The Rebel (14 page)

She glanced out to the lake. “My mother and I waited for him to come back for at least an hour. There was more bad weather on the way so she called the sheriff's patrol, but they couldn't go after my Dad. They were busy rescuing a Boy Scout canoeing trip from the storm. So she headed for my father's fishing boat. It was just a tin can with an outboard motor on it. She told me to stay behind to watch Joy.”

Frankie felt dizzy as she remembered the last time she'd seen her mother's face. Those lovely, kind eyes had been full of fear as she'd headed out into the
lake, but she'd been bound and determined to get her husband.

“My mother couldn't swim. I knew she couldn't swim and I let her go out in a storm, in an unsafe little boat, with only a couple of flotation cushions. There was no life preserver. How much time would it have taken for me to run and get her a PFD from the house? We had them for the guests. God, I should have made her wait, I should have—” She could feel the hysteria rising in her chest.

“Frankie—”

She knew by the tone of his voice he was going to tell her it wasn't her fault and she cut him off. “Don't. Just don't. I grew up on this lake. I knew how it behaved. It was utterly irresponsible of me to let her go.”

“But did it ever occur to you that you were not the parent?” Nate said gently. “That your mother was protecting her child by making you stay?”

Frankie closed her eyes. “All I know is that if I had gone, she'd be alive today. And Joy would have at least had a mother.”

“You're putting a lot of responsibility on yourself.”

“Who else can I put it on? When my mother took off, there was no one on that dock but me. Joy was in her room, scared to death. Alex wasn't home. I let my mother go.” She shook her head. “I've replayed
that moment when she went into that storm over and over again.”

She dragged air into her lungs.

“I dream about that moment even now. Sometimes I'm the hero and I save them both. Sometimes she comes back with him. Most of the time, I'm just in the storm, waiting. Searching the rain.” She looked down at him. “Kind of like right now.”

Nate made a move to come forward, but she put her hands out. “If you hug me right now, I'm going to cry.”

“So cry. I don't care.” His arms were so good as they went around her. “Just don't ask me not to hold you.”

 

A
N ALARM WAS GOING
off.

Frankie shifted uncomfortably. Her neck was stiff, her back was sore—

She flipped open her eyes.

She and Nate had slept on the floor of her office. And that wasn't an alarm, it was the phone.

She scrambled up to the desk and grabbed the receiver in the dark, thinking it must be two in the morning. “Hello?”

“Frances Moorehouse?”

Her throat tightened to the point of cutting off her air supply. She couldn't even respond.

“This is Commander Montgomery. Your brother's been found. He's injured and being treated at the local
hospital for several broken bones. But he's alive and we're going to fly him home to you in forty-eight hours.”

She clasped her hand over her mouth, tears starting to roll. Somehow, the commander ended the call and she replaced the receiver without dropping it. She launched herself into Nate's arms.

“He's alive. He's alive. He's alive….”

 

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON,
Frankie finally got to talk with Alex. He was groggy from pain medication, but his hoarse voice was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. Unfortunately, the Coast Guard was still looking for his partner, Reese Cutler. Alex was distraught about that, but he did seem to accept the fact that he had to come home to recuperate. As she hung up, she could just picture her brother trying to get out of a hospital bed so he could go and find his friend, even though he had casts on his leg and arm.

She got teary-eyed every time she thought of him and the near miss. Especially when she pictured Reese's wife still sitting by the phone.

As she and Alex had said goodbye, she'd told him that she'd get his old room ready for him. Just the thought of having him at White Caps for a little while was enough to put a smile on her face.

“So you've heard!”

Frankie looked up at the door. One of the guests was waving a newspaper and grinning.

“About what?” she asked.

“The review. In the
New York Times.
” The man came forward and dropped the paper on her desk. The headline read, White Caps B & B: An Out of the Way Pleasure.

She laughed aloud. She'd never even known a critic, much less one working for the
Times,
had been through the dining room. “May I keep this?”

“Sure, as long as I'm guaranteed a table tonight.”

She went into the kitchen to find Nate. He was making bread. “Did you see this?”

He looked up from the kneading. “Well, what do you know. Walter snuck in here.”

“God, Nate. This could save us.” She glanced away, reminding herself that they were not partners. “White Caps, I mean. Anyway, congratulations.”

“Thanks. When are you going to pick up Alex at the airport?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Want company?”

“I'll be fine. I'd like a little time alone with him, actually.”

The truth was, though, she felt like pulling away from Nate. His support during those awful hours of waiting had been all that had gotten her through the night in one piece. She was grateful beyond measure, but she was so vulnerable to him now. He'd seen the very core of her.

