Holidays at Buchons'

By Mandy Dawson

Join the misfits around Buchons' holiday table in four enchanting stories of second chances and new beginnings.

 

Mark and Brie's marriage was easier to dissolve than their restaurant; working so closely after their divorce leaves them wondering if a sweet future might outweigh bitter memories.

 

Sami and Carlos find themselves navigating the line between friendship and passion, but their hearts aren't the only ones on the line.

 

Holly and Drew each cross the country be escape loss, only to find the promise of a fresh start together.

 

Pete and Jessa definitely don't like one another, or so they keep saying, but navigating the pandemic in the Buchons' orbit might just prove them wrong.

 

Santiago has his work cut out for him as he helps bring together a collection of strays to create a family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Garriepy
• Release date: Dec 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393731436

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Holidays at Buchon’s

Copyright © 2020 by Mandy Dawson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and dialogue are all fictional. Any similarity to real people or places is entirely unintentional and coincidental.

Original Cover Artwork by Bannerwing Cover Design.

Cover Design © 2020 Bannerwing Books.

Holidays at Buchon’s

Four Stories of Love, Hope & Food

Mandy Dawson

Bannerwing Books

Contents

The Rarest Gift

Trusting Starlight

Casting On

Silver Linings

An excerpt from Hope & Happenstance

An excerpt from Elemental Awakening

Also by Mandy Dawson

About Mandy Dawson

About the Publisher

The Rarest Gift

Sabrina heard the laughter as soon as she entered, an evil sound at odds with the sweet scent of caramelized apples wafting through the room.

Oh God. What did he do now? The normally hectic kitchen went silent as nine pairs of hands paused at her quiet words. Carlos?

The sous chef shrugged, his dark eyes carefully blank. His knife left a pile of neatly sliced onions in its wake as he resumed chopping. He’s been in there all morning.

Sabrina considered the tightly shut steel door between her and her nemesis. She avoided looking into the corner camera, knowing he could see her every move. She had no doubt he was twirling his mustache in anticipation, the ass.

She knew what he wanted. He wasn't exactly subtle. She had no doubt his laughter was bait and if she took a step towards that closed door, the trap would spring. She slid the gloves off her hands and tucked them into her coat pocket. Everyone in the room avoided her eyes. This couldn't be easy for them.

She forced a smile to her face and walked to the table wedged into the far corner of the kitchen. It wobbled when she put her laptop on it. Sighing, she bent to wedge the dislodged shim under one leg. As offices go, it wasn't ideal. The alternative, she glanced at the steel door from the corner of her eye, was far worse.

Here, a soft voice interrupted her thoughts. I thought you might need this.

Sabrina smiled at Jessa as the other woman set a slice of pear tarte tatin and a steaming coffee lightly swirled with thick, rich cream next to her computer case.

Thanks. She picked up the heavy mug and let the heat warm her icy fingers. Jessa patted her shoulder and went back to work kneading a massive pile of dough with the strong hands of a pastry chef.

She took a sip of coffee while the sounds of the kitchen drowned out the sporadic laughter still punctuating the air. The bitter brew sweetened her mood enough to open her laptop case and pull the slim computer from its pocket. She sat in the wooden chair that had been relegated to the depths of the storage closet until it was liberated two weeks ago and opened the reservations program.

Waiting for it to load, she took a bite of the pastry. Sugar, butter, and the delicate flavor of pear melted on her tongue. There was a reason her fat pants were starting to get snug and most of the blame could be laid squarely at the feet of the pint-sized pixie currently working her magic on the night’s bread.

She didn't know why she felt the sting of disappointment as the white calendar opened, the blue boxed reservations small puddles where before they'd been a sea. It would have taken a miracle to fill their reservations in the twenty minutes since she'd last checked. A slump in the local economy, a surplus of fine dining establishments, a witch doctor's curse. No matter what the reason, one thing was clear: Buchon's was sliding ever more rapidly into the red.

She opened her email and with it, a flood of unread messages flowed down her screen. The subject lines screamed in bold and caps. Her blood began to pound in time to Carlos's chopping as she scrolled through the messages. The bastard. The egotistical, narcissist jerk. She felt anger warm her cheeks and push her to her feet. She took a breath and tried to calm the white hot fury speeding her heart.

It was what he wanted, she reminded herself. It was bait. It was a trap. It was—she left the table and strode to the steel door where the cackling madman spun his Machiavellian web. She squared her shoulders and pushed the door open without knocking.

What the hell did you do? She was proud her voice was calm, on the professional side of angry. The bane of her existence swirled around from the dim light of his computer, unholy glee on his face.

I told you I didn’t want to do the interview.

She hated his deep voice and the way it dominated the room, even when he lowered it. Especially when he lowered it. His hair needed cutting, she noticed, the riotous mass of black curls falling over his collar. Between it and the wrinkled shirt stretched across his broad chest, he looked like he'd just rolled out of bed without a care in the world.

We need the publicity. You know that. How could you do this? A ping punctuated her question.

He spun in his chair and clicked the email open. He read quickly and fell back into his seat, laughing. Sabrina crossed the tiny room, her eyes scanning the message as she read over his shoulder.

User: momsapplepie

Recipe Review: 0/5

Comments: This apple pie recipe sucks!! Worst ever. I spent four days trying to follow it and there’s no way the sugar can caramelize before burning unless you stir it. And the crust! It has the consistency of batter. How am I supposed to roll it out? Mark Buchon is an idiot and I'll never make another of his crap recipes.

