Hotshot (3 page)

“Not funny, Dad.”

His father’s laughter indicated he disagreed.

Finn stayed behind in the living room while the two families were saying good-bye. He was about to go upstairs when the door opened and Peyton came running back inside. She stopped a foot away from him, cranked her head back, and stared at him for a long minute.

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He barely heard her. He squatted down until they were eye to eye. “I was scared, too.”

She smiled. Her mother called to her, but she didn’t leave. She stared at Finn another minute while she made up her mind. Then she leaned close and whispered, “Thank you.” Spinning around, she ran back to her parents.

Finn watched from the window as the parents took Peyton’s hands and walked toward their house. He didn’t think he would ever forget that moment when he lifted her out of the water. What made him turn back and look down at the pool again?

Maybe something bigger was at play here. Maybe Peyton Lockhart was supposed to do something important with her life.

E
very year on January 4, the very
first thing Peyton Lockhart did as soon as she opened her eyes and rolled out of bed was to go to her laptop and e-mail her guardian angel to say thank you for saving her life. Today was January 4. It was her birthday, and if it weren’t for Finn MacBain, she wouldn’t be celebrating it.

Her mother had started the tradition of sending a thank-you card to Finn on Peyton’s birthday, but once Peyton learned how to print, she took over the task. In high school she started e-mailing Finn instead of sending a card, much to her mother’s disapproval. Sometimes Peyton heard back from Finn; most times she didn’t.

She understood. Finn was busy accomplishing the most incredible feats. Even before graduating from Oakhurst High School, he was competing in the Olympics. She watched on television as he won three gold medals in swimming: one for the 200-meter freestyle, one for the 400-meter freestyle, and one for the 4
x 1
00-meter freestyle relay. In the process of winning all those medals he set new records.

Peyton was in the third grade at the time. While Finn was swimming his heart out for all the world to see, she was learning how to keep her hands to herself. She had shoved Ashton Lymon because he was making fun of her friend Hillary. Their summer school teacher, Sister Victoria Marie, made Peyton sit in the “thinking” chair a good long while. Come to think of it, she remembered spending an awful lot of time in the chair that summer.

Peyton didn’t believe in comparing people’s lives, but when it came to Finn MacBain it was simply too hard not to. After his incredible performance at the Olympics, he enrolled at Stanford—on a full scholarship, of course. Four years later, after graduating at the top of his class, he had his pick of law schools. He chose to remain at Stanford because it allowed him to stay involved in the fitness competitions he loved. After winning several triathlons, he helped develop an athletic program for at-risk youth. Peyton knew all about this because the program was so successful it was featured on
60 Minutes.
That’s when she started addressing her e-mails to “Hotshot,” which, Finn immediately let her know, he didn’t like at all. He was recruited into the FBI after law school and was now a special agent on the West Coast. He was too well-known to do undercover work, and she wondered how often he was recognized for winning the gold. Though his current accomplishments weren’t publicized, Peyton had no doubts that even in the FBI he had made his mark. He’d probably saved dozens of lives already. She speculated that, by the time she would be earning more than minimum wage, Finn would be president of the United States, or at least director of the FBI.

Peyton finished writing her e-mail to Finn and reached for her cell phone. The second tradition she followed on her birthday was to call her uncle Leonard and give him her good wishes because they shared the same birth date. The call went to voice mail. She left a message and then got into the shower. She wouldn’t be blowing out any candles today. There wasn’t time. Her car was packed and she would soon be heading out to her new job in Dalton, Minnesota. She calculated the trip from Texas would take two full days.

It’s funny how things happen, she thought. Her life had definitely taken a turn in an unexpected direction. In college she’d majored in journalism with a minor in English lit, and for all four years she had supplemented her living expenses by working in restaurant kitchens. In the summers she worked at Bishop’s Cove, her uncle Len’s resort in Florida. Each summer she rotated between two restaurants within the resort. She did everything from scrubbing pots to helping the sous-chef, and none of these duties were drudgery for her. In fact, she discovered she actually enjoyed them all. Soon she was given more responsibility and was allowed to develop a couple of dishes on her own. She loved experimenting with spices and herbs, creating new flavors. It had taken her a while to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, but by her senior year she recognized that cooking was her passion. She might even want to own her own restaurant one day.

