Chapter 9
The room suddenly became silent, as if they'd both stopped breathing. After she'd injured her ankle, her doctor had run some tests and given her the diagnosis. Emille wouldn't quite meet his eyes.
In a low, hoarse voice, he said, "You never said anything."
"I didn't want you to know." She'd convinced herself that her weight wouldn't be so embarrassing as long as she wasn’t diabetic. Once she'd been diagnosed, Emille had decided to take control of her life. That table represented more than just… It was a turning point in her life.
"When did you find out?"
She couldn't tell him. "A few months ago."
"A few months ago, when?" he pushed.
"Will you help me?" she asked instead of answering his direct questioning.
"You just asked me to care more," he reminded her. "Now, answer my question. When did you get this diagnosis? Was it before the accident?"
Refusing to answer his questions was appealing, but if she was asking for his help, it was only fair that she give a full disclosure. "The next day my back was hurting, so I went to see my doctor. He decided to check me for it, and voila."
His eyes grew wider and wider the more she talked. "And you didn't tell me?" he almost shouted.
"I didn't want you to know."
"Me, Em?" Peter asked, incredulous. "Who else do you have in this city to call if anything happens to you?" She had Jack, and Nate, but they weren't him. He'd known her longer. She was his friend. "Are you kidding me right now? Cause if you are, I'm telling you, your joke sucks."
"I wouldn't joke about something like this," she said, hurt.
Peter thrust himself back against the sofa and ran his hands over his face. "Someday, Emille Carter," he sighed, "you're going to be the death of me."
She didn't say, I'm sorry. If she had it to do over again, she probably wouldn't have told him. But he'd brought desserts. As far as she was concerned he might as well have told her she'd never be healthy again. His intentions might have been good in reducing the calories per serving, but all she heard was the mockery of her efforts.
After long moments of silence, where he just sat there glaring at the back of her head, Emille felt him shift forward on the sofa. Out of her peripheral vision, she watched him rub his big palms over his knees a few times.
He couldn't believe it. It shouldn't come as such a shock to him, but nonetheless, he was shocked that something so huge had happened in Emille's life and she hadn't told him. He was furious that she'd let her health get so out of control that this had happened to her. And he was very much ashamed that he had done nothing to help her. He thought about all those fattening, sugary dishes he'd prepared for her; and how he hadn't bothered to care about her intake of calories and cholesterol until she'd taken an interest herself. He thought about how he'd judged her for choosing to stop dining at the restaurant once she decided to start exercising. And, he thought about the customers who bought meals from him. They didn't care that what they put into their bodies determined their wellbeing, but he knew, and as a professional, he was informed and should care. His gaze caught on the treats he'd tempted her with. Her favorites. Then, he thought about her resistance to the temptation.
Hesitantly, unsure whether his gesture would be welcomed or not, Peter extended his hands and covered her knuckles. When she made no effort to pull away, he closed his eyes in relief. Slowly, he brought her hands to his lips and pressed his lips against her knuckles.
"What do you need from me?" he breathed against her skin. He allowed a small smile to play at the corners of his lips.
"I need your support," she replied sincerely. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, blinking as if she was waking from a trance. "I need help with my weekly menu," Emille continued. "Portia and my doctor have worked out my dietary requirements, but it's so strict that I keep breaking it. The food isn't appealing, and the recipes are out of my budget. I've seen you turn a box of macaroni and a can of anchovies into gourmet fare." She waited for his wry smile. "I was hoping you could look at my list of approved foods, and we can work together on what I can afford, and create a meal plan that I can actually work with."
"Do you have the list?" he asked.
She was out of her seat like a shot, disappearing into the kitchen. Peter followed at a more sedate pace. He dumped the remainder of the desserts into the trash and washed up the plate. Meanwhile Emille pulled an enormous folder from the pantry and dropped it onto the table.
"More coffee?" Peter offered, though she hadn't touched her first cup.
"No," she shook her head. "I've got green tea in the fridge."
He opened the door to get it for her, and had to stop and stare.
"Do I have anything in there that you think I shouldn't have?" Emille asked over his shoulder.
The lower drawers of Emille's refrigerator were packed with fruits and vegetables. The shelves and even the door were filled with gallons and bottles of water as usual, and a jug of tea, but there wasn't a condiment in sight. He spotted eggs, and what looked like sliced turkey. Peter poured some tea from the jug then opened the freezer for some ice. Fruits and vegetables galore were bagged and stored in flat packages in the freezer. He dropped a few cubes into her glass and shook his head. "No, ma'am. I think you've made a really good start."
"I really appreciate your help, Peter," she said.
He deposited her glass on the table before shifting the stacks of clothing magazines that she had perpetually covering the table out of his way. They sat down together and got down to business.