And he was still leaving. In a month's time.

Needing some busy work to keep her mind off the future, she went to her office and re-ran her financial projections. If everything stayed the same, and with the
Times
article that was a pretty sure bet, they were going to make it, even with the accelerated deadline of August.

She refused to let herself think about the following summer. Maybe she'd be able to attract a better quality chef now that the restaurant had been written up. Maybe Nate would know someone who was of his caliber.

Yeah, like there were a whole bunch of French chefs who'd want to get pigeonholed in upstate New York.

It was a little before four when Nate's friend, Spike, called again. She left her desk to give them some privacy, and when she came back in from weeding the garden, they were still on the phone. A quick glance into the office showed Nate crouched over a legal pad, making notes and working her calculator.

 

T
HE NEXT DAY
, N
ATE WATCHED
from the kitchen table as Frankie's Honda pulled up to the house and came to a gentle stop. She got out first but before she could make it around the car, the passenger-side door opened wide. A pair of crutches emerged and then her brother carefully stood up.

Alex Moorehouse was a big man and built like
an athlete, all wide shoulders and taut legs. His dark hair was short and streaked with blond, his skin was deeply tanned, and in the shorts and polo shirt he was wearing, he looked like an Abercrombie & Fitch model. His face, however, was all business, and as he shrugged off Frankie's attempt to help him, Nate could see that the two shared the same stubborn streak.

Nate got up and opened the door. As curious as he was about Frankie's brother, he was more interested in her. She seemed worried but pleased and he thought she was especially beautiful today, with her hair down and a light summer dress on.

When he looked back at her brother, Moorehouse's eyes had narrowed.

“This is our new chef, Nate. Nate, my brother Alex.”

Moorehouse pegged the crutches into the ground and swiftly covered the distance to the door. Which meant he was either familiar with the damn things or just plain lithe.

Hell, it was probably both.

Nate offered his hand and Frankie's brother shook it. Strong, firm grip. Nice enough nod. But the man's eyes were sending one very clear message: screw with my sister and I'll beat you to a pulp.

Nate could respect anyone who cared about Frankie, but he wasn't going to be pushed around, even if the poor guy had been through hell. So as
soon as he had the chance, Nate made a point of putting his arm around Frankie. When she didn't pull away, he tucked her into his shoulder, gave her brother a long, level look and stood his ground.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
, F
RANKIE
knew Alex had gotten bad news from the Coast Guard. The call came in just before seven, and when he limped out of her office, he went upstairs without stopping. He was never one to get emotional, certainly not in front of an audience, but his eyes had been bleak and unseeing as he'd passed by her. Reese Cutler was dead.

She let her brother go, even though she was sick with the thought of everything he insisted on dealing with alone.

As the dining room filled up, she took over hostess duties from Joy. It was hard to stay downstairs when all she wanted to do was try to talk with Alex, but Grand-Em was agitated by his return. It was as if his presence jangled her memory.

“Excuse me?”

Frankie snapped to attention at the sharp demand. “Sorry, er—”

Wow. The woman standing in front of her was a real beauty. Blond hair, haute couture pantsuit in white, blouse slit nearly to her belly button. She was
city-slick, a real knockout, and she smelled good, too. Expensive and sexy.

“I'm here to see Nate.” She shifted a briefcase to her other hand and checked a diamond watch.

“I'm sorry. He's busy.” Really busy. Very, very busy.

“Tell him it's Mimi. And I want a table. Over there.” She pointed to the windows that looked out over the lake. As luck would have it, there was a table for two open and no reason Ms. Fancy Pants couldn't have it.

Frankie picked up a menu and led
Mimi
across the room. The other diners snapped their necks to get a look at the blonde. It was like leading Vendala through a fraternity house.

After Mimi sat down, she picked up a fork and inspected the tines, as if looking for dirt. “Glass of Chardonnay. Not the house. I want something French. Is he making his escargot?”

“No.”

“Then I want a salad.” Mimi's eyes flashed. “He knows the way I like it.”

Frankie's jaw tightened around her molars. The broad wasn't just talking about lettuce, she thought.

In a fierce mood, she stalked into the kitchen. Nate was flying over the stove, tossing spices and salt into four different sauté pans on the burners in front of him. Half-plated meals lined up behind him and more orders were getting put up by the waitresses.

“You've got a visitor,” she said. “Right off Michael Kors's runway in New York. Mimi somebody.”

Nate barely looked up. “Okay. Thanks.”

“She wants a salad. Says you know how she likes it.”

“Fine.”

Frankie went over to where the wine was kept. She'd have felt so much better if he'd said something like, God, why's that horse-faced fashion victim darkening our door?

