One Night, Two Consequences

‘What are Turkish eggs?’ Eli demanded.

‘Poached eggs, basically,’ Remy murmured, unable to help herself. ‘Although I do mine with mint, chilli and smoked paprika. Seriously yummy.’

‘Maybe we do want Turkish eggs on the menu,’ Eli told Ginny.

‘Well, I don’t want caviar omelettes. Caviar omelettes do not belong in the type of place we are opening at Belleaire,’ Ginny said obstinately.

Belleaire … Remy thought. The fancy wine estate on the outskirts of town. Were Eli and Ginny two of the three family members who owned and ran the upmarket, famous estate which was prominently featured in all the tourist brochures?

Okay, she wasn’t going to pretend that she wasn’t listening any more. ‘What type of restaurant are you opening?’ she asked, intrigued.

Ginny pushed her coffee cup away and half turned to face Remy. ‘A family place—breakfasts, teas, light lunches. Fresh, healthy, light, interesting food that’s not … pretentious. I want people to be able to relax, to bring their kids there, but still be able to get a nice meal, a decent glass of wine.’ She pulled out a sheaf of papers from her bag and slapped them onto the table. ‘My brother is currently interviewing candidates for the manager-cum-chef position and he’s asked them to send through sample menus for what they would do if they were offered the position.’

Remy gestured to the papers. ‘Can I look?’

‘Are you a chef?’

Remy shook her head. ‘No, but I am a cook and I adore food. I’ve done about a million cookery courses.’ She skimmed through the menus, tossed most of them aside and kept a couple in another pile. She tapped her finger against the slim pile. ‘These here are the best of a bad bunch, but they’re still not great.’

Eli folded his arms and his biceps bulged. Nice arms, wide chest, flat stomach … But still she felt nothing. Weird.

‘What would you do?’

She blinked at him. ‘About what?’

‘If it was your place? You obviously know food, and you seem to be familiar with the dishes on those menus.’

‘Oh.’ Remy thought for a minute, her face cupped in her hands. ‘Um … interesting salads. Couscous and butternut, watermelon and feta—things like that. Soups with crusty, gorgeous bread. Hearty dishes like lamb stew, lasagne and chicken casserole. Classic puddings with one or two exceptions to keep things interesting. A specially designed menu for kids—but I’d avoid burgers and hot dogs. Fish and chips, a chicken pasta dish—meals that kids like and mums like them eating.’

Remy didn’t notice the long look Ginny and Eli exchanged. Instead her eyes were on the waitress, who was walking in their direction with what was, hopefully, her burger. She was so hungry she could eat a horse.

‘Are you looking for work?’ Ginny asked.

‘Sorry? What?’ Remy sighed her disappointment when her burger went to the table two up from them.

‘We’re looking for a chef-manager to set up the bistro and you seem to know what you’re talking about,’ Ginny explained, her face animated with excitement.

‘Uh … I wasn’t planning on sticking around,’ Remy replied, her mind whirling.

She was here to talk to Bo and then she was on her way. But setting up a restaurant, designing a menu, building something from the ground up, sounded like a whole bunch of fun.

Throughout her life, and despite trying many different activities on her travels, food had seemed to be her only constant. When she was a child, battling to reconcile her intellect with her emotions, Grandma Rosie had often hauled out her baking bowl and flour and put her to work. Baking calmed her and it and cooking was still her favourite means of stress relief.

When she’d started travelling she had finally had the time to indulge her passion; she’d started to blog about food and spent an enormous amount of time seeking out the best food markets, learning how to cook the local foods.

She’d taken a course in how to cook Thai food in Bangkok, had done a confectionery course in London, a cordon bleu course in Marseille. Sushi in Sydney. Chinese in … Sydney again. She seemed to gravitate towards the food industry, but she didn’t want the pressure of working in a professional kitchen.

If she weren’t pregnant she wouldn’t hesitate to take Ginny up on her offer. But after seeing Bo she needed to keep moving while she still could. Some time in the next four months she had to find a town or a city she wanted to live in and—ack!—a job. Or, better, a business that covered her daily expenses and allowed her flexibility and freedom.