You wouldn’t listen to me. You have no one to blame but yourself. He twirled the thick black mustache he’d started growing around Halloween. She pushed down the urge to grab a pair of scissors and cut the offending piece of hair off his smirking face and remained silent, knowing nothing got the man talking like a quiet room. His wide shoulders raised in a shrug. I tweaked some of the recipes, made a few additions, a few subtractions. Nothing that isn’t standard when publishing. His teeth flashed in a humorless grin. I may have left out a few steps, sent them down the wrong road.

She wanted to collapse into the chair behind her. She wanted to let her shoulders slump in exhaustion. She wanted to cry tears of frustration. She wanted a hug and for someone to tell her it was all going to be okay. Instead, she locked her knees and asked tonelessly, Why?

You know why.

The restaurant will fail. She'd lost too much already. She couldn't lose this, too.

Let it fail. This wasn’t what I wanted. This is all you, Brie. Bitterness coated his words.

She shut her mouth on a retort as more pings sang into the room. All of those people hate you.

He shrugged. Let them. I don’t give a damn.

She rubbed the ache forming at her temples. Why won’t you just quit?

That’s your job, Mrs. Buchon.

She thought he’d lost the power to hurt her, but his words stabbed like ice. He turned his back to her and opened another email. As usual, he didn’t see the damage his carelessness left behind. She spun on one heel and walked out the door.

Brie walked out the door the way she’d walked out of Mark’s life: with her spine straight, her lips pressed tightly together, and her eyes empty. He smiled grimly as she gently closed the door. He didn’t know why he kept hoping for…something. Something loud, something passionate—a slamming door, a shouted curse, anything that would betray she still cared enough to hate him.

He laughed bitterly. Was that where they were now? Her hatred was his goal? His eyes turned to the small black and white security monitor above his computer to watch Brie cross the kitchen to the tiny wooden table where her laptop sat. He narrowed his eyes on her hands before leaning back in his chair with a smile of satisfaction.

Her fists were still clenched. He’d gotten under her skin. He was a sick bastard. There was no other explanation. If he had the balls, he’d walk out the door and be done with this whole damn mess. He’d give her a chance to start over, maybe give himself a chance to gain sanity. God knows there wasn’t any starting over for him. For better or worse, Brie was it and apparently worse was what he was going to get. Mission accomplished, he scooted closer to his desk and got to work. Contrary to her opinion, he wasn’t a total asshole.

Two hours later, Mark reached back and worked a kink out of his shoulder. Taking one last look at his empty inbox, he closed his computer down. It had taken a while, but he’d answered every review and email, making sure to put everyone back on the right track in their culinary adventures before emailing the publication an apology and correction. Sighing, he looked at the pile of invoices waiting for his approval. Brie’s tidy writing covered the bright pink note paper she favored. He plucked a sticky square from the top of the pile.

Please verify item three. Uncertain it

corresponds with the vendor purchase order.

Heady stuff, Brie’s notes. The wheels on the antique wooden chair squeaked as he scooted away from the desk. The kitchen might be cold stainless steel, but the office—their office—was rich cream and warm wood. His side of the partner desk salvaged from a closing law office was as cluttered as ever. Hers was empty.

Rolling the pink paper between his fingers he thought of other notes, other messages stuck to the mirror of their bathroom: Can’t stop thinking about last night. And this morning. Maybe lunch?

Tucked into his wallet: I love you more every day.

Mark closed his eyes, his keen nose catching a whiff of her perfume. Vanilla and cinnamon. Where had it all gone horribly wrong?

It’s perfect! Brie whispered. She schooled her face calm and tried to keep from dancing side to side. The space really was perfect. The dining room was three walls of windows, their French panes sparkling like diamonds in the pale winter light. A long mahogany bar shone under pendulum lights, the jewel tones reflected in the mirrored wall. With seating for a hundred and fifty, it was a big step from their corner bistro two towns over. We can host weddings, feature wine partners, bring in local musicians. Her keen eyes were already trading out the heavy furniture for something lighter, more modern to reflect the cuisine her husband created.

It’s big, Mark’s whole body screamed no, from his hands fisted in the pockets of the bomber jacket so old it was back in style to the frown furrowing his heavy brows.

You’re being overly cautious. The time is right. The numbers don’t lie. She repeated the old argument by rote. He may be a master in the kitchen, but she was the one who kept the restaurant turning a profit. The numbers didn’t lie. If they were going to expand, now was the time. Profits were up and the bistro was losing more customers than they sat.

She wove her arm through his and gave a squeeze. Let’s see the kitchen.

He followed her reluctantly while the leasing agent kept her distance, giving Sabrina time to convince him this was where they were going to make their mark in the competitive wine country restaurant field. They pushed through the swinging door and, in that moment, she knew he was sold. No chef on earth could say no to the gleaming steel of the spotless kitchen.

We wouldn’t have to do a thing, she said.

It all comes with? Mark ran his hand along the beast of a stove, taking in the range and grill. He turned then, his eyes narrowed. Why?

The previous owners are selling it all. Lock, stock, and barrel. They said they’re done. Brie pushed down the twinge of guilt over what she wasn’t saying. The previous owners had sunk their savings into the place and promptly failed to gain a foothold among the established restaurants with reputations bigger than their chef’s egos.

What about the liquor license?

We have it. Mark, I know you’re worried. So am I, but I’ve looked at every angle and I can’t see a bad side. You’re good. You’re better than good. She didn’t want to lay it too thick, but she knew she’d married a culinary genius, even if he didn’t see it himself.

He wandered to the walk-in fridge. The doors swung open on silent hinges. We’d have to hire more people.

Jessa and Carlos will come. I know it.

We’ll need at least six in the kitchen. More out front.

The second his eyes took on that far away look, she knew she had him. You’re in?

His eyes lit on her face and softened. Of course I’m in.

It’ll be just like we dreamed. Brie walked to him and looped her arms around his waist.

He kissed the top of her