Of course, then he'd have to be referring to someone else entirely because there was nothing horse-faced about Mimi. And a man would have to be dead from the neck down not to want to have the blonde looking for him.

When Frankie went back out to the dining room, she was proud of herself. She'd only briefly considered slipping some rat poison into Mimi's French Chardonnay. And hadn't followed up on the impulse.

“Where is he?” the blonde demanded, as if she expected Nate to deliver the wine. “Did you tell him I'm waiting?”

“Yes.”

Mimi smiled, although the joyless expression wasn't directed at Frankie. She was looking at the kitchen's doors. “Fine, but he better drop the defiant act when he starts next week.”

“Starts what?”

Mimi's gaze shifted upwards, as if she was
surprised to have to explain herself. “I'm the owner of Cosmos and he is my new Executive Chef.”

Frankie narrowed her eyes. “Oh, really.”

The woman looked around impatiently. “My salad? Where is it?”

“Coming right up.”
Your Highness.

Frankie marched into the kitchen.

Her first instinct was to jump in front of Nate and demand an explanation, but she held back. Hadn't she learned anything? The last couple of times she'd blown her lid off at him, she'd been in the wrong. She certainly owed him a chance to explain. Maybe there had been a misunderstanding. After all, he'd committed to stay until Labor Day so he had four weeks left.

She couldn't believe he'd break his promise and leave in seven days. That just wasn't like him.

 

E
VIDENTLY,
M
IMI HAD
perseverance as well as style and a lot of cash. The blonde waited all the way through until the end of the night. She wasn't gracious about the delay, but she didn't march into the kitchen and interrupt the flow of service, either.

Although maybe she was just determined to make Nate come to her.

Mimi also hated downtime, apparently. As soon as she'd polished off her salad, she got to work, spreading out papers and cracking open a laptop. When Frankie suggested she go to the library for
some privacy, the woman missed the point and said she was fine with the noise. She didn't seem at all concerned that she was tying up a table, but Frankie wasn't about to cause a scene in front of her patrons by demanding Mimi go elsewhere.

At the end of the shift, Nate finally went out to talk with the woman. Frankie couldn't pretend to do any work while they were meeting so she cleaned her desk, filing loose inventory reports and accounting sheets, putting pens and pencils in the drawer, cleaning the phone. When there was nothing left to tidy, she picked up the
Times
review and sank back into her chair, reading it. She was cruising along, the words sinking in, when she frowned and had to backtrack.

The article went on, but she couldn't read anymore.

The Walker heir.

Of course. Nate, short for Nathaniel.

Nathaniel Walker. The first man by that name had been a Revolutionary war hero and had signed the
Declaration of Independence. Talk about American royalty. And wasn't a Walker now governor of Massachusetts? That was probably Nate's brother, who he'd said was into public service.

Hell, the Walkers were beyond rich. Made the Weatherbys look like candidates for a trailer park.

She threw the paper down. Boy, she knew how to pick them.

Good Lord, it was David all over again. Except this time, the man in question had lied about his family's wealth and influence, not been cowed by it.

Nate appeared in her doorway. “Hey, did you notice how busy we were tonight? Listen, about Mimi—”

“Yeah, let's talk about her. Thanks
so
much for giving me notice,” Frankie snapped. What she was really angry about was the way he'd kept his family's identity from her, but Mimi sure as hell was a good target for the feelings of frustration and betrayal. “Excuse me?”

“When we were you going to tell me you were leaving? The day before you took off?” Frankie planted her palms on the desk and shot up from her chair. “I can't believe you're pulling out in the middle of the season after you promised you'd stay until Labor Day!”

Nate put his hands on his hips and stared down at the floor like he was trying to control his temper.

“Look, Frankie—”

“God, I'm such a fool!” Her voice cracked. “I trusted you. I let you in. I'm so goddamned stupid.”

“Frankie, I'm not going to the city next week. I'm staying here. You know what my plans are for the future. Hell, I want to include you in them. Come to New York with me.”

“Yeah, and how's that going to work? Ms. Fancy Pants out there looked pretty damn handy with the back-office stuff while she tied up one of my tables waiting for you.”

“Mimi came up here to try to—”

“She'll make one hell of a partner, I'm sure—”

“Will you listen—”

“Although personally I think that blouse was a little low cut. Not for a stripper, of course—”

“Frankie—”

“Then again, she's more who I thought you'd go for—”

Nate pounded the desk with his fists, making paper clips bounce out of their holder. “Why the hell are you so concerned about who I'm going into business with! You're never going to leave this place. You'd rather hide behind your family than live your own life.”

