Fearless Love

by Meg Benjamin

  Saturday had been the usual manic whirl at the restaurant, made more so by the increased crowd of tourists at lunch. She’d only seen Joe briefly when she’d turned in her eggs first thing in the morning. Surprisingly enough, Darcy had given her a ride to the gas station and Jorge had supplied a gas can. Both of them helped her get the car started again.

  Darcy stood shaking her head. “Next time tell somebody, honeybuns. We could have gotten you out of here on Friday night.”

  MG wasn’t crazy about her new nickname, but she figured she didn’t have much say in what she got called. It was at least better than Ball-Breaking Bitch, which was what Fishhead had muttered about Darcy when her back was turned.

  The rest of Saturday evening was spent doing what she did every night—feeding chickens, eating dinner and collapsing for an hour in front of the television before stumbling off to bed. At least she had Sunday off.

  She hadn’t been entirely sure when Joe would show up on Sunday evening to take her to dinner, but she figured she’d be ready around seven. If he came earlier, he could help her feed the chickens. Since she had the day off, she’d had time to take them all out to the side yard so that they could graze. She’d even let Robespierre have a turn around the lawn. After a few minutes she’d relaxed in one of her grandfather’s ancient metal lawn chairs and watched the birds shuffle across the grass. It was remarkably soothing.

  She studied the now-empty chicken yard. Maybe she could extend the wire fence that enclosed the dirt so that the chickens had a bit of grass to wander through daily. She could even try seeding the chicken yard itself, although she had a feeling most of the grass seed would end up inside the chickens. She wondered what Joe would advise.

  Right. Discussing chickens on their first real date would be a super idea, establishing her as a definite Hot Mama. MG blew out a breath, then paused to think.

  Did she want to be a Hot Mama?

  She might not have much choice. That kiss had been sort of a revelation in terms of her feelings for Joe LeBlanc, and maybe in terms of his feelings for her. But at the end he’d pulled back from it like she was plutonium. No matter what he said, she was willing to bet snogging employees wasn’t high on his to-do list. She wasn’t entirely sure that snogging the boss was high on hers.

  Yet he’d still asked her out. And she’d still said yes. Looked like they both were ready for whatever was going to happen next.

  She herded the chickens back into their yard, checked their feed and water levels. Checked to see if any of the hens had laid a couple of laggard eggs, then headed into the house to don her date night clothes—good jeans and modest black cotton blouse. She figured she’d save the vintage Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt for their second date.

  Assuming, of course, that they had a second date.

  Joe pulled a dusty blue pickup into her driveway at six fifty-five. MG blinked. Somehow she’d expected him to drive something like a BMW. A five-year-old truck didn’t exactly scream James Beard nominee.

  He grinned when she answered the door, his gaze making a quick trip from the top of her head to her toes. “Lookin’ good, darlin’,” he said. “You’ll fit right in at the Faro.”

  She felt something loosen inside her chest. Hard to believe she’d actually been worried whether he’d like her outfit. “Thanks.”

  “My chariot awaits.” He bowed toward the truck. “Ain’t much, but it’s all mine. No bank involved—course, no bank I know of would want to be involved with this thing. Or with me, come to think of it.”

  It seemed to MG that he was talking a lot more than usual. And his Louisiana accent kept coming and going—never going entirely, of course, but getting stronger and weaker.

  Good grief, he’s nervous. The realization made her feel unaccountably better. If they were both nervous, maybe the evening was going to be more interesting than she’d thought. “I like it.” She smiled at him. “I’m more a truck kind of girl anyway.”

  Joe raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Then I’m glad to please.” He opened the front door for her and gave her a quick grin as she climbed in. “It should get us where we want to go.”

  Joe knew the Faro didn’t look like much from the outside. The limestone blocks were darkened with age and the heavy wood door looked like it had been stolen from a speakeasy. There was even a small window at the top to check the customers out. Inside, though, it was another story. The main room was large and semi-dark, with a solid mahogany bar on one side and tables scattered on the other, an ideal set-up for both meal service and drinkers. It definitely beat the few bars Joe himself had worked in during his down period.

