iWork?

Synopsis: Sam gets a real job(!) The pay is good...but the perks are great!

Pairing: Carly/Sam

Disclaimer: I own iCarly!...was that the alarm clock?... damn it, no I don't!

Rated: "M" for language, and for "Major CAM", in the last 5 chapters only. If you're not into "M" rated stories, I invite you to read chapters 1 through 4, (all of which wouldbe designated as "T" if we were allowed to rate individual chapters). Whether you stop at the end of chapter 4, or read the entire story, my sincere thanks for your interest in my work; and special thanks if you take a minute at the end and leave a review.

Genre: Romance/Drama

Current Muse: House Of Stone and Light (Martin Page)

CARLY:

For a long time I had suspected that Sam might have certain repressed...uh...tendencies...ones that she was desperately trying to hide from me, not to mention the rest of the world. I never brought up the subject because I didn't want to upset her...but she could have confided in me...I'd have been totally supportive.

After all, it's something that some people are just born with.

It's understandable that she didn't want anyone to find out...I realize how insensitive people can be...but all the signs were there, no matter how hard she tried to hide them.

I guess the first time I really suspected it was after a comment she made when we were fifteen, and she was sitting really close to me, her head on my shoulder, as we watched the Food Channel.

Then, one eventful evening, almost a year later, she outed herself.

I was recovering from a nasty bout with the flu, and was looking at several more days in bed. Most of my symptoms were gone, but I was so weak that the doctor had forbidden me to get up.

It was late in the evening and, while I was lying there, listening to the rain glancing off my windows, Sam walked quietly into the room and sat down on the edge of my bed. By the soft glow of the table lamp, I saw her watching me, looking excited, yet slightly nervous.

Finally, with a warm smile, and without a word, she leaned forward and shyly kissed my forehead. She pulled back and looked deeply into my eyes, hesitated for a long moment, and then she...handed me the best bowl of chowder I've ever had in my entire life!

After that, it was impossible for her to hide it any longer...Sam was obviously a natural-born chef.

SAM:

"Carls, why do so many soup recipes not call for garlic?" We were fifteen, and I was sitting really close to her, my head on her shoulder, as we watched the Food Channel.

She moved away and gave me a very odd look. "What?"

"Well...it's just...that it would be such an improvement, you know...flavor-wise."

I thought that I had somehow offended her, but she soon leaned against me again, and gently moved my head back onto her shoulder...but her mind seemed to be elsewhere...

CARLY:

I guess I should have realized that Sam would gravitate toward a career in the culinary arts, since she and food are generally inseparable, but I didn't put two and two together at first, simply because a restaurant job is a lot of work, which, as everyone knows, Sam avoids as much as possible.

And, sure enough, when word got around that a restaurant had hired her, the insensitivity started:

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, Gibby?"

"What's this I hear about you working hard?"

"Shut up, hobknocker! I have many faults, but working hard is NOT one of them!"

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, Freddie?"

"Congratulations!"

"For what?"

"I just read your new cookbook: 'One Thousand Things You Can Do With Ham'."

"Oh, yeah? Well I just thought of one thousand AND ONE!"

SAM:

"Samantha Puckett, this court sentences you to sixty hours of community service."

"Aw, but all I did was..."

"Would you like to try for eighty?"

I glanced across the courtroom, and saw Carly giving me 'The Look'.

I shut my mouth.

The judge cleared his throat, impatiently, and I turned back to face him.

"You have two options: working at the Sunnyside Avenue Soup Kitchen, or picking up trash in Meridian park."

It was an easy choice. "The soup kitchen, sir."

I hadn't cooked much at home, since the fridge at my house is usually pretty empty, and Carly or Spencer always fed me at their place...but one thing I did do was watch the Food Channel.

Constantly.

Actually the gig was a lot easier than I'd expected. Instead of cooking, I only had to hang around the dining area's steam-table, and dish out food.

For the first two weeks.

Then, early one Saturday morning, (way too early, in fact), the dining room director called me into the kitchen.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Make soup. "

I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly. "Huh?"