With that goal in mind, and being nearly penniless, she applied for a grant to study at Institut Le Jardin in Lyon, France. She thought she had a better chance of being chased by lions than being accepted into the prestigious school, but that didn’t stop her, and miracle of miracles, she was awarded the grant. For four glorious months she studied and cooked and learned from the renowned chef, Jon Giles, the master of sauces. It was the most amazing experience, and she would have been content to stay for another year or two, but unfortunately, reality intruded and she had to return home to face her future.

Once back in Brentwood she moved in with her sister Lucy—a temporary arrangement, she promised—and got down to the business of finding a job. She updated her résumé and applied for every position in every restaurant in town. She knew there were people, especially Uncle Len, who could pull some strings for her, but she was determined to make it on her own. She expanded her search and scoured through every culinary magazine she could get her hands on. While perusing one of the trade publications, she came across an article that mentioned a dream-come-true opportunity. Swift Publications, publisher of several national magazines, was looking for another food critic for their flagship magazine,
The Bountiful Table
. They had four critics already, and now, because they were expanding, wanted five. The lush magazine with well over two million subscribers was considered the bible for food sophisticates and health fanatics alike. Peyton read it from cover to cover every month.

She had absolutely no experience, wasn’t even sure she wanted to be a food critic, but it was
The Bountiful Table
, for Pete’s sake. She simply had to apply. She knew she had a better chance of being hit by lightning while being chased by lions than getting the job, yet she felt compelled to give it a try. She sent her résumé with a lovely I’d-be-perfect-for-the-job cover letter, then put it out of her mind.

Even though she had been back in Texas less than a month, her mother was already calling to nag her into getting a real job. As opposed to a pretend job, Peyton supposed. Then, just as she was beginning her second month of unemployment and still dodging calls from her mother, a woman named Bridget from Swift Publications
called. After a surprisingly brief interview on the phone, she offered Peyton the position.

Peyton was in shock. Her initial reaction was to say, “You’re kidding,” but fortunately she didn’t utter the thought aloud. Stunned, she silently listened as Bridget told her about the job. The more she heard, the more excited Peyton became. Not only were the hours decent and the salary generous, there would also be enough time off for her to work on her own projects developing recipes.

One of the conditions for the job was that she relocate to the company’s home base in Dalton, Minnesota, a small town northwest of Minneapolis, too far to commute from the cosmopolitan city. The magazine was produced there in a brand-new facility and employed most of the town. Peyton would be under the tutelage of Drew Albertson, the managing editor and the son-in-law of the owner of the company. While she was learning all the facets of the magazine, she was expected to also be one of Drew’s personal assistants. Bridget explained that Peyton’s first year would be spent learning about each department, and Peyton wanted to ask why the training would take an entire year but thought that would be overstepping. They obviously had their reasons. After that first year, Bridget told her, she would be given assignments to travel to different locales and write articles for the magazine.

Peyton rarely did anything impulsive. She always weighed the positives against the negatives before she felt comfortable making a decision, and sometimes that took a while. She hated to be rushed, a trait that drove her sisters, Lucy and Ivy, crazy. She didn’t have to think about the job offer, though, nor did she need to take time to weigh the pros and cons. Working on
The Bountiful Table
for the Swift organization was a tremendous opportunity, and she wasn’t going to let it slip through her fingers.

And so she was going to drive her thirdhand, reconditioned Toyota Camry with 85,000 miles logged on the odometer from the lovely, warm climate of southern Texas to the blistering cold of northern Minnesota. In January no less.

Was she out of her mind? Apparently so.

Dressed in comfortable clothes, jeans and a T-shirt, she pulled onto Interstate 35 and headed north. It was seventy-four degrees when she left Brentwood; the sun was out, and there wasn’t all that much traffic. The drive was really quite pleasant. She listened to music she’d downloaded on her iPhone as she crossed the state line into Oklahoma. She was especially proud of herself when she drove past two outlet malls and didn’t stop at either one. It nearly killed her, especially when she saw a sign for Sur La Table and another for La Cuisine.

She made good time the first day and spent a luxurious night at the Hyatt in Kansas City because she had a Groupon for two-thirds off a single room. After a long hot shower, she fell into bed. She was reaching for the television remote when her uncle Len called.

“Happy birthday, Peyton,” he said in his slow southern drawl.