  A door on the far wall led out to a beer garden. Music came trickling in from the band outside whenever the door swung open.

  For a moment he thought MG tensed, but then he decided he’d imagined it. She gave him a quick smile. “Looks interesting.”

  “Joseph. Goddamn! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  Joe turned to see Clemencia Rodriguez standing framed in her kitchen door, her hair tucked under her beanie. She moved across the room, dodging around waitresses with trays of beer before reaching up to pull him down for a kiss. She was so tiny she had to stand on her tiptoes to do it, but that had never stopped her before.

  When she let go of him, he took a look at her. She was wearing her working clothes—chef’s whites, rubber clogs, an apron she had knotted twice around her waist. No question how she spent her time.

  Joe grinned at her with genuine warmth. She remained one of his favorite people in the world, and one of the few he’d trust to feed him. “Clemencia, my treasure! What have you got on the stove for us tonight?” He slung his arm around her shoulders, although he had to slump to do it.

  “Us?” Clem turned in MG’s direction, a speculative gleam in her eye. “Who’s this now?”

  “This is MG Carmody.” He smiled in MG’s direction, feeling a little like a second-rate master of ceremonies. “She’s working in the kitchen at the Rose. MG, this is Clemencia Rodriguez, the second-best chef in Konigsburg.” Predictably Clemencia punched him in the shoulder, but he broadened his smile to include her. “It’s true, darlin’, I’d rank you above anybody around here except me.”

  “Right.” Clemencia narrowed her eyes. “I guess we’ll see about that at the Wine and Food Festival.”

  His smile dimmed slightly. He’d managed not to think about the contest for the past few days. Now it looked like that had been a mistake. “Don’t tell me they roped you into that too?”

  Her smile had turned slightly feral. “Me and Lee Contreras from Brenner’s and Tolly Berenger from the Silver Spur. I guess they asked Allie Maldonado from Sweet Thing, but she said she didn’t want to cook dinner for a contest. Besides she’s still a newlywed. She doesn’t feel like spending her nights coming up with new recipes.”

  MG looked at him curiously. “What’s this about a contest? With cooking?”

  Joe sighed. “Yeah, it’s a cooking contest. For the Wine and Food Festival. Two hours for us to cook a dinner on site and serve it to a bunch of judges. Then we get judged on each course. Plus I guess there’s an overall prize too.”

  Clemencia rubbed her hands together. “And may the best stove jockey win.”

  Joe shook his head as Clem’s words finally registered. “Tolly Berenger isn’t a chef. I doubt he’s ever been in a kitchen in his life except to chew out his staff. He’s a restaurant owner, not a cook. How’s he going to represent the Silver Spur?”

  Clemencia shrugged. “From what I hear, he’s looking for somebody to take over his kitchen. He just fired the guy he had doing steaks. Right now he’s got some short order cook filling in, but he’s trying to find somebody who can do something besides burgers and fries.”

  MG gave him a tentative smile. “This sounds like great publicity for the restaurant.”

  “Assuming we win,” Joe growled. He was beginning to lose that warm glow he’d felt in his chest ever since he’d seen MG standing in her doorway.
Damn contest.

  “Doubts so soon?” Clemencia’s eyes sparkled. He half expected her to start rubbing her hands in glee. “Well, you should have doubts, buddy. I plan on sweeping the whole thing.”

  The corners of his mouth edged up. He could never stay mad at Clemencia, no matter how hard he tried. “Okay, Ms. Rodriguez, go for it. I’ll be snapping at your heels all the way.”

  Clemencia glanced back between him and MG again. “So you want dinner or what?”

  “Yeah, we want dinner.” He shrugged. “What’s good?”

  Clemencia narrowed her eyes, but Joe gave her a guileless smile. “Besides everything, that is. Maybe I should have said, what’s best?”

  “Yeah, that’s definitely what you should have said. I’ve got some spinach enchiladas that will knock your socks off.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Queso Fresco from a new place in San Antonio and fresh spinach from Les Corrigan’s farm. And some chilies from a supplier I’m not sharing.” She gave him a narrow-eyed look.

