IT was evening, and the shadows on the grass had grown long, but the sun still lay golden on the hillside, glimmered on the water, and tangled in the walnut tree branches. Mark and Jenny had laid out the Luminara offerings in groupings on the linenless tables, first course at the far left and dessert down at the far right. Hiro had set out the wine. Simon looked it over and should have felt a sense of relief. The menu had been months in the planning, and what with the summer starting cool and damp and then suddenly turning hot, they’d had to revise their plans twice. But finally the weather and Simon’s personal life seemed to have settled, and everywhere around Lake Balmoral there was a sort of breathless air, as though everyone knew summer was standing on its tiptoes, ready to plunge toward autumn.
“Simon?” Hiro pointed at him. “Uh….” Then he pointed toward the path that wound down to the lake where a lone figure was coming toward them.
Simon grinned. “Oh, good,” he whispered.
“You invited somebody?” Hiro asked.
Mark and Jenny had stopped discussing the correct progression of dishes and looked up too. “Oh,” Mark said, sounding pleasantly surprised. Next to him, Jenny made a noise like air escaping from a tire. Everyone looked at her, and she clenched her teeth in a rictus grin.
“My watermelon pickle…,” she whispered.
“It’s very good,” Mark told her, and she let out a quavering laugh.
Simon felt some of those butterflies, but he pulled in a deep breath and headed toward Luke. “You made it,” he called when Luke looked up and waved.
“How could I resist?” Luke answered, grinning. He gestured at himself, and Simon followed the hand motion. He wore polished shoes, broken-in jeans that hugged his thighs and hips, and a white-and-blue striped dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons open that was probably a concession to the heat but also provided a glimpse of dark chest hair and his hard pecs. God, Tristan is going to fall in love the minute he lays eyes on Luke. “I hope casual is all right,” Luke added as he gestured to the shadow of a beard on his face. “I was out with horses this afternoon and didn’t get a chance to shave.”
Simon nodded. “Casual is fine.” He clasped Luke’s offered hand. “So glad you came. It means the world to Mark and Jenny.” They turned together and started toward the table.
“Ah, Mark, hello,” Luke said, waving cheerily. “And Jenny, is it? The sous chef, right?”
Jenny’s face went a purplish sort of red. “Hi,” she said in a weirdly breathless sort of whisper. Across the table, Hiro glanced up from counting glasses and frowned.
“I enjoyed watching your work last night,” Luke said. “I thought you managed that situation with the eggs very well.” Jenny opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Luke looked at Mark. “I’ve never seen a kitchen with so little drama,” he added. “It was refreshing.”
“We try to keep it family-friendly in there,” Mark answered mildly.
Simon nudged Luke. “And down there’s Hiro, our sommelier.”
“Ah, the genius behind the beer last night,” Luke said as he strode down the length of the table so he could reach over and shake Hiro’s hand. The slightly crabby expression on Hiro’s face vanished. “Cole couldn’t stop praising your pairing.”
Hiro shot a look at Simon, who sighed. “Okay,” Simon agreed. “You win. This time.”
“We don’t see eye to eye on beer in fine dining,” Hiro explained to Luke.
Luke glanced at Simon and then at Hiro again. “Well, one of you is a man of precision and tradition, and the other is a manager,” he said. Hiro cracked up. “I like sommeliers,” Luke said to the group in general. “They’re the only people who always tell the truth. Chefs on the other hand… and managers.”
Hiro looked at Simon. “We can keep him, right?”
“Absolutely not,” Simon answered. “Mark? Start us off before this becomes a roast. Okay?”
Luke snorted a laugh and shot his rakish grin at Jenny, who seemed to blush even harder.
“Jenny,” Mark said, “why don’t you lead? I’ll answer Simon’s questions. You work with Luke.”
Jenny nodded. “Yes, Chef,” she said and put her hands flat on the table beside the first dish. “Okay. First presentation is the farmhouse charcuterie platter with duck confit, local cheddar, nasturtium, borage, rocket flowers, and pickled watermelon, served with black bread from Sweet Nothings and sweet butter from a local barn.”
