Vanilla Vengeance

by Molly Maple

“Only a hundred?” she teases. Then her neck shrinks. “I haven’t been here since…” She mimes stabbing herself in the chest.

  “Since Gerald died?”

  She nods and takes out the menu, scouring the items line by line. “I hope the food still tastes the same.”

  “The bread is different, but so far, Helen has been holding her ground, not letting Robert change the sauces.”

  Helen and I had many a long chat while I filled in for her sus chef. I can trust the spaghetti to be Gerald’s late wife’s recipe, but I am not going near the garlic bread out of loyalty to Helen’s righteous indignation. After having her handmade bread dethroned by the store-bought stuff, I wouldn’t dare order a slice.

  “Good to know. Their sauce is classic.”

  My finger runs down the words on the menu. “I thought it would be good to come here because I need to know if my cupcakes fit well on the menu. They’ve sold out every day this week, so I’m going to pitch Robert a fourth flavor, but I want to really nail it this time.”

  Marianne’s head bobs, now looking at the menu as if studying for an exam. “I don’t suppose a tomato flavor would work.”

  I grin at her. “I can make anything work in a cupcake. The problem is getting people to buy it. Would you order a tomato cupcake?”

  Marianne’s face pulls. “Ugh. No. Though, I’m sure if you made it, I would love it.”

  We giggle together because our friendship lends itself to levity and contentment. It’s easy being with Marianne. I don’t know how I lasted so long without a solid girlfriend before this.

  I order the apple slaw and the spaghetti bolognaise, because I happen to know the apple slaw is fabulous. “What are you reading now?” I ask Marianne, knowing she plows through a classic every few days.

  Marianne’s smile when she talks about literature is simply adorable. Her exhale as she tosses her braid over her shoulder makes her look as if she is ready to write sonnets about her passion.

  She sets down her menu as if she has freshly fallen in love and must divulge every sordid detail. “Mm. I’m reading Pride and Prejudice again. I keep thinking I’ve read it enough times to memorize the thing, but it never gets old. Every time I read it, it’s like the first time all over again.”

  “Sounds like you love the story. I’ve never read it,” I admit.

  I can tell this is the wrong thing to say.

  She leans forward, palms slapped to the table. “What? Are you serious?”

  I shoot her a wry look. “You’re acting like I’ve just told you I’m illiterate and use book pages as toilet paper. I read. I just haven’t read Pride and Prejudice.”

  Marianne moves her hands around until both palms settle atop the table again. “I’ll plow through and finish it tonight. Then it’s yours.”

  “I don’t have a library card yet.” I snicker at her sudden seriousness.

  “Sure you do. Or you will, anyway. I’ll start one for you tomorrow.”

  “Marianne, honestly, I can wait. I…”

  I have no idea what I am about to say because at that exact moment, the one person I truly don’t want to see comes into the restaurant, accompanied by a woman who is possibly his mother.

  Strong jawline, long but not too prominent nose, sandy hair done perfectly, and an easy way about them both that suggests they know what they are doing in life.

  “We have to leave!” I whisper, reaching for my purse. “I’ll take you somewhere else.”

  But of course, that is the moment when the waiter sets our drinks down.

  Marianne tilts her head at my odd shift in personality, and then gives the waiter her order.

  “And you, Miss?”

  I rattle off my order, tripping over the easy words as if I am a child who has never understood how to hold her poise in a grownup establishment.

  When the waiter leaves, I am sweating. “We have to go!”

  Marianne looks around, her eyes landing on the source of my consternation. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s him! That guy over there. He’s so beautiful, he turns me into a klutz if I’m near him for too long. I shouldn’t be in the same restaurant as him.”

  “Who, Logan?” She says the name as if she cannot believe how crazy it sounds that anyone would have a fangirl crush on him. I mean, the man could pass for a calendar model of handymen or sweater models.

  “Yes! Don’t say his name. He’ll know I’m talking about him.” I shake my head too quickly. I’m sure I look like a caricature. “We have to get out of here. Why did I order?”

