Being Here

By Ada O'Flaherty and J Roxem

World-travelled chef Alfonso Vanucci must face the life he ran away from ten years ago. Called back to the family restaurant—Vanucci’s—sabotage and betrayal welcome the handsome and charming Alfonso home. Companionship wasn’t part of the plan, and love was an impossibility. But, Alfonso’s heart is smarter than his head when it comes to what he needs in life, and what he needs is Michael. Now, his greatest challenge is that of new love… one that demands he come out to his family.

At only eighteen years old with a mom barely older than him, Michael Chellum knows a runner when he sees one. He’s lived with one all his life—and Alfonso Vanucci is a runner. Giving Alfonso his heart is a heartbreak waiting to happen. But, Michael’s mother is missing, and Michael’s on his own. He must learn to let others in and trust them with his vulnerabilities… or risk becoming an island of one, alone in the world without anyone to catch him if he falls.

Alfonso never meant to fall in love with Michael, and Michael never meant to let himself rely on Alfonso. But, together, through reinvention, hard work, and love, Alfonso and Michael fight to save Vanucci’s and each other. To fail would mean losing everything….


This is a 67,000 word, M/M novel with a happily ever after. It includes genuine romance and explicit sex between two men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ada O'Flaherty
• Release date: Aug 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540191953

Book preview

1

ALFONSO

The round , head-sized windows in the double, metal doors were just big enough for the iPad’s camera lens to capture a good spanning view of Vanucci’s customers. They sat in a mixture of eloquent booths and tables covered with fine linen, decorated with either the soft light of candles or a bowl of floating, delicate—and edible—flowers.

Even though the customer numbers weren’t as steady as they had been before he’d taken over as head chef, twenty-eight-year-old Alfonso Vanucci was excited to show his parents that he was still bringing in a steady crowd. This was even after completely revamping Vanucci’s tried and true menu, one that had served the restaurant and Alfonso’s family for well over thirty years.

Turning the iPad around to face himself as he made his way to the walk-in cooler, Alfonso locked himself inside. On the iPad, his parents had their heads pressed close together in front of their phone’s video camera.

Have you had any complaints? and Do they like the new food? his parents asked in unison. They leaned forward eagerly, his mom with a large, floppy straw hat nearly the size of a sombrero on her head and his father squinting over the top of his black rimmed sunglasses. Behind them, people were walking past, and Alfonso heard a low, throaty whistle of a steamboat sounding.

Honey, whatever you’re doing, I’m sure it’s wonderful, his mom said with a big, reassuring smile. We’re just glad you came home. That’s all that matters.

Some customers will like the changes, some won’t, his dad added.

And to hell with the ones that don’t. His mom’s smile grew bigger, crinkling the corners of her eyes. You show ‘em what you can do and the rest will work itself out.

You getting any grief from Chuck, Son?

No, no… he’s great, Alfonso lied. He’s going along with all the changes just fine. Alfonso grimaced inwardly as his parents’ scowled in unison. It was obvious that they knew there was no way the huge, pasty-faced sous chef was being the easy-going, supportive right-hand that Alfonso was making him out to be. We’re working it out, Alfonso amended. He’s getting on board. His parents’ look of disbelief didn’t alter. So you made it to the Amazon! Alfonso said, opting for a quick change of topic.

The image panned to the double-decker boat that looked every bit like an old-time steam boat, minus the huge water wheel at the back.

Ah, honey, his mom said as the camera focused on her once more, it’s great. Thank you so much for taking care of everything. We’re just so happy you’re home! Her voice changed as she angled her head conspiratorially, an unmistakable twinkle in her eye. Have you seen Melinda?

She’s looking very good! his father chimed in as they both leaned forward, grinning large, eager, hopeful grins that blatantly hinted at wishes for more grandchildren to go along with than the one Alfonso’s sister, Sara, had already given them.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her, Alfonso said of his one-time high school sweetheart even as he felt the familiar, hollow ache that had been left by a different love. Hopefully I’ll get to see her again soon, but right now, all my energy is going toward following in your footsteps and keeping this place afloat until you’re ready to come back.

Well, don’t forget it’s not ending there, son, his father was quick to say.

You give us three years to sow our wild oats, his mother giggled, bringing a smile to Alfonso’s lips, and when we get home, we’re going to help you build your own restaurant. You can put all that European learning of yours to work in a place all your own.

