No Longer Needed (4 page)

Brad was a kind, gentle man. He was older, but she’d always felt like the older of the two since she’d always looked out for him. She loved him deeply and grew fierce if anyone tried to hurt him. She couldn’t use her brother for her own gain no matter how the desperation grew inside her. She didn’t understand it. Her father loved her, of that she had no doubt, but he never truly saw her. She’d made the mistake of being born female and therefore had less value in his eyes.

Her parents both thought she went to law school because she dreamed of being a lawyer. Mother felt sure she’d make a perfect prosecutor. Daddy, maybe just to be contrary, believed she’d make a better defense attorney. She hadn’t made up her mind which way she wanted her career to proceed. She had to pass the bar exam first, but she cringed at the thought of either course.
 

What is wrong with me? Am I going to waste all these years of school and good marks?
 

Jen slammed her hand on the steering wheel again, then winced at the pain before rubbing her hand on her thigh. She took an exit from the highway to a large gas station and restaurant. She’d eaten nothing that morning and her hands shook from the caffeine.

A Tim Hortons Coffee Shop beside the gas station drew her. She pulled into an empty spot and went inside. She needed coffee and donuts and couldn’t help herself, even knowing she’d feel the familiar racing inside as the caffeine took over.

Jen hadn’t been in university long before she’d discovered the benefits of stimulating substances along with the rest of her classmates. Law school had brutal competition between students—probably went along with the profession. Jen soon learned to take advantage of anything that gave her a leg up, including caffeine and sugar. Thankfully she didn’t need much as her natural high energy usually kept her going. Lately, an antipathy had crept over her. She woke each morning with dread, as though she’d taken a wrong turn down the road of life and now she was lost. Terror that it was already too late to turn back would replace the dread.

The line inched forward and Jen fidgeted with impatience. Her stomach growled and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Someone bumped her from behind and a male voice begged her pardon. She turned and looked into a pair of gorgeous dark brown eyes. They crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

“It’s okay,” she mumbled and turned back around. She could no longer see him, but his image stayed in her mind.
 

She finally reached the front and placed her order. A darkly tanned hand reached around her with a ten dollar bill and handed it to the cashier just as she rummaged in her bag for her wallet. She turned to protest, but he grinned at her, his white teeth against his tanned face stealing her breath. She forced her eyes away, mumbled her thanks, grabbed her order and fled to her car.

She waited out front, telling herself she was just taking a break from driving and not watching for him to exit the restaurant. She sipped her coffee, her gaze locked on the door. Before long, he stepped outside, a large coffee and a bag in his hands. She allowed herself to look him over leisurely now that she wasn’t being confronted with the force of his gaze.

He stood at least six foot two with long, lanky limbs. He was saved from scrawniness by his broad shoulders. She imagined kissing him, surprised at herself. She normally went for the Ivy League, blonde and blue-eyed types with lots of money. This man looked like he worked outside with his hands for a living. She suddenly understood the popularity of the tall, dark, and handsome type. The man who’d paid for her coffee certainly fit that description.

Jen yanked her gaze away when he spotted her. She looked up when he tapped on her window. She started her car and pushed the button to roll the window down half way.

“You forgot this.”

He reached through the window with a small square card.
 

Mystified, Jen took it. Before she could see what it was, she glimpsed his white teeth as he grinned and, with a wave, walked toward his vehicle. He drove a large pickup that was male without being flashy.

Jen watched him navigate out of the parking lot, not even trying to disguise her interest. The gorgeous stranger waved again and drove off. She looked down at what he’d given her.
 

A business card. Dimitri Petrakis.

Greek. No wonder he’s so dark.

The card gave his profession as a general contractor.

Construction.

And it had his phone number. Jen realized what he’d done. She wasn’t used to men coming up to her and giving her their phone numbers. She usually intimidated men, so she’d usually been the one to do the approaching. Despite the strangeness of the encounter, and the fact that she never let a man who wasn’t her boyfriend pay for anything, she was charmed.