“You’re very serious about this,” Luke said to Mark.
Mark nodded. “Actually it was Jenny who got us interested in dairy.” He smiled in her direction. “She had us do a butter tasting. Spring grass butter is nothing like summer butter. I had no idea.”
Luke laughed. “It hadn’t occurred to me to pursue seasonal butter,” he said and nodded at Jenny. “Now, tell me about this platter. Why do you have something as delicate as flowers on there, where the pickle and sausage can overwhelm them?”
Jenny licked her lips. “At first the flowers were just a garnish. But we have so many, we thought we’d showcase them. But….” She glanced at Mark. “Maybe we should serve them first, as their own tasting tray?”
Mark made a little noise of consideration. “We could serve them on the boards,” he answered.
“With the leaves,” Jenny agreed, voice growing steady again. “As an amuse-bouche.”
Luke smiled. “I think that’s a good idea.”
She laughed softly. “I’ll make a note,” she said as she produced a pad of paper and a pencil from her back pocket. Across the table Simon caught Mark’s eye and shared a covert smile over that—Jenny having a master class in food pairing and Luke back in his natural habitat. He thought they’d done well, and Mark nodded as though he’d been thinking the same thing.
“THAT bread is magnificent,” Luke told him as they moved through the second course and into the third.
“My brother’s place,” Simon answered, pleased to have the opportunity to bring Tristan up in conversation. “He does an almond-cherry bread on the weekend that’s fantastic.”
Luke made a face. “Oof. I’m sorry I missed that.” He shook his head. “I was with the horses all day. I lose track of time when I’m riding. It’s so pleasant,” he added. “I had forgotten how much I enjoy their company.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow,” Simon told him, ignoring the remark about the horses and plunging back into matchmaker mode. “If you ask him nicely, I’m sure he’ll tell you what’s in it too.”
Luke gave him a look, half frowning, half laughing. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to set me up?” he asked.
Simon choked on the tiny wild strawberry he had just popped in his mouth. He coughed a few times. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he answered.
Luke raised one thick black eyebrow. “You have Mark plate me something off the menu at dinner last night, you invite me to a tasting, and now you’re trying to get me to spend time at a bakery.” He shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me back into the kitchen. You know I’m not going there.”
“I know that,” Simon answered a little defensively, almost as relieved as he was disappointed that Luke hadn’t been referring to a romantic setup, rather than a food-related one. “But I also know what you like.”
Luke’s smile changed just a fraction, and Simon wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Maybe he had overstepped.
“If you’re done in the food industry, that’s up to you. I just think….” He looked at Jenny, and inspiration struck. “What kind of an operation would we be if we didn’t give her the chance to interact with a two-star chef, huh?”
Luke looked at Jenny too. He nodded. “She’s very good,” he said quietly. “Very quick. Where did she train?”
“Canada. Brasserie L’ecole.”
Luke nodded. “Huh,” he said quietly. “Don’t know it.”
“It’s pretty small.”
“Hmm. So she’ll be focused on aromatics and French cuisine, which makes her perfect for sur le Lac, but her local dishes….”
“It’s not where she shines,” he agreed. “Mark’s working on that.”
Luke nodded. “Do you think he wants her to have the kitchen when he’s done?”
Simon hesitated. It wasn’t something he and Mark had ever talked about, but Mark was in his fifties, and long hours in the kitchen took their toll. “I think so,” he said quietly, half afraid Mark would hear. “But she wants to go to LA.”
“Nakayama’s place?” Luke asked, voice lowering too.
“Mm-hmm.”
Luke nodded. “Does she have a position there?”
“Not yet.”
Simon found himself looking at Jenny as she talked her way through the menu. Every time a chef went on sabbatical, his hopes and dreams went with them. He always wanted them to come back afterward, but almost none of them ever did.
“You’ll miss her,” Luke said.
