The Rebel (2 page)

She could feel Joy and George staring at her and to avoid their eyes, she looked down at the chicken. Her mind went blank. She was aware of a humming
in her ears and that was about it. Except for her feet. She could feel them pounding inside the ancient running shoes she had on, as if someone had a vise to her toes.

How old were those shoes, she wondered idly. Five years?

“Frankie?”

She looked up at her sister whose face was wide open. Joy was ready for direction. Ready to be saved.

God, what she wouldn't give to be able to look at someone with that kind of expectant hope.

“Yeah, okay,” she murmured. “Let me think.”

Like a tired lawnmower, her brain started to churn again. Options, they needed options. What else was in the meat locker? Only big cuts. And the freezer—no, there was no time to defrost anything. Leftovers. What could she bash together out of—

The sound of someone pounding on the back door brought her head around.

Joy looked to the noise and then back at her.

“Answer it,” Frankie said, heading for the walk-in refrigerator. “George, take the Littles more bread.”

She was searching the shelves and seeing nothing that offered a solution when her sister let out a startled
hello.

Frankie looked over her shoulder and lost her train of thought.

A man the size of a barn had walked into the White Caps kitchen.

God, he was as big as George, although not built the same. Definitely not built like George. This guy was hefty where you wanted a man to be: in the shoulders, in the arms. Not in the stomach.

And he was almost too handsome to look at. Wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a beat-up backpack on one shoulder, he looked like a drifter but carried himself as if he knew exactly where he was. He had thick dark hair that was on the long side and his face was stunning, though it seemed as if it belonged on someone else. His features were a little too patrician to be attached to a man dressed the way he was.

But his eyes—his eyes were what really stood out. They were extraordinary—dark as the night, deep set, with thick lashes.

And they were totally focused on her sister.

Given how slight she was, Joy looked like a child standing in front of him with her head tilted up. And Frankie knew exactly the kind of resplendent astonishment that would be showing on her sister's face, so it was no wonder the man looked poleaxed. Any guy worth his testosterone would be snared by that expression alone, much less the fact that it was shining out of such a garden of female delights.

Great. Just what she needed, some tourist lost and looking for directions. Or worse, a wanderer looking
for work. She could barely keep Joy and George on the straight and narrow. The last thing she needed was another big lug kicking around.

“Hey there, Angel,” the man said. A bemused expression was tinting his handsome features as if he'd never seen anything like the girl standing in front of him.

“My name is Joy, actually.” Even though Frankie couldn't see it, she heard the smile on her sister's face.

Flattening her lips, Frankie decided it was time to get involved. Before the stranger melted onto the damn floor.

“Can we help you?” she said sharply.

The man frowned, looked over at her and the force of those eyes hit her like a gust of wind. She swallowed through a tight throat. There was nothing dim-witted or slow about him, she realized. He was downright shrewd as he scanned her from head to foot.

As a flush came up into her face, she reminded herself that she had dinner to get ready, a staff, such as it was, to motivate, a business to run. Unlike her little sister, she didn't have the luxury of staring up into some man's face for days on end.

Although, jeez, what a face that was.

“Well?” she said.

“My car broke down about two miles back.”
He gestured over one shoulder. “I need to use a phone.”

So he was headed through town. Good.

“There's one back in my office. I'll show you the way.” She shut the door to the walk-in.

“Thanks.” As he stepped forward, he sniffed and grimaced. When he caught sight of the desecrated chicken, he laughed. “So your chef moonlights as an arsonist? Or is it the other way around?”

Frankie found herself measuring his carotid artery and thinking things that could lead to her arrest. While he was making fun of her failure, he was wasting time she didn't have to spare.

She was holding herself in check and about to lead him out of the kitchen when the door from the dining room swung open. George came back with a full breadbasket in his hand, looking like he was on the verge of tears.

“They're hungry. Really hungry, Frankie,” he said, staring down at his shoes. “And the Littles don't want any more bread.”