  Marianne snickers at me. “Your face is completely red. Have you met Logan before?”

  I hang my head in shame as the embarrassing story of the grocery store catastrophe lays itself out for her.

  Marianne is laughing so hard by the end of my pathetic story that there is no way Logan doesn’t see us.

  I angle my chair so I can’t see him at his table across the restaurant. If I could will myself to become invisible, I would do so right now.

  “And you fell into his arms? That’s so sweet! I love it.” Marianne claps at my ineptitude.

  “It wasn’t sweet. It was horrible! I don’t want a guy like that to know I exist. And I really don’t want him to meet me when I’m splattered in pickled egg juice.”

  Marianne covers her mouth, but her giggles cannot be masked. “Oh, that’s excellent. Poor Charlotte. I’m sure he thought it was all very funny.”

  “Yes. Hilarious. My mortification is amusing to the hot guy. Awesome.” I plop both elbows on the table and cradle my forehead in my palms.

  After a little more teasing, Marianne finally switches her focus back to books. I love listening to her gush about the plot, telling which twists and turns are her favorite. Her whimsy is just distracting enough that, for a few minutes, I forget about Logan.

  When the waiter comes with our food, I am struck by the vibrancy of the sauce. It isn’t the typical red, but a brighter hue that makes me think orange tomatoes were added into the mix. Maybe even carrots.

  I inhale over my food, knowing this is going to be a good meal. I mean, Helen made it, so I am certain I will enjoy it.

  “Are you sure you’ll have enough time to help me with the twinkle lights set up?” Marianne starts cutting into her stuffed cannelloni. “I mean, you’re working at the diner, plus baking when you get off your shift. I don’t want to steal your one free day.”

  “Stealing me to hang out and play in twinkle lights is the only kind of thievery I will never oppose.”

  I twirl my fork in the noodles, readying for what I assume will be the best bite of my week.

  The flavor is incredible. Fresh tomatoes pop on my tongue, reminding me that summer can be felt year-round if only you have a solid cook to remind you of nature’s best assets. The nest of crispy, caramelized onions on top is my favorite part—both the smell and the taste.

  “Hi, Marianne. Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

  The velvety voice sets my nerves on edge because there is only one man who could sound so very alluring.

  Marianne lights up with a knowing grin that aims a bit of its tease my way. “Hey, Logan. I’m reading Pride and Prejudice, so life is pretty good. How about you?”

  If my face was red before, I am certain it is purple now. I refuse to look up. I don’t want to see how pretty he is. Not up close.

  “I’m not reading anything that interesting. Just reports and boring stuff like that.” When his voice angles my way, I will myself to evaporate into thin air. “Hello, Charlotte.”

  He deserves more than a bob of my head, but when I open my mouth to say hello, I forget my mouthful of spaghetti that isn’t quite chewed yet.

  A sharp inhale of nerves drags noodles, some meat and sauce down the wrong pipe…

  …and gets stuck.

  My eyes water as I choke on the meat. My whole body seizes from both embarrassment and horror. My hand grips the table as I fish for my napkin. If I die of spaghetti ingestion, it
’s suddenly very important to me that I don’t make a mess in front of Logan.

  Both Logan and Marianne are trying to coach me through my next breath, but it looms just out of reach.

  Marianne jumps out of her seat and rounds the table, but Logan is closer and reaches me first. I want to apologize and run for the door, but I can’t muster the wherewithal to stand on my own, even when he yanks me out of my seat.

  Logan’s arms encircle my waist just below my ribs, my spine pressed to his chest.

  My arm flails and catches on the edge of my plate, dumping my spaghetti on my arm and hand. The burning sensation is nothing to the flush of heat I feel from Logan’s arms wrapped around me from behind. Even as I am fighting for breath, I cannot help but think how wonderful his arms feel.

  If this is the last embrace before I die, it will have been a good one.

  Logan pushes his fist to my diaphragm three times before the lodged chunk of meat projectiles out of my mouth and onto the table.