It was the carrot that his parents had thought had brought him home from his nine year sojourn traveling from country to country across Europe, working his way from restaurant to restaurant. He’d lived and worked in Morocco, Portugal, Spain, France, Germany, Italy, Greece, Bulgaria, Turkey and Russia. He’d worked everywhere from home-style, street-side cafes to five-star restaurants serving couture food, making his way as far east as Japan, where the required skill and expectations had finally exceeded what he was able to give. There, he’d worked for free in a sushi shop for six months before they would let him touch any food, and he’d spent another two months after that making food never deemed good enough to make it to a plate. For the rest of the world’s standards, he could make rice like nobody’s business, but for Japan, he was still the lowly of the low. Thankfully, most of the world had more forgiving palates.

I’m just glad I could do this for you. You guys have always been there for me and sis.

Well, we know that three years in one place will be a big change, but you’ll see, the time will fly by! And who knows, maybe you’ll meet that special someone who will convince you to stay. His mom gave him a little wink as the boat’s whistle blew again.

We gotta go, son.

Send us some more pictures of your dishes! They’re beautiful!

I will. Love you.

Love you, too! His parents waved him off before their images blinked out.

Alfonso took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he leaned his back against the ten foot tall, heavy steel shelving that lined the walk-in cooler. The shelves were laden with an array of fresh fruits and vegetables as well as other perishable staples. At just shy of six foot, it was a stretch for him to reach items on the top shelf, but he usually managed with some clever maneuvering and the help of a low foot stool.

Wrapping sinewy arms across a frame perfectly built for the art of fighting with a rapier—a skill a traveling acquaintance had begged him to take up—he visually stepped himself through the evening’s menu, making mental adjustments based on the peak readiness of the produce he had to work with.

Vanucci’s didn’t have much of a freezer. Everything was made fresh daily. But, with Alfonso’s return and take over of the restaurant, the dishes that Vanucci’s had become known for over the last thirty years had been pushed aside for dishes that reflected what was freshest and ready for use that day.

Scratched from the menu were the family-size pasta bowls with the endless salads. Instead, patrons were offered gazpacho made fresh with a salad of crisp, mixed greens, full-fat feta cheese, kalamata olives, red onion, and succulent, vine ripe heirloom tomatoes and cucumbers topped with a red wine vinaigrette made with imported olive oil that left a peppery taste at the back of the tongue.

Prices had gone up. Customer patronage had gone down.

There had been complaints.

The faint clamoring of steel pots followed by raised voices reached Alfonso’s ears, and he took a weary breath. Things were far worse in the kitchen than he’d let on to his parents.

Even though he’d worked in dozens of restaurants and with quadruple that many chefs and other kitchen staff, he’d never run a kitchen before. He’d never been senior to people with culinary degrees or more years of restaurant experience than he himself had. Rather than go to school, what he had done was learn from everyone who knew something he didn’t, regardless of if that person was the dishwasher or an award winning chef featured on the front cover of Time Magazine.

He’d been liked and welcomed by most. He’d been asked to stay on by many. But, none of those places had been home.

Rolling his broad shoulders and stretching his long neck from side to side, Alfonso left his sanctuary of fresh limes, almost-ready mangos, and chilling pastry dough to face those who had liked him least of any place he’d ever been—he went to face the kitchen staff of Vanucci’s.

2

MICHAEL

H ey Mom , it’s me again. I’m sorry I got mad at you the last time I called, I’m just worried. Um… and I was trying to avoid telling you this but, uh, Hank hasn’t been paying the rent like he promised he would. The landlord, uh, said it’d been about four months.

Michael hung his head and took a silent, deep breath, wishing he knew the words to get through to his mom—wishing he knew the words that would make her call him back.

I miss you, Mom. I’m worried about you. Call me, okay? We’ll work everything out, whatever it is. We’ll work it out. Just call, okay? Love you, Mom.

Michael let the call linger as if his mom’s voice might break through the silence at any second. But, it didn’t.

Squeezing his eyes tight, he clicked off the call, fighting back the urge to hurl his cell phone at the wall. He couldn’t afford a replacement.

Moving into action to walk through the house with a sure-footed purposefulness, Michael rushed as the light outside began to fade and the too-quiet house became cast in shadow.

Heading into the bathroom and stripping off an Iowa University t-shirt—a wishful-thinking present from his Mom—Michael toed off his sneakers and stepped out of his jeans before turning the shower on full blast. He knew it didn’t matter which knob he turned. No electricity, no hot water. But, he turned the hot knob all the same.

