Page 3

Chapter 3

Sawyer

Thump, thump, thump.

Sawyer rubbed the persistent ache at her temples, pulling away from her open laptop to fish a bottle of Tylenol from her desk drawer. Not that pain meds had helped the last three times she’d dropped two into her palm. The pounding in her temples might as well be another heartbeat, it was so loud. She popped the capsules into her mouth, washing it down with the half-finished vitamin water she’d brought from home. The wall clock above the door laughed at her, each chime of the second hand reminding Sawyer there were still two more hours before she was homebound.

“One hour to go, people! We can do this!” she heard Barb yell from the front line, ever optimistic. Her sous-chef preferred to look at how long it was before closing rather than how long it’d also take to clean and go home. A loud whoop from the rest of Sawyer’s staff followed Barb’s encouragement in the kitchen.

Sawyer’s gaze returned to the screen in front of her. She’d received a reply email from yet another mechanic she’d sought out in hopes of a possible car rebuild. She quickly scanned the unedited response from someone named Darryl, glossing over the spelling errors until her gaze landed on “... would require taking the car to my shop.”

“Like hell it will,” Sawyer huffed aloud, scowling so hard at her computer that it was a wonder the sheer force of it didn’t shatter the screen. Her headache flared in response. What part of her carefully laid out stipulations for hiring someone to rebuild the hunk of steel in her garage did Darryl not understand? The car stayed put, and that was her final offer. Sawyer wanted to keep watch on the progress via her garage surveillance, and she couldn’t do that if the car was sitting unsupervised across town.

“Idiots.”

It was challenging to find adequate people these days.

“Dustin, where’s my pouding ch?meur ?”

Barb’s voice rang out once more from the kitchen, another reminder that her workday wasn’t finished. Sawyer sighed, knowing she needed to head back out there. Sneaking into her office for a quick reprieve was just that. Shane was expecting her, likely still looking forward to learning the next step in making gravy for the meat pies.

Not bothering to spend the minute it would take to reply to the email, Sawyer stood, chugging the remaining water before tossing the empty bottle in the recycling. Her stomach felt empty since she’d eaten toast and avocado hours ago at breakfast, but when she ate, it burned like the worst indigestion imaginable. The discomfort didn’t seem worth it until she couldn’t bear the hunger any longer.

She returned to the line, checking on Micah on meats and her second station chef, Leon, before sidling up to where Shane was removing the giblets out of the gravy pot. “Yeah, just like that,” Sawyer greeted him, ignoring the pang in her belly. She swallowed, pointing to the flour already measured out on the counter. “Now add a little of the drippings to your bowl, and slowly mix in the flour. Yes, just like that.”

While Shane did as she instructed, Sawyer kept a watchful eye on the rest of her staff. Barb was busy belting out orders while Leon removed a casserole from the oven. Micah had just plated a fine-looking beef filet, and Dustin was adding final touches to the desserts going out.

“Make sure there isn’t a detail missing on those plates!” Sawyer reminded her team, glancing between Micah and Dustin. “Earning our first Michelin star was only the first step. Now, we need to put in the hard work to keep it.”

“Understood, Chef.”

“Heard that, Chef, thank you.”

Sawyer nodded, turning back to Shane, and frowned at how he just stood there staring blankly into the pot. “You should be stirring every half minute and chopping the garnish in between. You need to be able to multitask if you want to make a career of this.”

Sawyer had always been a firm believer that being a great chef didn’t necessarily mean going to a culinary school. Preparing a Michelin star-rated dish was more than just memory or learning different cuts of meat in a classroom. The knowledge came from deep within, like all the senses coming alive to feel out if the bouillabaisse had the right amount of saffron or if the crème br?lée was cooked at the right temperature. Some of Sawyer’s signature dishes were created purely on instinct. Bree often joked that Sawyer’s sixth sense was knowing if a recipe was perfect or not. She wasn’t sure if such a thing existed, but if it did, Sawyer owed it to kids like Shane to find out. But that didn’t mean she made things easy.

Shane ducked his head, the tops of his cheeks coloring as he mumbled, “Sorry, Chef.”

“I don’t need an apology; I need you to learn the proper way. I promoted you to commis chef because I thought you had potential to be more than just my dishwasher,” Sawyer explained, registering the bite in her tone a little too late. She rubbed the back of her neck and swallowed, her mouth exceedingly dry. She was tired and short-fused, and her nausea was back with a vengeance, but taking her issues out on her staff was never a good idea. As she opened her mouth to apologize, Shane waved her off.