"Chef Mackenzie will be in late this morning. Make soup."

"It's only eight-thirty."

"Yes, but it has to be ready by eleven."

"What kind am I supposed to make?"

"I don't know...you're the cook...figure it out."

I was thinking of Carly the whole time I was making the huge vat of creamy vegetable chowder.

It was just past noon, and I was back on the serving line, when I heard chef Mackenzie, in the kitchen, talking to his lunch-shift cooks. "Who made this chowder?"

No one spoke.

"I asked a question, I expect an answer...who made it?"

Someone mumbled something, and then I saw him walk across the dining area, and over to me.

"Can I please see you in the kitchen?"

I didn't know chef Charles McKenzie, but I'd heard that he worked at some nearby hotel, and that he volunteered here three mornings per week. I followed him nervously, wondering if he preferred to criticize me privately, rather than humiliate me in front of the two hundred or so people who were in the dining room.

He led me over to one of the kitchen counters, where I saw a half-eaten bowl of chowder, with a spoon sticking out of it.

"You made the soup today?"

"Yes, Chef."

"This is exceptional. Where else have you worked?"

"I haven't."

"Then you must cook at home a lot...for fun."

Still incredibly high from his compliment, I didn't correct him.

"So...what else can you make?"

Okay, I admit I embellished the list a bit, but from watching so many cooking shows, I knew what other kinds of stuff I was capable of doing. In my opinion, cooking's not about memorizing a bunch of recipes; it's really just common sense.

I asked about the menus at his hotel's restaurants, and then we discussed, in detail, the good and bad points of the various Seattle gourmet restaurants I'd been to (thank you, Spencer, for all those birthday dinners you took me and Carly out for).

"So, how old are you, kid?"

"Sixteen."

He gave me a hard, appraising look. "Come over here," he said, leading me toward two chairs in a corner of the kitchen, to continue our conversation...

...and, fifteen minutes later, I had accepted an invitation to a summer apprenticeship at the Cerise Arbre gourmet restaurant, at Seattle's Vanderman hotel.

CARLY:

The world-renowned Vanderman hotel chain has locations on four continents, and has consistently maintained a Getty Hotel Guide 4-star rating since 1963.

The company is also a pipeline to the Windsor Academy of Culinary Arts, here in Seattle, through a program called 'Reciprocal Enrollment'...meaning that, in exchange for hiring students from the school, the Academy was willing to accept promising apprentices from Vandermans, often based solely on the hotel chefs' recommendations.

I helped Sam fill out the application forms.

At first I was puzzled by the fact that Sam didn't complain about the drudgery of working in a restaurant kitchen, especially after her...uh...ordeal at 'Chili My Bowl', but I soon learned that a) she was working away from the customers, b) she was actually allowed to eat the food, and, c) the hotel employed a full crew of stewards to clean the kitchens and bathrooms...so, overall, I guess she didn't suffer too badly.

Long story short: considering how much she loves food, and how enthusiastically she talked about the job...the Cerise Arbre staff seemed to like her...and vice versa..

Often, she'd come over in the evening, and even though she'd frequently offer to cook for me, I'd rarely let her, knowing how hard she'd worked that day.

After finishing her summer internship (with an invitation to return), Sam still had to complete one more year of high school, and, to everyone's complete astonishment, actually put in (just) enough effort to pull her grades up to meet Windsor Academy's minimum requirements.

Between the hotel's tuition assistance, and a scholarship, plus a small student loan which Spencer, God bless him, had co-signed for, she was able to afford college.

After graduating from Ridgeway High, Sam worked at Vanderman's the following summer, and then began preparing (nervously) for the school's entrance audition.

I knew she'd ace it.

So Sam settled into her classes at Windsor Academy, while I majored in Communications, six blocks away, at Seattle's Carrington University...which was convenient, because of the money I saved on room and board, plus I got to see Spencer every day.

SAM:

"Come on, Sam," she begged, "if you loved me you'd do it!"

