On the Steamy Side (17 page)

It was the most Tucker had said at one time since he arrived in the kitchen at Market, which Lilah wanted to be happy about. But what he was saying was breaking her heart.

She exchanged another glance with Devon, whose hands were white-knuckled around the handle of the skillet he was putting on the stovetop. He was reading between the lines, too, Lilah knew, putting together Heather Sorensen’s DWI with Tucker’s tale of subsisting on no-cook meals and delivery while she was no doubt too intoxicated to take care of dinner herself.

Lilah wanted to cry. She wanted to march down to Heather’s rehab center and read the woman the riot act. Most of all, Lilah wanted to demand how Devon could allow his son to stay in a situation like that—but it wasn’t her place, she reminded herself. She didn’t know the whole story.

And judging by Devon’s teeth-gritting silence, there was definitely part of the story she was missing.

Trying to smooth over the rough moment, Lilah said, “Well, now that you’re with your dad, the famous chef, you can bet you’re gonna get some yummy meals. Are you hungry?” Tucker nodded, which seemed to release Devon from his paralysis, because he started cracking eggs into the cold pan. The eggs were much smaller than Lilah was used to back on the farm.

“Go ahead and sit down,” Devon told her. “I’ve got this.”

Lilah took a last look at the weirdly tiny eggs and joined Tucker in the breakfast nook. Within minutes, Devon was setting full plates in front of them.

Lilah and Tucker stared down at the food, then looked at each other. It looked like loose yellow curds with sour cream and some kind of orange relish.

“What is it?” Lilah dared to ask.

“Scrambled quail eggs with crème fraîche and salmon roe,” Devon said. Rather than sitting down with them, he tossed his dirty pans and utensils into the sink and started washing up.

“Aren’t you going to eat with us? I promise to help clean up after,” Lilah said.

“A good cook cleans his own station,” Devon said with a quick smile. “Anyway, I don’t eat breakfast.

You two dig in, though.”

Tucker dipped a wary spoon into the eggs and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes bulged a little, and he appeared to swallow with difficulty. They both snuck guilty peeks at Devon over by the sink, who hadn’t noticed the byplay.

Tucker cut his eyes up at Lilah. There was a plea in them that let her know she didn’t need to taste it.

“Sounds delish,” she said brightly. “But maybe a little too rich for my tummy this early in the morning.” Devon frowned and wiped his hands. “I could make you something else. I’ve been on a Japanese kick lately; I think my assistant stocked me up with some ume boshi plums and nori to experiment with.” Tucker and Lilah exchanged a bemused look. Apparently picking up on the extreme lack of reaction, Devon explained, “Small pickled plums and seasoned dried seaweed. Part of a traditional Japanese breakfast.”

There was a pause while Lilah and Tucker considered this. Lilah broke it by asking, “You know what? Do you have any flour?”

Devon blinked. “I think so.”

“Baking powder? Salt? Buttermilk? Never mind, don’t worry, I can find it. Why don’t you have a seat and visit with Tucker?”

She started bustling purposefully around the kitchen, keeping a weather eye on Devon’s face. Lilah hadn’t had a lot of truck with professional chefs, but she knew all about the politics and potential drama involved with cooking in someone else’s kitchen. Hopefully Devon wasn’t too territorial.

Evidently not, because he watched her in silence for a minute before saying, “Help yourself. But I’ve got to go shower before I head over to the restaurant.”

“This early?” Lilah asked, sniffing a gleaming, stainless-steel canister of white powder. Did all-purpose flour smell different from self-rising? Why was nothing labeled?

“There’s always work to be done,” Devon replied. “The prep cooks are probably arriving at the restaurant now, starting work on the stocks for the sauces. Deliveries come in from vendors all morning, from fresh fish to specialty items like foie gras. Adam,” he snorted, “likes to pretend he’s saving the world, one menu special at a time. He only orders from within a hundred-mile radius of Manhattan. Reducing his carbon footprint or some similar nonsense.”

“Yeah, I think Grant mentioned something about that. Market’s all about promoting local, sustainable food and cooking with seasonal ingredients. I grew up on a farm, so all that sounds kind of ‘duh’ to me.

You don’t think it makes sense?”

Devon leaned one hip indolently against the counter. “I don’t think it’s a smart way to run a restaurant,” he clarified. “This is New York, not California. The growing season here is fairly limited.