Fuck, he said, rolling one meaty shoulder before blowing out a breath. He shook out his body and then jumped up and down in place like a fighter about to step into the ring. I can do this, he murmured, noting the complete lack of steam rising from the water’s spray.

Taking a final deep breath and blowing it out, Michael stepped under the water’s flow and every muscle in his body went rigid. The temperature hurt. It burned his skin but didn’t scald it. It burned the way ice will burn if left pressed against flesh too long.

FUCK! he swore through gritted teeth. The water’s freezing cold was painful.

Shaking hands grabbed the soap, and he quickly lathered all the spots that needed attention before applying shampoo-conditioner to his sandy-blond hair.

By the time he’d gotten done and had stepped out of the freezing spray, his breath was coming in shallow gasps and his heart pounded with an irregularity that belonged in the timpani section of a beginner’s orchestra.

Fuckfuckfuck! he said, pacing the small bathroom. His reflection in the mirror showed the toned, sculpted body of an amateur lifter, and his normally pale skin was a bright, mottled red.

His entire body shook as he dried and dressed back into the clothes that he’d been wearing. Ten minutes later found him tossing a loaded duffle bag out of a side window between his house and the next.

Putting a leg through and following it with shoulders barely able to fit the space, Michael twisted as he dropped to the ground below. Turning to grab his duffle, he froze half-bent as he stared down at the patten leather shoes issued to every law enforcement officer he’d ever met.

Michael straightened slowly.

Do you live here?

Yes, Sir. Michael took the officer in at a glance, sizing him up as he tried to figure out which way the situation was going to go. The classically handsome, dark-skinned officer looked young enough not to be jaded but comfortable enough not to be a rookie.

Are you aware that the landlord has placed a court-sanctioned padlock on these premises pending eviction?

Yes, Sir. Michael shifted uncomfortably, his heart pounding as he ran through all the possible outcomes and his complete lack of resources to overcome them. If he were thrown in jail, he’d have no way and no one to post bond. I, uh, just needed to get a few things—change of clothes, clean underwear—just stuff to get by until I hear from my mom. Um, we had thought that the rent was being paid. All of this happened after she left on a trip with her boyfriend. Michael shrugged, his voice trailing off. I haven’t heard from her in a few weeks.

The officer’s eyes narrowed. How old are you?

Just turned nineteen, Sir.

And do you have a place to stay?

Yes, Sir.

The officer glanced back over his shoulder at the five year-old Hyundai Accent sitting in the driveway before turning knowing eyes back on Michael. You sure? It’s supposed to get cold tonight.

Yes, Sir. I’ve got it covered, Michael answered, shifting uncomfortably as his face heated. He hated having his vulnerabilities so obvious.

Silence dragged between them as the officer seemed to run his own internal calculations of all the ways the moment could play out. Finally, with a crooked grimace and a nod, he said, I catch you here again before things get settled with the landlord and the court, I’ll have to take you in.

Yes, Sir… Thank you. Beads of relief-sweat broke out on Michael’s brow. Without saying anything more, he made his way to his car with his duffle in hand and left as the officer watched him go.

Glancing at the house as he turned onto the road, Michael knew that its loss was yet another resource for survival gone to him.

3

ALFONSO

Apot whizzed by Alfonso’s head as he stood his ground, feet spread and arms crossed over his chest.

"You arrogant child!" The last word was said as if spitting.

Chuck was a big man. He looked like a college linebacker twenty years after the fact. His normally pasty, doughy skin was blotched red and a bent and twisting vein throbbed dangerously at his temple. It looked like a live worm burrowing its way in to take over the sous chef’s brain.

The pot that the sous chef had thrown bounded across the kitchen floor before finally hitting a stainless steel cabinet with a final clang. Alfonso didn’t bother to look at it. He never took his eyes from Chuck.

Having worked in so many different kitchens, he’d met chefs that were veritable saints. And, he’d met their counterparts—conceited, self-obsessed tyrants choking on their over-inflated sense of self-importance. Chuck was among the latter group, a demon with demigod delusions.

The mangos need another day to ripen. The flank steak’s accompaniment has been change to watermelon chutney.

Chutney! Chuck screamed as his eyes bulged. "We’re in goddamned Iowa! Nobody eats fucking chutney with steak!"