  I don’t know if it’s the handsome man still holding me from behind or if it’s the loss of oxygen, but my knees are ready to give out.

  Logan lowers me to my chair as our waiter scurries around us, fanning a menu at me and chanting over and over for me to breathe.

  Marianne has moisture on her cheeks. I scared her.

  I scared myself.

  Marianne dabs at my mouth with a napkin. “Oh, honey. Are you okay?”

  Logan holds onto my hand as if he has no idea what such contact does to a woman.

  I manage a wan nod, my chest heaving as I reacquaint myself with the effort of breathing.

  Logan chuckles at himself. “A mishap for each time I’ve seen you. I’m starting to think I might be bad luck for you.”

  He hit it right on the nose. Someone of his cuteness caliber will only ever be bad luck for me.

  Marianne’s arms find their way around me while the waiter switches from panicked to relieved to now irritated that he has to clean up my meal, which has been dumped all over the floor.

  The waiter cannot possibly hate me more than I loathe myself right now.

  18

  Closing Up

  Logan’s long fingers span across my back, rubbing in a soothing circle. Of course he is the sort of man who knows CPR and can be kind to a dolt like myself, who hasn’t yet learned how to chew properly.

  “Home,” I beg Marianne, who quickly obliges. She asks the waiter to box up the remnants of our food, and chats with Logan as if talking to the most handsome man in the world is easy.

  “You have to try the cupcakes,” Marianne prods Logan after a few back and forths, wherein I try to even out my breathing. “Charlotte made them.”

  “No kidding. Then I guess I don’t have a choice. So long as they don’t have pickled eggs in them, I’m sold.”

  He’s trying to make a joke, to be friendly, but I can’t muster up an ounce of levity. I’m still sitting in my seat, my hand still dripping with spaghetti sauce.

  I wish I hadn’t made such an epic fool of myself.

  In my imagination, I would happen to come across Logan at random. I would say something witty and toss my hair over my shoulder, fixing him with a clever grin.

  I would not be a mess of bright sauce and projectile meat.

  “Bathroom,” I mumble while the waiter goes off to get a box for Marianne’s food.

  When Logan helps me to stand, I realize the entire restaurant is gaping at me, including Logan’s mother, her hand over her mouth.

  Pity. That’s what I see in her eyes, as well as in all the other patrons, who are looking on with concern.

  I gently pull away from Logan with as much dignity as I have left, which admittedly, isn’t much. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  Logan fixes me with the beginnings of half a smile. “Any time.”

  Yep. He’s too handsome.

  I stumble to the bathroom with Marianne by my side, grateful when the door closes his beauty out of sight. “That was horrible!” I squawk, only now getting my voice back. “I told you, I can’t be near someone that good looking. It’s a hazard.”

  “Apparently.” She shakes her head at me. “You weren’t kidding. Here, honey. Let’s clean you up.” Marianne turns on the spray of cold water, cooling my skin as I try to scrub the sauce off my hands and arms.

  I chastise myself through gritted teeth while I scrub. “If that’s not the way to leave a lasting impression, I don’t know what is. I will forever be the hapless, hopeless girl who can’t get through a meal without choking on it if Logan is near.”

  “You’ve got it bad, that’s for sure.” She tries to hide her chuckle, ironing out her smile and then shaking her head. “It’s not funny. You choked. That was scary.”

  I frown at her. “It’s not funny or scary. It’s stupid. You have to keep me away from him, or I’ll cause some real problems for myself.”

  Marianne screws her lips together. I can tell she is teetering between worry over me almost choking to death, and hilarity because, well, I am terrible around handsome men.

  Actually, that’s not completely true. “I don’t usually get that bad. My clumsiness worsens as the guy gets more handsome. If Logan was only pretty good looking, this wouldn’t be a problem.” Butterflies flutter in my belly when his face comes into my imagination. “He’s the kind of pretty that photographers only dream about. He’s the kind of gorgeous that makes a girl forget that a man should also have a good personality, which, judging by the fact that he just saved my life, he probably does.” I’m flustered as I scrub my hands to no avail. The color is sticking stubbornly to my fingers and forearm. “He’s the sort of beautiful that should come with a warning label.”

