Page 42 of Finding Yesterday
“Sure, of course.” He reaches out and takes it before asking her what her name is. Then he writes, “Good luck, Darla. J Brady.”
She starts to ask him questions, one after the next, clearly flirting with him.
Jack shifts on his feet, his eyes glazing over like he does when he’s shutting down. It’s clear he really hates this, and I understand why after the things he told me last night.
I walk over and touch Jack’s shoulder. “Hey guys, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m refilling your chili pot and want to make sure I heat it correctly.”
“Oh, okay.” He exhales a breath. “Yeah, it has to be set just right.” He looks at Darla. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You too. Thanks for your time.” When she rushes away, smiling ear to ear, I’m not sure what to say to Jack. It’s weird because I don’t see him like that, not at all.
But I don’t have to because he leans into my hear and whispers, “Thank you. Really,” and I swear Jack’s soft lips touch my earlobe. It almost feels like a feather-light kiss.
I stop, frozen. I don’t know what’s happening, but my skin has turned to gooseflesh and my toes are tingling. Jack’s closeness, his warm breath, his smell, fogs my brain. I don’t reply because I don’t want to move. I want to feel this, whatever it is, for a beat longer.
And I can’t help but want him more than I already did. Jack loathes the attention, but he was so kind and humble about it all. That makes him evenmoresexy, if that’s possible.
A group of attendees approach our booth to sample our chilis, and the moment is gone. Jack and I both take our places in front of our pots.
Soon, we end up one of the few that has a line. I know some folks just want to meet Jack, but they’re also tasting my chili, which I take as a good sign. Plus, we keep hearing that ours is the best yet, so we’re feeling pretty confident.
But after an hour of watching other booths up the ante with sour cream, cheese, and condiments, Jack says, “Bring out the tortilla chips, Cole.”
“No, don’t give in to that!” I jump over and cover the bag with my hands. “That’s cheating. If you have to add stuff to the chili for it to be good, then it’s not good.”
“You have a point.” He looks around, his hands on his hips. “One I’ve made many times before. But look around us. Everyone is doing it. I can’t take it anymore.”
I don’t have to look around to know because I’ve been watching it happen too. I’m not sure what moral high ground I think I’m taking, but this is not the hill I’m going to die on. I tap my foot as I feel myself caving. Finally, I wave my arms and say, “Okay, let’s bring it out. Bring it all out.”
When our chili lines grow, I figure it was the right move. So what if they’ve now piled on cheese, sour cream, and tortilla strips?
A refined, older gentleman approaches me, saying, “I only eat meat chili. But I could eat this all day.”
“Why, thank you.” I flash a bright smile, a warmth flowing through me. I can’t believe how rewarding this is. It always amazes me how cooking seems like such a small, basic thing, but it’s not. It’s the ever-present tether that binds us, from the fond memories of yesterday to the happy moments of today.
I love being a part of that tie. And doing it with Jack, well, there’s nothing better.
When the man walks away, Jack says, “Claire, do you know who that was?”
“No, who?”
“That was Pierre LeBeau,therestaurant investor. If he invests in your restaurant, you succeed.”
“I had no idea.” I gulp. Holy crap, Pierre Le-whatever loves my chili. And apparently, that’s a big deal.
Jack smiles. “Let’s just say that if he likes your chili best, that’s a good sign. Averygood sign.”
“No way.” I let out a tiny squeal. If I win, I’ll get all the credit instead of Hudson. It’s my veggie chili, my category, and under my name. Which are all very good things considering I’m going to need the exposure for when I’m ready to launch a restaurant of my own.
It’s rolling into the afternoon, and I’ve got a bad case of the jitters because I think I really might have a chance. I can’t wait for Emma and Dylan to get here and see how well I’m doing. She told me they’d stop by on their way to Blue Vine. Daddy’s going to babysit Dylan while Emma goes to watch Nate play at Myrts. When I text Emma asking her what time they’ll arrive, she calls me back.
“Hey, Em, what’s going on?”
She sighs. “We haven’t left the house yet. Dylan’s fine, but he skinned his knee when he fell off his scooter. Now we’re running late.”
“Oh, no, but I’m glad he’s okay.” Something tightens in my stomach as I scuff my foot on the ground. “So, when do you think you and Dylan can make it here?”
There’s a long pause. “We want to come, Claire, but I don’t think we have time now. I’m so sorry, but I’m helping Nate practice his new songs before he goes on stage. He needs me.”
