Chapter Seven

IF Marcus had to sit in one more New York oak-paneled boardroom, waiting for yet another self-important businessman who thought it perfectly acceptable to keep him waiting for more than half an hour, he was likely to throw one of the room’s expensive leather and chrome chairs through the window. Not that doing so would help matters. Most of the floor-to-ceiling windows would likely be reinforced and unbreakable, and he would simply end up with a metal chair in the face, or worse still, a newly rebroken collarbone.

“Sorry ’bout this,” said Kurt, glancing again at his special edition Rolex.

“For heaven’s sake, chill out, Marcus” came Tina’s stern voice. While Kurt had been nothing but charming and apologetic, Tina had been her usual reproving self. “You’ve got a face like a samurai warrior’s mask. The sooner you charm the pants off this man and get him on board, the quicker we can head out of here.”

Tina had a point. He had been behaving petulantly. Only because three weeks away from home had turned into almost four. This last person—Kim Kendrick—had shown an interest right at the last knockings. Kurt hadn’t even met him, but an enthusiastic email had persuaded Tina that one extra investor could do no harm. As usual, she was right, even though Kurt had stuck to his word and already managed to get a whole raft of influential businesspeople on board. In fact, everything appeared far too optimistic. Marcus had never really grasped the fact that the restaurant name, Old Country, could have such a nostalgic effect on people. Many of the American investors immediately wanted to tell him stories about their British heritage.

As for Kurt, he had turned out to be an absolute gem. Already familiar with the more exclusive restaurant trade in New York, he had recommended sites for the restaurant, knew the best wholesalers for kitchen equipment, and had already contacted a few talented chefs and kitchen staff to explore their interest in the venture and give them the heads-up in case they wanted in.

Best of all, Marcus would get to have the final say without having to be around to check every minor detail. With both Tina and Kurt in his corner, everyone had agreed that the basic setup choices would remain his—his intellectual property, so to speak—kitchen fit-out, branded restaurant design, full menu selection, staffing choices, and that he would only be needed for the initial launch for the sake of publicity. There would be no flying back and forth from London to New York like his regular jaunts between Edgware Road and Shepherd’s Bush. Of course, he was under no illusion about the competition in New York. Some of the finest chefs in the world had set up shop there. But market research—again courtesy of Kurt—suggested that his special spin on British food was likely to succeed. As with everything, only time would tell.

Right then the large oak door to the boardroom swung open.

Pushing a wheeled silver tray carrying white bone china teacups, a matching pot of tea, and a cake stand filled with an assortment of sandwiches and cakes was one of the most handsome men Marcus had ever laid eyes on. Kurt jumped to his feet and ran to hold the door open, no doubt partly out of curiosity, partly out of instant infatuation. Whoever the man was, he possessed the kind of hypnotic blue-eyed gaze reserved for movie stars or top models, one that could cause people to walk into lampposts or trip off sidewalks—eyes a person melted into.

Normally Marcus would have fought Kurt to be the first one out of his seat, drooling over the man, but oddly enough, even though his head understood the attractiveness—just as he would acknowledge the beauty of a work of art—his libido remained dormant. Interesting.

“Mr. Vine, Mr. Bruckmeyer, and Mrs. Adebayo-Cruickshank. Believe it or not, I am a strong believer that lateness is the worst kind of bad manners” came the warm baritone. “But in my defense, my driver was stuck behind a truck that decided to break down four blocks from here. Otherwise the Earl Grey would have been waiting for you. I’m Kim Kendrick, by the way.”

Almost as soon as they got chatting, Marcus realized what a good call they had made. Kim loved the concept, his parents both of Scottish descent, and more importantly, just like Kurt but mixing in different circles, Kim knew people. As they left with the new sponsor in their pocket, Marcus not only received a warm, firm handshake from the Adonis, but also got a grin and a wink. Did the man bat for their team?

Unfortunately, he still felt nothing. As they stood quietly in the elevator on the way down, he made a mental note to visit a doctor when he got back to England.

RAGGEDLY tired and sporting a nagging headache, he should have headed straight for home, but during the flight, he made up his mind to drop into the Bradford family gathering as soon as he landed that Sunday. Tina had stayed behind in New York to deal with dangling business matters, so he was truly flying solo. Besides that, he told himself, he had bought the girls presents from a couple of cute downtown toy stores, including a model-sized Staten Island Ferry for Katie—as explicitly instructed—so it made perfect sense to head straight there, rather than haul them all the way home. In reality, he craved familiar company and wanted to surprise them as well as experience a dose of the normalcy that being a part of the Bradford clan had returned to him.

And someone up there surely agreed, because originally he thought the late arrival time might mean the girls would already be tired from a day spent playing in the back garden. But with the benefit of a strong tailwind, the pilot made good time and they touched down almost bang on midday, forty minutes earlier than the scheduled arrival time. And such a glorious English day in mid-July too, verdant shades of patchwork fields showcased on either side of the plane as they approached Heathrow. Even the airport—one of the busiest in the world—appeared controlled and efficient as he passed seamlessly through immigration, and then baggage claim, out to his waiting cab driver. Some days things just worked.

