“Do they make you feel closer to them?”
Our voices were quiet, blanketed in whatever bubble we’d created.
“A little. Kind of like I always have them with me, even in a small way, you know?”
I wanted to know and didn’t. Wanted my mom to still be with me, comforting me and offering her strength, even when it was the last thing I deserved.
Selfish.
“Do you think they are?” I asked anyway. “Still with us?”
She twirled her touch across the bare skin of my chest. I wanted to lift her fingers to my lips one by one. Then bring her mouth to mine for a single soft kiss. I flattened my palm over her rose tattoos instead.
She tilted her head. “I guess I believe love is a connection that goes beyond the physical, and I know I still love them even though they’re no longer here. I like to think their love is still here too. That it isn’t the kind of thing that fades just because their bodies are gone. And as long as our love for each other is still here, a piece of them is too.”
I hoped she was right. That my mom’s love still wrapped around Evan and my dad and Aubrey. That she lived on in the best parts of them.
And because of the selfish bastard I was, I hoped I got to be around to witness it. That through them, I could keep a part of her too.
Chapter Eighteen
Aubrey
Classic rock filledthe old warehouse-turned-shopping commons that served as the location for the ongoing charity tasting. The event was halfway through, the crowd still thickening with attendees weaving between the tables of participating restaurants. Jillian had signed Ardena up for it last year, but now that Arden Catering was operational, it made more sense for me to snag the marketing opportunity.
I let the song’s rhythm guide the steady flow of my plating spoon as I topped the rows of fried oyster mushrooms and tomato béarnaise that lined Arden Catering’s table with seaweed caviar.
It was a recent dish I’d come up with for the catering competition, and as far as I could tell from today’s reactions, it was solid. All the dishes I’d come up with in the two weeks since the disastrous wedding-prep night were. Perfectly edible, unlike my first attempts. Skillfully prepared.
They just weren’t enough to win.
Nothing on my current menu was unexpected enough. I’d incorporated some of the sustainable practices Jase had made a statement with in his menu for the symposium last year, but that alone didn’t convey the kind of story the competition’s event called for.
It needed drama. Passion. To inspire as much feeling through the food as the museum’s art inspired in its patrons.
What I’d created was boring in comparison. Or as a local food blogger had put it in their recent post about the engagement party I catered last weekend, “Arden Catering’s food lacked innovation, inspiration, or anything that hadn’t already been at the table—or any table—for decades.”
The words hadn’t meant anything to me when Jillian had stormed into the prep kitchen yesterday, printed article in hand, and thrown it into the lit flame of a burner.
“Everything in there is horseshit. Do you hear me?” Jillian had said.
I’d been more concerned about her burning down the building than the review. Especially considering I thought the engagement party had gone well.
Curiosity more than anything prompted me to find the blog post on my phone and read it once Jillian had left. Fair criticism toward my craft only made me better, and while the blog was decently well-known in fine-dining circles, most of our clients still came from referrals, so there was little risk to the business. If it had all been horseshit like Jillian said, I would have disregarded it without losing sleep.
But while whoever wrote the blog may have thrown around a lot of commas, they knew enough about food to pinpoint what was wrong with each of my competition attempts in a single sentence.
Lacking innovation, inspiration, or anything that hadn’t already been done.
They were right. And with only three weeks until the competition deadline, I didn’t know how to fix it.
As if summoned by my misery, Christian emerged from the crowd and strolled to my table like this was his regular hoagie spot.
I’d spotted Pépère’s van in the parking lot when I arrived, but the event space was huge, and over thirty restaurants were participating. My delusion had me convinced he and I would make it through the day without crossing paths.
Ha. As if Christian would pass on an opportunity to search me out. Especially when he had something so satisfying to rub in my face. I wanted to scrape off his smug smile with my spoon.
“Yes?” I asked as patiently as I could manage. It was by the strength of the three Advil I’d taken earlier for my period cramps that I didn’t roll my eyes at his widening grin.
