15. Conrad

CHAPTER 15

CONRAD

W e woke the next morning to both our phones buzzing, Claire's on the nightstand, mine on the bed. She lifted her head at the same time I did, and we came face to face, all of a tangle. One of her legs was tucked between mine, one hand on my hip, one pressed to my chest. She pushed away, startled, and I sat up straight.

"Sorry," she said. "Whose phone is that?"

"Mine. Yours. Both of ours." I grabbed hers and passed it over. She passed me mine, and I went to answer. Then, I saw her assistant's name on my screen. She must've seen Joe's on hers, because she was holding it out.

"No, this one's yours."

We traded back and slid off opposite sides of the bed. Claire ducked out to the balcony. I took the lounge.

"Morning," I said. "Tell me it's good news."

"Great news," said Joe. "You can fly out tomorrow."

Outside, Claire whooped, doubtless getting the same news. I felt the same stab I'd felt on our hike, when Sunny had sent her that text full of hearts. Nonsensical jealousy pricked at my heart, of New York, of Timeless, of every claim on her time. Everything she cared about that wasn't me.

I turned away from her, squelching the feeling. Jealousy, stupid — what was I, twelve?

"I'll see you then," I told Joe. "And line up those meetings. Both of those acquisitions, I want to move on them tomorrow."

"When do you want them?"

"Set the first one for two. If I'm not back by then… No, you know what? I will be. Worst-case scenario, I'll join by video call. Let them think I'm so busy I take meetings in the sky."

I hung up and tossed my phone aside, half-jubilant, half-sorry. Out on the balcony, Claire was texting. She had a smile on her face like she'd just shared a secret, maybe a juicy one. Maybe about me.

I wondered if she was talking to Sunny, and if she was, what she'd said about me. Annoyance stirred in my guts at the thought she'd risk my reputation, airing our business over unsecured text. Then a worse thought occurred to me — what if she hadn't mentioned me at all? What if she was laughing at some stupid meme, not thinking about me or our last day?

Her phone chimed again and she tapped on the screen. A frown crossed her features, then went away. She looked up, caught me staring, and strolled back inside.

"Verity texted. She's heard the good news. She thought since it's our last day, we should go out with a bang."

I stifled a groan — Verity again? Couldn't we have one day that was just about us? Then I swallowed my pique. We hadn't come here for us. We'd come here for Claire, so she could land her client. I forced a warm smile.

"What was she thinking?"

"A cooking class." Claire grimaced. "It shouldn't take long. After that, our last night…" She looked away, reddening. I sidled closer.

"Our last night, what?"

"Whatever we want. We'll make the most of it."

A cavalcade of images stormed through my head, some sweet, some raunchy, all me and Claire. All just the two of us, on the beach, on the terrace. On the roof, in the hot tub, beads of water in her hair. Crystal drops on her lashes and her freckled shoulders, drops I'd kiss off her, then on down her arm. Down to her fingertips, then up to her neck. She'd moan like she did when she licked a fresh ice cream, a small, broken aah of pure satisfaction. Her lips would part and I'd kiss them, and?—

"Conrad?"

"A cooking class. Right." The words came out ragged, and I swallowed dryly. "Can you even cook?"

"Sort of. Can you?"

"Just read the box, right?"

We shared a weird laugh at that, tense on both sides. I knew why I was stressed, but I wondered why she was. Why she'd gone pink, and was twirling her hair. Then she turned away from me.

"I'm going to get dressed."

We met up with Verity right around lunchtime. Ken pulled me aside as Verity went off with Claire.

"I told her, don't do this. Give them their space. But she was dead set on it, no talking her down." He shook his head, rueful, and pulled a sour face. "I'd burn water. How about you?"

"I made spaghetti once. It came out soggy."

"So, okay, strategy — let's just get through this. Do whatever we've got to do, then you say you've got work. I'll take Verity dancing, and you and Claire, well, that's your business. But I'd say you deserve one night without us old folks."

I shook Ken's hand, relieved, and told him he had a deal. Then we marched into the bright, steamy kitchen. Claire was already tying on her apron. A cook bustled up and handed me mine. I put it on, feeling silly, and squeezed in next to Claire.

"What are we making?"

"I don't know yet." She peered at the ingredients and bit her lip. "Whatever it is, it looks complicated."

"It's not," said the chef, taking his place at the front. "We're making pan-seared swordfish and ratatouille. A nice balanced meal. We'll start with our ratatouille, working in pairs, one on sauce and seasoning, the other on veggies."

I leaned to whisper to Claire, "He's lost me already."

"I'll do the sauce," she said.

"Wait, why do you?—"

One of the cooks had materialized at my elbow, and was stacking veggies in a tub to my left. "It's easy," she said. "Just cut these in slices, about one-sixteenth inch thick."

"One sixteenth… what?"

