Page 43 of Last Seen

Chapter Thirty

Noah is greeted warmly by the staff and gets her seated in the dining room, away from the window but within easy view of the kitchen.

He delivers an espresso, freshly pulled and aromatic enough to make her mouth water, holds up a finger and disappears again, then brings back two plates with an omelet on each.

“Lobster and gruyère, with chives and spring onion. If you’ve ever had one better .

.. don’t tell me, or it will not be on the house. ”

He sets the plates on the table with a flourish. They are bone white, and the omelet steams in the center, fragrant and perfect. The freshly chopped chives smell as luscious as a summer day.

“Let me get some salt and pepper. And cream? Or half-and-half?”

“Cream.”

“You got it. Be right back.”

The second his back is turned, she swaps the plates. Just in case.

“So I—” He looks at the plates, fighting back a grin. “I gave you more lobster. My gain.” He sets the salt and pepper in front of her, the cream between them, then takes his seat and digs in, looking up at her between bites. “Eat it while it’s hot. It’s a waste otherwise.”

Halley takes a careful bite and tries not to moan aloud. It is delicious. Buttery and divine.

“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“France. They made us chop onions until our hands bled, get up before dawn to bake bread for days on end, and finally allowed us to try our hands at actually cooking something other people might enjoy, starting with the humble omelet. It was a wonderful experience. Do you want some toast? I have a multigrain black bread that would go perfectly, and freshly churned butter.” He’s off before she can say yes, and back minutes later with a dark loaf of bread and a crock of sun-yellow butter.

He rips off a piece and slathers it, hands it to her.

It’s warm, as if it just came out of the oven, and she can taste the caraway seeds and hearty grains.

“My God,” she groans. “You are a magician.”

“The basics are the best, in my mind. Take something simple—like an omelet—and perfect it. Only then can you experiment.”

“You cook for all the restaurants here in Brockville?”

“Yes. I love it. Kitchens make me happy. I skipped out of high school the day after I turned eighteen and went to the Le Cordon Bleu in Paris to get my formal culinary arts training. I got my Grand Dipl?me, which covers both pastry and cuisine, and now I’m a couple months away from sitting my Master Sommelier exam. ”

“A triple threat.”

“It helps. We have five different kitchens, one for each style of restaurant, from the bakery to the pizza place, and each with a different goal in mind. I design the menus and oversee them all, and train their chefs, too, though the majority of my time is spent at Pesche. I want a Michelin star before I’m forty and it’s too late. ”

“That’s ... aggressive. Granted, the restaurant I worked in wasn’t going to get a star, but it catered to a decent enough clientele, so I got a chance to see how a good kitchen runs. Yours is in tip-top shape, by all accounts.”

“You’re in the industry?” The way he lights up, she recognizes a man with a passion that overrides everything—common sense, love, life.

She notices he does not wear a wedding ring.

Not that it means he’s not married; she doesn’t have hers on, either, and her marriage is .

.. complicated. With the kitchen work, she doubts a ring fits his lifestyle anyway.

“I was a server. That’s all. Nothing like what you’re doing, and it’s not my lifelong love. Just a temporary gig during school. It helped pay the bills. Maybe I’ll do it again. I’m suddenly between jobs.”

“Between jobs?”

Why did she say that? Now what is she supposed to do? Share her situation with this complete stranger? I fucked up my life so now I have to start over? “It’s a long story.”

He waves it off. “Well, I hope you love it as much as I love my work. Suffice it to say I’ve put some pressure on myself, but it’s worth it, I think. In the long run.”

“Why food? I mean, Paris, obviously, but why not architecture or forestry or ... law enforcement?”

“Good question. With a super-simple answer. My mom used to let me help her make dinner. She was self-taught, and no one made better food, in my opinion.”

“And now?” Halley asks, though by the look on his face and the wistful tone in his voice, she can already tell his answer will be a sad one.

