by Vivi Holt
Eve inhaled slowly. “Is Mom home? I want to tell her the good news too.”
“No. She’s out, but I’ll pass on the message.” Sally had regained her composure and returned to her usual snarky self.
“Don’t bother, I’ll call later,” replied Eve before hanging up.
She never managed to have a conversation with her sister without her heart rate accelerating. Her stomach roiled and she stood to her feet with a grimace. Maybe a Tums would help, or better yet, something to eat.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Russo,” Josie said, startling her.
Eve spun around to see the housemaid coming into the living room with the vacuum cleaner dragging along behind her, the cord slowly pulling tauter with each step she took. She stopped and reached to flick the switch, filling Eve’s ears with the loud whir of the machine’s small motor.
Eve waved a hand, then headed for the door. “Hi, Josie. I’m just heading out to grab some lunch.”
Josie nodded with a smile. Eve grabbed her purse where it sat on the hall table, then pushed the button for the elevator. The ride down to the lobby was blissfully quiet, with only the soft hum of the elevator to break the silence.
Where should she eat? She’d mostly been eating at the apartment, since going out to eat on her own was something she’d never grown comfortable with. In New York, she’d eaten most of her meals at the restaurant with the buzz of activity and conversation of the kitchen as a backdrop. One of the drawbacks of working as a chef was that most of her friends ended up being the people she worked with since she hardly ever had the opportunity to go out with anyone else.
And now she had no one. No work, no friends, no family—other than her husband—and he’d disappeared into his corporate world.
She slung her purse strap over one shoulder and wandered down the street. Cars lined the streets in stop-start traffic. A horn honked, and someone shouted. The traffic crept forward a few feet, then stopped again. She followed the sidewalk beneath a trio of willow trees, then stopped at the entrance to a short, squat building, in dark timber, stuck between two high-rises.
The sign above the doorway was written in cursive script on faded boards and read, Pickles. She chuckled to herself, then stepped forward to peer through the small window in the top-half of the door.
Solid round tables lined an expansive floor. Chairs were stacked neatly around them, with patrons seated in at least half. The tables were lined with red and white checked tablecloths, and waitresses buzzed about between them wearing all black with white aprons tucked neatly about their waists.
The door swung away from her, and she stepped back as a group barreled toward her, chattering, and laughing together. Once they’d passed through to the street, she stepped quickly inside.
“Welcome to Pickles. Would you like to be seated?” asked a hostess, eyes wide, and a smile plastered onto her pretty face. She held a clipboard in both hands.
“Uh…yes please.”
“For one?”
“Yes, for one.”
She followed the hostess to the bar, then pulled up a barstool as the hostess handed her a menu. “Is this okay?”
“It’s perfect,” she replied, grateful not to be seated at a large table all on her own.
The bartender, a woman who looked to be in her fifties, smiled at her as she filled a tray of glasses with soda.
“Hi,” offered Eve.
The woman nodded, then handed the tray to a waitress. “Hi to you. You eating on your own today?’
Eve nodded. “Yep. Not something I’m really used to doing, but I figured I’d better do something to get out of the house.”
The bartender approached her. “I’m Petra Hill.” She pushed out one hand.
Eve shook the offered hand with a smile. “Eve Russo, pleased to meet you.”
“And you.” Petra reached for a glass in a stack of clean ones resting wrong side up on the counter and polished it with a dish towel. “So, why the need to get out of the house? Someone there getting under your skin?”
Eve shook her head. “Nope. No one there at all. Unless you count the maid.”
Petra arched an eyebrow. “Ah, I see.”
“No, it’s not like that. I mean, I guess it is. I’m only recently married, and I’m not accustomed to living in a condo with a husband who works all the time and nothing for me to do.”
Petra’s lips pursed.
She was getting it all wrong. It wasn’t how Eve’s life was. If she kept talking this woman would believe she lived a vapid life as a kept woman. Although, truth be told, that was a more accurate description of how she lived these days than anything else. A stone formed in her gut. It stung to think of herself that way. She’d always been so independent, so capable and ambitious. Everything had changed in the blink of an eye and she wasn’t sure what to do to fix it.
“I guess you could do anything you want then, by the sound of it. If you don’t want to be stuck at home on your own, then do something else.”
Eve bit down on her lip. It didn’t feel that way. “I suppose I could. I’m new to the area, though.”
“Oh? Where are you from?”
“New York City.”
Petra’s eyes lit up. “Ah, I love New York.” She chuckled as if to her own joke, setting the glass down to pick up another. “But you don’t sound like a New Yorker.”
Eve laughed. “I’m an Australian, but I’ve been living in New York for a few years.”
“What brought you here, then?”
Eve longed to spill, to tell everything. There was something familiar and friendly, warm and inviting about Petra. As though she could tell the woman all her secrets, all her fears and doubts, and she’d know exactly the right thing to say.
“I…it’s a long story. I was a chef in New York, and then I married John, and he lives here. So…”
“A chef?” Petra set down the glass and leaned both hands on the counter, her eyes gleaming. “Interesting.”