“Mark’s going to miss her. And….” He indicated Hiro with his chin. “We might lose our somm when she goes too.”
“Like that, huh?”
Simon nodded.
“The restaurant business is one very long goodbye,” Luke murmured. “I know a good somm, if you need one.”
“What about a sous?”
Luke smiled faintly. “A few. But what about someone else in this kitchen?”
“Maybe.” Simon shrugged. Then he shook his head. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“It’s not so exhausting when it’s not your place,” Luke answered and clapped him on the shoulder. “I ran away from my own troubles, so I’m always happy to listen to other people’s.”
Simon found himself smiling just a little. “I’m glad you closed up shop,” he said then, surprising himself. “You deserve to be happy.”
Luke seemed almost as surprised as Simon. After a stunned instant, he shrugged.
“And you should keep doing the things that make you happy, even if”—he indicated Mark and Jenny and Hiro with his chin—“other people don’t understand.”
Luke gazed at Simon for a long moment, as though he were trying to figure something out. Then he nodded. “I guess,” he said quietly. “But I can’t stop myself weighing the risks against the rewards.”
“What have you got to lose?”
Luke said nothing. Then he laughed softly, nodded, and headed toward the table again. “That one,” he said, pointing at the strawberry dish, and he seemed like a totally different person again. Gone was the man who had just been speaking earnestly with Simon, and in his place was a chef sharing his knowledge. “Tell me about those strawberries. Why are they served cold?”
Jenny hesitated and frowned. “Oh,” she answered. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about that.”
“The chill preserves their lifespan, certainly, but it also dampens the flavor,” Luke said. “Warm strawberries are sweeter and have better acidity. I think these wild ones should probably be served at room temperature. What do you think, Mark?”
Mark nodded. “We can chill them when we get them, and then take them out in the morning. Sam can pick them over before we plate. He’s been looking for a way to get out of the dish pit.” He smiled at Luke.
“That’s a good place to start,” Luke agreed. “Incidentally, who’s the supplier for your strawberries?” Luke asked. Jenny looked at Simon, and Simon shook himself out of his stunned surprise.
“My mom, actually,” he answered. When Luke looked confused, he explained, “In the eighties, when she and my dad were running the place, they had a hard time getting reliable fresh produce, so they made a market garden. We still use it for all our hard-to-get specialty stuff now. The flowers, the wild strawberries….” He gestured vaguely.
“A herd and a market garden?” Luke asked. “That’s incredible.”
Simon knew he’d never have a better opportunity to throw Tristan and Luke together. “Would you like to go see it? We’re cutting herbs for bread, and you’re welcome to come.”
Luke laughed. “I think I would like that.”
“Luke, what did you think of the sake?” Hiro asked. Luke turned his attention to Hiro, and Simon pulled his phone from his pocket to text Tristan.
Something came up. Need you to cut for the focaccia tomorrow. 10 sharp. Observer coming.
Then he slid the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to Luke and Hiro. He took a moment to admire Luke’s shape, the soft timbre of his voice, the goodness and patience in his every word as he gently guided Hiro to the answer—the sake needed to be paired with pickle too, not just the fish—things that came easily for a Michelin-starred chef and were still mind-blowing for a young sommelier. He smiled.
Lucky Tristan.
I CAN’T go.
Tristan’s text came in long after the tasting had wrapped and Simon was returning to his office. He scowled at the phone.
You need to be there. Luke Ferreya is going to be there.
Sorry. The insurance guy is coming with the paperwork.
Simon scowled and dropped the phone onto the stack of paperwork on his desk. “Why are you making this so impossible?” he whispered at the phone. But he couldn’t actually fault Tristan. After the fire, dealing with the insurance company had become almost as time-consuming and demanding as his baking schedule. Tristan was desperate to sign the paperwork and put the whole summer behind him, and Simon could hardly blame him for not wanting to put off the meeting to go to the farm.