“She died a few years ago. Breast cancer. Refused any treatment outside of the holistic. She said if this was what she was meant to die from, then so be it. Better than being eaten by a bear on a three-day camping trip. She got to say goodbye to us all. I wish ... Well.”

His voice breaks and he looks down, and she realizes he’s truly marked by this.

Though his accomplishments and confidence and extroversion and air of expertise make him seem larger than life, sharing the sorrow of loss makes him more vulnerable.

She understands his loss all too well. The past few days have been like losing her mother all over again.

She’s been trying not to think about Susannah, trying to stay focused on finding Cat, but it’s not working. Her mother is everywhere.

“It must have been upsetting to have her refuse treatment like that,” she says gently.

He forks in a pile of lobster dripping with cheese. “Yes and no. She wasn’t very happy here, in the end. I like to think she’s in a better place.”

He chews, noticing Halley has stopped eating. “I’m sorry. You lost yours, too.”

“Yes. But mine didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. The last word I heard from her was ‘Run.’ ”

His brows draw together.

“You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack. Cat took her away from me. She went to jail—well, she was housed in a juvenile psychiatric facility. Got out when she was eighteen, went to Harvard, of all places, and studied psychology, got married, divorced, and came here. This is where the trail ends. Apparently, with you. You, who claim you’re the last one to talk to her. Fifteen years ago.”

She eats the rest of her omelet calmly, allowing him a moment to adjust his memories. He didn’t know the truth, and it’s the only reason she isn’t leaping from the table and getting in the Jeep.

“Still want to tell me what you know?”

He nods. “Think I better. Do you know anything about my dad?”

“Just what I’ve read online and what Tammy told me. Modern-day Thoreau, started this place to be a kind of new urban utopia, had a bunch of boys who all work here in Brockville to help him. He is world famous.”

“All of that is true. He’s also a very .

.. strange man. Anyone who is perfectly at ease alone in the wilderness for years at a time isn’t completely right in the head, you know?

By the time I came along—I’m the youngest—he and my mother weren’t super close anymore, and I was closest to her.

She and Dad had their final falling-out when I was eight, and she moved out of the house and took me with her.

We lived in a place of our own, here in Brockville but away from the rest of the family.

She took me to Paris when I was twelve and got me hooked on food.

She never spoke badly about him, till the day she died, but the strain on their relationship was so clear.

She wouldn’t tell me what broke them up, either, and trust me, I asked.

So I’ve had the benefit of seeing Dad from a slightly different perspective than my brothers, all of whom worship him and will do anything he asks. ”

Halley says nothing, because there’s nothing to say. She doesn’t want to interrupt him, and he continues.

“Brockville is built around his image, his ethos, his genius. The money was invested in him . Not the town, not the people who live here, not the amenities. They came because of him. He is their messiah. You know what I mean?”

“You make it sound like he’s a cult leader.”

He snickers, sips his coffee, makes a face.

“It’s cold.” He looks over her shoulder, a move she’s starting to realize is a way for him to gather his thoughts.

“I suppose I do make him out to be someone ... above others. He’s not, of course.

He’s no different from anyone else who’s knocked down walls and stayed at the top of a major operation for years—people revere and respect him.

But the way people look up to him and take his word as law does make me uncomfortable.

There wasn’t a lot of room in his life for a son who didn’t want to obey his every command. ”

“So why are you still here?”

He nods as if he knew that’s what she was going to ask.

“Because I can’t leave. I’m tied here. Every time I try, something draws me back.

I’ve moved away four times, and the moment I start somewhere else, I get pulled back in.

Now I think it’s just easier to do what I do—innovate the culinary scene in town, draw in people for my creations, and stay out of his way. ”

“That’s . . . interesting.”

His face sharpens. “Your sister ... I felt a connection with her. A spark of something.”

“Attraction, maybe?”

“Not that. You’re much more my type.” He says this freely, with a frank smile that belies any underlying agenda, but she blushes, nonetheless. “You’re very French. You have that fine-boned Angevin thing going on that all the women in Paris have. Très charmante .”

“Thank you, I think.”