my family, at least for a while. I’d see Ally grow up a little. Plus,” I say, letting uncertainty lower my voice, “I’d be near you.”
His eyes flash, more warm pewter than cool silver. “Let’s assume you do it—school here for a year or two, then you go to New York to finish. By the time you graduate, you’re a baking superstar. What’s next?”
“I’ll get an apprenticeship somewhere fantastic, hopefully. I’d love to study under Ansel Badon or Jacquelyn Montfort. One day, I’ll open a pâtisserie and spend my days baking. That’s a long way off, though.”
“Won’t you miss me when you’re trotting the globe, baking cookies and cakes for strange men?”
“Aww, Max. You know you’re the only strange man I associate with. Besides, you’ll be too busy tearing up the football field at the U to miss me.”
He grunts, like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “It’s gonna be a while before I know if I’m going to UW. Besides, no matter how far down the line, living thousands of miles away from you is gonna blow.”
I twist in his arms to see if his expression is as intense as his words and it is, which thrills and terrifies me equally. He’s making big assumptions—life is unpredictable. I’m not trying to be cynical or negative or even doubtful, but after listening to Dad and Meredith tear into each other night after night, after seeing Bill cut down by a stroke nobody could ever have predicted … Shit happens, and I’m not so naive as to assume that now that I’ve got Max, I get to keep him forever.
“Hey,” I say, placing my hand over his heart. I feel it beating through the layers of his shirt and jacket. “The future’s so wide open. Who knows what it holds?”
He takes my face in his hands. His palms are hot against my windblown cheeks, his gaze hard as steel. “Jilly, you make life feel okay, even when it mostly sucks—you always have. It pisses me off that I’ve wasted time I could’ve spent with you, so God, don’t make me worry that the future’s not a sure thing. If you’re not serious, tell me now, before I get in any deeper.”
If his body language is any indication—tense and expectant, jaw tight, shoulders rigid—he’s in pretty deep already. And I’m on emotional overload. I have to swallow before I can say, “I’m serious.” A gust of wind carries my promise away. “I’m serious, Max,” I repeat. “I’m as serious as you are.”
I don’t miss his exhale of relief as he dips his head so we’re eye to eye. “Good.”
He gives me a sweet smile, then kisses me, a kiss too intimate for the very public observation deck of the Space Needle—not that I’m complaining.
When we’re sufficiently frozen, we ride back down the elevator and climb into the truck. With the heater on high, Max drives south, adjacent to Elliott Bay, and parks across the street from the waterfront. He takes my hand and we jog toward the water, where the air is crisp and briny. He stops in front of Pier 59. I read the sign above the weathered powder-blue building.
“Seattle Aquarium?”
“I thought it’d be fun.”
He’s freaking adorable, all flushed cheeks and hopeful smiles. I tug him through the entrance.
We spend the rest of the afternoon wandering the aquarium like little kids. We marvel at the giant Puget Sound octopus, peer at tiny sea horses and transparent jellyfish, watch playful otters splashing around, and point out puffins torpedoing through their pools. I laugh when Max stands next to a huge wooden cutout of a shark to measure his six feet, two inches, then squirm when he makes me poke at sea stars and anemones in the hands-on tide pools. We walk through the gift shop, where he buys Oliver a rubber version of the creepy octopus we saw, and I pick out a stuffed sea horse for Ally.
After, we sit on a bench in front of a huge wall of aquarium water contained behind glass so thick it distorts what’s beyond: salmon, eels, and oddly, a scuba diver.
“Hungry?” I ask Max.
“Starving. What’re we doing for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Pizza?” he guesses, taking my hand and pulling me from the bench.
“You think my favorite restaurant in all of Seattle serves pizza?”
“Mexican?”
“Nope.”
“Thai?”
“Max,” I say, flashing the flirty I’m-so-innocent smile I learned from him. “You’ll see when we get there.”
He swats my butt. “Then let’s move. I’m withering away.”
We hoof it up the hill toward Pike Place Market. Darkness has fallen and it’s bitter cold. He offers me his jacket; I feel a little silly accepting it, like a distressed damsel, but it’s toasty and smells delightfully of him. I don’t slip it off my shoulders until we’ve climbed a steep set of stairs that takes us to the entrance of a little restaurant. Its door is the color of sunlight.
“The Yellow Door?” Max says, reading the plaque.
“My dad and I used to come here all the time. It’s the best—you’ll see.”
We’re slightly underdressed, but the hostess is gracious, the restaurant cozy and familiar. Candles flicker and the aroma of smoky meat and bright citrus makes my mouth water. We’re shown to a secluded table overlooking the darkened bay. Wineglasses sit in front of our places, along with a line of sparkling silverware. I skim the menu’s Chef’s Specials insert: Seared Artisan Sonoma Foie Gras and Escargots à la Bordelaise.
Under the table, Max nudges my ankle with his foot. When I look up, he winks. “Bunco was good to me, so I’ve got the check. Get whatever you want.”
We decide on the tasting menu—that’s what my dad and I used to share—and end up oohing and aahing our way through each course: sweet cream of carrot soup, foie gras, pan-seared salmon, and melt-in-your-mouth beef tenderloin with fingerling potatoes. Dessert, a velvety chocolate mousse, is delectable. By the time we’ve finished, I feel like I’ll need a crane to lift me from my upholstered seat.
“You were right,” Max says, looking over the bill. “That was really freaking good.”
“I knew you’d like it. Also, will you please let me split that with you?”
He eyes me, offended. “I told you I’ve got it.”
“But—”
“Jillian,” he warns, “don’t even. Treat me to ice cream next weekend, okay?”