She tightened her lips in a grim line again. Considering what those two entitled big mouths had tried to do to her over the various inadequacies of their room, she could only imagine what they'd done to George.

Which was totally unfair, she thought. The poor man didn't deserve to be the salad course. It wasn't his fault she'd burned the entrée.

“I tried to tell them it wouldn't be long,” he said.

“I know, George. I know. Why don't you go get a cookie, okay?” She went over and stared at the chicken, willing it into edible condition while George put the basket down and headed for the pantry.

She picked up a knife and thought she could salvage something. Cut off the black skin, maybe. But then what?

She heard a thud and realized that the stranger had thrown his backpack down on the stainless steel island next to her. Next, he tore off his jacket and tossed it across the room where it landed beautifully on a chair.

Frankie glanced over at the faded black T-shirt he was wearing. It was tight on him, leaving little to the imagination. To get away from the view of his chest, she looked up, way up. His eyes weren't black after all, they were hazel. Dark green with flecks of yellow.

And they were incredibly attractive, she thought. Could probably melt paint off a car door if they looked at you with passion.

She shook her head to clear it and then wondered why he was crowding her space.

“Excuse me,” she said, holding her ground. “The phone's through that door and take a right into the office. Oh, and don't mind the water.”

The man frowned. And then nudged her out of the way until he was standing in front of the chicken.

She was too dumbfounded to respond as he reached into the pack and pulled out a leather package. With a deft flip of the hand, it unrolled to reveal half a dozen knives that gleamed.

Frankie jumped back, thinking she might be the one who needed the phone. To call the police.

“How many?” he said in a voice like a drill sergeant.

“I beg your—”

His eyes were sharp, his tone bored. “How. Many.”

Frankie was aware that no one in the room was moving. Joy was frozen to the spot near the dining room door, George had stopped with the cookie halfway on a return trip to his mouth. They were obviously waiting for her to explode.

She looked at the chicken and then back at the man who by now had picked up a long knife and was poised over the carcass. With that tool in his hand, he was all business.

“You're a cook?” she asked.

“No, a blacksmith.”

As she stared up at him, the challenge in those hazel eyes was as clear as the bind she was in.

She had a choice. Rely on her skills, which had already resulted in the incineration of a sizable hunk of protein. Or take a gamble on this stranger and his flashy set of knives.

“Two parties of two. One six top,” she said briskly.

“Okay, here's what I'm going to need.” He looked over at her sister and when he spoke next, his voice was back to being gentle. “Angel, honey, I need you to take one of those pots over there and put it on the gas with two cups of water in it.”

Joy leaped into service.

“George, is that your name?” the man asked. George nodded, happier now that the tension had dispersed and his cookie was finished. “I want you to pick up that head of lettuce and run it under the cold water, stroking each leaf like it was a cat. You got it?”

George beamed and started on his job. By this time, Joy had filled the pot and put it on a burner.

The stranger started in with the chicken, peeling off the skin with deft movements of his fingers and the knife. He worked with such speed and confidence, she was momentarily captivated.

“Now, Angel—” back with the soft voice “—I want you to bring me a pound of butter, some cream, three eggs and all the curry powder you can find. And do you have any frozen vegetables?”

Frankie cut in, feeling ignored. “We've got fresh Brussels sprouts, broccoli—”

“Angel, I need something small. Peas? Cubed carrots?”

“We've got corn, I think,” Joy said enthusiastically.

“Good. Bring it over and get some twine.”

Frankie stepped back, feeling more panicked now than when things were disorganized and she had no options.

She should be doing something, she thought.

George came back with the lettuce and Frankie was impressed. Chuck, the former cook, had never been able to get him to do anything right, but here he was with perfectly cleaned romaine leaves.

“Good job, George, that's perfect.” The stranger handed George a knife. “Now cut it up in strips as wide as your thumb. But
do not
use your thumb to measure. It doesn't have to be exact. Do it across from me so I can watch you, okay?”