  Marianne gives up the fight with decorum and lets out a loud laugh. “I’m sorry! It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone react so strongly to anyone, much less Logan.”

  I narrow my eyes at her as I pump more soap into my palm. The sauce is stubborn, the pigment sticking to my skin even though I am finally clean. “I prefer to crush on someone from afar, not have him be in the same restaurant as me!” I growl at the stains on my hands. No matter how hard I scrub, it’s still clear that I went up against a plate of spaghetti and lost.

  Marianne’s laughter stills, her face frozen and her smile twisted in what looks like alarm.

  “What?”

  “Charlotte, look.” She points at my hands in horror.

  “I know, I’ve scrubbed them three times over, and they’re still orange.”

  “No, Charlotte. Your hands are orange.”

  I look again, my brain struggling to push through my mortification to see what is right in front of me.

  Finally the facts line themselves up, each one slamming in my chest using a force with which I cannot contend.

  “Gerald’s hands and arms were orange when I found him.” The second I say it aloud, I know I need to verify my theory before it can stick in my mind.

  I race out of the bathroom, banging straight into none other than Logan.

  I wobble on my feet at the contact combined with having slammed into the most perfect human on the planet.

  “Whoa! Sorry, Charlotte.” Logan’s hands cup my shoulders. “I was waiting to see if you were alright.”

  I try not to look into his bright green eyes. It’s like staring directly into the sun. Still, I manage to form a semi-coherent thought and notice the glimpse of laughter in his eyes beneath the concern.

  My mouth firms. “You overheard me, didn’t you.”

  Logan holds up his hands. I’ll bet the man has never told a lie in his life. “I didn’t mean to. I really did just come to see if you were alright.” The corner of his mouth crooks upward. “You really think I’m pretty?”

  Obviously. I also think the world is round.

  The urge to vomit overwhelms me. I am overtaken with mortification and horror. How do I manage to do the exact wrong thing every time I am near this man?

&
nbsp; “Excuse me!” I shield my hand over my eyes and duck my head, rushing by him to escape his presence.

  Besides, I’ve got a hunch to check on.

  I burst into the kitchen with all the gusto of one declaring war. “Helen?” I call, and start trotting through the long, narrow kitchen. Each step away from Logan helps me regain my sense of normalcy.

  Helen pops her head up from the other side of the island. “Charlotte, are you alright?”

  “Maybe.” I point to her hands. “Why do you wear those gloves?”

  She quirks an eyebrow at me. “Because if I didn’t, it would be a health violation?”

  Duh.

  “No other reason?”

  Helen tilts her head to the side, fixing me with a stare of curiosity. “Well, if I didn’t, my hands would look like yours.” Her shoulders vibrate with mirth as she points to my discolored hands and wrists.

  “What about Gerald? Did he ever cook back here with you?”

  Helen’s eyes flash with hurt. I hate that I am bringing this up. “Of course. He was a good owner. He always wore gloves because he knew if he didn’t, his hands would wind up like yours. Also, you know, it’s a health violation not to.”

  “He always wore them in the kitchen? What about if he was here by himself?”

  Helen screws her face in confusion. “He has never had orange dying his skin. Never would. We put carrots in the sauce. He’s no fool. We wear the gloves for the public’s safety, but also to protect our skin.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Helen’s voice catches. “The day before his body was found. That afternoon.”

  So Winifred wasn’t the last person to see Gerald alive.

  My heart soars at the news.

  “And his hands were normal? Not stained with the sauce?”

  Helen rounds the stainless steel island and fixes her hands on her hips. “Not a drop. Like I said, he always wore gloves. What’s this about?”

  At that exact moment, Marianne bursts into the kitchen, her hands over her eyes. “I’m not supposed to be in here!” she announces.

  I start puzzling out the itch in my brain aloud. “When I found Gerald’s body, his hands and arms were orange. I thought it was paint, but it could have been the sauce.”