Jen started her car and left the parking lot, once again heading to school.

Of course, I won’t phone him.

Chapter 7

Downtown Toronto, outside Connie’s restaurant, Il Giardino, a dozen people waited for a table. Friday evening had lately become the busiest night and it could be nearly impossible to get a table. Lucky for Emma, Connie would always make room for her, even if she had to make a patron wait a little longer.

The front of Il Giardino was lit up and inviting. Emma glanced through the window as the wait staff bustled around full tables. She walked up to the entrance ignoring the dirty looks from the people in line. Connie would be in a mad dash around the kitchen keeping the orders in a constant flow, so Emma didn’t want to disturb her.

The head waiter waved her over to a table that had just come free.

“Emma,” he said. “I’ll let Connie know you’re here.”

He cleaned the table while he chatted with her.

Before he stepped away, Emma thanked him.

The menu had an international focus with an emphasis on Italian flavors. Connie had taken a trip to Italy the summer after her second year into her culinary degree. By that time, Emma had dropped out and spent most of her days caring for Brad. She’d been green with envy.

Connie had come back with wild tales of a romantic fling with a hot Roman and hours spent in Italian kitchens. She’d never gotten over her love of Italian food, but also didn’t want to get into too niche of a market for her restaurant. People generally love Italian names, though, so she went with Il Giardino, The Garden. It sounded foreign enough to draw crowds, but the tastes and class kept them. It had become common knowledge not to expect a table if you didn’t book at least a month in advance.
 

Emma was proud of what Connie had accomplished, especially as she’d done it without the help of her best friend. Emma wished now, as she looked around the beautiful setup, that she had at least put off having children a few years so she could have taken part. Alan had been ten years older than her, however, and insisted he didn’t want to wait to start a family. Emma wondered what he would have done if she’d been unable to have babies.

Well, lucky for him I am ridiculously fertile.
 

Emma’s hands gripped her menu tight as she chastised herself. She loved being a mother. It wasn’t just Alan who had wanted children. She had too.

Emma decided on the daily pasta with truffles, remembering what Connie had said, and a glass of Riesling.

Soft music played over the sound system, but it was difficult to hear over the din of the customers. Emma amused herself by people watching as they interacted and enjoyed their food. She wondered if the couple near her had just gotten engaged. They held hands, hers crowned with a huge diamond, and gazed into each other’s eyes, their dinners apparently forgotten as they instead gorged themselves on the succulent desserts of Eros.

The dining room glowed with soft white lights along with candles on each table. The tables were round—Connie had said she wanted the guests to be able to sit as close to each other as they wanted—and were covered in rose cloths with cream overskirts. Fresh roses sat at the center of each table in crystal vases—
it must cost her a fortune in flowers every day!
—and the chairs were a dark antique wood. The walls were also covered in rose paper with cream accents. The floor matched the wood of the chairs. The layout made each table feel somewhat private, with low walls built between tables and large plants strategically placed. The doors to the kitchen were also behind a wall, and the waiters magically appeared with tempting dishes conjured from nothing but desire.

The young man who’d seated her came to take her order. He said he had let Connie know where she was seated, and then whisked away to another table.
 

Emma wondered how they did it. She even considered that a career as a chef in a busy establishment such as this might not have been the best move for her. She didn’t like pressure. Her dreams of being a chef always seemed to be about her flitting around a well-stocked kitchen alone, producing wonderful dishes to patient customers who understood that genius should never be rushed.

Her food came and it was even more delicious than she’d imagined. Connie had become a master chef. Emma had worked her way through most of the pasta and half of her glass of wine when Connie appeared and took the seat opposite.

Her brow glistened with perspiration and her eyes looked a little wild.

“How’s the pasta?” Connie asked.

“Perfect as always.” Emma lifted her glass in a toast. “To my best friend, the chef. Salutè.”

Connie smiled and reached for Emma’s glass. She took a small sip and passed it back.

“You never accept a toast without drinking as well,” Connie said.

“Are you sure you have time to sit? I don’t want to pull you away.”

