You Can See Me (2 page)

Pres’s mom stayed with him and Angela while he swallowed his pride and went to school to learn how to live life as a blind person. He even learned how to cook again. He knew how to cook, but he didn’t know how to cook without using his sight. He relied on his other senses in the kitchen, which were now all heightened. His palate was more refined and sensitive than ever. He could name just about every ingredient in a dish, down to the allspice.

He was doing wonderfully in school. It’d taken him only a year and half to learn how to read Braille. His settlement and monthly annuity from the accident allowed him to pay off his condo and buy the amenities needed to make living life as a blind man a little easier, like paying for a maid service, purchasing a beautiful Labrador retriever seeing-eye dog, and hiring a full-time personal assistant and a driver.

He was just gearing up to open his own food critiquing business and feeling like life was still worth living, when his fiancée of four years dropped her bomb.

“I’m sorry, Pres, but I just can’t do this anymore. You’ve overcome so much, and I’m so proud of you, but we are not in the same place anymore. I stuck by you through your recovery, and I really tried to make it work in my mind…but I want children, Pres. I wanted to go to Paris with you. I want to travel and see the world…” Angela stopped short at the realization of what she’d just said.

I want to fucking see the world too.
Pres felt his heart explode into a thousand pieces. He’d tried so hard to be a complete man for her. He’d apologized repeatedly for how he’d treated her in the beginning. To his knowledge, she’d understood and forgiven him. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t try to do something special for her. He tried to stay enthusiastic and adventurous by taking her out places and showing her that he’d never be embarrassed again.

Since the day his mom barged into his bedroom and dragged his ass back into his kitchen, he’d never given up hope on once again becoming successful in his field. Although he couldn’t cook in anyone else’s kitchen, he could still cook like Emeril Lagasse in his own. He cooked for her every night they didn’t go out. She raved about his dishes. Now she was saying everything he did wasn’t enough for her to forget his disability.

As far as his appearance was concerned, he was always dressed impeccably and stayed groomed to perfection at all times. He had a stylist who kept him looking “breathtaking”—her words, not his. Prescott was a good-looking man, always had been. The accident hadn’t changed that. He’d never really cared about his looks because he kept his face in a pot or pan all the time. However, he prided himself on staying attractive…for her.

She’d been his best friend, lover, and companion for six years. Now, without even giving Prescott a hint that there was a problem, she was leaving. Even though he was in the dark now, he still had a small sliver of light in his Angela. If she could leave him, then what hope did he have of meeting a woman who would fall in love with a blind man? No matter how rich or gorgeous he was, obviously his impairment wasn’t something a woman could overlook.

“Angela, please don’t do this. I can’t live without you. Baby, please…are you looking at me?” Prescott held her small face in his hands. He remembered her beautiful green eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut harder and visualized her sharp nose and high cheekbones. He let his thumb trace her perfect Cupid’s bow lips and worked desperately to hold in his sobs, but the tears were flowing freely.

“Yes, Pres. I’m looking at you. It’s not you. It’s me,” she said.

“What the hell, Angela? What is that supposed to mean? I…I…I don’t even know how to take that,” Pres stuttered as confusion and anger barreled to the surface.

“Pres, you will find someone better for you. I know you will,” she said as she tried to wiggle out of the grip he had on her face.

“No! No, I won’t, Angela! I won’t find someone. I can’t fucking see, remember!” he yelled in frustration. He heard her let out a shocked gasp, so he took a couple breaths to try to rein in his rage.

“You were ready to get married in a month before the accident happened. That’s why I was rushing home in terrible road conditions, right after the awards ceremony, instead of staying the night in a hotel. You’d set the date and wanted to start ironing out the details right away. Remember?”

Pres knew he was hitting below the belt on that one, but he was desperate now. She was leaving him, and if he had to lay on a little guilt trip to get her to reconsider, then what the hell.

“We’ve made it through the hard part together. I need my best friend with me, baby.” Pres was trying hard to make her understand. There was no way he could be without her. He couldn’t fathom being alone in the dark all the time. “Honey, the food critiquing business is almost under way. I’m going to give you anything and everything you’ve ever wanted. We can still travel, have kids, and go to—” He stopped short when he heard her suck in a sharp breath at the word “kids.”

He placed a shaking hand over his mouth at the realization.

“You don’t want to have kids with me. Is that what this is about? You can’t see yourself raising kids with a blind man, can you?”
No wonder she never wanted to make love.
They’d only made love once or twice a month, and even then she was stiff as a board. Pres almost felt like he was raping her. They didn’t have any foreplay or pay special attention to other areas.

Pres had thought she was tired and overworked at her job. All the while, she was being overconscious of not getting pregnant since they didn’t use condoms.
Jesus Christ.