"I do love you, Carls."

"And you know that I love you."

I nodded.

"Then what's the problem?"

I shrugged. "I...just...don't want to."

"Please...just tonight?"

"I'm sorry, Carls. No."

"But...I need it!"

"No."

"I want it!"

"No."

"I've gotta have it!"

"No."

"You can't say no forever!"

"No! Now stop trying to make me!"

"Sam...Please!" She was standing only inches away, and I clearly saw the intense longing, and burning desire, in her eyes.

"Carls...you've got to get these urges of yours under control!

I felt her lips on my neck. "Please...for me?""

I whipped my head away from her...I can't look at that face and refuse. "I'm really sorry...I can't."

She was growing desperate. "Come on, just let me!" she urged, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me up against the wall.

"Stop that! I told you no!"

"But I want to so badly!" she insisted, frantically trying to push my sweatshirt over my head, and off my body.

"Carls...restrain yourself!"

"Why?"

"Because it's mine!"

We were fighting again. Over my sweatshirt. Not just any sweatshirt...my limited edition Cuttlefish 10th Anniversary Concert Tour hoodie, in steel gray, with hologram graphics artwork designed by the band's lead singer. Only fifty were ever made, and one of the highlights of my life had been the night I'd won it at their Bellevue Arena concert. Once it wore out I could never replace it.

As much as I loved Carly, and no matter how hard she begged, I never, ever let her wear it.

CARLY:

I made sure we frequently spent our evenings together, studying, at the apartment. I told myself it was mostly to keep an eye on Sam...to make sure she wasn't slacking off...but deep down I knew that it was also because I hated that we were spending so much less time together, now that we were at different schools.

Even after I'd finished my own assignments for the night, I always insisted that we review hers (especially if it was still "early enough" for her to go home).

SAM:

Carly's bed is so comfortable. I have so many wonderful memories...of waking up to the smell of bacon, tangled in the covers, usually with my head touching Carly's, which, for some unknown reason, often gravitated over to my pillow. Of opening my eyes to her sleepy smile, and warm hug.

The only thing that was always missing was a kiss - not a peck on the cheek - a real one, but, hey, I wasn't gonna be an ingrate.

During college she dated a number of guys, but none of them ever seemed to hang around for very long. If she had been any other girl, I might have suspected that they all just took off after a fast hook-up, but Carly was absolutely not like that. When I would ask her why the latest one had ditched, she'd mumble something about that it 'just didn't work out'. I suspected that they left because she wouldn't 'put out', but I loved her too much to try to make her admit it, so I'd always drop the subject whenever she seemed uncomfortable...which she always did.

Every summer I returned to work as a cook in the hotel's kitchens, and then, right after graduation, I applied, along with almost two hundred other candidates, for one of the company's twelve available chef intern positions.

CARLY:

The response was swift and enthusiastic. Vanderman Hotels wanted Sam Puckett to be their new chef intern.

In London.

SAM:

It broke my heart to see Carly's expression when I told her. I had just a glimpse, for a split second, before she covered it with a brave smile, but I could tell that the news upset her. Badly.

"I'm sorry, Carls..."

"It's fine...I-I just don't understand why they're not going to let you do it here."

"No, those guys specifically requested me."

"So what exactly is a certified...what was it?"

"Certified Master Chef . It's the highest level of certification possible in American culinary arts, and there are only sixty-two of them. This is an opportunity to work under not just one but two CMC's...so it's a fast track to an executive position. Then I can sit around with my feet up on a desk...and go back to slacking for the rest of my days."

"When do you leave?"

"In three weeks."

As I was falling asleep that night, I felt something brush against my arm and, looking down, saw Carly's hand, palm-up, lying next to me, on the mattress. I intertwined my fingers with her and pulled gently, and Carly moved across the bed, and into my arms. She rested her face against my upper chest, and, even though she made no sound, I could feel her shoulders trembling under my hands, and her tears soaking through my T-shirt.

"It's going to be okay."

"...I-I know."

