Hot Under Pressure (29 page)

“The Queenie Pie Café,” Skye supplied, the familiar surge of pride filling her.

“Then you know all about how it is.” Nina sat back in her chair. She had on a pair of black pants and a simple sweater, with a white collared shirt peeking out from the neckline, and it made her look effortlessly chic and very New York.

Skye was suddenly and achingly aware of her own ensemble—a white chef’s jacket over a pair of silky, low-slung and wide-legged pants with a purple paisley pattern.

A little wacky, even for her, but she hadn’t had her mind on fashion when she’d grabbed them.

“I do,” she agreed, beginning to relax a little as the stream of inconsequential small talk carried them along. “Gosh, until the first part of the competition in Chicago, I don’t think I’d left San Francisco in five years. Maybe longer.”

“It ought to be easier for me.” Nina sighed. “Since I’ve got a partner, in work and in life, to help share the load.”

Skye stiffened, feeling the trap spring closed around her. “Well, I’m lucky enough to have great, reliable employees,” she said through numb lips. “We help each other out.”

“Still,” Nina said innocently. “There’s nothing quite like running a restaurant with someone who has an equal stake in it.”

Skye shrugged and stared down at her plate. What was the woman getting at? Was she just trying to make Skye feel bad, or realize how alone she was? It didn’t seem like the kind of mean-spirited thing Nina would do, but then, Skye had just met the woman. There was no reason to feel hurt or attacked.

The door of the judging room opened and Beck appeared, holding another tray. His large, powerful form blocked the doorway, and the overhead lighting cast dramatic shadows on his fierce expression.

He looked like he should be carrying a sword and shield, as if he were riding out to slay a dragon, not walking into a room to serve six people a dish of food.

Beck stepped forward, followed by Winslow, who hurried forward to set plates in front of the judges.

As Win served, giving Nina a secret wink and a grin as he set down her plate, Beck started talking.

“This next dish is a salad of bitter greens with roasted morels and a warm bacon and cider vinaigrette. I wanted to do something a little tough and sharp to symbolize my childhood after the loss of my parents.”

He paused and Skye froze with the fork halfway to her open mouth, her eyes riveted on Beck’s face.

He stared straight ahead, chin up and shoulders back, as if he were giving a report to his commanding officer. But there were cracks in his impassive mask, she saw, and a sympathetic pain rocked through her even as she hung on his next words.

“My parents were Hal and Lisa Beck. My dad drove a truck for the city; my mom was a nurse. Looking back, I guess we never had much when I was little, but I didn’t notice, because we had each other. Everything changed when I was eight.”

Beck’s gaze found Skye, and a shock went through her as they locked stares. “That was the year the Loma Prieta earthquake hit Oakland. My parents were on the bridge when it collapsed.”

A fork clattered loudly against a plate, and someone made a sympathetic noise of shock, but all Skye could see was the image of Beck as a little boy, suddenly alone in the world.

“I didn’t have any other family, so I went into foster care. And I don’t know if it was the Rule of Six or maybe the fact that I was so pissed off at the entire world, but I got shuffled around a lot until I finally aged out of the system.”

He’d been eighteen when Skye met him—newly on his own, and living in a halfway house that he’d never let her see. God, Henry …

Clearing his throat, he looked away as if he couldn’t bear the sympathy in her eyes—or maybe he was afraid she was about to well up with tears.

Skye swallowed them down. If he could be strong enough to stand up there and tell them the story of his life, she could damn well get through listening to it without blubbering.

“There are wild nettles and dandelion greens in the salad because I got into foraging while I was in foster care. I kept to myself a lot, and sometimes the places where I was staying weren’t places where I wanted to spend a lot of time. So I’d go out, take long walks, and when I got hungry, I’d find something to eat. Hope you like it.”

And without another glance at Skye, he left, breaking the paralyzing spell his story had woven around her.

Picking up her fork again, Skye speared a bite of greens, now slightly wilted by the warm dressing. She made sure to get a bit of crispy bacon with it, and had to close her eyes to savor the complicated tart-sweet flavor of cider vinegar exploding over her tongue.