  Joe raised his hands, palms out. “Sounds great, darlin’.” He turned toward MG. “Okay by you?”

  She nodded. “Sure. Sounds great to me too.”

  He put his hand on her elbow, steering her gently to a table at the side as Clemencia headed back for her kitchen. “Don’t worry. She does fantastic stuff. It’s not what we do at the Rose, but it’s still fantastic.”

  “I’m not worried. I love enchiladas.”

  “Believe me, you haven’t had any enchiladas until you’ve had Clem’s.” He pulled back a chair for her, then dropped into a seat on the other side of the table.

  MG glanced around the room again, then stopped, staring. “Good grief,” she blurted. “That’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Joe glanced in the direction where she’d been staring, then grinned again. “That’s Deirdre Brandenburg. I mean, Deirdre Ames. Sorry. She and Tom got married a few weeks ago, and I haven’t gotten used to the change yet. That’s Tom behind the bar. He owns the place.”

  MG peered around the people standing between them and the bar. “So you know all these people? Do they come to the Rose?”

  He shook his head. “I come here usually. It’s a good place to kick back after work—they’re open late.”

  As if she knew her bar was the subject of conversation, the world’s most glamorous bar maid appeared at their table. “Hey, Joe.” Deidre Ames broke into a grin. “Good to see you. You here for dinner tonight?” She smiled at the two of them, running her fingers through her short black hair. Today she was more Audrey Hepburn than Elizabeth Taylor.

  “Hey, Deirdre.” He nodded toward the rapidly filling bar area. “Good crowd for a Sunday.”

  “Yeah. Having music on Sundays was a great idea, although it sort of cuts down on our time off.” She shrugged. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. It’s better than not having enough people.”

  “It is.” He turned toward MG. “MG Carmody, Deirdre Ames.”

  Deirdre gave MG the kind of smile that probably caused heart palpitations in most of the men in the room. “Glad to meet you, MG. Any relation to Nedda Carmody?”

  MG smiled back. Her smile probably wouldn’t cause heart palpitations in the male population, but it did some interesting things to Joe’s lower body. MG Carmody had one great smile.

  “She’s my great aunt, although we always called her Aunt Nedda instead. She’s not too happy about the great part.”

  Deirdre nodded. “Sounds like Nedda. Are you visiting her?”

  MG shook her head. “I’m living on my grandpa’s farm outside town. Although I guess it’s actually my farm now since he left it to me.” Her expression turned slightly somber.

  “Oh.” Deirdre’s smile dimmed a little in sympathy. “I’m sorry. How long have you been here?”

  “A few months. I was taking care of Grandpa before he died.”

  “Well, we’re glad to have you. Can I get y’all something from the bar?” Deirdre straightened, bringing her tray to her hip.

  “Dos Equis for me. What about you?” Joe dipped his head in MG’s direction.

  “Lone Star’s fine.”

  “Coming right up.” Deirdre threaded her way back through the tables toward the bar again.

  Leaving him to carry on a conversation with MG. There was a moment of silence while he did a quick inventory of possible topics, but she beat him to the punch. “So what’s with you and Clemencia?”

  Joe stared at her for a stunned moment. Was it even remotely possible she was jealous of Clem? And him? The thought was oddly appealing. He gave her his best reassuring smile. “You do get to the point, don’t you, darlin’?” He glanced back toward the kitchen. “Clem and I worked together in the same hotel in New Orleans. I was a sous chef and she was doing pretty much what you’re doing now, learning the business from the ground up.”

  “And you just both ended up here at the same time?”

  He shrugged. “More or less. We both left New Orleans at the same time. She was homesick. I was New Orleans sick.”

  MG narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know what that means.”

  He gave her the easy grin that normally signaled bullshit. “Ah, darlin’, chefs are all crazy. It’s part of the business. Sometimes the craziness takes over, though. When that happens you’re likely to either burn out or burn up. I just got out of the way.” Which was a blatant attempt to deflect the conversation. He wasn’t about to get into all the sordid details of his crash at this point. In fact, he might not go into them for a long while. Not until he was sure she wouldn’t run as hard as she could in the other direction when he did.