Joy came up to him with the bag of corn and the twine. She was smiling, so eager to please. “Do I put the corn in the water?”

“No.” He lifted his left leg. “Tie it onto my ankle. The damn thing's killing me.”

L
ESS THAN TEN MINUTES LATER,
Frankie took out the salads. They had a dressing on them that the man had whipped up out of some spices, olive oil and lemon juice. George, bless his heart, had cut up the crisp lettuce perfectly and had triumphed with the strips of red, yellow and orange peppers, as well.

By this time, the local diners had left because they had perfectly good kitchens of their own to go home to, but the B & B's guests were like zoo animals they were so hungry. She had no idea what the stuff tasted like, but figured the Littles and the other couple were so hypoglycemic they probably wouldn't have cared if she'd served them dog food.

After she put the plates down in front of them, the Littles glared at her as they stabbed at the salad.

“Glad you finally got around to it,” Mr. Little snapped. “What were you doing, growing the leaves back there?”

She gave him and his anemic, stressed-out wife a frozen smile, glad she hadn't sent George or Joy out. She was bolting back for the kitchen when she heard the man say, “My God. This is…edible.”

Great, Chef Wonderful got the raw veggies right. But what about the chicken?

As she pushed through the kitchen door, she wondered why she was being so critical of a guy who seemed to be saving her bacon, but she didn't dwell on the thought. She was too astonished at the sight of George laying out a row of his favorite oatmeal and raisin cookies on a sheet of cheesecloth.

The stranger was talking, in that calm voice.

“And then you're going to hold them over the boiling water when we're ready. Okay, Georgie?” he was saying. “So they get soft.”

All Frankie could do was watch in amazement as the man, in a whirling dervish of motion, created dinner out of disaster. Twenty minutes later, he was spooning onto White Caps plates a curried, creamed chicken mixture that smelled out of this world.

“Now, it's your turn, Angel. Come on, follow me.”

As he worked his way down a row of four plates, Joy was right behind him, sprinkling on raisins and almonds. Then the man packed couscous into a series of coffee cups and tapped out the mounds onto each plate. A sprig of parsley was put on top and then the man called, “Pick up.”

Frankie sprang into action, scooping up the plates at once, as she'd done since she started waiting tables when she was a teenager.

“Joy, you clear,” she called out.

Joy swept into the dining room with her, clearing the salads as Frankie slid the entrées in place.

It was over two hours later. Against all odds, the guests left happy and raving about the food, even the godforsaken Littles. The kitchen was cleaned up. And Joy and George were positively glowing with the good job they'd done under the stranger's direction.

Frankie was the only one out of sorts.

She should have been falling on her knees to thank the man with the fancy knives and the quick hands. She should have been delirious with relief. Instead, she was crabby. Having always been the savior, it was hard to accept a demotion in favor of a man she didn't know, who'd come out of nowhere.

And who still had a bag of frozen corn tied to his ankle.

The cook finished wiping off one of his knives and leaned under the overhead track lights to examine the blade carefully. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he slid it into the leather roll and tied up the bundle. When he put it into the backpack, she realized he'd never gotten to make his call.

“You want to use the phone now?” Her voice was gruff because what she needed to do was thank him, but gratitude was something she was rusty with. She was used to giving orders, not praising initiative, and the role reversal felt uncomfortable.

And maybe she was just a little envious of how easily he'd pulled everything together.

Which was a perfectly ridiculous way to feel.

When he looked at her, his eyes narrowed. Considering how relaxed he was with Joy and George, Frankie figured he must not like her very much. The idea irked her even though she knew there was no reason to care what his opinion of her was. She wasn't going to see him again. Didn't even know his name, as a matter of fact.

Instead of answering her, he looked over at Joy who had one foot on the stairs that led to the servants' quarters. “Good night, Angel. You did a really good job tonight.”

