Truly(47)

He crossed to her, and they fell into a conversation that seemed to consist mostly of shorthand. May caught the gist of it—something to do with produce quality from a supplier, the prices of various cuts of meat, a shortage of hotel pans. Ben made a disdainful remark about someone he referred to as “your sauce guy.” Sam asked questions about people May hadn’t met, and Ben answered them, his tone of voice growing gradually darker and growlier.

Five minutes turned into ten. She stirred the potatoes until they started to look rubbery, then took them off the heat. The omelets cooled and took on a glazed appearance.

She caught enough of what Ben was saying to understand that he had been covering for Sam for a few days while her injury kept her from the kitchen and someone named Perry was out of town for a funeral.

She also caught enough to understand that the conversation was putting him in a foul mood.

Or maybe it was the people. As Ben and Sam talked, nine o’clock came and went, and the kitchen filled with a steady stream of strangers in white coats. They pushed through the door, greeting the two chefs by name.

Ben began leaning toward Sam when he spoke, the angle of his body too aggressive, the V between his eyebrows as deep as she’d seen it. So different from the way he’d been on the roof—the way he’d been all morning so far, open and teasing. Fun.

This had happened on Friday, too, when Cecily asked him into the kitchen to fix the dishwasher. But then May hadn’t known what to make of the mood he returned in.

She didn’t know now, either, except that there didn’t seem to be any bad blood between Ben and Sam, who wasn’t the least bit fazed by his mood. She nodded brusquely now and then, asked questions in an undertone that May couldn’t overhear, and eventually squeezed his shoulder, said something that looked appreciative, and angled her head toward May. A moment later, Ben rejoined her.

“You didn’t eat?” He glowered at the plated food.

“I was waiting for you.”

He poked at an omelet with one finger, then tipped both plates into a nearby trash can. “It’s no good now. We’ll just stop at a bakery.”

May peered over the lip of the can. All that warm, delicious potential—gone. The eggs and potatoes had become a jumbled pile of fat-glazed refuse.

Ben turned away from her to retrieve his hoodie, and she fantasized about placing both palms flat across his shoulder blades and giving him a shove, because he’d ruined everything. Again.

But when life gave her lemons, she knew what she was supposed to do. She picked up her purse.

Maybe whatever had come over him would fade as they got farther away from this place.

The morning could still be salvaged, even if breakfast couldn’t.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


“The Brooklyn Bridge?”

“Yep,” Ben affirmed.

She couldn’t believe how long it had taken her to figure it out. It wasn’t as though the bridge had been hiding.

But in her defense, they’d had to wend their way through a construction zone, and it wasn’t until they started heading up—and then up, then more up—that it became obvious their trajectory would send them out over the water.

“Don’t you have anything more obscure to show me?” she asked. “Everybody says to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“It’s a great bridge. Plus, it goes to Brooklyn, which is where we’re headed.”

“What are we doing in Brooklyn?”

“Bees. And we can look for apartments, too.”

She perked up, pleased by the idea of helping Ben find somewhere new to live. She’d loved that part of college—finding an off-campus house or apartment for the school year, moving in, fixing it up on a budget. “Do you have listings we’re going to look at?”

Maybe he would let her see them. She could be in charge of the notepad when they walked through. She would make pro/con lists with him, and—

“No, I thought I’d walk around a few neighborhoods.”

Dang it, there went another fantasy.

“When is Alec coming back, again?”

“Friday or Saturday. I have to check.”

“Cutting it close, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about his move. But if he had to be out in less than a week and he was still “looking at neighborhoods,” something smelled fishy.

Ah, well. None of her business.

As she’d hoped, his miasma of grouchiness had dissipated on the way here. They’d stopped at an amazing patisserie for coffee and pastries. She’d eaten one more chocolate croissant than she reasonably should have. But she loved them, and it wasn’t as though she could get chocolate croissants this good in Manitowoc.