If you’re unsure of how to prepare the dish, I’d be happy to walk you through it. Alfonso’s voice remained level but the impact was nuclear.

Chuck charged at Alfonso, his clawed hands reaching for his neck but coming up short when every kitchen hand within ten feet of the pair piled themselves in front of Chuck to slow him down and finally stop him.

Alfonso didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

His eyes remained dead ahead as he looked at a man who had assumed an ounce of power and had then twisted his world to hold on to it, had magnified it by beating everyone around him down, to make himself appear more powerful and in control.

The slightest bit of contention from another was met with raging overkill until all dissension was deemed not worth the effort.

Alfonso knew the kind.

A sick smile stretched over nicotine stained teeth and Alfonso was reminded of a conversation that they were yet to have—the constant smell of cigarettes that the big man permeated into the food he cooked. The spicier dishes could hide it well enough, but it would be a cold day in hell before Alfonso let the man near the desserts.

Suddenly, the gathered kitchen staff no longer had to hold Chuck back. The big man stood on his own. Something about the way he held himself changed, as if a clock’s workings had clicked into place and a decision had been made.

The out-of-control anger was gone. The anger was still there, but a sense of control had returned.

I’d planned to do this next week but tonight’s as good as any. Chuck’s smile grew broader as his mean eyes turned beady. With a flourish of his arm upward, he intoned as if calling down the heavens, We’re out!

The kitchen staff around Chuck took a step away from him almost as one, turning to look at Alfonso before looking again at Chuck.

What happened next was beyond any nightmare Alfonso had ever dreamed.

Ladles and spoons were put down. Kitchen staff took off their aprons, some letting them fall to the floor where they stood, others tossing them across counters and dishes mid-prep.

Someone called through the kitchen doors out onto the restaurant floor, We’re out!

Less than ten seconds later, the wait-staff made its way into the kitchen, putting down undelivered platters of food wherever it suited them before heading out the kitchen’s back door and into the night beyond.

All the while, Chuck’s small, malicious eyes gleamed with delight at Alfonso until the entire kitchen was empty, save for the two of them. Ripping the apron from his thick neck with the snap of a hand big enough to fill a fruit bowl, Chuck held it out from his body and let it fall to the floor in the same way a person would let a mic drop. He then turned and walked out of Vanucci’s without another word.

The near-silence of an empty kitchen in the middle of dinner service met Alfonso’s ears with a nightmarish scream too loud to be heard.

Oh fuck, he whispered, and his ears heard that just fine.

4

ALFONSO

The sound of running water reached Alfonso’s ears first.

Then, the sizzle of meat.

Then, the hissed flare of fire from water boiling over and hitting the gas-driven flame of the stove. Even as his cell phone began to vibrate incessantly within his jean’s pocket, Alfonso went into action—turning off the scalding water at the sink, turning off burners, and then pulling out his phone to call in replacement workers. But, looking at his phone’s face, what he saw froze him and made his sweat covered brow prickle with a sudden flush of panic.

I quit.

---

Suck it.

I regret to inform you that I’ve accepted a better position.

Text message after text message, the list went on, all variations of the same. Every kitchen aid and wait staff under Vanucci’s employ was tendering their resignation.

The clink of dishes from the dining room pulled Alfonso’s attention away from the attempted ruin of Vanucci’s, a restaurant that had withstood riots, tornadoes and economic depression to stand stronger than ever after more than thirty years of service.

Not on my watch, Alfonso said through gritted teeth as he scooped up one of the abandoned serving platters heavy with cooling dishes. He wouldn’t be the one to let the restaurant fail now.

Moving swiftly with sure steps, Alfonso shouldered the kitchen door open, his eyes taking in the room with the wide sweep of his eyes. Most patrons were happily eating, focused on their companions. Some fingered their near-empty glasses of wine or soda absentmindedly, a visual note for their waiter to come and offer more.

Others looked to be pacing themselves as they took another bite of bread, enjoying it but not wanting to fill up before their main entree to arrived.

And, at the door, waiting to be seated was an elegantly dressed, stately woman with two young children in tow. Standing next to her was a tall man with black, curly hair, head turned away, wearing perfectly fitted khakis and a dress shirt that looked as if it had cost more than Alfonso usually made in a month during his travels in Europe.

The tall man’s face turned. It was just a profile, but it was enough.

Brad.

Alfonso’s stomach knotted and the dull ache that was a constant presence in his heart grew