"Don't cry."

"...It's just...that I'm going to miss you...so much..."

"It's only a for a year, Cupcake, and then I can transfer back to Seattle."

She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her nightshirt, then looked up at me. "Pr-promise me you will?"

"I promise."

I looked deeply into her eyes, wishing I could kiss her, wishing I could tell her how I felt, searching her face so carefully for any signs of encouragement, but she just nodded, and then lowered her head back onto my chest.

I rubbed her back and stroked her hair until almost two am, and then, completely exhausted, I tried to move her over to her side of the bed; but she just shook her head, and grabbed onto my shirt tightly, and lay there, on top of me, refusing to let go.

That night she slept, for the first time, in my arms.

During the three weeks leading up to my departure, I wrestled endlessly, desperately, with wanting to tell her...but that's not the kind of thing you dump onto someone's lap as you're walking out the door, headed for a plane that's going to take you off the continent. Especially when you have no idea how they're going to take the news.

The hardest part of all was the night before I left.

We were lying, together, on her bed, listening to the rain, when I tried to get up. "I'm going downstairs to make you dinner."

"No..." she whispered, tightening her arms, "...please stay here with me."

And she held me so close that I, for once in my life, completely forgot about food.

CARLY:

"I have something for you," I said, wrestling with my voice, to keep it steady. I knew she was going to love it...so why was I so nervous?

It was thrilling to watch her excited anticipation, and then her look of complete astonishment, as she unwrapped the insanely expensive Wusthof Trident French knife that I knew she'd always wanted...because every time we went into the restaurant supply shop she would hold it for a very long time, before reluctantly letting the salesman put it back into the case.

I had never seen Sam speechless before. Ever.

Finally, she managed to get out, "Oh, Carls...why?"

"Because the salesman was getting tired of dragging it out every time he saw you walk through the door."

"No, seriously...why?"

"So you'd have something to remember me by."

"Right...like I could...ever...for...for..."

Suddenly she turned away from me and rested her forehead in her hand.

"Come here." I pressed myself against her back and wrapped both my arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against me, resting my head against hers, pretending I didn't feel how badly she was shaking...

"C-carls...I'm...I'm...not..."

"I know you're not, honey...I know..."

SAM:

She hadn't offered to come to the airport with me, and I hadn't asked her. I knew how much it would hurt her to see me walk away, and, if she was there, I don't think I would have been able to...

That morning it seemed forever that we stood by her front door, neither of us saying anything. I was expecting tears from her, and had a clean handkerchief in my back pocket, just in case, but she just looked at me for what seemed an eternity, then, suddenly, she put her arms around my shoulders and hugged me. I held her close, flattening her chest against mine, memorizing the moment, wanting to be able to recall every detail, every day, for the next twelve months.

Too soon, she pulled back, and looked into my eyes, and then, laying a hand against my cheek, leaned in and pressed her lips against mine. Before I could recover from my surprise, and kiss her back, her forehead was on my shoulder.

"Carly, I'll..." without looking up, she rested her fingers gently against my lips.

Wrapping my arms around her waist, I picked her up off her feet, and hugged her one last time, and then, gently setting her back down...I walked out...without a word...without looking back.

I'm going to tell her. When I come back, if she's not attached, I'm going to tell her.

CARLY:

I put off going upstairs for as long as I could. The bed was going to be so empty without her.

Finally I had no choice, because Spencer was shellacking his latest sculpture, and the fumes were really getting to me.

Leaning out my open bathroom window, I drew in deep breaths of the damp, late-night Seattle air, trying to clear both my lungs, and my head. How was I ever going to get through the next twelve months? Not finding an answer, I got undressed and took a very long a shower, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible, and then I put on my pajamas (is it pathetic for a twenty-one year-old to still wear Bunny Luv nightshirts)?

As I turned down the covers on my side of the bed, I froze. Neatly laid out on top of the sheet was a familiar, steel gray Cuttlefish sweatshirt. With a note.

'Please keep this warm for me until I come back.'