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I stifle an urge to jump for joy. Sarah and I conceived around the same time. The thought of our children being born around the same date almost makes me want to share my news regardless of the scandal associated with my pregnancy. But still, I can’t. I won’t.
Suddenly, Rayna, the owner of the Golden Spoon, approaches our table, expertly balancing three plates of food. Her unexpected arrival instantly brightens our mood. Rayna wasn’t the waitress who took our order, but her presence is as welcome as a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day. She’s dressed casually in loose jeans rolled up above her ankles and a bright yellow T-shirt featuring a happy face print, starkly contrasting the typical attire of the Golden Spoon’s waitstaff. After she places the plates on the table, we each rise to greet her with a warm hug.
Rayna, still standing at the edge of our table with her hands on her hips, frowns, obviously concerned. “Is it true that there’s a chain on the door of the Calypso?” she asks.
We all nod, each chiming in with a quiet confirmation. As usual, news travels fast in this town.
“Wow,” she murmurs, her gaze drifting off momentarily before she looks back at us. “Is Steve okay?”
“We don’t know,” Sarah replies, her voice low.
Rayna nods, her expression showing a mix of concern and understanding. Everyone in town is aware of Steve’s gambling issues, and given her past with him, her concern is understandable. Rayna and Steve were an item before she married her current husband.
“Well, listen, if you’re looking for another place to land, I would be happy to have you. Coming from the Calypso, you’re the best crew in town.”
We all exchange glances. Working together again, even in a different restaurant, is quite appealing.
“And Gina,” Rayna says, her intense focus catching me off guard. “We know about your podcast and your Monday morning pastries. You’re always sold out before I even get there. We’ve been thinking about expanding by adding a bakery. I would love to have you baking here.”
I press my lips tightly together, contemplating her offer. It’s certainly tempting. Yet the thought of working in a brand new kitchen—a space Randy has never occupied—fills my heart with sadness for a moment. But regardless, I say, “Thanks for the offer, Rayna.”
“I’d love to work here,” Rita enthusiastically declares. I can even start right now!”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m pretty sure I’m moving to Connecticut,” Sarah says, her hand resting on her stomach once again.
Rayna extends an open hand toward Rita in a welcoming gesture. “Then you’re hired, Rita,” she announces enthusiastically. “But you can start tomorrow morning. I want to give you a moment to absorb the shock of going to work and finding chains on the door.” She shakes her head, her expression a mingling of pity and sadness, before turning her attention fully to me. With a curious look, Rayna asks, “And what about you, Gina?”
Chapter 18
The Chef’s Back
Randy
2 Weeks Later
The heat and humidity are blistering; even my sweat is sweating as I step out from the iron gates of the sound studio onto the sunbaked concrete of New Orleans. I relish the freedom to go anywhere I want. No more reality shows for me—every moment spent filming felt like an eternity. The days and nights blurred together, my mind constantly whirring with recipes and visions of perfectly plated dishes. I’m amazed I survived the relentless schedule. The end of the show couldn’t come soon enough, and the first thing I did after being released was to book my flight home. My plane leaves in less than two hours.
Scanning the street, I feel overwhelmed by the tasks that lie ahead, each one seemingly competing with the next for my attention. Relief arrives when a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb. It’s my ride to the airport, arranged by the studio’s reception. I hastily load my luggage into the back seat, slide in beside it, and settle in for the ride. I’m headed back to the one place I truly want to be—home, to the familiar and comforting life I left before becoming a contestant on that damn show.
The gentle rolling of the vehicle reveals how drained I truly am. It’s the contradiction of sitting still while moving forward that makes my eyelids heavy. But there’s a call I’ve needed to make, a voice I have missed hearing.
I scroll through the contacts in my cell phone until I find Gina’s name, which I have labeled as “Sexy Pain In My Ass.” I chuckle at the reminder of our dynamic. Running a popular restaurant kitchen teaches you to be demanding and to skip the pleasantries because things have to get done fast, and there’s always too much at stake.
But at Calypso, that approach didn’t fly with the staff. I remember snapping at Sarah early on and making her cry. That wasn’t cool, and I knew I had to adjust my attitude. But with Gina, it was different. We sparred like equals. Her fire matched mine, especially when she would challenge me outright. Those were the moments I found myself drawn to her the most. I was enamored by her fierce spirit, the way she moved, and her kindness with customers, even the tough ones. Gina never lets anyone rattle her; she knows she’s fully capable of accomplishing whatever she sets her mind to, and that’s what I admire most about her.
I exhale deeply, opening my eyes as the voicemail beeps. I lean into the phone, my voice tired but clear. “Hey, beautiful, it’s me, Randy. We’ve finished filming, and I’m on my way home. I know you’re probably swamped, but if you get a chance, call me back in the next couple of hours.” I pause, the longing clear in my tone. “I’ve missed you. Maybe we can catch up over dinner, huh? Look forward to seeing you.” I end the call and lean back. The ache of missing her settles deep in my chest as the car continues speeding toward the airport.
Squeezing my phone in my hand, I can’t shake a nagging feeling that I didn’t say enough. I had hoped she would answer; hearing her voice would’ve been comforting. As I close my burning eyes, overwhelmed by a mix of disappointment and fatigue, I unexpectedly doze off. Suddenly, I’m jolted awake by the sound of my name.
“Whoa,” I murmur, forcing myself to snap out of the drowsiness. Around us, the airport is bustling with the typical Sunday afternoon chaos. The driver mentions we were delayed due to a traffic accident that needed to be cleared.
When I glance at my watch, reality hits me: we’re significantly behind schedule. Now I have less than forty minutes to reach my gate. The urgency heightens as I rush to check in. By the time I reach the ticket counter, only twenty minutes remain until my flight departs.
Fortunately, a twist of fate intervenes. The ticket agent recognizes me from the show, upgrades me to first class, and grants me premium check-in privileges typically reserved for celebrities. I can’t help but chuckle when she calls me a celebrity; I imagine Gina standing beside me, rolling her eyes at the idea of me being regarded as one.
However, the ticket agent’s next question catches me off guard. “Are you traveling with Deanna?” she asks, grinning at me conspiratorially.
“I’m flying alone,” I reply.