Hardly a fair trade, but my stomach is pleasantly full and I’m gratifyingly content, so I give up my protest. When the bill’s settled, we grab our aquarium bags and stand to leave. I smile up at Max. “Thanks for—”
He stops suddenly, pulling me back against his chest with a mumbled, “Uh-oh.”
I look to him for explanation, and I’m thrown by his panicked expression. I follow his gaze to the lobby, my hands tingling with trepidation. There, a man checks in with the same hostess who seated us. His back is to us, but his confident stance and chestnut hair are alarmingly familiar.
Dad.
I notice his suit first—charcoal, expensive-looking, one I haven’t seen before—and then the fact that he’s unaccompanied. Of course he’s unaccompanied; Meredith’s home with Ally. But Dad wouldn’t come to the Yellow Door on Valentine’s Day by himself.
Dread tiptoes up my spine.
Max mutters through clenched teeth, like a ventriloquist, “What do you want to do?”
I am literally speechless.
“Jill—”
I yank him behind the back of the nearest booth, pulling him down until he’s crouched beside me, until we look like two kids playing hide-and-seek in the world’s most inappropriate venue.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Max says in an undertone.
Nearby diners stare us inquisitively, but I don’t care. “We can’t let him see us.”
“You want to crawl out of here?”
“No. I want to spy. Then, when he turns his back, I want to run.”
Max doesn’t consent, but he doesn’t object, either. I suspect he’s annoyed—worst ending to a date ever—but this is it. Tonight, I’m going to get to the bottom of my dad’s disappearances.
Bracing my hand on the floor, I lean around the edge of the booth. Dad’s still talking to the hostess, grinning broadly, gesturing toward the restroom—the location of his companion, if I had to guess. The enormous meal in my stomach gurgles like chocolate in a double boiler.
“Maybe it’s a work thing,” Max says, leaning forward to take a peek.
“Maybe,” I say. Or maybe not.
Dad’s on the move now, following the hostess, who carries two menus. They’re headed right for us. I wrench my head back like a turtle tucking away from a predator. I hunker down next to Max, the two of us barely concealed, as the hostess says, “Will this table do?”
“It’s perfect,” Dad says. I sneak an upward glance: the back of his head moves closer, closer, and then he sinks down onto the bench and leans back against the seat Max and I are hiding behind. My heart’s jumping around behind my ribs, trying to break free.
The hostess says, “Enjoy your meal, and happy Valentine’s Day.”
I’ve seen enough. Two menus and a Valentine’s Day salute—he’s on a date.
Max grabs my hand and whispers, “Let’s go.”
We circle around the perimeter of the restaurant, faces hidden, dodging waiters and waitresses as we make our escape. We don’t slow until we’re in the lobby, well out of sight. I’m panting, more from adrenaline than actual fatigue, and I’m so hot I’m light-headed. Max cradles a cool hand around the back of my neck and guides me to the exit. Down the steep staircase we go, and then we’re standing in the bracing night air.
He exhales a big breath and says, “Holy. Shit.”
“Indeed.”
He touches my cheek. “You okay?”
“Tell me I’m not nuts to think something’s going on.”
He hesitates. “It was sort of sketchy.”
“Sort of?”
“I really do think it could’ve been a work meeting.”
“In Seattle? On Valentine’s Day? At a restaurant that’s supposed to be special to the two of us?”
“Maybe he’s seeing a client who lives close by. And you said so yourself—he likes the Yellow Door, too.”
“Or, maybe he was on a date. He kept looking at the bathroom. Did you notice that?”
“No, Sherlock, I sure didn’t.”
I know he’s trying to nudge a smile out of me, but I’m in no mood for jokes. A gust of wind lifts my hair, and I shiver. “He’s having an affair, Max.”
He rubs his hands briskly over my arms. “Let’s go to the truck. You’re freezing.”
“Oh! Your jacket! I left it with the hostess.”
“I’ll get it. You wait here.”
“No. I’ll get it.”
“Jillian, let me. Don’t torture yourself.”
“I just … I need to know for sure. Besides, I’m not standing on this corner alone.”
He surveys the darkened street. Down an alleyway, a man in layers of filthy clothing emerges from behind a Dumpster, pulling a wagon of worldly treasures behind him. Max grimaces. “I’ll come up with you.”
“The two of us will attract too much attention. Please, go get the truck. I’ll be right back.”
He looks torn, but then he lays a kiss on my cheek and jogs down the sidewalk in the direction of the parking lot. I hurry up the stairs to the Yellow Door.
Max’s jacket hangs from the corner of the hostess’s podium. She hands it to me. “I thought you might be back for this.”
“Thanks so much,” I say, keeping my voice low. I scan the faces in the glowing restaurant as I pull Max’s jacket around my shoulders. Stranger, stranger, stranger …
They all go blurry, save one distinct and very significant man. What I see, the only thing I see, is my father. His smile is enchanting—he hasn’t appeared so happy in months. He slides his hand across the table—free of the notepads and documents and pens that might indicate a work meeting—to cover his companion’s.
Her back is to me, but I gather every observable detail, greedily stashing data for future analysis. Only the crown of her head is visible over the top of her tall seat, but I note her sunrise hair. A high-heeled shoe—black patent leather, pointy toe—peeking out from beneath the tablecloth. Her hand, small and manicured, turning over, opening, accepting my father’s. Her fingers, wrapping around his palm.
My stomach heaves.
Dad looks up, right into my eyes. He stares for a second, like he’s trying to reconcile my presence with the backdrop, and then his mouth forms a perfect circle of shock. He snatches his hand from the woman’s, reeling backward, moving to stand.
I whirl around.
I run.