  MG looked like she was readying a new round of questions, but fortunately for him, Deirdre returned just then with the beers, followed immediately by Clem with the enchiladas. And then they did nothing but eat and enjoy for a half hour or so.

  He had to admit it—Clem was good. In fact, Clem was really good. He tasted cheese and chicken stock in her sauce with a hint of garlic and an herb he was still trying to identify, maybe epazote. The spinach was bright green and mild, blending with the queso fresco into something mineral, herbal and creamy all at the same time. Even the rice on the side was superlative, each grain separate, bathed in a faint hint of tomato and cumin. He warmed himself in the glow of first-rate food in his stomach.

  “Wow,” MG muttered after a few bites.

  Joe gave her an approving grin. “Clemencia’s the real deal. Hell, I’m more worried about her in that cooking competition than I am about Lee Contreras. He does what I do and I do it better. But if Clem uncorks something, the judges might just decide down home beats uptown.”

  “Are you really worried about this contest?” She sliced through her remaining enchilada, then divided it into smaller bits to make it last.

  He shrugged. “I need to work on it. Fairley’s supposed to be coming up with some suggestions for the menu. And I’ve got a few of my own. Then we have to test it. It’s going to take a while.”

  The door to the beer garden swung open, sending a blast of roots rock across the room. He watched her gaze longingly in the general direction of the band.

  Interesting. He hadn’t really thought about her interests outside chickens and the kitchen at the Rose. “You like music?”

  She nodded. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”

  “You want to go outside and dance?”

  “Love to,” she said a little too quickly, then looked slightly embarrassed. “I mean, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to rush you or anything. It’s nice in here too.”

  “You’re not rushing me. And believe me, it’s nicer outside.” Around this time of night, the air conditioning in the Faro was more a promise than a reality. He laid a few bills on top of the check Deirdre had discreetly dropped on the table, then put his hand on MG’s back to guide her outside.

  The beer garden was packed with people. A choked space in the center was full of couples trying to dance without caroming off of each other like pool b
alls. The band was small but very, very loud, which, considering the din of the crowd, was probably a good thing.

  “I’d ask you to dance,” Joe yelled, “but I don’t think we’d be able to fight our way out there right now.”

  MG nodded, but he had a feeling she didn’t really hear him. She was staring at the bandstand with something like longing. For a moment, he wondered if she knew somebody in the band, and his chest clenched at the thought. Then she turned toward him, smiling. “That’s okay,” she yelled, “we can grab the next one.”

  He put his arm around her waist, telling himself he was protecting her from the crowd. And who protects her from you? Nobody, of course.

  They shuffled to the side of the garden, Joe keeping her close as he shouldered bodies out of their way. “Here.” He gestured toward a couple of empty spots on a bench at an otherwise occupied picnic table, then pulled her down beside him.

  MG leaned close. “Is it always this crowded?”

  He nodded. “Pretty much whenever they have a band. They’ve got a good reputation in the area. Plus they’re set up for crowds.” He nodded toward the bar at the end of the garden where a bartender was handing out longnecks to a couple of waitresses.

  “Who’s that?” MG’s voice sounded in his ear.

  He looked where she was pointing. The man at the other side of the garden was the size of a foothill—massive shoulders, arms like hams, hands like ping-pong paddles. His long black hair was pulled into a ponytail at the back of his head. He wore a drooping moustache and a sleepy expression that probably didn’t fool anybody who wasn’t already blind drunk.

  “That’s Chico Burnside,” he explained. “He’s the bouncer.”

  MG gave him a doubtful look. “He’s huge.”

  “Goes with the job.” Joe shrugged. “He’s a decent guy. I wouldn’t call him nice, but he’s not a bully. He does what he needs to do.”

  Chico glanced in their direction. For a moment, his eyes seemed to narrow as he looked at MG. Then he glanced away.