An hour later, his car pulled up outside John and Moira’s pretty semidetached house of red brick and pebble dash, the front garden boasting well-ordered rosebushes of white, pink, and burgundy, and the regimental verdant stripes of a neatly mown front lawn—Moira’s pride and joy. At the open car boot, he paid the driver with a handsome tip—something Tina would have actively discouraged—before hauling his gift bags and pull-along luggage to the familiar front door of oak with stained glass panels. After pressing the doorbell a couple of times and hearing nothing, he decided to try the knocker. Five minutes later, he was about to head around the side of the house when the door swung open.

“Still doesn’t work” came Moira’s prim voice. “The bell, that is. Something else Tom says he’s going to fix. Although in which century, heaven only knows.”

“Afternoon, Moira.”

“Hello, dear,” said Moira, leaning forward and giving him a light peck on the cheek, so different to his own parents, who were fierce huggers. “Tom will be glad to see you. Been having kittens trying to balance everything while you’ve been away. But for goodness’ sake, don’t tell him I told you so.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

WHEN Marcus stepped through the kitchen door into the back garden, Charlotte spotted him first and hurtled over, screaming his name out loud. Everyone else stopped talking and turned to look. So much for making a low-key entrance. Colliding into him, she wrapped her arms around his upper thigh. Bless her, Marcus could see she had a runny nose, most likely from a recent cold, and clutched a handkerchief in one hand. But even that couldn’t dampen her spirits. Katie, ever the cool one, followed with far more dignity but couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at her mouth. When Marcus knelt down, Charlotte fell into his arms and even Katie stepped forward for a tight hug.

“Missed you, Uncle Marcus,” she whispered, and after kissing the top of her head, Marcus had to look elsewhere, his eyes stinging, in an effort to stop from choking up. Like her father, Katie rarely showed any emotion.

“I missed you too, princess. But I’ve brought prezzies.”

Charlotte, of course, squealed then, jumping up and down before being stalled by a fit of coughing. Marcus put his bags down, then took the handkerchief from Charlotte and wiped her nose. Satisfied, and with Katie standing by patiently, Marcus handed one of the bags to her little sister. Of all people, Tina had been the one to discover the Cabbage Patch doll shop and suggested the colorful family collection for Charlotte. Katie knew what Marcus had bought her, but maybe for his benefit, she looked suitably surprised as she pulled the present from the bag. Very faintly, he could hear her wheezing—not enough to warrant using the inhaler—and guessed she had overexerted herself. With the two of them distracted, he took the opportunity to survey the rest of the garden.

Tom’s father, John, sat in his wheelchair at the head of the wooden bench, surrounded on either side by people Marcus didn’t recognize—two couples of a similar age to Moira and John, neighbors probably. John, a quiet man who usually let his wife take the reins, always found time to chat with Marcus, treated him almost like a second son. In fact, he usually saved up little bits of sports trivia, knowing and approving of Marcus’s favorite soccer team. In many ways, Tom was a lot like his father.

Alone on a tartan picnic rug beneath the apple tree amid a pile of children’s books and toys, Tom lay on his side with his long jeans-clad legs stretched out and a fresh linen shirt open at the neck to reveal the beginnings of his chest hair. That, coupled with the heart-stopping smile on his face from watching his girls’ excitement, made Marcus’s heart speed up, that tremble of anticipation he got whenever he checked someone out. Except. Why hadn’t that happened when he’d met Kim Kendrick?

Before he had a chance to berate himself, something about Tom changed. When his gaze met Marcus’s, a fleeting transition occurred, his smile fading, his eyes reflecting sadness and then—what was that? Anger? What the hell was that all about? Maybe because Marcus had been away longer than planned. Marcus pasted on his best smile and held a palm up in greeting, mouthing the words “hey there.” In return, Tom caught himself, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and raised his beer bottle in salute.

Once Marcus had unwrapped himself from the girls and did a quick once-around the people gathered, he sauntered over to Tom. Weighing down his jacket pocket was the last of his gifts, which he pulled out. A bottle of twenty-year-old Irish malt whiskey, Tom’s favorite. Once Tom had managed a polite thanks, the two remained in silence together, Tom sitting, Marcus standing.

“Everything okay?” asked Marcus.

“Yeah, everything’s—” Tom hesitated before sitting up straight, back against the tree trunk. “Yes. So how’d it go in doodle-dandy-land?”

“Touch-and-go for a few moments there. We managed to get most of the investors lined up, but two of the key players had last-minute scheduling problems. Which is why I’m back later than expected. But lucky for me, Tina managed to get everything pulled back on track in the last couple of days.”

Marcus didn’t notice at first because he had been scanning the garden, but Tom had gone silent again. When he peered down, he found Tom staring up intently at him, and he didn’t appear to have been listening. “You sure you’re okay, mate?”

“Yeah,” said Tom almost sheepishly, as though he had been caught doing something illicit. “It’s just… really good to see you.”

Marcus smiled broadly at that, the warmth of the remark filling his chest. Tom rarely let his guard down and even more rarely gave compliments to anyone. Marcus dropped down next to him, shuffled up, and bumped shoulders.

“You too,” said Marcus, relaxing against the tree trunk. “And I’m truly sorry about the delay getting home. Everything back to normal tomorrow. I’ll pick the girls up first thing.”

“No, it wasn’t—business has to come first. And we just about managed to survive. Although Mum was almost pulling her hair out. I just want you to know how much I—we all—value what you’re doing for us.”

“You’re family now, Tom. Or as close as I’ll ever get. Of course I’m going to be here for you. It’s where I want to be.”

This time Tom looked away, a hand smoothed briefly over his mouth.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Just needed saying.”