CHAPTER NINE

Brooklyn

 

I wasn’t sure quite what to think when I walked into a kitchen that smelled of tomatoes and fish. I looked around, surprised. Riley was there, bent over the pot, looking for all the world like a professional chef.

When he explained what he was doing—making the dinner—I wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry. I felt like both, frankly.

“I hope it works,” he said, making a rueful shrug with his shoulders. “I’ve never done this before.”

I smiled. “It smells good.”

I was joined by Parker, who looked up at Riley, awestruck. “Ooh!” she said, amazed.

“What?” I chuckled.

“Men can cook too.”

We all laughed. Riley was laughing so hard he leaned on the counter and when he looked up he was blinking. “Of course men cook!” he said. “You never seen a man cooking before?” He sounded astonished.

I tensed as his expression changed and he looked at me, seeming worried. It seemed like, in that statement, he’d begun to piece together the trauma of my previous relationship. I tensed.

“We should watch more cooking shows,” I said lightly. “They’ve usually got as many men as women.”

“True,” Riley agreed mildly. He turned back to the work. “Parker?” he said without turning around.

“Yes?” she asked, coming to join him at the stove.

“What do you think this needs? More spices?”

He held out a spoon with some of whatever was cooking and I held my breath as she took it without thinking about it, tasted and frowned.

“More pepper,” she pronounced firmly. I smiled. When Riley looked up I noticed I was staring and looked away rapidly. The sight of him being so gentle with my daughter would not cease to touch me.

“Okay, partner,” he grinned conspiratorially, “I agree with that. Good choice.”

She giggled and I left them to get on with it. I had to get out and breathe before I cried in front of them.

“Brooklyn?” he called from behind me. I didn’t turn around.

Upstairs in the bathroom I leaned on the wall, tears streaming down my face. It was as if all the pain from those years—all the sadness, the self-loathing—had suddenly welled up in me and the hurt was starting to ache. I’d been numb, I realized, as tears quickly tracked their way down my chin. I was starting to feel.

I sniffed and bit my lip, holding back the flow. I realized it had been too long since I cried.

I should have cried ages ago, I thought. It’s just that this is the first time I’ve felt safe enough to. Cared for enough.

I rinsed my face and, as I did so, I realized that it was Riley’s kindness that was doing this to me; making me trust again. I hadn’t felt cherished for years—possibly ever. But he acted as if I really mattered, as if my happiness added to his own happiness.

I dried my face and checked myself in the mirror. Apart from a slight flush, and my eyes being watery, there wasn’t much sign of tears.

Good, I thought as I headed to my bedroom. I thought through my plans for the evening. Since Riley had taken care of dinner, I could get a start on covering schoolbooks. I always did them round about now to get them out of my hair when work started. I went to my room and got going. Downstairs, I could hear Riley and Parker laughing.

I want to join them, but if I do I’ll show my feelings.

I already surprised myself by hugging Riley again. I had promised myself to keep a safe distance. If I went down there now in my current mood I’d probably kiss him. And then who knew what would happen.

No. Keep away.

I winced as I cut my finger on the metal sticky-tape holder. I sucked it, tasting blood and thinking about Riley.

So many thoughts came to mind—the last evening, our trip in the car, now in the kitchen—and in all of them, I realized with wonder, I was relaxed and smiling. I couldn’t remember ever being that relaxed with Richard.

If I was, it was a long, long time ago.

Richard had always been smooth and handsome. Always a gentleman. I think at first I wondered if I was worthy of him. And then, over time, he made me feel more and more worthless. It was little things he said; calling me unfashionable, lazy or saying other women were better than me. They had all added up and eroded my confidence to the point that, round about the time I left him, I found it hard to show my face in public. It had been my aunt, ironically, who had convinced me to leave him. The same aunt who was supposed to be here.

“Mommy?” A voice called.

“Coming, Parker,” I replied. I slid the finished books into a bag and went to the door. I checked myself in the mirror quickly just before I went down. My hair was loose and my eyes were dry. I was wearing slacks and a soft green top, a cardigan of a deeper mossy green over the top. I didn’t look too bad.

“Supper’s ready,” a voice called from the kitchen door. He saw me coming down the stairs and blushed. “Sorry, Brooklyn—I thought Parker was escaping having to try my cooking.”

I laughed and Parker giggled.

“It smells good!” she protested. I nodded.

He swallowed. He actually looked genuinely nervous, I realized as he looked at his hand. “I hope it lives up to that smell,” he said honestly. I smiled.

“Riley, just having dinner made for me—it’s so nice.”

He looked into my eyes, and I felt my heart melt at the sweet expression he had now.

“It was nothing.”

We went in and sat down and Riley served the meal. I lifted a forkful of it, giving it a tentative sniff.

“Smells good,” I said. It did. A delicate smell of tuna and tomato and some herbs, well-chosen. The sauce was thick and flavorful and the breadcrumbs crisply done.

