Harvest Moon Read online

  She had adored him immediately but never imagined he’d return the emotion. That had been fairly recent, but he’d been promising her a chef de cuisine position since long before he made a romantic overture.

  She tried to ignore the fact that Durant and Phillip were chatting near the freezer. When had they ever chatted? They fought like junkyard dogs over control of the restaurant. She assumed if they were talking, it had to be about her.

  That light-headed feeling returned, and she ignored it. Kelly yelled that the salmon was up, the crème brûlée was ready for the flame, the filet was out of time.

  She had a little trouble catching her breath, and her heart raced. Then suddenly, a burning ache in her chest. This is probably what happens when a man’s wife comes to tell you to end the affair you’re not quite having yet, she thought. This is probably what I deserve! I always knew I should have said, “Great, let’s talk again when the divorce is final!”

  But the worst pain came from imagining Luca selling her out like that—admitting they were close, perhaps too close, and sending his wife to shut it down.

  She was panting, couldn’t catch her breath. She grabbed her chest. A scary bit of heartburn; she never had heartburn. She broke out in a sweat.

  Durant’s cruel smile appeared before her, which was easy—they were both five-five. “You slept with Luca Brazzi didn’t you, you stupid cow?”

  Kelly’s eyes rolled back in her head and she went down. Lights out.

  When Kelly awoke, a man in a navy blue T-shirt smiled into her eyes as he wheeled her toward a vehicle with red-and-blue flashing lights. There was a mask over her mouth and nose. She realized she was on a gurney or stretcher; she felt the motion of it as it slid into the back of an ambulance. “Well, hello,” he said after he’d closed the doors. “Feeling okay?”

  She clawed away an oxygen mask. “Where… What…”

  “You passed out, got a little cut on your head. Your EKG looks okay at first glance but has to be checked by a cardiologist. Your blood pressure is way up there and you were out a little on the long side.” Then he asked her a series of questions—who is the president, what year is it, where do you work? He listened to her heart, checked her blood pressure. She lifted her hand and saw the IV. “We started the IV in case we need to administer drugs. Do you have asthma? Allergies?”

  It was pure instinct that prompted her to struggle to sit up. “No, I’m fine, I’m just…”

  He pushed gently against her shoulder. “We’ll be there soon, Miss Matlock. Trust me, you need a little visit with the doctor.” She watched as he tinkered with the IV, then pushed something in with a syringe. Then he laughed uncomfortably. “That kitchen,” he said with a snort. “I might never eat out again…”

  “Huh?”

  “Seriously,” he said. “We have paramedics in the kitchen and people are yelling about spinach sides and they’re stepping over us! Don’t they take a little break when a chef could be having a heart attack?”

  She put her hand to her chest, and her eyes were panicked. “Am I having a heart attack?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. You’re stable now. But you had some noticeable symptoms. One of the cooks said you grabbed your chest and had trouble breathing. You have to see the ER doc before you go anywhere. Seriously, that kitchen is a nuthouse.”

  She fell back onto the gurney, suddenly very tired. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

  “You under that kind of stress all the time?” the paramedic asked.

  She nodded, but what she thought was, Except for Luca’s wife confronting me, it was a pretty average night.

  He chuckled humorlessly. “Unbelievable. I had to clear out the kitchen…”

  “Huh?”

  “I told them to turn off the stoves and get the hell out of the kitchen or I’d have the police do it,” he said. “Thing is, a lot of people have high-stress jobs—surgeons, stockbrokers, pilots. But I’d never work in that kitchen.”

  “Don’t like to cook?” she asked tiredly.

  “I love to cook. I bet I’m the best one at the house.” Then he grinned. “Firehouse. And of course there’s stress in being a paramedic. But I saw a difference the minute I was in that kitchen. We work as a team. We can count on each other.”

  Kelly was fading; she could hardly hold her eyes open. “Did you give me something?”