“Yeah, I worked as the sous chef at El Salvatore’s in Tribeca. Have you heard of it?”
Petra nodded. “Sure, I’ve heard of it. I’ve eaten there, years ago.”
“I probably didn’t work there then, I’ve only been in the country three years, but Damon, my boss, would’ve been there. He’s owned it forever.”
“I only have good memories of the place.” Petra grinned then shrugged. “So, you gave it all up for love.”
Close enough.
She couldn’t exactly tell someone she’d only just met that she’d married John for a green card, and he’d married her for a companion. Even thinking the words made her cringe inwardly. It sounded worse than it was. All in all, apart from the fact that he was gone so much of the time, she’d enjoyed their arrangement so far.
He was nice. Nicer than she’d ever thought he might be. Considerate too, he often brought her small gifts or called during the day to let her know his plans ahead of time, so she wouldn’t be waiting up for him if he had to work late.
“Yeah. I guess I did.”
“Here’s a menu. Let me know what you’d like, and I’ll place the order for you. Can I get you a drink to start with?” asked Petra.
“What do you recommend?” Eve took the menu and scanned it quickly, her excitement growing as she took in the list of options.
“Since you’re an Aussie, I recommend the slow-cooked lamb shanks with mash alongside a dark beer from our Pickles range, brewed right here on site.”
Eve smiled. “That sounds perfect. I’ll have that.” She slid the menu back across the counter then drummed it with her fingertips while she waited for her food to arrive.
The dish was delicious, and she caught Petra glancing at her out of the corner of her eye every now and then as she ate. Finally, Petra finished serving a round of drinks and edged closer. “What do you think?”
Eve nodded. “It’s great. Very well done. Kudos.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Eve wiped her lips w
ith a napkin, then pushed her plate away, her stomach satisfied.
Petra was still grinning at her, eying her as though she had something more to say.
Eve arched an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
Petra stepped closer. “I was just wondering whether you’re looking for a job.”
“Uh…maybe. I guess.” If she were honest, she longed for something to do with her days. But she didn’t want to put down roots in Atlanta. New York City was her goal and everything she did was with the purpose of getting back there.
“Because we’ve got a night chef, but he doesn’t want to work days anymore.” Petra rolled her eyes. “He’s put out a cook book or some nonsense, and he’s busy with book signings, or so he says. So, would you consider applying to be our day chef?”
Eve shook her head. “I don’t think I could…I have visa issues.”
“Aren’t you married to an American?” asked Petra, eyes narrowed.
“Yes, but it might be a while before I get my green card.”
“Don’t worry about that. We can work something out, I’m sure.” Petra smiled and offered her a wink.
Eve inhaled slowly. It was the perfect opportunity for her. Her contract with John stipulated she had to be home most evenings when he was there, but she could do what she wanted with her days. And this might be just the thing she’d been looking for without even realizing it. Another reason she hadn’t pursued the idea of a chef’s position was that she knew most chef’s worked nights. It was just part of the job. To find one that only involved daytime shifts was like finding a live unicorn in the forest.
She smiled. “That sounds interesting. Tell me more.”
Chapter 8
John shifted the gears down on his Porsche, and steered it into the circular drive, pulling up in front of his building. He braked, then climbed out with a nod to a man dressed in a black suit.
“Evening, Harry.”
“No Hector tonight?” asked Harry, his black handlebar mustache drooping even lower than usual on either side of his lips.
“Nope. He took the day off. Can you believe it?” John laughed and jogged into the building as Harry gunned the engine behind him and drove off toward the parking garage.
Inside the building, he glanced up to see workmen putting away their painting gear. The entire foyer was being treated to a new coat of paint, something the building’s Home Owner’s Association ensured was done every two years without fail.
His briefcase in one hand and phone in the other, he stepped onto the elevator and waited for the doors to whir shut behind him. It was only seven o’clock, which meant that he was coming home from work earlier than he usually would. He’d been doing that more and more lately and was thinking of finishing up at four the next day to see if Eve wanted to go out for a Friday night meal. Maybe they could even see a show. The thought excited him.
He hadn’t been so keen on coming home early from work in as long as he could remember. Now that there was something, or rather, someone, to come home to, everything felt different. Everything was different.
He’d never had a relationship like this one before. There were no expectations. He didn’t have to be sophisticated or romantic. He found himself completely without guile around Eve as if he could be himself, and she seemed to like him that way. He had nothing to prove, no one to impress. They were married by a mutually beneficial arrangement until it didn’t suit them to be married any longer. It took all the pressure off. And he was enjoying their relationship more than he had any other in his life.
The fact that there was no physical intimacy was the only drawback. Though he was ready to admit it would probably be the one thing that could ruin what they had since it would complicate everything. Still, he couldn’t help thinking about it. Especially when his wife was as enticingly beautiful, in a completely unassuming way, as Eve was.
The doors dinged open and he strode into the apartment.
Rock music pounded from the stereo system and he arched both eyebrows in surprise.