The greens were more subtle, an earthy, grassy counterpoint to the acid of the dressing and the smoky-salt meatiness of the bacon.

Skye was at the opposite end of the table from the judges for a reason; she couldn’t hear any of their comments, had no idea how they were reacting to this dish. But if they didn’t taste and feel the connection between the complicated flavors and Beck’s past, she’d lose all respect for them.

She ate every last bite and wished she had some crusty sourdough to mop up the rest of that bacon dressing.

“When Winslow told me over the phone what the challenge was,” Nina said quietly, pushing her empty plate away, “I admit, I got a little nervous. But now…”

Skye laughed under breath. “Now I’m the one who’s nervous! I mean, I knew his food would be wonderful, but part of the challenge is about the story—and I never thought Beck would go this deep.”

Nina cocked her head like an inquisitive gull. “Win mentioned that the original plan was very different from what they ended up executing. I wonder what made Beck decide to go this route.”

A shiver zipped up Skye’s spine. There was only one reason she could think of … but no, it couldn’t have anything to do with her. Could it?

Beck and Winslow appeared with the next course, saving her from having to respond to Nina’s not-so-subtle probing.

This time, though, Skye took one look at the dish Win set in front of her, and knew she was about to lose her battle with the tears that had been threatening since the first course.

*   *   *

Beck couldn’t help but watch for Skye’s reaction to the third course. He didn’t even know if she’d remember … but then her eyes went wide as she stared down at the plate of sliced roast duck on a bed of melted scallions, and he saw her grip tighten around her fork until the silver had to be cutting into her palm.

She remembered.

The knowledge made it easier to speak. “This is an updated version of something we used to have all the time when I got my first apartment, a tiny place over a grocery store in Chinatown. Back then, I’d buy the roasted duck from the butcher around the corner, but Winslow and I roasted and hung this one ourselves. We also lacquered it with a ginger hoisin glaze, to give the skin a good, crispy crunch. To me, this dish means home, comfort, warmth—it’s from a time in my life when I was happy.”

Skye looked up and he got his first good look at her face. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes blue puddles leaking tears, but she was smiling as she took her first bite.

Now for the hard part.

“There’s a sweet and sour dipping sauce with red pepper and candied orange peel, and that’s meant as a spicy, challenging counterpoint to the simple, homey flavors of the duck. Because not everything in my life was perfect during those years.”

Skye stopped eating, and he saw her clutch her napkin as if it were a lifeline, but he had to see this through.

“We married young, and neither of us had much when we started out. And when my wife got pregnant, I knew I had to do something to take care of my family. I had a job as a short-order cook in a twenty-four-hour diner, but the pay was lousy and we needed health insurance. The only way I could think of to help my family involved leaving them, leaving my wife alone, for a long time—and she didn’t want me to go. But I went anyway, and it ended us.” He paused, forced himself to look Skye in the eye. “At least, it ended that phase of our relationship.”

She went still, and he let his gaze slide away from the laser intensity of her stare. Beside her, Nina gave him a slight nod. Her eyes were more than a little damp, too, he noticed.

The judges seemed to be keeping it together better. Devon Sparks had on a very serious, contemplative face as he dunked one of his duck slices in the dipping sauce. Kane and Claire had their heads bent together, murmuring their observations on the flavors, he supposed.

Win nudged him in the side. “I think it’s going over. Everyone likes that duck.”

“Only two more courses left,” Beck said, his eyes drawn back to Skye.

Two more dishes to sum up a lifetime’s worth of emotions. He could only hope his message was getting through to Skye.

Chapter 28

The next dish was the main course, a more substantial, complex, structured preparation meant to symbolize Beck’s years in the navy.

It took Skye a moment to drag her mind out of the deep pool of memories he’d dropped her into with that last dish, but she didn’t want to miss an instant of Beck’s revelations.

“During my five years in the service, I saw a lot of amazing places, met some incredibly dedicated men and women, and got used to racking out in a bed half my size. The Navy taught me about discipline, about hard work, and relying on a team. Cooking on a submarine? Taught me I’m not a huge fan of small, enclosed spaces. But, more importantly, it taught me I wanted to be a chef.”