“Happy birthday to you, too,” she replied, smiling.

She dearly loved her uncle and was a bit in awe of him. Her father’s older brother was a confirmed bachelor and quite the businessman. He owned several resorts, but his favorites were King’s Landing in northern California and Bishop’s Cove in southern Florida. He traveled the world buying and selling properties, so Peyton and her sisters didn’t get to see him all that often, but they could always reach him on his cell phone. No matter where he was or what he was doing, he would stop to chat with them.

He swore he didn’t have a favorite niece, but it was obvious that he felt closest to Peyton because he talked to her the most. He loved hearing about her adventures in dating. They were always so entertaining. He’d be sympathetic on the phone, but as soon as he disconnected the call, he’d have a good, long laugh.

She told her uncle about her new job and he seemed genuinely excited for her. Before ending the conversation, he asked, “Had any interesting dates lately?”

She could hear the amusement in his voice. “Sorry, no,” she said. “But don’t worry. I’m sure there’s an ex-con in Dalton just waiting to ask me out.”

“You sure know how to pick ’em, darlin’,” he told her.

He was right. When it came to men and relationships, Peyton had the most god-awful luck. She either turned them into priests or felons. There didn’t seem to be any in-between. Not one but two of her high school crushes “got the call” to go into the seminary. One wanted to become a Jesuit and eventually did; the other, a Dominican. Granted, she attended a Catholic high school, but still, what were the odds of that happening to anyone else? By the time she graduated, she felt she had majored in unrequited love.

While in college she developed a propensity for dating only misfits. Allen Maxwell made the top five. She met him her first year and liked him immediately, which really should have been a warning. She still hadn’t learned the lesson that, if she liked someone, there had to be something wrong with him. He wasn’t a Catholic, so the odds were in her favor he wouldn’t become a priest. It wasn’t a sure bet, but it was close. She had two dates with Allen before he was arrested and later convicted of selling drugs out of his dorm room. Apparently she was the only student in the entire university who didn’t know about his illegal activity.

And then there was Brendan Park, the graduate student extraordinaire, who became a millionaire overnight. He, too, made her top five. He blushed whenever he spoke to her and followed her around campus like a lost puppy. Although he was terribly shy, he was persistent, wearing her down until she finally agreed to go out with him. Brendan was a socially awkward computer genius. He certainly wasn’t awkward about hacking into Goldman Sachs and helping himself to a large chunk of stock, though. He was arrested after their one and only date.

There were others. Josh Triggs came to mind. He wanted to cook dinner for her, but before she accepted, he needed to know if she was allergic to cats. Turned out he had seven of them living with him in his tiny studio apartment. The smell nearly knocked her over as soon as he opened the door. Needless to say, she passed on the dinner.

Since she was reminiscing, she mustn’t forget Greg Middleson, who could only talk to her using football terms. He once told her how he felt about her by saying, “Sometimes I feel like a quarterback who’s forced into a bootleg without a lead blocker and I have to lateral to a wingman.” She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, and she didn’t think he did, either.

It seemed that all the men she dated were dysfunctional in some way. Troy Calloway was her most recent nightmare. Peyton had just graduated from college when he asked her out. She had only one date with him, but in his gin-soaked mind that meant they were a couple. It was a horrible evening. She shivered thinking about it. He took her to a lovely restaurant with white linens and soft candlelight, but after several cocktails and a bottle of wine, Troy began to slur his words. As the dinner progressed he talked louder and louder. The man was a raging alcoholic, and, yes, apparently she and her mother, who introduced her to Troy and encouraged her to go out with him because he was such a nice churchgoing gentleman, were the only two people in Brentwood who didn’t know he was a drunk. A mean drunk at that.

Troy was as relentless as an Amway salesman in his pursuit. The phone calls would start around five in the evening and go on through the night. By two in the morning, he would be screaming into her voice mail threatening all sorts of vile things. Some made sense; others didn’t. The following afternoon he would call and apologize, and when she didn’t respond, the cycle would start all over again. She blocked his number, but that didn’t help. He simply called her from another phone. Fortunately, the grant to study in France came through, and the timing couldn’t have been better. She spent those glorious months in Lyon, and when she returned home and didn’t hear from Troy again, she assumed he had forgotten all about her and had moved on . . . hopefully into rehab.