From October to April, the Union Square greenmarket Adam is so fond of doesn’t offer much in the way of fresh produce beyond root vegetables.”

He shrugged, drawing Lilah’s eye to his lean chest and broad shoulders under the fitted black T-shirt he was wearing. “Call me crazy, but if I want to do a passion fruit dessert in January, I’m going to fly a shipment in from Brazil and not think twice about it.”

To Lilah, it sounded like a well-worn debate, an argument Devon had trotted out for his friend, Adam, many times. She wondered how much of it Devon really believed in and how much was a put-on part of his famous bastard persona.

Then again, maybe it was naïve to continue on in this dogged assumption that there was more to Devon Sparks than the jaded, arrogant mask he presented to the world.

“Back home in Spotswood County, we cooked with seasonal, local ingredients because that’s all we had,” she said. “And I won’t say there was never a day when I wished for a big supermarket in town that would carry exotic fruits and cheeses and things I’ve probably never even heard of, but there was something wonderful about following the rhythm of the seasons. You could tell the date by what was on my Aunt Bertie’s table: collards and kale braised with a ham hock in the winter, sweet baby turnips roasted with molasses in the spring. And nothing says summer like Silver Queen corn, barely boiled, dripping with butter and salt. You could look at any meal and know your place in the world, where you came from and where you were going.” Even Lilah was surprised at the depth of longing that colored her voice.

“But that wasn’t enough for you,” Devon said.

“What?” Lilah said, startled.

“You left the idyllic pastoral paradise and made your way to the big, bad city. There must’ve been a reason.” He smiled, challenge clear in his eyes. “Love affair gone wrong?” Lilah laughed. “That sounds awfully soap opera, as if I had a grand passion that blew up, leaving me nursing a broken heart.”

Devon gave her a searing look, as if he’d noticed her distinct lack of actual denial, but all he said was,

“Well, I already know you didn’t come to New York because you had a fantastic new career lined up.”

“My childhood dreams didn’t center around clearing dirty dishes and filling water glasses,” she agreed.

“I was happy enough teaching drama at the local high school, while it lasted. If budget cuts hadn’t gutted the arts program in our school system, I might still be there.”

“That’s probably my cue to tell you how sorry I am, but I haven’t had enough coffee to be able to lie effectively,” Devon said. “I’m glad you got canned. Worked out great for me.” He gave her a lazy smile that made Lilah grin back. “Don’t be sorry for me. It’s not like teaching was my childhood dream, either. I fell into it, because it was easy and seemed stable and secure. Which turned out to be a giant illusion.” Just like every other so-called “safe” choice she’d ever made.

“Anyway,” Lilah continued, “I don’t think I’ve done so badly in the career department. I get to hang out with my new pal, Tucker, for the next month. That sounds like a pretty great job anyone would love to have!”

Tucker didn’t say anything, but she thought he wanted to. Something perilously close to hope flickered across his sulky young face, and it made Lilah’s throat tighten.

Lilah went to the hidden fridge to search for buttermilk. There wasn’t any, but the fancy Greek yogurt would work as a substitute.

“What are you making, anyway?” Devon asked carelessly.

“Biscuits,” Lilah said, starting to mix them up on autopilot. She’d made them so many times, she didn’t need a recipe.

Devon smiled a smug sort of smile, as if his expectations had been fulfilled. Lilah didn’t mind. He’d change his tune once he tasted them.

“I thought you were going to get in the shower,” she said.

“Right.” He pushed off the counter and gave her a cocky eyebrow arch. “I’ll be back in a few to see how the biscuits turn out.”

Fifteen minutes later, Devon wasn’t back yet, but a quick peek in the oven revealed a cast-iron skillet—

enameled, Lilah’d sniffed in disapproval, but that was the closest thing she could find to the ancient, well-seasoned skillet she’d learned to make biscuits in as a child younger than Tucker—full of small rounds of dough puffing and crisping to a pretty golden brown on top. They were about done, she decided, and hunted up a pair of oven mitts.

“These biscuits were my favorite when I was your age,” she told Tucker, who maintained his stoic silence. She was hoping if she kept up a sort of running commentary, eventually something she said would engage him enough to get him to talk back.

“My Aunt Bertie used to make a batch every morning. With as many kids as we had in the house, they were always gone before lunch.”