Connie laughed. “If I don’t sit, I’ll fall, so I’m glad for the excuse.”

“I don’t know how you do it.” Emma shook her head. “It’s so busy in here, the kitchen must be a madhouse.”

“Actually, it’s not too bad. I have great staff. Although I prefer to be the head chef, I could easily pass things over to Rick. He’s a perfectionist, as you know, and yet a wonderfully creative thinker. I don’t know how I got so lucky to find him, but he’s worth his weight in truffles. Just don’t tell him I said so.”
 

Connie’s eyes twinkled in the candlelight.

“Well, it just might be that he’s thrilled to work in one of the most prestigious restaurants in Toronto,” Emma said with a broad smile. “Or, maybe he’s still in love with the chef?”

Connie waved her hand. “Nah, that’s all over.” She leaned back in her chair and surveyed her brain child. Emma could see she was pleased and proud with the success she’d found. But when Connie turned back to her, it was obvious something troubled her.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know. I’m happy, I love this place of course, but lately it all just seems like hard work and no life. Stupid, I know. I should be happy to have accomplished all I set out to do, but it’s begun to feel a little empty without a family.”

“Oh, Con, I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Well, I haven’t told you, so it’s not your fault. I didn’t even really know what was wrong until lately. I dread coming in to prep for the evening. I used to have to hold myself back from coming in too early, you know? It didn’t matter what I happened to be doing, I could only seem to think about Il Giardino. Now that it’s such a success, I just want to hand it off to someone else and go do it again, or maybe just open a small, more intimate place. This is all just so big and impersonal. It’s nothing like the trattorias I fell in love with in Rome.”

Emma sipped her wine. She’d had no idea that Connie hadn’t been perfectly happy with her life. It rocked Emma to think that her best friend’s life—which she had always envied in her heart—wasn’t everything Connie wanted. Sure, she could sell Il Giardino for a pretty sum, but Emma worried Connie would regret it. And what about a family? It wasn’t like you could just conjure one up out of the air.

“Well …” Emma paused, still unsure.

“It’s okay, Em, you don’t have the answers any more than I do. Who knows what I should do. For now I’ll carry on, just as you’ll carry on and we’ll see what life brings us.” She smiled and reached across the table to pat Emma’s hand. “Enjoy your pasta. I’d better get back to the kitchen. Oh, and this is on me, so don’t even try to get around it. My staff have strict instructions.”

Emma made a helpless gesture. She knew better than to argue.

Connie dropped a quick kiss on top of Emma’s head and hurried back to the kitchen.

Emma finished her meal and reluctantly left the restaurant. She had nothing but an empty house filled with the empty boxes she’d purchased that day. They were waiting for her things, but Emma still didn’t know what she wanted to take with her. She’d called Alan to find out the schedule for the house being put on the market. The pregnant girlfriend didn’t come up in their conversation.

“Take whatever you want from the house and leave the rest,” Alan had said in his clipped tones. “I’ll go through it when you’re done and then a cleaning company will come in. They have instructions to give whatever’s left to the thrift store and make everything shine. The Realtor has a company that will fill it with furniture, stage it, and then she’ll begin showing it.”

And that was that. Emma had nothing left to say. She’d agreed and hung up. Jen and Connie’s words came back to her. But what would be the point of standing up to Alan when there was nothing to salvage?
 

She would move on and perhaps if she had another relationship one day, she’d try to do better.

Chapter 8

Emma stood in front of the dozen or so boxes, her stomach uncomfortably full, her head a little light from the wine, and tried to bring her thoughts into some sort of order.

Pictures of the now fractured family sat in pewter frames on the mantel over the fireplace.

Do I take them to be reminded of what I’ve lost?

They had bought the sofa in their fifth year of marriage. She’d been excited to own such a special piece of furniture and made plans for when they could purchase the rest of the set. Now the sofa would most likely be sent to a thrift store. It felt as if she had been told to pack up all her bright dreams for the future, along with her memories, and give them away like discarded furniture.