Frankie wondered how he'd known that Joy was yawning and about to disappear up to bed when he'd been focusing on his knives.

Joy's charming smile flashed across the kitchen. “Thanks, Nate.”

And that was how Frankie learned his name.

 

N
ATE ZIPPED HIS PACK CLOSED
and regarded the woman staring up at him evenly.

Behind her vague hostility, he could see exhaustion lurking. She looked worn down and had the drooping mouth of someone who had barked too many orders to too many people in an enterprise that was going under.

He'd met a lot of managers just like her over the years.

Failure was everywhere around the White Caps
Bed & Breakfast. From what he'd seen outside, in the kitchen and through one quick look into the dining room, the place was a ball gown with sweat stains, a once beautiful mansion on the long fade into a junk pile.

And the business was taking this woman down with it.

How old was she? Early thirties? She probably looked older than she was and he tried to imagine what was under the long bangs and sensible glasses, the loose white waitstaff shirt and standard-issue black pants.

She'd probably been full of hope when she'd bought the old ark and he imagined that optimism had lasted only until it became clear that servicing rich weekenders was a thankless job, a low-praise zone in the extreme. And then the first fix-it bill had probably come for a boiler or a roof or major piece of equipment, giving her a sense of how much old charm cost.

As if on cue, a wheeze came out of the walk-in. The noise was followed by something close to a cough, like there was a little old man dying in the compressor.

He watched while she closed her eyes as if deliberately ignoring the sounds.

If Nate was a betting man, he'd guess in one year White Caps would either be under new management or condemned by the state.

Her eyes flipped open. “So. The phone?”

She was definitely a fighter, though. Tough as nails, maybe even prepared to go down with the ship, although where that trip would take her he couldn't imagine. More debt? Less sleep?

Or maybe she was just tending the pile of wood for her husband. Nate eyed her ring finger and didn't see anything on it.

“Hello? Nate? Or whatever you call yourself. Use the phone or move out. It's closing time.”

“Okay. Thanks,” he said, turning around and heading in the direction she'd pointed to earlier that evening. He walked into a darkened office and frowned when his feet made a sloppy noise, as if there were water on the floor.

He hit the light switch.

Good Lord, the place was soaked. He looked up at the ceiling, seeing a gaping hole that exposed pipes old enough to have been laid by God Himself.

Shaking his head, he reached for the phone, thinking he'd be lucky to get a dial tone. When he did, he punched in his buddy Spike's cell phone number. He and Spike had been friends since they'd gone through the Culinary Institute of America as classmates and they'd decided to buy a restaurant together. Their business interest was behind Nate's trip. After four months of searching, they couldn't seem to find what they wanted in their price range in Manhattan so they were looking at other cities. Spike had found a place
for them to consider in Montreal, but Nate wasn't getting his hopes up. He didn't think the situation was going to be any better over the border in Canada.

He absolutely believed they could make it as owners. Between his skills at the stove and Spike's masterful work with pastries and breads, they had the fundamentals covered. But money was growing tight. Because Nate was living off the savings he was going to put toward their down payment, he was thinking it might be time to get a job for the summer and suspend the search at least until the fall. By then, new prospects would surely be on the market.

When he hung up with Spike, he looked toward the woman waiting in the doorway.

“What happened to your cook?” he asked.

“He quit tonight.”

Nate nodded, thinking that was the way of the kitchen world. You never got tenure as a chef but the trade-off was you didn't have to give notice.

She began to tap her foot impatiently, but he wasn't in a hurry. Taking a look around he saw a desk, a computer, a couple of chairs, some closet doors. There was nothing particularly interesting about the room until he got to the bookcases. To her left, he saw an old photograph of a young family smiling into the camera. Two parents, three children, clothes from the seventies.

He went over for a closer look but when he
picked it up off the shelf, she snatched the frame out of his hand.

“Do you mind?”