“It is good,” I said, covering my lips with a napkin politely as I swallowed.

“Is there more?” Parker asked. She was busy eating like a small horse, a rate faster than she bestowed on my cooking. I grinned.

“You have a winner there,” I said to Riley.

“I’m glad.” He smiled. His eyes were warm. “It was my favorite as a kid too. Mom made it.”

“Oh?” I frowned. He’d never mentioned parents before. I hadn’t thought to ask him. He swallowed hard.

“She passed away.”

“Oh.” I looked at my hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “She’s better where she is.”

I felt my heart ache. He clearly adored his mother. Parker was looking from him to me with a puzzled frown.

“You didn’t answer the question,” she said firmly.

“Which question?” Riley asked.

“Is there more?”

I laughed. Riley grinned. “Yes, Parker, there is,” he said firmly.

As he stood to give us all some more—even I was enjoying it and took an extra spoonful when he offered—I found myself studying him. He looked so handsome in the wan light of the kitchen, with his brown hair gilded and his eyes warm. He was tall and lean and amazing.

I looked away when he looked up, embarrassed lest he read the thoughts in my expression. I had been studying him rather candidly and the last thing on my mind at that moment was sitting here demurely at the kitchen table with him.

“Brooklyn?”

“Mm?” I asked.

“You didn’t answer the question?”

“Oh?” I frowned. “What question?”

“It wasn’t me asking if there was more,” Parker burst out. I laughed. “Good. Sorry. What was the question?”

“It wasn’t important,” Riley said, lifting a shoulder. “Just asked what you enjoy cooking.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Well, I used to love cooking pie. Before…” I trailed off.

Before the time I burned it and Richard made such a scene about it I promised myself I’d never make it again.

Riley frowned at me. “Before?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said harshly.

He blinked. “Brooklyn?”

“I said, it doesn’t matter.”

I felt bad for snapping at him even as I said it. But as the feeling came back to me it left parts of me raw. It was stupid, but the wound to my cooking skills was the most painful one Richard had inflicted, almost. I loved cooking.

“You had a good day at work?” I asked, changing the subject hastily.

“It was,” he said slowly. “Good to see Brad again.”

“Your work partner, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, swallowing.

“You fix a lot of roofs?” Parker asked conversationally. It was nice, I reflected, to see her being so relaxed in conversation.

He inclined his head. “Just one roof, actually. Think it’s the time of year when people notice the leaks.” He chuckled.

“I guess,” I nodded.

We kept the conversation up about the weather and the possibility of the roof leaking again—or not—for the rest of the meal. Parker and I helped clear away the dishes, and then there was an awkward silence as I and he contemplated each other.

“Well,” I shrugged casually, “I suppose I’d better check emails and things. Parker? You want to watch TV before bedtime?”

“I want to draw,” Parker said succinctly. “I said to Stella I could draw a better Santa than her.”

“Okay,” I said, lifting a shoulder in easy agreement. “If you want.” I paused. “I’ll go and find the crayons—I think they’re in the attic.”

“They’re not,” she informed me, making me feel somewhat relieved. “They’re in my room already. You left them downstairs last time I used them.”

“Oh, good.” I hadn’t relished the thought of being in the attic now it was Riley’s bedroom. Intruding on personal space of his—even space in my home—would have seemed like it was crossing the boundaries I was trying so valiantly to fix.

“Brooklyn,” he said softly.

“Mm?” I asked. I felt a little desperate. Parker had disappeared upstairs, leaving me in the kitchen alone with Riley. I looked around, feeling oddly helpless.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay,” I said, knowing I didn’t like the sound of that. Whatever I felt about this guy—and it was complicated, I knew—the last thing I needed was him prying into my life.

He sighed. “I know it’s not my business, but…” he closed his eyes. “Actually, it is none of my business. So I shouldn’t.”

“Riley?” I asked as he bent to the dishwasher, putting a new cleaning block in. “What?”

He sighed again. This time he leaned back on the counter about an inch away. I tensed. My whole body was aware of him as if my skin was thin, letting the warmth and tingle of his presence seep into my nerves. I shuddered.

“I wanted to ask about your husband. Mr. Price. He…” he trailed off, frowning. “I think he…”

“My husband is none of your business. My past is none of your business.” I snapped.

He nodded. He’d closed his eyes again. “I know,” he said, sounding strained. “I didn’t mean to ask.”

“You shouldn’t have,” I said, warming to my theme, as if the rage that had been inside me, unexpressed, for so long was starting to leak through. “What my husband and I did is over now. And even if it wasn’t, I don’t have to explain my past to you. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? My therapist?”

I was shouting at him now and I only vaguely noticed. What I noticed more was the fact that each word was like a blow. Riley, far from getting angry back, got even quieter.

He looked at me, his face pale and drawn. “I’m sorry,” he said at length. “I really am.” He turned away, a picture of defeat. I felt bad.

