My castle. I nearly laugh. Someone like Jack would never understand that a castle can still be a cage. I slap my share of the tab onto the bar. “Whatever. Have a nice life, Hartman.”
“You ever want round two, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Yeah.” I yank open the door. Diamond Bay. The Sailfish. I shake those thoughts away violently. “In hell.”
His laughter follows me out of the bar.
Even though I got in the last shot, I feel strangely hollow.
Chapter 4
Mango Jam
Jack
My car idles as I stare at Sal’s house.
Even in the dark, I can see that it looks the same as it did the night I left. A classic Key West style home with a wide, wrap-around porch, standing taller than the ranches on the rest of the block. White siding, a metal roof, and green shutters. A coral pink door, too, a concession Sal made to his daughter, Kiara, long before I stumbled into their lives.
He left this house, on a nice piece of corner property, to her. He should have done the same with the restaurant, plus the little houseboat he kept in the intracoastal—but for god knows what reason, they went to me.
I should go. It’s late, and I’ve driven a day without stopping, clothes and cookbooks and other random crap thrown into the back of my Jeep. Kiara won’t want to talk to me.
And even if, by some miracle, she opens that candy-pink door, who knows what I’ll be walking into. A house without Sal. That’s obvious. But I haven’t spoken to Kiara since one strained phone call around the funeral, when I told her I couldn’t make it. She should kick me to the curb for that alone, never mind the rest.
I turn off the engine. I know what her voice sounds like, more than a decade down the road, but I can’t picture her. Even if it’s only for a moment, I need to see her face.
The crushed-shell driveway is flanked by palms, crunching under my feet as I head for the door. A mango tree with a wide canopy anchors the lawn. It’s heavy with fruit. Mango season is in full swing.
Looking at the tree, I can nearly taste the spicy-sweet jam Sal made every year.
I ring the doorbell, then wait, stiff and silent. A humid nighttime breeze washes over me. I shut my eyes, relishing the ocean-tinged air. It’s been too long since I’ve been in Diamond Bay. August isn’t a time of year that anyone but a local wants to be in south Florida. It’s the start of hurricane season. Hot as hell. The days stick together like the pages of a well-loved book, punctuated by thunderstorms.
“Jack?”
Kiara stands in the doorway.
I know it’s her, and yet the differences in her appearance surprise me. Her hair is the same glossy black, but it’s longer than how she kept it as a teenager, tucked behind both ears. Her eyes are still a rich brown, but her tanned face is full of new, mature angles. She looks tired, too. Not as if I woke her up, but because of something deeper.
The urge to hug her nearly overwhelms me. Kiara Torres, the closest thing I ever had to a little sister. At least until I fucked it all up.
“Ki.” I shift my weight from one leg to the other. “I...”
She lurches forward, wrapping her arms around my neck. I catch her weight, hugging back tightly. I imagined this moment hundreds of different ways since I left for culinary school, but it pales in comparison to the real thing.
“Come inside.” She tugs me over the threshold before I can answer. Her hand trembles slightly, and guilt knots my stomach. “Do you want something to eat? It’s not as good as yours or Dad’s, but I made chili.”
My gaze darts around the foyer. The brass mermaid chandelier is the same, and so is the faded carpet runner patterned with palm trees. Pictures line the walls, just like when I was a teenager. Kiara as a little kid, roller skating. Sal on the deck of a boat, showing off a fish he caught. The Sailfish in full swing, stuffed to the gills withpatrons. Kiara’s veterinary school diploma, proudly placed alongside a graduation photo. Just her and Sal, beaming for the camera.
I stop short at a framed newspaper clipping. It’s a review of a little bistro in Chicago that I worked at shortly after graduating. My name is a scant reference at the end:With an expansive palate and eye for creativity, Jack Hartman shows rare promise. Next to it, there’s a profile of one of the places I worked at in France that appeared inFood & Wine; I’m in a photo with the rest of the kitchen staff. Then, a page from the interview withSalt & Savorthat I did last year, written by Douglas’s wife, Suzanne. Finally, an announcement about my nomination for Emerging Chef at the James Beard Awards. I won it the year I worked at the French Laundry.
“He followed your career religiously,” Kiara says, right next to my shoulder.
I clear the block in my throat. “Really.”
She takes my hand. “He was proud of you.”
I lived with Sal and Kiara for three years, moving in only a few weeks after Sal caught me trying to dine and dash and put me to work instead of calling the cops. I was fresh out of juvie—one fight too many on school property—and living in a group home with other angry, unwanted teenage boys. Sal’s place felt like paradise in comparison. For the first time in my life, I had security. Belonging. A purpose, working at the restaurant, and a passion: falling deeper in love with cooking the more I learned from Sal.