Frankie recoiled, but recovered quickly.

“Yeah, let's talk about family, why don't we?” She shoved the review at him. “Nathaniel Walker, heir to an American dynasty's fortune. When were you going to mention the fact that you've got more
money than God? Or did you figure it'd be harder to get me into bed if I knew, considering I don't trust rich men—something which, incidentally, is proving to be a very accurate data screen for me.”

Nate's face turned to stone, but his eyes blazed. “Did it ever occur to you that I didn't lie? Did you even for a
second
think—”

“So you're saying the
New York Times
fact-checker was taking a nap when this review went out?”

He leaned forward, over the desk. “Your lack of faith in me is astounding. But at least you're consistent.”

With a bitter expletive, he turned around and headed for the door.

“Don't you dare put this on me!” She rushed across the room at him. “I asked you about your family. Twice. And this was after I'd made it clear what had happened with David. What the hell am I supposed to think when I find out the truth?”

Nate halted. His shoulders moved up and down while he breathed heavily.

“You just can't do it, can you,” she muttered. “You just can't be honest.”

Nate wheeled around so fast, she leaped back. His face was full of rage and pain.

“You want to know the
truth?
” He took angry steps towards her, forcing her to move backward. He looked as if he'd completely lost it. “I don't tell
anyone
about my family. And I'm not a Walker
heir, I was disinherited by my father when I went to cooking school. My net worth is less than $100,000 and that's only because I've
busted my ass
and saved every dime I could.”

She came up against the edge of the desk and gripped the wood.

Nate's voice wavered with emotion. “You want to know why I don't talk about them? Because I don't feel like a Walker. Because my parents rode me constantly for not being who they wanted me to be. But
mostly
it's because the last woman I told had an abortion when she found out I wasn't the rich man she thought I was.”

Frankie felt the blood leave her face. “Oh, Nate—”

“My
child
was taken away from me. I was prepared to do the right thing when the woman told me she was pregnant, but then she got a look at the ring I could afford and split for some clinic.” His body was shaking, his eyes too bright. “I hate my name. I hate where I come from. And to have you call me a liar because I didn't trot out my godforsaken lineage is a real frigging treat.”

It all made such terrible sense. That night when they hadn't had a condom and he'd pulled away, shutting her out and looking haunted. The way he avoided children. His old car. His clothes. That he'd been hunting for months for a restaurant instead of just cutting a check for whatever caught his eye.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

Her voice seemed to reach him because he took a deep breath and collapsed into the chair in front of her desk.

“Ah, hell,” he said, putting a hand up to his face.

“Nate, I had no idea.”

He cursed, but at least he reached out for her hand. “Of course you didn't.”

She stroked his shoulder. He was such a big man ordinarily, but he seemed to have shrunk into himself, his legs tucked under the chair, his arm wrapped around his stomach.

Anguish stretched his deep voice thin. “I keep thinking I'm going to get over it, you know? But every time I see some kid, I get hammered with what could have been. And, God, I blame myself.”

“But you didn't make that choice. She did.”

He talked over her. “I should have known. I should have fought, or something. I should have saved…I just didn't find out until it was too late.”

“It wasn't your fault, Nate. It was a terrible tragedy and you lost something very, very real, but you are not responsible.”

He looked up from between his fingers. His eyes were shiny.

“You are not responsible,” she repeated.

“And this is coming from you?” he countered gently.

Frankie thought of her mother disappearing into the storm. “That was different.”

“How?”

“I don't know.”

“Because it happened to you?”

“Maybe.”

He tugged her down so she was sitting in his lap. “It's so much easier to forgive other people, isn't it. It's harder when it comes to ourselves.”

She nodded slowly.

They stayed that way for a long time.

“I'm not going to work for Mimi,” he said abruptly. “I'd already told her no in the spring. When she saw the piece in the
Times,
she figured she'd try and persuade me again. I was direct with her. There's no way I'm going to be sidetracked, even by the likes of Cosmos.”

Frankie cleared her throat. “What if you don't find something to buy? What will you do?” The real thing she wanted to know was whether there was any chance he'd consider staying.

“I'm just going to keep looking. I don't care if it takes a decade,” he said forcefully. “I've had to fight for what I wanted all my life. My parents never respected me because I was supposed to be a lawyer or a finance guy like my brother. I was supposed to marry a debutante and have two towheaded children and live in Wellesley and belong to the club and play racquetball. But I was always different. My friends
were metal-heads who had tattoos. I didn't go out for crew, I played hockey and got my nose broken and my front tooth knocked out. I barely made it through Harvard, not because I couldn't do the work, but because I didn't care.”