Candles dotted the living room. He followed a delectable scent toward the kitchen. What was going on?
Eve stood in front of the stove. A white apron with red flowers splashed across it was tied around her trim waist. She held a large spoon aloft and danced around in a circle, bending her head over the spoon as though it were a microphone. She sung out in a strong, alto voice, attempting to keep up with the words to the song and failing miserably.
He chuckled, set his briefcase on the floor, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall to watch.
She stirred something on the stove top, and he raised his nose to sniff the air. It smelled divine, whatever it was. He knew Josie had taken the day off, but he’d assumed they’d order take-out since Eve hadn’t cooked so far. He knew she was a chef, but he had no expectations that she’d cook for him—that wasn’t part of their arrangement.
Eve spun around and burst out another line of lyrics, getting them completely wrong all over again. He grinned. She was adorable. Usually, she had this serious expression on her face, like she was thinking hard about something. She was always kind toward him, even thoughtful at times, but she hadn’t shown him this side of herself before.
With a flourish, she raised her hands over her head and danced down the center of the kitchen, her eyes closed. He stepped forward to meet her, raising his hands to cup her cheeks so she didn’t run into him, and fighting the urge to kiss her singing lips.
Her eyes blinked open in surprise and her entire body jolted at his touch. Then she smiled.
“You’re home.”
He laughed. “You’re quite the songstress.”
Her cheeks colored. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m not exactly musical.”
“It was great. Don’t stop on my account.”
With reluctance, he dropped his hands to his sides and found a seat at the counter. He lowered himself onto it, turning to watch her.
She shrugged. “I can’t sing with people watching.”
He frowned. “I’m not people, I’m your husband.”
Her cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. “Right. I know. It’s just not something I do with an audience.”
She spun back toward the stove and stirred the contents of a large, silver pot. “Now cooking for an audience, that’s an entirely different matter.”
She glanced up at him and winked.
He laughed. “Good, because I’m famished and whatever you’re making smells divine.”
“It’s almost ready. I hope you like paella.”
He nodded. “I love it. But you didn’t have to cook, you know.”
“I know. I wanted to. You’ve been so great, and sometimes I feel like I definitely got the better end of the deal. I moved into your life, your home…you pay all the bills…”
“I wanted it that way.”
“I don’t really contribute anything. So, I thought I’d cook. That can be my contribution to our relationship.”
He rested both hands over his heart. “If it tastes as good as it smells, then I’ll be getting the better end of the deal.”
She chuckled and reached for a salt grinder, grinding it briefly over the mixture, then stirring again. “Besides, I’m beginning to think cooking food for people is my main love language.”
He quirked an eyebrow.
She stuttered, her cheeks flaming. “I mean, not that this is love…it’s just that…ugh. I read that book, you know, the one on your bookshelf over there about The Five Love Languages. I’ve read so many books since I got here, ‘cause I don’t have anything else to do. Anyway…I’m blabbering now. I cook. That’s it. You know what I mean. Right?”
He nodded, amused at her discomfort. She sounded as though she’d never told a man she loved him before, and he knew she didn’t mean it the way it sounded. They were friends, she cared, and he was glad. It stirred his heart.
In some ways, she seemed so worldly, ambitious, and put together, and in others, she was n
aïve and innocent. He wanted to know more about her, but so far, they hadn’t shared much beyond the surface level, other than his revelations to her about Shonda and Tony. Her own closet had remained firmly shut, skeletons intact.
“I get it. You like to cook. I buy gifts.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You’re the perfect husband.”
He laughed. “I like to think so. But since I’ve never been married before I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“You’re welcome to buy me gifts anytime you like. I’m partial to gold, by the way.” She chuckled and lifted the spoon to her lips, nibbling carefully at the steaming rice.
He burst out with a loud guffaw. Her quips threw him off his game. He never expected them, especially from someone with such a thoughtful demeanor.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Or cooking appliances.”
“Noted.”
“So, what kind of food do you like best?” she asked, her blue eyes meeting his and giving his heart a jolt.
“Um…I love Chinese food.”
“Great. I make a mean Peking Duck with orange infused sauce.”
His mouth watered at her words. This marriage thing was getting better and better all the time.
Eve watched as John cleaned his plate. She was waiting for the perfect moment to tell him about her new job. After lunch she’d followed Petra into the kitchen at Pickles restaurant and thrown together a quick steak with pomme frittes as a kind of audition, guessing that would be the type of fare Pickles customers would expect. After tasting a bite of the steak, Petra had given her the job on the spot.
“So, how was work today?” she asked, pushing the last of her rice around her plate with a fork.
He nodded, still chewing. Then swallowed. “It was fine. Good, I guess. We’re acquiring a building. Actually, it’s not far from here. The owner doesn’t want to sell, but they’re going out of business, so they really don’t have an option.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yeah, I guess. But you know, it’s business. To me, that’s how I see it, just business. Some businesses succeed, some fail. Sometimes you make money, sometimes you lose it. It’s a game really. And when you make it personal, then you get hurt. You can’t approach business that way.”