Tucker made a little motion, a jerk of his chin that made Lilah wonder if he was about to jump in. She paused for a second, but when he stayed quiet, she went on.

“My cousin Trudy likes biscuits with homemade strawberry jam, and her oldest brother, Walt, likes them with peanut butter. I know! Walt’s bonkers, he’d eat peanut butter on anything, he’s plum crazy for it. My favorite way to have biscuits is with red-eye gravy, this really thin, salty sauce you make by boiling country ham with strong coffee. Sounds funny to you, I bet, that a kid would like something with coffee—yuck! But it’s good, I promise you.”

Tucker rolled his eyes and made a puking face. The retching noises were rendered with the authenticity only a ten-year-old boy could produce. Lilah grinned.

Lilah found a cupboard stacked with meticulously matched sage-green china. Piling a couple of steaming hot biscuits on the plate, she set it in front of Tucker, saying, “But if we don’t have red-eye gravy—and I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a good hunk of country ham anywhere in Manhattan—

the best way to eat fresh, hot biscuits is with butter and a little dab of something sweet.” Praying the enormous walk-in pantry held something simple like molasses or maple syrup, Lilah crowed when she found a squat little jar of honey. It didn’t look like any honey she’d ever seen before; rather than being tawny gold in color and syrupy in texture, this honey was a pale, pale yellow and looked thick enough to spread with a knife. It was labeled “Acacia Honey” from Hawaii, but Lilah was willing to bet it would top her biscuits like a dream.

She was right. Across from each other in the cozy breakfast nook, Lilah and Tucker slathered the warm, tender biscuits with creamery butter and the strange, thick honey. It had an almost grainy texture that was a delicious contrast to the crumbly biscuits and melting butter. Tucker hesitated before taking his first bite, possibly a little gun-shy after his first breakfast, but once he tried it, his eyes lit up. After a few moments of silent, dedicated eating, Tucker looked up at her, honey smearing his mouth and crumbs dotting his chin, and said, “This is good.”

Lilah tried to contain her joy at his initiation of conversation in a single smile. “I’m glad you like it.” He nodded and went back to eating. Lilah attempted not to worry that it had been an aberration and that Tucker had already resumed his self-imposed vow of silence. Just when she was about to start gabbing again to fill the quiet air, he slid her a glance. She smiled encouragingly, and with a tentative voice, Tucker said, “You had a lot of cousins, huh?”

Lilah was in the middle of one of her best Walt stories, the one where he convinced the twins, Hannah and Keith, to climb to the very top of the magnolia tree behind the house, when Devon came back in.

Fresh from the shower, Devon was devastating. A close shave emphasized the sharp angles of his jaw, the slight cleft in his chin. His hair was wet and spiky, a casually tousled look that Lilah was sure took several minutes and a couple hundred dollars’ worth of product to achieve. He was wearing casual clothes, suitable for a day sweating in a hot professional kitchen, but even swathed in loose black pants and a plain white T-shirt, there was no denying his masculine beauty.

Still, Lilah thought she might prefer him as he’d been early that morning—sleep-mussed hair and a pillow crease running down his stubbled cheek.

Even from a few feet away, he smelled like soap and the spice of his cologne. Lilah inhaled as deeply as she could without being obvious. She smiled up at him.

“I was just telling Tuck about my family back home,” she said.

Devon smiled back, but the happy expression faded as he took in the plates in front of Tucker. The one he’d prepared was nearly untouched and had turned into a cold, congealed mess of runny yellow mush and neon-orange fish eggs. The other plate was nothing but crumbs, and Tucker was in the middle of dotting his fingertip around the plate and picking those crumbs up with his sticky, honey-covered digit.

He froze guiltily when he realized Devon was watching him.

Devon, bless his heart, tried to laugh it off. “Slow down, kid, I bet Lilah will make you more biscuits if you ask nicely.”

He picked up Tucker’s other plate and took it to the sink. Lilah watched him scrape the food off it into the garbage disposal, feeling awful. Some father-son bonding experience this was turning out to be!

Tucker wouldn’t eat Devon’s food, but scarfed down her biscuits like he’d been on starvation rations for weeks.

His thin shoulders were hunched again, and he was curled in on himself the way he’d been before she started drawing him out with stories about her cousins’ wilder days.