They were standing close and he became curiously aware of her. In spite of the bangs and the Poindexter glasses, the baggy clothes and the bags under her eyes, his body started to heat up. Her eyes widened and he wondered if she felt it, too—the odd current that seemed to run between them.

“You looking for someone in your kitchen?” he asked abruptly.

“I don't know,” she said, clipping the words short.

“You sure needed someone tonight. You'd have been up the creek if I hadn't walked through your door.”

“How about this, I don't know if I need
you.
” She put the photograph back, laying it face down on the shelf.

“You think I'm not qualified?” He smiled when she remained silent, figuring she probably hated the fact that he'd saved her. “Tell me, just how did I fail to impress you tonight?”

“You did fine but that doesn't mean I'm going to hire you.”

He shook his head. “Fine? Man, you have a hard time with compliments, don't you?”

“I don't waste energy playing spit and polish with egos. Especially healthy ones.”

“So you prefer being around the depressed?” he retorted mildly.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Nate shrugged. “Your staff's so beaten down it's a wonder they can put one foot in front of the other. That poor girl was ready to work herself to death tonight just for a kind word and George soaked up a little praise like he hadn't heard any in a month.”

“Who made you an expert on those two?” Her hands were on her hips now as she looked up at him.

“It's just obvious, lady. If you took your blinders off once in a while you might see what you're doing to them.”

“What
I'm
doing to them? I'll tell you what I'm doing to them.” She jabbed a finger at him. “I'm keeping a roof over Joy's head and George out of a group home. So you can back off with the judgments.”

As she glared at him, he wondered why he was arguing with her. The last thing the woman needed was another battle. Besides, why did he care?

“Look, ah—why don't we start over,” he said. “Can we call a truce here?”

He stuck his hand out, aware that he'd just decided to take a job he wasn't being offered. But hell, he needed to spend the summer somewhere and she clearly needed the help. And White Caps was as good as any other place, even if it was sinking. At least he could have some fun and try out some new things
he'd been thinking of without the food critics chomping at him.

When she just stared at him, he prompted her by looking down at his hand.

She tucked her arms into her body. “I think you better go.”

“Are you always this unreasonable?”

“Good night.”

He dropped his hand. “Let me get this straight. You have no cook. You're looking at one who's willing to work. But you'd rather shoot yourself in the foot just because you don't like me?” When she kept looking at him, buttoned up tight, he shook his head. “Damn, woman. You ever think this place might be going under because of you?”

The strained silence that followed was the calm before the storm. He knew it because she started to shake and he had a vague thought that he should duck.

But what came at him wasn't angry words or a slap or a right hook.

She started to cry. From behind the lenses, he saw tears well and then fall.

“Oh, God,” he pushed a hand through his hair. “I didn't mean—”

“You don't know me,” she said hoarsely and, somehow, regally. Even through her tears, she faced him squarely as if she had nothing to hide, as if the crying jag was a temporary aberration, nothing that
spelled the end of her inner strength. “You don't know what's going on here. You don't—don't know what we've been through. So you can just put your pack on and start walking.”

He reached out for her, not sure what he would do. Not take her in his arms, certainly. But he had some vague idea he could…pat her on the shoulder. Or something.

God, how lame was that.

Nate wasn't at all surprised when she shrugged him off and left him alone in her wet mess of an office.

 

I
N THE PANTRY, SURROUNDED
by canned vegetables, bags of George's cookies and jars full of condiments, Frankie pulled herself together. Wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands, she sniffled a couple of times and then tugged her shirt into place.

She couldn't believe she'd cracked like that. In front of some stranger.

It was better than crying in front of Joy, sure, but not by much.

Boy, he'd nailed her vulnerable point. The idea that White Caps was failing because of her was her biggest fear and the mere thought of it was enough to make her start tearing up all over again.

God, what was she going to tell Joy if they had to leave? Where would they live? And how could
she earn enough to take care of both her sister and Grand-Em?