“I’m okay. Thank you, Chef. For the opportunity to learn from you.”

Sawyer frowned, unsure if he was being genuine or not. She decided it was too late in the evening to care either way and nodded. “Don’t forget to stir. I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” She left him to his task, checking with Micah and Leon once more before heading for her sous-chef. “Looks like things are winding down. I’ll be in my office until close, but call if we suddenly get a rush, okay?”

Barb nodded, accepting a salad for inspection. “Sure thing. Feeling alright?” Sawyer had asked her to expo earlier in the evening since she was busy with Shane. She could have gotten one of her other chefs to train him but preferred to be present when bringing green chefs into the fold. That way, they learned to do things her way.

“Yes, just have loads of paperwork waiting for me.” The lie came easily to Sawyer. She’d been lying for years, desperate to remain in control even when she felt anything but.

“Kelly should be doing that for you.” Barb gave her a knowing look as Sawyer turned away.

Sawyer checked on Shane one last time before making her way into the back office. As she fell into her swivel chair, she had just enough time to grab the garbage can under her desk before she threw up. “Ugh,” she muttered, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth.

For a moment, she just sat there, gazing at her closed door, exhausted beyond measure. She’d been living and breathing Desmarais since the moment she’d been handed the keys. She’d raised Bree while pouring her heart and soul into the restaurant. Hell, she’d lost count of how many times Bree had gone to work with her if the sitter couldn’t make it. Sawyer had changed diapers in her office, and had propped Bree up in her bouncy chair on the pastry table while she’d rolled out dough. Besides a three-week recovery period fifteen years ago, Sawyer had worked twelve or fourteen-hour shifts practically every day for more than twenty years.

How was it only now she was feeling the repercussions?

I must be burning myself out, just like Bree is always telling me.

Sighing, she pulled out the small bottle of mouthwash she kept in her bottom drawer, gurgling and spitting that into the garbage as well. Her stomach felt slightly better, so she chanced her luck on the container of saltines beside the phone. Maybe they would stay down longer this time.

Bach filled the speakers of Sawyer’s Range Rover as she drove home, the classical music soothing the weariness inside her as the SUV glided through the serene suburbs of Vancouver’s west side. At half past midnight on a Monday in the Dunbar- Southlands there weren’t many other vehicles out save for the taxis and Uber drivers.

The drive home wasn’t long enough to mentally rehash the day she’d had, but that could come later once she was neck-deep in a soothing bubble bath with a glass of red close by. The thought sparked a rare smile. She slowed the Range Rover down as she approached her house, the luxury two-story looming over her as she pulled into the drive. Solar lights lit up the driveway as she drove past, pausing at the two-door garage long enough to jab the opener button.

She sidled up beside her late husband’s covered sports car, shifted into park, and shut off the ignition. Stepping from the Rover, Sawyer scowled at what was left of the McLaren. Olivier had been obsessed with the fucking thing, no doubt loving the one ton of yellow carbon fiber more than Sawyer and Bree combined. Or at least it felt as if he did. Sawyer holding on to the broken vehicle made no sense to her friends and daughter, but they couldn’t possibly understand.

Olivier had taken and taken from her, often leaving her physically spent and emotionally bankrupt. Then he’d died before she could break free, so in the end, it was as if he’d won.

Sawyer needed to reclaim the control she’d lost by Olivier dying, and, come hell or high water, the ridiculous car that had made her a widow would be part of the process. Therein lay the agenda, one that would seem extreme to anyone else, but having the McLaren rebuilt could be exactly what she needed. She just had to persuade someone who was capable enough to not only rebuild the engine, if necessary, but the exterior of the car as well. The day after Olivier’s funeral, Sawyer impulsively gathered up all his belongings and threw them in the trash. Everything, even his toothbrush. It hadn’t been one of her finer moments, to say the least.

Had she been thinking clearly, Sawyer would have savored the act of destroying Olivier’s possessions like she’d done with their wedding photos years before. Throwing them out wasn’t enough for Sawyer. Even though Olivier was dead, defiling his once precious belongings would have given Sawyer immense satisfaction. Now, all she could do was hope restoring the McLaren would give her the closure she needed.