A cupcake shop? An ice cream parlour? An old-fashioned tea room?

And where? In Portland? Close to her mum and to Grandmother Rosie, who’d helped raise her?

‘Do you have another job? Somewhere to be?’ Ginny demanded, breaking into Remy’s thoughts. She pointed a finger at her. ‘I can see that you are intrigued and interested, and life is too short to spend your time doing stuff you don’t like.’

She knew that—that was why she didn’t have an ulcer any more. A baby, but not an ulcer.

‘I am interested … it does sound like fun.’ Remy tipped her head, thinking quickly. ‘Maybe I could spend a week or so here, look over the space and draw up some sample menus. I could possibly cook a couple of dishes that you can sample. I can’t commit to a taking a job right now—to anything right now—but I’d be happy to give you guys some ideas, so that when you do employ someone you can tell them what you want and not have to rely on their taste.’

Ginny clapped her hands in delight. ‘Would you? That sounds amazing. Of course we’d pay you for your time.’

‘Hell, I’d pay you to cook for me,’ Eli stated. ‘So, how long have you been travelling for?’

‘Ages.’ Remy smiled at him and his returning smile showed interest. She checked inside herself again … No flutter, no tingle—nothing. Damn.

Eli must have seen something cross her face, because his eyes laughed at her before he softly spoke again. ‘Huh, I must be losing my touch. That doesn’t happen often.’

He said it with such genuine regret and confusion that she couldn’t hold his arrogant statement against him. So she shrugged and smiled, genuinely regretful. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’ve lost track of this conversation,’ Ginny muttered.

‘I’ve lost track of my burger,’ Remy stated, desperate to change the subject. ‘Oh, good—it’s on its way.’

The waitress slipped her plate in front of her with a murmured apology about the delay. Remy waved her away—and then blanched as the smell of fried onions hit her nose. Swallowing down her sudden nausea, which she attributed to her being on the very wrong side of ravenous, she cut into her burger and pulled it apart. She’d ordered it rare, as she always did, and the patty was perfectly cooked, oozing juice.

Her stomach climbed up into her throat and Remy slapped her hand over her mouth.

Ginny frowned. ‘Hey, are you okay?’

Remy shook her head and pushed her plate away. She had to get out of here. Now!

Scrabbling for her bag, she stood up, teetering on her feet. Eli flew up and grabbed her arm, keeping her from doing a face-plant on the floor.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she muttered to no one in particular.

From a long way away she heard Eli speaking to Ginny. ‘Maybe you should take her to wherever she’s staying, Gin, and I’ll settle the bill.’

Before she knew it the pint-sized Ginny had a surprisingly strong arm around her waist and was guiding her out of the restaurant.

So … okay, then, she thought as she sucked in fresh air. Maybe she wasn’t going to be one of those lucky women who got to skate through pregnancy.

Bo looked at his watch. He had ten minutes before his meeting with Ginny and Eli, and he was thinking, as he always did, that he was lucky to have his sister and his cousin as full partners in the family business. They fought like cats and dogs, but implicitly trusted each other, and each of them had their strengths, their place in the business.

His was the business brain and he kept the whole ship sailing smoothly, Eli made the exceptional wines the business was built on, and Ginny was the farmer, the viticulturist: responsible for looking after the vines and the land, the olive orchard and the vegetable gardens that supplied the mansion hotel and the restaurants with fresh produce.

On paper and in the eyes of their staff he was the boss, but in reality they operated as a rough sort of democracy. Any major decisions were made collectively, through negotiation and compromise. Sometimes that negotiation and compromise sounded more like shouting and arguing, but whatever worked …

And it did work. Better than any of them would have believed when they’d inherited equal shares of the winery, house and land after their beloved grandfather had passed on ten years before. He and Ginny had supported Eli when he’d informed them that he needed to travel, to visit other wine-producing countries, and he and Eli had trusted Ginny’s instincts to restore the Belleaire mansion to its former glory when they’d decided to turn it into a hotel. They’d both stood at his side when he’d buried his wife of six months …