Page 39 of The Missing Ingredient

“Tom, there’s a lot of smoke. Are you sure you’ve used the right firelighters? Maybe you should let Marcus take over. Hello, Marcus, dear.”

Tom muttered an expletive and a few words Marcus couldn’t quite make out before rushing past him and heading out the back door.

“Hi, Moira,” replied Marcus, strolling into the kitchen, putting down his wares, and giving her a peck on the cheek she tilted toward him. John and Moira had never been tactile, which Marcus assumed to be a family trait. Tom had sometimes shaken his hand or offered an occasional one-handed slap on the shoulder. Not particularly physical. Until last night changed everything. And once again the mere thought of the night’s exertions had Marcus’s neck turning red and his heart beating faster.

He needed a beer.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into my son this morning. Anybody would think he’d won the lottery, the way he’s behaving.”

Marcus smiled and headed toward the kitchen door, but Moira stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Moira. As though reading his mind, she opened the fridge door and pulled out a can of Carlsberg.

“To help Tom with the barbecue,” he said, taking the beer and snapping off the tab. “Or do you need a hand in here?”

“Somebody I want you to meet first.”

Without waiting for a response, Moira led him into their small glass conservatory, which overlooked the back garden. A dozen or so guests already stood around chatting and drinking. Tom’s father sat in his wheelchair, his back to the windows, drinking a glass of red and chatting with a neighbor. Marcus was about to stop and say hello, but Moira grabbed his forearm and led him to the far end of the room, where a young man stood alone.

“This is Lincoln Prescott. He’s Jimmy Prescott’s nephew. From number twenty-seven? Just arrived back from Australia. He’s looking into starting up his own catering business over here. Keep him company for me while I finish up in the kitchen.”

Even before Lincoln opened his mouth, Marcus got a vibe. Decked out in a milky peach polo shirt and beige chinos, he chose to stand alone by the conservatory window. His arms folded, he rested a bottle of lager in the crook of one arm and had been peering out into the garden. Marcus’s intuition grew from the way Lincoln turned and took him in, undressed, and assessed him. And the knowing grin that formed as his eyes returned to Marcus’s and lingered, studying him without flinching. Was that also a touch of arrogance? And then, like a bucket of cold water in the face, it dawned on Marcus. Moira had already told Lincoln about him, was probably trying to set them up. The cheek of the woman. So Marcus did the only gentlemanly thing: he smiled broadly and held out a hand in welcome.

“I’m Marcus—”

“Vine,” said Lincoln, returning the handshake with an ice-cold hand, the one that had been holding the beer. “Yes, I know. You’ve been something of an inspiration while I worked down under. I kind of like how you’ve avoided going the telly celebrity route. Ever thought about opening in Melbourne?”

“Nice idea. But I’ve got more than enough on my plate at the moment. Excuse the pun.”

They continued to chat amiably, mainly about Marcus’s success and his new openings in New York and Birmingham. Lincoln—“Link”—appeared to have followed Marcus’s career from the early days, reciting almost biographically Marcus’s rise to fame. He spoke sparingly but animatedly about himself, about his life in Australia, always bringing the conversation back to Marcus, something Marcus found both flattering and a little obsequious. Marcus positioned himself so that from time to time he could sneak a peek over Link’s shoulder, out the window to the amazing man who had shared his bed last night. A couple of times Marcus tried to find an excuse to leave, but on each occasion Link managed to keep him there by asking a few more questions. Eventually Marcus found out why, when Link suggested they go for a drink one night the following week. Flummoxed at first, Marcus accepted provisionally, citing potential work demands. But realizing Moira had instigated the head-to-head, he decided this might placate Link. He could always cry off nearer the time.

A good thirty minutes after his arrival, something tugged at his trouser leg. “Uncle Marc” came the serious voice of Charlotte. She stood before them at waist height, frowning, hands on hips. Her pretense at being stern had Marcus smirking, a look not unlike one her late mother used to pull off to perfection.

“What is it, princess?”

“Daddy says you need to come and take over barbecuing now. Before he remakes the burgers and steaks.”

Marcus peered through the conservatory window again and could see Tom gazing anxiously toward the kitchen window. Had he sent Charlotte over because he knew what his mother was up to? And if so, was he maybe a little jealous? The notion gave Marcus a delicious twinge of pleasure.

“Remakes the burgers?” asked Link before taking a swig of beer. His question brought Marcus’s attention back.

“Cremates,” translated Marcus, which instantly had Link spluttering and coughing with laughter. He had a nice laugh, unaffected, one that lit up his face, and even though Marcus was not in the slightest bit interested, he warmed to Link’s easy charm. At any other time he might have been intrigued to know more.

“I’d better go. I did volunteer to help out.”

“DADDYtold me to say that,” said Charlotte as she led Marcus out the kitchen door down to where Tom hovered over the barbecue, looking hot and bothered.

“I guessed he might have,” said Marcus. “But then, I did offer to help.”

“Was that your boyfriend?” she asked, in all innocence.

“No, Charlie,” said Marcus, chuckling at her bluntness. “I don’t have a boyfriend. That man’s a relative of Granny’s neighbor. I was just trying to make him feel comfortable.”

“Good, because Daddy keeps asking where you are.”

“Does he now?”

Tom didn’t look so much pleased as relieved when he saw Marcus approaching. Not that he couldn’t handle the barbecue well enough, but he looked as though he needed a break.

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