  “Valium,” he said. “The ER doc ordered it. It’ll calm you down a little. You’re anxious, which could account for the rapid pulse and high blood pressure.”

  “We work as a team, too. We have to in a five-star kitchen…”

  “Yeah, but on your team, they kick the injured to one side. That can go hard on your nerves.”

  “Hm. Well this Valium certainly fixes that.”

  He smiled. “Have a little nap. We’re almost there.”

  “Do you have my purse?” she asked. “Can I have my cell phone?”

  “Let’s get you to ER and let the docs have a crack at you first,” he said. “We’ll dig out your cell phone later. You’re too groggy to make good use of it right now anyway.”

  Apparently she wasn’t going to die. At least not yet. And she didn’t have her cell phone. It must have fallen out of her purse when she was taken to the ambulance.

  After five hours in the ER, she was released to go home. She had follow-up appointments with a cardiologist for a stress test and an internist to give her a physical and deal with her elevated blood pressure, which could be stress-related. Blood work indicated she was also anemic; her head CT was negative—no concussion.

  But the first thing she did in the morning was go to the restaurant in search of her cell phone. When she couldn’t find it, she called Phillip at home, waking him. “Who got my purse for the paramedics?” she asked him.

  “Me,” he said with a tired groan. “I’m the only person who can get in all the lockers. I figured you’d need ID and your insurance card.”

  “But my cell phone is gone. I don’t even have a landline in my flat, and all my numbers, address book, calendar and appointments are in that phone!”

  “I’ll look around when I open up, but it didn’t turn up when we were shutting down.”

  “I’m at the restaurant now,” she said. “I know the alarm code!”

  “Listen,” the manager said, sounding as if he came awake slowly. “You need to take a couple of days to figure out why you crashed. That disruption cost us money. What did they say at the hospital?”

  “No big deal,” she reported. “I’ll be fine. But I will take a day or two. I have follow-up appointments to get some…vitamins… And I obviously have to buy a phone.”

  “Look under all the equipment, lockers, etcetera. Maybe it got kicked out of the way or something.”

  She sighed. “I have, Phillip.”

  “Sorry, then,” he said and hung up.

  She continued to talk into the silence. “Thank you, I’m feeling fine, Phillip! I’m sure I’ll be all right, but it’s so sweet of you to ask if there’s anything you can do to help!” And then she clicked off the phone and slammed it down onto the desk.

  She wasn’t feeling so fine; she was still a bit groggy from the effects of the Valium. The ER doc had pointed out that not only was her blood pressure too high, but her molars were flattening out from grinding her teeth. The light-headedness and heart palpitations had probably been due to an anxiety attack—that should be verified if possible. Stress, anemia and exhaustion all added up to her fainting spell.

  “Is it going to kill me?” Kelly had asked. Perhaps she could blow off the follow-up appointments.

  The ER doctor had shrugged and said, “It will at least seriously affect your quality of life. You should really consider slowing things down if you can.”

  There was the little matter that her heart was broken; talk about a fatal injury to quality of life.

  Fortunately, she could remember the most important numbers stored in the lost cell phone—her sister Jillian’s and Luca’s. To her supreme sh
ame, she called Luca’s phone first. His voice mail came on. Her message was, “I lost my phone and have a new number. This new number should be recorded on your phone directory, but just in case it’s not, it’s the same area code, 555-7604. Please call me, I’ve had quite a shock. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll have to assume your wife was telling me the truth—that you sent her to speak to me, to inform me that we can no longer have a friendship of any kind—personal or professional.” Then she sent a text to his phone with the same message. Then she attempted to send him an email with the very same message, but she had to create a new account first. Losing the phone on which she carried all her information and email accounts was incredibly complicated.

  But to her complete frustration, she didn’t hear from Luca all day.