“Riley, I…”

“It’s okay,” he said. When he turned to face me his face, too, was tense. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll leave it alone. I promise.”

I felt my heart twist—he looked so sad. I wished I hadn’t gotten so mad at him. I wished the pain that I’d felt silently and unaware wasn’t now starting to fester inside me. I wished that Riley wasn’t here in my kitchen.

And yet, I’m glad too.

“Riley,” I said with my eyes closed. “It’s not your fault. It’s just been so many years since. Since…”

I started crying. I had promised myself I wouldn’t. Not here, not in front of him. But I couldn’t help it. Now that the floodgates were opened, now that my heart was defrosting, I couldn’t hold back. Leaning on the table, shoulders shaking, I sobbed and sobbed.

“It’s okay,” Riley said softly. He was at my side. He didn’t touch me, didn’t hold me. Didn’t stop me either. All he did was stay there, talking to me with words of comfort while I cried and cried and cried.

“Oh, dammit,” I said after a long moment. “I’m sorry. I’m just…it’s just…” I started crying again. I stopped, drew in a breath and he passed me a piece of kitchen roll. I wiped my face.

“Here,” he said. He passed me a steaming mug. I blinked. At some point he’d put the kettle on and made us coffee. I sipped it.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Not at all,” he said. He lifted his own coffee. Without thinking, I sat down. He drew back his own chair and sat beside me. We sat in the warmth and silence of my kitchen together while my mind slowly reformed pieces of itself after the last two years.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I’d stopped shaking earlier. “It was the cooking reference that did it,” I explained softly. “My husband, he…” I stopped. “He had issues.”

“Mm?” he asked. I drew in a deep breath and carried on. He looked and sounded like he really cared. He wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t frowning. Just listening.

“My husband was very critical. Of me, of what I said, did…everything. Parker too.” I sniffed. “Nothing was ever good enough for him.”

“Oh?” If I looked carefully, I could see he’d tensed fractionally. He still hadn’t said anything—if he’d started slating my ex-husband, I would have stopped talking. But he didn’t. He just paused.

“Well,” I sighed. “He ran down pretty much everything about me. The way I acted, what I did, where I worked…my looks, my voice, my manners…everything.”

Riley said nothing.

“It’s funny,” I sniffed, feeling myself chuckle. “But the last thing he said that really got to me was about my cooking.”

“Oh?”

I sighed. “I was always a good cook. My mom said I was much better than her—she more or less delegated a lot to me from when I was a girl. But not Richard.” I felt my mouth twist. “He said…he said I was careless and sloppy, and I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Riley was staring at me. “Oh?”

“He said he’d rather we bought in more—he couldn’t handle my cooking. Later…my aunt said maybe he hated my cooking because I loved it—he resented my time in the kitchen—but I don’t know.” I let out a shaky breath. “I guess when you asked me that, it brought it all back.” I shrugged a bit lamely. “Silly, hey?”

He shook his head. “It’s not silly.”

“It is,” I insisted. “I mean, when I was a girl, my dream was to own a restaurant. Silly, eh?”

“Why?” he asked. “I don’t find it silly. When I was a boy, I wanted to do exactly what I’m doing now. Or about to.”

“Own a garage?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Well,” I smiled. “You’re making it happen.”

“And maybe you should make your dream happen too,” he said gently. I stared at him.

“You serious?”

He nodded. “Why not? When the garage has taken off a bit, you could use your share. Start investing. Rent premises, pay help. Get cooking.”

I stared at him. Inside me, joy flowered in my chest. My very own place! I felt myself shiver with excitement, even though this dream had long been buried. “You really think…”

“I know so,” he said firmly. “Look at me. Dad passed when I was a boy, Mom brought me up alone. No reason why I kept on going, finished school, found Mr. Preston and got the business going. If my dream is coming true, why not yours?”

I laughed. I’d been staring at him for the last ten minutes, I realized, and my instinct was to tear my gaze away. Now. Before I couldn’t look anywhere.

He moved before me. His hand, which had been close, moved to hold mine. I didn’t move. I let him cover my hand with his. His eyes on mine were serious.

“Brooklyn,” he said gently. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

I swallowed hard. “It wasn’t difficult,” I said in a small voice. The minute I said it, I knew how true it was. It hadn’t occurred to me—wary as I was of men and relationships in general—not to immediately trust this one.

He smiled. “That’s weird,” he laughed.

It was my turn to look serious. “Why?” I asked slowly.

“Well, because it wasn’t difficult for me to trust you either.”

I smiled. I couldn’t say who moved first, but our lips met.

As his lips moved slowly and gently over mine, gliding and kissing and slipping over mine, tongue probing slowly, so slowly, into my mouth, I tried to make myself turn back. Tried to tell myself this was stupid. Tried to stop. But his kiss was so sweet and my body was afire. I couldn’t.