She'd already vanished, moving on down the line. I took a zucchini and chopped off the end. It rolled off the counter and bounced off my shoe. When I went to retrieve it, one of the cooks beat me to it and shooed me back to my chopping board. Back to my slicing. I nudged Claire's elbow.

"I can't get them that thin."

She looked up from her olive oil. "Try holding them steady?"

I tried, but I couldn't find that sweet spot. My slices came out either chunky and thick or wafer-thin half-moons, see-through at the edges.

"Don't worry too much about how it looks." The chef gathered my zucchini bits and passed me a squash. "Here, try with this one. It— ooh, check this out!" He flitted over to Verity, who was some kind of genius, slicing eggplant and zucchini at the same time. Her slices peeled off thin, crisp, and perfect, and she used her knife-edge to push them off to one side. Ken, in the meantime, had screwed up their sauce, charring the onions to the side of the pan. The chef scraped it out and scrubbed off the mess.

Claire elbowed me. "See? You could be worse."

"Look at these slices. Rata-pooey."

"Don't say it like that. It sounds like there's rat poo."

We elbowed each other a little bit more, till the chef made us stop it. "Those are sharp knives."

"Sorry, chef," we chanted, and got back to work. Verity drifted over to check on our progress. She had nothing to do while Ken redid the sauce, and she took my knife from me and cut a few slices.

"Don't lift the whole knife up, just the back end. And keep the flat against your knuckles, and you won't cut yourself."

I managed to thank her, though my patience was waning. It might've been selfish — it definitely was — but I wanted every minute of my last day with Claire. If someone had to show me how to chop veggies, I wanted Claire to do it, even if she did it wrong. Even if we cooked up the worst ratatouille, crispy and soggy at the same time.

As though sensing my annoyance, Claire soon cut in. She tilted her frying pan to show off her sauce.

"Here, have a whiff of this. I think it's about done."

I leaned in and sniffed it, and it smelled delicious. I took a spoon and tried it, and it tasted great too.

"Perfect," I said.

Her cheeks pinked up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Want to help me slice up some veggies?"

She did, and we arranged them in our baking pan, a repeating rainbow of colorful slices. I kept screwing up the order, not by mistake, but so she'd laugh at me and reach in to fix it, and then our hands would brush and we'd bump shoulders. We mixed the seasoning together and spooned it over our tray, and sighed together at its savory scent.

"You know, this might actually be almost worth eating."

"No, don't, don't say that. You'll jinx our swordfish."

I laughed at the idea of a jinx in the kitchen, but when I picked up our fillet, my spatula slipped. Claire grabbed for our fish and managed to catch it, but it slid like a melon seed through the net of her fingers. It went splat on the floor and shot under the oven.

"Well, that's gone," I said.

Claire bit back her laughter. "Oh, no! Was that expensive?"

"Don't worry. There's plenty. We always lose one or two." The chef brought us another one, but didn't let us touch it. He deposited it directly in our frying pan. "Now, when you go to flip it, just lift up one side. Push it up gently and let gravity do the rest."

Across the island, Verity was adding capers to hers. I stole some, resentful, and plopped them on ours.

Somehow, for all that, lunch came out okay, rich ratatouille, gently seared swordfish. Verity stole Claire again when we finished eating, but I got the sense that this time, she wanted to talk business. I turned to Ken just as he turned to me.

"You remind me of us," he said.

I smiled. "You and Verity?"

He nodded, his expression gone soft and wistful. "Back when we first me, when we both stunk at cooking. We joked around just like you two, learning the kitchen. I saw how you helped each other, how you laughed the whole time. If I was to make a prediction, I'd say you'll be great. Not great chefs, maybe, but a great couple. A great team through the tough times, and that's what counts, right?"

I agreed that it was, my eyes fixed on Claire. She was bent close to Verity to check out her laptop, pointing at something displayed on the screen. Their conversation seemed animated, a whole lot of gestures. A lot of smiles, a few frowns, nods of agreement. From what I could see, it was going well.

"Life gets busy," said Ken. "These times are important. The times you take for each other, to tend to what's yours."

I thought about that and how it might work. Could Claire and I make it work like Verity and Ken? Verity was busy, and I guessed Ken was too, but they seemed happy. They found time somewhere. Maybe we'd do the same, late nights, weekends. We'd live our lives like we always did, but with gaps that were ours. Times we'd put our phones up and focus on us. Every second weekend — but, no. Claire traveled. She was always off somewhere, and I golfed with clients. Well, the gym, maybe. We could claim that for ours. Except that my workouts didn't stick to a schedule. I did mornings some weeks, afternoons others, and on a busy week, I'd go late at night. Everything with us was work-permitting. How often was our time strictly our own? Even here in paradise, on our last day, Claire was still working. Chasing her deal.

I pulled out my phone, then put it away. I didn't need to check my calendar to know it was jam-packed. To know hers was too. I could dream all I liked, but dreams died on waking.

"Claire's the best," I told Ken. "These times with her are the best of my life."