Page 77 of Last Seen
She gets behind the wheel of the Jeep, blocking out Theo’s voice, which is shouting“Leave, leave now,”and follows Noah to the restaurant. She’s already decided if it’s dark she’s just going to floor it. But he’s true to his word; she sees people moving about inside. It’s 4:00 a.m. The first light of dawn is a whisper away. With a sigh, she puts the Jeep in park, palms her pepper spray, and goes inside.
Chapter Thirty
Noah is greeted warmly by the staff and gets her seated in the dining room, away from the window but within easy view of the kitchen. He delivers an espresso, freshly pulled and aromatic enough to make her mouth water, holds up a finger and disappears again, then brings back two plates with an omelet on each. “Lobster and gruyère, with chives and spring onion. If you’ve ever had one better ... don’t tell me, or it will not be on the house.”
He sets the plates on the table with a flourish. They are bone white, and the omelet steams in the center, fragrant and perfect. The freshly chopped chives smell as luscious as a summer day.
“Let me get some salt and pepper. And cream? Or half-and-half?”
“Cream.”
“You got it. Be right back.”
The second his back is turned, she swaps the plates. Just in case.
“So I—” He looks at the plates, fighting back a grin. “I gave you more lobster. My gain.” He sets the salt and pepper in front of her, the cream between them, then takes his seat and digs in, looking up at her between bites. “Eat it while it’s hot. It’s a waste otherwise.”
Halley takes a careful bite and tries not to moan aloud. It is delicious. Buttery and divine.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
“France. They made us chop onions until our hands bled, get up before dawn to bake bread for days on end, and finally allowed us totry our hands at actually cooking something other people might enjoy, starting with the humble omelet. It was a wonderful experience. Do you want some toast? I have a multigrain black bread that would go perfectly, and freshly churned butter.” He’s off before she can say yes, and back minutes later with a dark loaf of bread and a crock of sun-yellow butter. He rips off a piece and slathers it, hands it to her. It’s warm, as if it just came out of the oven, and she can taste the caraway seeds and hearty grains.
“My God,” she groans. “You are a magician.”
“The basics are the best, in my mind. Take something simple—like an omelet—and perfect it. Only then can you experiment.”
“You cook for all the restaurants here in Brockville?”
“Yes. I love it. Kitchens make me happy. I skipped out of high school the day after I turned eighteen and went to the Le Cordon Bleu in Paris to get my formal culinary arts training. I got my Grand Diplôme, which covers both pastry and cuisine, and now I’m a couple months away from sitting my Master Sommelier exam.”
“A triple threat.”
“It helps. We have five different kitchens, one for each style of restaurant, from the bakery to the pizza place, and each with a different goal in mind. I design the menus and oversee them all, and train their chefs, too, though the majority of my time is spent at Pesche. I want a Michelin star before I’m forty and it’s too late.”
“That’s ... aggressive. Granted, the restaurant I worked in wasn’t going to get a star, but it catered to a decent enough clientele, so I got a chance to see how a good kitchen runs. Yours is in tip-top shape, by all accounts.”
“You’re in the industry?” The way he lights up, she recognizes a man with a passion that overrides everything—common sense, love, life. She notices he does not wear a wedding ring. Not that it means he’s not married; she doesn’t have hers on, either, and her marriage is ... complicated. With the kitchen work, she doubts a ring fits his lifestyle anyway.
“I was a server. That’s all. Nothing like what you’re doing, and it’s not my lifelong love. Just a temporary gig during school. It helped pay the bills. Maybe I’ll do it again. I’m suddenly between jobs.”
“Between jobs?”
Why did she say that? Now what is she supposed to do? Share her situation with this complete stranger?I fucked up my life so now I have to start over?“It’s a long story.”
He waves it off. “Well, I hope you love it as much as I love my work. Suffice it to say I’ve put some pressure on myself, but it’s worth it, I think. In the long run.”
“Why food? I mean, Paris, obviously, but why not architecture or forestry or ... law enforcement?”
“Good question. With a super-simple answer. My mom used to let me help her make dinner. She was self-taught, and no one made better food, in my opinion.”
“And now?” Halley asks, though by the look on his face and the wistful tone in his voice, she can already tell his answer will be a sad one.
“She died a few years ago. Breast cancer. Refused any treatment outside of the holistic. She said if this was what she was meant to die from, then so be it. Better than being eaten by a bear on a three-day camping trip. She got to say goodbye to us all. I wish ... Well.”
His voice breaks and he looks down, and she realizes he’s truly marked by this. Though his accomplishments and confidence and extroversion and air of expertise make him seem larger than life, sharing the sorrow of loss makes him more vulnerable. She understands his loss all too well. The past few days have been like losing her mother all over again. She’s been trying not to think about Susannah, trying to stay focused on finding Cat, but it’s not working. Her mother is everywhere.
“It must have been upsetting to have her refuse treatment like that,” she says gently.