He dropped down into the desk chair and looked at the work in front of him. Timesheets for sign off, requests for vacations, and wholesale suppliers’ bills nearly covered the battered brown surface of the ancient desk that had once been his dad’s. Tangled phone cords and chargers lay half-covered by the unfinished work. Catalogs stood open to pieces of equipment they needed to replace. A vet bill for one of the calves was still flagged with a bright pink sticky. And two mugs, one empty and coffee stained, the other half full of yesterday’s brew, the cream congealing on the surface, sat on the corner.
“This place is worse than a teenager’s bedroom,” he muttered as he took it all in.
He closed his eyes and thought of the low light that painted everything golden, the long table of scrubbed, bare wood, and the Luminara test menu laid out. He thought of Luke savoring those tiny, perfect strawberries. He thought of the bright sparkle of champagne on his tongue, almost glimmering like the low sun on the lake. He thought of Luke’s impromptu toast to Mark and Jenny’s success and his easy smile, those three undone buttons at the neck of his shirt, his strong thighs, and his hand as he held the stem of the champagne flute. He remembered Luke’s interest in the farm and his warm, earnest smile when Simon invited him.
There were worse things than hitting the farm with Luke Ferreya.
Simon smiled. He’d make it worth their while. He’d pack a charcuterie plate, and they could share it. He would add Tristan’s black bread and herbs and flowers fresh from the garden. They could have a quiet moment in a hectic summer, out of the office, away from the press of work and bodies and the heat of the kitchen and the clatter of the dining room. It would be a stolen morning on a cool, quiet day, just as things were ramping up and summer was becoming brutal. He smiled a little, just thinking about it.
Tristan had no idea what he would be missing.
LUKE left the tasting a little muzzy with all that wine. He hadn’t intended to do so much talking. In fact, he hadn’t intended to do much more than show up and enjoy the offerings, but Mark had been so patient, so clearly mentoring Jenny into a chef, and Jenny was so clearly good and eager that they made him want to help shape a future great chef. So he opened his mouth about the charcuterie platter. To his surprise, he enjoyed a teaching role. Mark had no ego. He simply let Luke slide right in and agreed or disagreed with mild, well-thought-out commentary. Luke found himself fiercely fond of the guy. He clearly knew his trade, and he clearly loved the work, even though he knew his own limitations. Mark was a good chef and a decent man—something too rarely combined in great kitchens.
He supposed it was no wonder Simon’s kitchen ran so well, now that he had seen the head chef and sous together. He imagined they could cook in the dark and still manage just fine.
If Simon had asked him yesterday if he’d like to go to the farm, Luke would have feared some kind of trap to get him into a kitchen and said no. But the tasting had been so pleasant and the work of mentoring so easy and the company—no, Simon—so clearly understood him that his natural wariness had started to ebb.
He let himself smile. After all, there was nobody to ask him what he was thinking about. He was alone, and the evening, soft as silk, was falling around him. The shimmering lake and the shadowed pines were his only companions.
He was happier here than he’d been in a long time, with the horses, the company, and the food too. But he felt a slow creep of sadness, like nostalgia building up for these days before these days had even ended.
If he was really was going back to Argentina, then this was the finest way he knew how to say farewell to the past that never was and a future that could never be—spend a day working with Simon, side by side, like old times, with none of the pressure of his old life, only the love of the earth and the food, only the joy of scent and taste, only the pleasure of good company. Yes. And after that, he would buy his ticket to Buenos Aires and start again, carve a new life from the carcass of the old.
But first there was tomorrow.
Luke bypassed the public beach where children whooped and shouted and splashed. Instead he turned up the hot black-tarmac road that led to the town. Old Canoe Brewery stood right before him, its huge windows plastered with a sign that read, We’re Moving! He pushed through the big double doors and sidestepped the pub in favor of the sales area, where he bought two bombers of the saison to share at lunch after a morning of working in the summer heat. Tomorrow, in the early hours of the morning, he would stop at Tristan’s bakery and pick up something to share for breakfast, since Simon was so clearly crazy for his brother’s baking.