He didn’t know if he could handle this level of rejection or not. He wished he could just fall down right where he was standing and go to sleep forever. The pain in his chest was that deep and awful. This was the first time in months that he actually wished he had his sight back. He wanted to see her face one last time.

“I’m so sorry, Pres. It’s just…this is not what I signed up for.” Her voice was weak and strained. It sounded to him like she was crying.

Prescott didn’t move from where he stood.
Not what you signed up for.

He felt exposed and raw. His silk tie was like a noose around his neck. He silently prayed it would get tighter and cut off his air supply. Pres’s heart went into last-chance-full-on-desperation mode when he heard her scuffling with her bags as she moved through the condo.

“Oh God. No, no, no, no. Please don’t leave me, baby…I’m begging you. Please don’t go. We can work this out. We just need to sit down and talk.” Pres held both hands out in front of him, without words, asking for her to take them and hold them. She never did. “Sweetie, I need you so much. We can go to counseling if you want. I can fix this. I can, if you give me a chance.”

“Bye, Pres,” she whispered.

He numbly listened to her heels click-clack across the French-style hardwood tiles in his entryway. The definitive clank of the closing door boomed through his apartment like a jail cell slamming shut. That was it… She was gone. As much as he wished otherwise, he knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

He slid down the wall and dropped his head between his knees.

“Angie, please. Come back. Come back. Come back,” he whispered repeatedly as if he could will her to return to him. He sat there alone and sobbed quietly for hours into the empty room…the very dark, empty room.

Five years later

Prescott took the starched white napkin from his lap and dabbed the corner of his mouth. “Simply divine, Chef Molly. Your use of saffron in the lemon caper sauce is unique but absolutely refreshing. The scallops have nice searing on both sides and are cooked to perfection. Nicely done.”

“Thank you, Chef. Is there anything else I can get for you? Perhaps another glass of Chardonnay?” Chef Molly replied elatedly.

When Prescott showed up unexpectedly, the excitement and nervousness in her voice told him she was completely taken by surprise that he’d chosen to critique her new harborside restaurant off of the Chesapeake Bay.

Pres was the most sought-after food critic by every chef and restaurateur on the East Coast. His palate was the most refined of any reviewer ever heard of, according to
Food & Cuisine
magazine. If Prescott Vaughan gave your food a good rating, then your restaurant’s clientele would surely increase exponentially.

“You’re most welcome, Chef, and no, thank you, I don’t think I can eat or drink anything else. I’ve enjoyed everything very much. My business partner will be in soon to rate the appearance of the restaurant and the overall ambiance.

“However, I must say, I’ve enjoyed breathing in the salty ocean air coming through your open bay doors. The sound of the boats coming in and out of the harbor even puts you in the mind frame to order seafood. You made an excellent decision on the choice of location, Chef.”

“Again, thank you, Chef Vaughan. Tell your partner, Mr. Carbone, whenever he’s available would be fine for me.”

“Well, I’m going to get out of your way. I’m sure your dinner rush will start soon.” Prescott placed his napkin neatly beside the almost-empty plate. He pushed his chair back easily and bent down to feel for his cane.

“Let me get that for you, Chef.”

He felt Chef Molly place his retractable cane in his hand. As she did, her fingers lightly grazed over his, making goose bumps prickle on his forearm. It was the touch of a woman, not just any woman, a highly regarded chef. His cock immediately took notice.

“Thank you, Chef Molly. When I’ve finished the written review for
Fine Cuisine of Hampton Roads
magazine, I’ll have my assistant forward you a copy.”

“I’d appreciate that. Do you need any assistance with getting to your vehicle, Chef?” Her voice was timid and unsure.

He liked that most people still called him Chef, even though he hadn’t worked as one since the accident.

“No, Chef, my driver is out front. I can manage just fine.” Prescott could feel her breathing. Her warm, Shiraz-scented, erratic burst of breath made the fine hairs on his neck stand up. She was close to him…very close. He stuck his hand out in her general vicinity and waited for her to grasp it. When she did, she held his hand lightly and gave it a couple of soft rubs with her other hand.

Her skin was silky soft, and Prescott silently wished he could hold on to it a little longer. However, he was a professional and renowned food critic. It would be completely unethical to get involved with someone he’d critiqued.

“Take care, Chef Molly.”

“It was a pleasure, Chef,” she replied, sounding winded. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, she added, “Chef Vaughan, I hope I’m not out of line by asking you this, but do you think you’d like to get a drink sometime…uhh…with me?”

Prescott wanted to say yes so badly. However, he was not a cheater or dishonest.

“I’m flattered, Chef Molly, but I’m currently in a relationship,” he replied softly.