  After seeing both the internist and cardiologist, she placed a call to one of Luca’s personal assistants, Shannon. “Hi, Shannon, it’s Kelly Matlock, sous chef at La Touche. I seem to have misplaced my cell phone and have a new number and new email address. I’m trying to reach Luca. I have a business matter to discuss. Will you please pass on my new number, email, and ask him to call or something?”

  “Absolutely, Ms. Matlock! I’d be happy to. I should see him in an hour or so.”

  But the new cell phone didn’t ring.

  Kelly called Jillian in Virgin River, but all she said was that she’d lost her phone and had a new number. She’d tell all when the doctors had had their say and the crisis had passed, but she didn’t want to worry her sister. Besides, Jillian had just gone through her own difficult time and was barely reunited with her man. Instead, Kelly holed up at home, waiting for that new cell phone to ring. She betrayed her pride by making a few more attempts on Luca’s cell, but to her credit she was as professional as ever with the messages she left.

  The second day brought the results of tests, which, thankfully, were far from catastrophic. She was given a shot with an iron booster. Prescriptions were called in to the drug store for blood pressure and low-dosage antianxiety medications along with the name of a good over-the-counter vitamin with extra iron. Kelly was going to be just fine; all doctors recommended a better diet—better than what a five-star chef could provide?—more rest, less pressure, reduced stress.

  She laughed to herself. Yeah, right.

  She had kept her flat darkened so she’d rest, but sleep eluded her. She realized she hated the apartment. It was a small two-room efficiency that cost a fortune because it was in the city, but she had only leased this particular one because it was so close to the restaurant and she rarely had to use her car.

  Loved the city, hated her place. But hell, she didn’t spend much time there anyway. It seemed her life had revolved around the restaurant for three years. She had friends, good friends, but rarely saw them; hardly ever made time to play or relax with them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to a movie. Work, work, work—and much of it was just to keep her position safe, not out of sheer joy. Even her love life seemed to begin and end at La Touche.

  She returned after two whole days off. A couple of line cooks had beaten her to the kitchen and were slicing and dicing; they didn’t ask her how she was feeling. She got about the business of checking her inventory and the contents of the freezer while slowly the kitchen began to fill up with employees. She heard arguing and recognized the voices of Phillip and one of the cooks and resisted the urge to check it out; she wished Phillip would mind the front of the house and stay out of her territory, but he was always in everyone’s business. Before long Durant began verbally abusing a couple of cooks, then telling Phillip he was a useless idiot who should stay out of his kitchen.

  Soon the kitchen was fully staffed; the noise escalated and the temperature rose along with the tension. Everyone had their territory, either vegetables or pasta or meat or fish or pastry. Durant saw something he didn’t like and poured the contents of a saute pan into the sink, calling the cook a stupid, incompetent bitch. It was a young female line cook he loved to berate because he could make her cry. “Matlock!” he yelled. “You watching this or just playing with yourself?”

  She ignored him and brought out the filets and the salmon from the cooler.

  Criticism poured from Durant; everything he saw sucked. Kelly felt her pulse pick up and her forehead bead with sweat. God, she hoped she wouldn’t pass out again. She was pretty sure she couldn’t afford another ambulance ride.

  Her phone, which she was now keeping in her pants pocket, gave a short chime that announced a text had just come in. In spite of her good sense, she prayed it was Luca, texting her that the whole thing with his wife was untrue and that he loved her. She couldn’t imagine how that could be, but she hoped anyway. In this hot, packed, mean kitchen, she felt so alone. So alone she wanted to cry.

  Funny, she hadn’t cried in the forty-eight hours since Luca’s wife had broken her down and ejected her from Luca’s life. Shouldn’t she have cried her heart out?

  There was a picture in the text. A massive pile of pumpkins all tangled up in their vines came from Jillian. The message said, The leaves on the trees are changing as we watch! The pumpkins and melons are ripe and still growing! We sit on the back porch with lemonade and just soak it in—I’ve never seen such beauty. Wish you were here! xoxoxo

  “Matlock!” Durant shouted. “No phones in the kitchen! Put it away or I’ll shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

  She smiled and enlarged the photo of the pumpkins. I’ve never seen such beauty. Wish you were here!

