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“Your new apartment is beautiful, Jillie.”
Jillian turned her phone from her waterfront view in San Francisco to look at her family on the screen via FaceTime. Her father, Harry Rossi—whom she favored—her mother, Nora—from whom she got her humor—and her grandmother, Ionie. They were all huddled in front of the computer in Rochester, New York, in her parents’ home.
“Thank you, Gram,” she said, taking a seat on the L-shaped sofa as she eyed the petite senior with her short silver curls and her beloved fuchsia lipstick. She was vibrant, smart, and funny, but the grandmother she knew was beginning to fade a bit as a chronic heart condition weakened her.
Jillian fought the urge to ask her how she was doing, knowing it irritated her to be coddled.
“We miss you, Jillie, but we’re proud of you,” Harry said in a booming voice that matched his lofty broad frame.
Her mother lovingly called him Bear.
And their love, since the days they’d been in high school, was sickeningly adorable. Arguments were few and far between. Shows of affection were often. Lots and lots of laughter. Long hugs. And slow dances with whispered promises.
They loved and liked each other.
That was her childhood.
It was her search for her own “Mr. Right” or “The One” or her “happily-ever-after” that had led to Jillian’s two failed marriages. The first at just eighteen to Warren Long, her high school sweetheart. A wedding at the county courthouse and a year of arguing over their lack of money as they both attended college made them realize they were too young—and had moved too fast—to be married. Thankfully once the hurt and bitterness had faded, they’d remained in touch over the years.
That had not been the case with her second husband, Chuckie Forge. They’d met when she’d been hired as a line cook in his small but popular restaurant in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan. Their fiery, passionate three-month affair had led to a Vegas marriage that had crashed and burned when he’d disappeared for an entire weekend with his pastry chef. Unlike Warren, Jillian disdained Chuckie and was pleased to never lay eyes on him again.
“How are things going with the restaurant?” Her father’s question interrupted her musings.
“Better,” she said. “The shift between being a personal chef and an executive chef for a restaurant that is part of a brand is huge for me. There’s less freedom.”
“You understand that. Right?” her father asked.
“Absolutely,” she assured him.
And she did. But still, she wished she could plan the menu without input from corporate or restaurant management. It felt formulaic, and she suspected it was why the position had been left open following the previous chef’s exit. He now operated his own restaurant.
Her grandmother covered her mouth with a yawn. Jillian smiled. The three-hour time difference was taking some getting used to, as well. It was six in California, but on the East Coast it was nine at night. Definitely past her grandmother’s bedtime.
But she wasn’t ready to say good-night to them.
She was lonely.
Jillian looked past the phone to her spacious furnished apartment with its incredible waterfront views and just a walk from the restaurant, CRESSIII. Her new six-figure salary would pay off her debt within a year. And the press generated by Cress, INC.’s public relations team of her hire as executive chef might lead to even more opportunities.
None of it replaced the surprising hole left in her life without Cole.
She sighed.
“Everything okay, Jillie?” Ionie asked, leaning closer to the screen.
Jillian smiled when her grandmother tapped it. “I’m not frozen, Gram,” she said.
“Oh. Okay,” Ionie said. “I can’t be right and hit it out of the park all the time to bat a thousand.”
Ionielovedthe New York Mets.
“Listen, Jillie, my bed is calling my name,” she said, standing. “And I’m going to answer. Videophone me tomorrow.”
“It’s FaceTime, Mom,” Harry said with a playful wink at the screen as his mother turned and walked away.
Ionie was filled with one-liners and it never took much to nudge one out of her.
“Tomato tomato, Harry. Same difference, son,” she called over her shoulder as she sauntered away with a sway of her hips.