If you could call it that. Shit. I haven’t seen my girlfriend in weeks, and it’s been longer than that since we had sex.
Prescott shut off his internal rant, letting his mind drift back to when he last saw Chef Molly’s face. He remembered her deep blue eyes with thick tan lashes, and long blonde hair that she kept pulled up into a tight bun when she was in her kitchen. He’d had the pleasure of hosting a charity food rave with her a few years ago…before his life changed forever. She was gorgeous inside and out. He hoped she hadn’t taken the rejection badly. He tried to listen to any changes in her breathing to gauge if she was upset.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Well, you take care.” Her voice faded as she moved away from him, sounding slightly embarrassed.

Damn it.

“Good-bye, Chef.” Prescott started toward the entrance. He mentally remembered the overall steps he’d taken to get to his table and through the entrance, but he still needed to use his long cane. He didn’t want to trip on a chair leg and fall flat on his face.
Been there…done that.
He made it to the front door and heard the hostess bid him a good day.

When he got outside, he heard his personal driver, Scott, whistling a little tune as he waited for him. Prescott knew it was his driver’s personal way of letting him know where he was without drawing too much attention to him by yelling his name as soon as he appeared.

Prescott made his way to the curb and waited as Scott opened the back door to his sleek black Lincoln Town Car.

“Damn, I hate rush-hour traffic. They already reported a five-car pileup on the Chesapeake Bridge. Dang-on. You sure you don’t wanna drive, Pres?” Scott asked playfully.

“Shut the hell up.” Prescott popped Scott in his midsection and climbed into the backseat. He loved that Scott was able to joke with him about his disability, unlike so many others who treated him like he was either five years old or completely stupid. Prescott was the same man he’d always been…sort of.

“So, back to the office, Pres?” Scott asked while climbing into the driver’s seat.

“You got it.” Prescott made himself comfortable as the car smoothly pulled into traffic. He ran his hand down his silk tie and pulled his cell phone from his suit jacket pocket. He thought of giving Victoria a call, but paused mid-dial.
She’s probably still at work.
He called his business partner instead.

“Hey, Pres. How’d the critique go?” Adam Carbone greeted him the same way every time he picked up the line.

“It went great, Adam,” he replied. “I’m giving the food and service three out of four stars. Chef Molly looks forward to you critiquing the interior at your convenience. What else is on the schedule for today? I’m hoping it’s light. I really want to get caught up on some review writing.” He listened as Adam rustled some papers, which Prescott assumed meant he was checking the schedule.

“We’re good, Pres. I’m going to accept some requests for critiques on the Eastern Shore and then write my review on that little bed-and-breakfast in Williamsburg. You gave the food a three-star rating, but I had to give the interior a one-star. I can’t believe they thought I’d overlook mouse traps behind the furniture, or dusty windowsills,” Adam said, annoyance lacing his strong Italian accent.

“Damn, you’re getting tough, partner. You couldn’t give them a thirty-day extension to make improvements? I’ve noticed you’ve become very intolerant lately. Everything cool?” Pres asked, wondering why his partner had been so on edge the last few months. He didn’t cut anyone a break anymore, and even in the office, the staff was starting to give him a wide berth when he came through. Prescott had worked hard to build his reputation after his accident. He didn’t want them to be seen as the asshole critics everyone dreaded to see enter their establishment.

“No, man, I’m fine. Just our critiques need to be spot-on and reliable. Just because they don’t know exactly when we’re coming to do our review, doesn’t mean that they should get extra time if something isn’t right. Their restaurant should be immaculate at all times. Am I right?” Adam countered.

“You’re right, Adam. Consumers rely on our reviews, so we do want them to be accurate. Sorry, man, I wasn’t trying to imply anything.”

“It’s cool, Pres. Go home and do something fun, man. The reviews can wait another few days…it’s the weekend.”

“Actually, that doesn’t sound bad. I got quite a few books I’ve been meaning to catch up on,” Pres thought out loud casually.

“Oh, for shit’s sake, Pres. Don’t go home and listen to goddamn audio books. Go to a bar, or have Captain get your yacht ready and take it out for a couple days. Maybe take Victoria to your vineyard in Fishersville. Well, no, don’t do that because her ass is too ungrateful.” Adam balked at saying Victoria’s name.

Pres let out a deep chuckle. “You really don’t like her, do you?”

“What’s to like, Pres? She treats you like shit. You’re a human being, not an ATM.”

“Calm down, my friend. I may go to a lounge and enjoy some live music or something. I’ll talk to you later.” Pres disconnected the call before his partner could go on any further. “Change of plans, Scott. I’m going home, buddy.” Pres adjusted his black-and-chrome Burberry aviator sunglasses and pressed the button to let the window down. He listened to the sounds of traffic, silently missing the visual of Hampton Roads as Scott drove him to his condo.