  “Matlock, you stupid cow, I said—”

  And just like that, she’d had enough. She was done.

  Kelly slipped the phone into her pocket and turned her back on Durant. She carefully slid her personal knives into the leather case, then she went to her locker. She never kept much there. She stuffed her large satchel with a couple of extra chef’s coats, a spare pair of kitchen pants, her second pair of clogs, printouts of the schedule and the menu. Her purse fit inside the satchel, though barely.

  I have nothing here, she thought. I have no one. Luca isn’t going to find me my own restaurant. Durant is never going to let me get any farther ahead. Every day is going to be sheer abuse. Quality of life? Ha! All I have is high blood pressure, flat molars, anxiety attacks and no one.

  She put the strap over her arm and headed through the kitchen toward the back door.

  “Matlock, if you walk out of here, I’ll make sure you never work in this city again!”

  She smiled over her shoulder. “Can you promise that?”

  She walked out the door.

  Applause and whoops of laughter coupled with Durant’s screaming and name-calling followed her exit. It was impossible to know if the line cooks were cheering because her position was opening up or because they admired her guts.

  It didn’t matter. She went home to the apartment she hated to pack up her life.

  Two

  All Kelly really wanted was to be less lonely, relax enough to stop grinding her teeth and get away from that hellhole that was her kitchen! She looked at that picture of the pumpkins twenty times; she transferred it to her laptop so she could get it nice and big. She fantasized about sitting on the porch, watching the leaves turn.

  Of course, being a chef, she envisioned hot soups, warm soft breads and a blazing hearth to go with the fall colors.

  Her sister Jillian had gotten rich during her ten years with a software manufacturer, allowing her to buy a big old Victorian on ten acres of land in Virgin River, but sous chefs who didn’t have their own restaurant, trademark food line or TV show earned only decent salaries. Kelly had a little saved; she was far from flush, however. But while recuperating from Durant and company, Kelly knew Jill would be glad to give her a room and a bed. She thought she could scout around on the internet and through contacts for calmer chef’s positions. At the moment, money and prestige were far less important than a little peace of mind.

  Without saying a word to Jill about all she’d just been throug
h, Kelly packed up her place, leaving the boxes inside. She didn’t have much; it didn’t take long. With her in the car she took some clothes, her spices, recipes, knives and, because Jill wasn’t much of a cook and her kitchen not well-appointed, some of her favorite pans and table linens. She left the key with her neighbor so movers could be let in to load it all up, phoned her landlady to say this was her last month and hit the road. There was usually a long waiting list for city apartments in San Francisco; the landlady would have no trouble filling the space.

  It was on her drive to Virgin River that Kelly started rehearsing her explanation for showing up without notice, without asking, without having told her sister of her circumstances. She felt the pressure build the closer she got. Of the two girls, Jill had always been the impetuous one while Kelly usually had firm, practical, long-term plans. Jill had been the one to leap into a job she’d had no training for because it intrigued her. Jill had been the one to fall in love with a man she barely knew. Kelly had always been the solid one, not the flighty one. Oh, Jill was brilliant in PR, marketing and business, no question about it. But Jill took chances. Kelly did not.

  And yet Kelly had found herself working for an abusive, lunatic chef, lusting after a man who was married rather than separated, and flying off to a small town to escape before having a nervous breakdown. Kelly, who had been the one to get Jill through every trial from starting her period to starting college, had ended up acting like a flake. Kelly wasn’t sure if Jill would pity her or have a really good laugh.

  By her estimation, she’d arrive in Virgin River by around six. She decided it would be a good idea to stop off at that bar in town, Jack’s, and bolster herself with a glass of wine, or something, before heading out to Jillian’s house. She had barely slept the last two nights and hadn’t eaten all day. How could she with the surprising turns her life had taken?