Looking down at her plate, Skye realized she’d missed the description of the dish. It was fish, which made sense—a firm white fish that had a subtle, briny sweetness to it when she tasted it.

The fish—maybe sea bass?—had been wrapped in paper-thin slices of potato and pan-fried, giving the potato a gorgeous golden-brown crispness that contrasted beautifully with the succulent fish. It sat on a bed of roasted asparagus spears drizzled with basil-infused olive oil, which gave the whole dish a round, fruity undertone.

The flavors were strong, even masculine, but there was a precision to the execution that impressed the hell out of Skye.

“This is amazing,” she couldn’t help murmuring as Beck and Win left to plate their next course.

Nina nodded thoughtfully and forked up her last bite, chasing a dribble of basil oil. “Beck is an exceptional chef—but I’ve never seen him cook like this. He must be feeling very inspired.”

What Skye was feeling was overwhelmed. For the first time, she questioned her decision to cook and be judged second. After Beck’s next course, she’d have to get up from this table, where she’d learned more in an hour about the man she married than in the two years they’d lived together, and head off to the kitchen for her chance to win the RSC competition. She had to get her head back in the game.

“He wants to win this thing,” she said to Nina. She wanted to remind herself, too. “For you, and your family. Beck is very loyal.”

“He is,” Nina agreed. “But I don’t think that’s what lit the fire under him today.”

Stop it,
Skye wanted to yell.
Beck’s whole menu isn’t for me. It can’t be.

But after the way she’d ended things the other morning, she couldn’t help but wonder. And the not knowing, not being sure, wanting to believe but not quite being able to—that was torture.

“Henry Beck is a good boy,” Nina said, turning in her seat to pin Skye with a narrow look.

“He’s done a lot for my family, and of course we’re grateful. But even more than that, he’s become one of us. I love that boy, Skye, as if he were my own—which means that as much as I’d like to keep him around forever, what I want even more is for him to find his place in the world. The place where he can be happy. And after today I think that place might be with you. His wife.”

Oh God.

All the emotion Skye had managed to tamp down after the Peking duck dish came rushing back in, making her hands shake and her chest feel too tight to catch a single good breath.

“I haven’t been his wife in any way that matters for a long time.” Her voice was shattered, raw, and Nina raised a skeptical brow.

“Yes. You seem completely over him.”

“That’s not what I said,” she snapped, then cursed herself as Nina’s other brow rocketed up to match the first one.

Dropping her head into her hands, Skye moaned, “God. This is all such a mess.”

“You can either see it as a mess, a problem that needs to be solved,” Nina pointed out reasonably, “or you can view it as the incredible second chance it is. Up to you, I suppose.”

“Nothing is up to me,” Skye hissed. “It’s not as if Beck has declared himself, or asked me to stay married to him or something.”

Hadn’t he been about to, though? Skye paused, her breath caught around the memory of Beck’s face alight with what looked an awful lot like hope, a question on his lips—in the instant before Jeremiah walked back into her life.

Skye deflated as if someone had punctured her with a fork. “No.” She shook her head, shoulders slumping. “He doesn’t want me back. I ruined that by not telling him the truth about … something,” she hedged, not really wanting to spill the whole sordid story of her open relationship woes to the woman Beck saw as a mother figure. “Anyway, I told Beck it’s over between us. He has no reason to doubt that.”

“No reason to doubt it, maybe.” Nina glanced up to the front of the room as the door opened for the last time. “But maybe he’s got a reason to try and change your mind.”

Skye’s heartbeat quickened and she focused all her attention on what Beck would say next, hoping for answers, clues, some idea of what he wanted from her.

And for the first time since she met Henry Beck, he spelled it out, word for word … and Skye’s entire world turned upside down.

*   *   *

Last dish. Last time he’d have to stand up here and eviscerate himself in front of six people, four of them basically strangers.

Last chance to tell the women who weren’t strangers exactly what they meant to him.

Beck swallowed down a surge of eleventh-hour nerves and handed his tray over to Winslow to serve.