He smiled as he planned it. He would break bread with Simon and toast him. Then he would say his farewells. He would leave Simon a friend. That was the love that was offered to him, and that was good enough.
Luke looked around until he found a small green-painted bench sitting empty in the evening sun.
He pulled out his phone to snap a picture and noticed the little missed-phone-call alert on the screen. Luke glanced at his messages and started in surprise. There was a number he hadn’t seen in a very long time—his uncle in Argentina. He frowned, suddenly worried. His uncle had called twice but hadn’t left a message. Luke dialed back. The phone rang a few times, and then his uncle’s familiar baritone answered.
“Lucas,” he said in a slow, chiding tone. “I have been trying to reach you all day. Your mother has been trying to get hold of you. She said you have disappeared off the map, and she’s worried about you.”
Luke rubbed his forehead with one hand. “I’ve been avoiding her calls,” he admitted. On the other end of the line he heard his uncle chuckle.
“She says you chucked it down the road, that restaurant of yours.”
Luke nodded. “I did. Had enough.”
“Ah. She’s not taking it very well, then?”
“No, she’s not taking it well at all.”
“Well, she’ll come around. In the meantime, I’ll tell her you’re alive. Where are you these days? In case she wants me to send a search party.”
Luke raised his head and looked at the glittering lake, the sky turning peach and purple, and the blue mountains in the distance. “I’m staying in a little town called Lake Balmoral, in Washington. Pretty place,” he added.
“And are you in hiding, or in exile?”
“Neither, I hope,” Luke answered with a grin. He and his uncle Alfonz had always seen eye to eye. A thought occurred to him. He had planned to go home to the ranch, since his sister ran the place these days. But that might mean his mom would descend in fury and wrath, and that would be hard on his sister. “Hey, uh… listen, could you use a hand at your place?”
“Hmm?” his uncle asked.
“I have to talk to Mom eventually, and when I do I want to have something to tell her so she stops worrying so much. I’ve been planning to come back to Argentina for a while now. Olivia said I’d be welcome to stay with her, but….”
“You really are in hiding.” His uncle understood at once.
“Mom’s pretty mad.”
“Well, you’re always welcome here, Luke, you know that. We could really use a good polo player. The team stinks this year.”
Luke snorted. “Then you definitely don’t want me. I just started riding again after all these years. It’s ridiculous. I’m terrible.”
His uncle sighed. “Oh, well. Worth trying, I guess. When are you coming down?”
Luke looked at the sky and thought of Simon. “I have some business to wrap up here,” he said. “I’m not sure when it’ll be finished, so I was planning on coming back in late September.”
“September, huh?”
He could hear the disappointment in his uncle’s voice.
“When is a good time for you?”
“Well, August is haying season, and it’s always nice to have an extra hand for the haymow. Honestly, the sooner you come, the better. I can tell your mom that you’re safe and sound and I’ve laid eyes on you.”
Luke nodded. He could see the benefits, even if it meant putting a timer on his stay at Lake Balmoral. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do with the ticket I have, and I’ll let you know when to expect me.”
“That sounds good. We’ll talk later. Oh, and Luke?”
“Hmm?”
“For the record, I understand why you gave it up.”
That surprised Luke. “What?” he asked. His uncle had been a polo player almost from his birth, and even after his injury, he hadn’t given up the sport. He just became a coach rather than a captain. “Come on. You never gave up on anything in your life.”
“I did, actually,” he answered. “I love the ponies. I couldn’t give them up. But I could have gone back on after I broke my collarbone. I just decided not to. Lost my love of it, I guess.”
“You’re kidding,” Luke whispered.
“Nope. Lucky for me I had an excuse. I don’t know if I would have been brave enough to just walk away.” His uncle thumped something twice. Tump, tump. “Anyhow, you let us know when you’re coming in, and I’ll be there to pick you up.”
“August,” Luke promised around a lump in his throat. “Soon as I get myself sorted out here.”