Fearless Love

by Meg Benjamin

  He shrugged. “There’s a famous story about Mario Batali creating a sauce for foie gras out of orange soda and Starburst Fruit Chewies, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He pulled open her pantry, tossing a package of spaghetti on the table. “Good start. Got any garlic?”

  “Sure.” She opened the cupboard and pulled out a head. “It’s even fresh. Or as fresh as you can get at HEB.”

  “Fresh enough.” He placed it on the table with the spaghetti. “Olive oil?”

  “In front of you.” She leaned around him to pick up the bottle and he ran his fingers lightly along the side of her throat. “It’s not extra virgin.” Her voice sounded breathy.

  “That’s okay. I’m not fussy about virginity. Even in my olive oil.” His hand rested for a moment on the small of her back. “Don’t suppose you have any anchovies?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She dug around among the containers, emerging with a flat can. “I like to put them on my pizza.”

  “A woman after my own heart. Obviously.”

  He grinned as he washed his hands, and MG felt another of those quick thrills, like pure caffeine to the nervous system. The man was addictive. She sank into one of the kitchen chairs. “So what now?”

  “Got a processor?” He raised an eyebrow.

  Once upon a time. “Nope.”

  “So we do it the old fashioned way.” He pulled a couple of slices of bread from the loaf on the counter, then turned to the stove. “Ah. Gas.” He sounded as if he’d just been given one hell of a Christmas present. “Pans around here somewhere?” He gestured toward the kitchen cabinets.

  MG pointed at the closest one. “Down there. The few I’ve got.”

  Joe reached in, pulling out a cookie sheet. He turned on the oven, sprinkling the bread with some olive oil before putting it inside. Then he turned back to the cabinet again, pulling out her soup pot and a sauté pan. The soup pot he filled with water in the sink, then put it on a back burner, turning the heat up to blistering. “Salt?”

  “Regular or kosher?”

  “Regular’s fine.”

  She handed him the salt container, then watched him dump enough salt into the soup kettle to raise the water’s specific gravity. He brushed the salt grains from his hands and turned back to her again.

  “Cutting board?”

  She pointed to the plastic one alongside the magnetic strip with her precious knife.

  He picked up the board, then took down her chef’s knife, running his thumb across the blade. He sighed. “Darlin’ we need to get you a wooden cutting board. It’s going to screw up your knives if you use ’em on plastic.”

  He laid the knife on the cutting board, then put the sauté pan on the stove, turning up the flame as he poured in olive oil. Then he turned back to the cutting board.

  MG regarded the sauté pan uneasily. Maybe she should turn down the burner.

  “Don’t worry,” he said without turning around. “It needs to heat up before we put anything into it.” He broke off a couple of cloves of garlic, laying them flat on the board, and whacked them with the side of the knife before shucking off the skin. He ran the knife through each clove with negligent grace and a speed that should shoot flames. “Kosher salt?” He raised an eyebrow.

  She pushed the box toward him. He threw a pinch down on the chopped garlic, then ground it into paste with his knife.

  “Now the oil’s ready.” He gave her a quick smile, then grabbed the can of anchovies. “Can opener?”

  She pulled open a drawer and handed it to him.

  He opened the can, then dumped the fish into the oil where they sizzled dramatically. He pulled a wooden spoon out of the drawer and used it to stir the anchovies.

  “What about the garlic?”

  He shrugged. “Let the anchovies melt down a little. Then we’ll add it.” He glanced around the kitchen again. “Did I see some tomatoes around here someplace?”

  “Over here.” She pulled the bag out of the cupboard. “I forgot to put them in the refrigerator.”

  “Good for you. Don’t ever put them in the refrigerator.” He took two large tomatoes out of the sack and pulled a serrated knife off the rack. “Got any fresh basil hanging around?”

  “Nope.”

  “No problem. They’re nice and ripe. Olive oil and salt’s probably all we need anyway.” He placed the slices on a plate and drizzled more olive oil across them from the bottle, then sprinkled them with kosher salt.

  MG glanced nervously at the stove. How long did it take anchovies to burn anyway?

  Joe took the lid off the soup kettle, then dumped in most of the package of spaghetti. He stirred it enough to submerge the strands, then opened the oven and pulled out the now toasted slices of bread. “Okay, field expedient time. You got a grater?”

  She pulled a Microplane out of the drawer and handed it to him.

  He grinned. “No, darlin’, this is where you get to help. Get a bowl and grate the bread into it, okay?”

  “Crusts and all?”

  “Just tear off the crusts. You’ll do fine.”

  MG did as she was told, all the while watching the anchovies. Joe gave them another stir, then finally scraped up the garlic paste with his knife and dumped it into the pan stirring quickly to combine garlic and oil. “Any fresh parsley?”

  MG shook her head.

  “Green onions?”

  “Maybe.” She opened the refrigerator door and dug through the hydrator until she found the bag. “They’re a little shopworn.”

  “No problem.” He took them from her hand and chopped them quickly. Then he turned off the heat under the anchovies. “Okay, now we assemble. Got a pasta bowl?”

  “Sort of.” She pulled her grandma’s plastic Tupperware salad bowl out of the cabinet and handed it to him.

  To his credit, he didn’t blink. “Okay. Colander?”

  She dug it out and placed it in the sink.

  “Here we go.” He hoisted the soup pot full of spaghetti, then paused. “Almost forgot. Got a measuring cup handy?”

  She handed him the plastic one on the counter, then watched him dip it into the pasta water.

  “Okay, again, here we go.” He hoisted the pot again, then dumped spaghetti and water into the colander. He bounced the pasta a few times to shake off the water, then dumped it into the salad bowl and reached for the sauté pan. “I’m going to need some tongs here.”

  MG pulled a pair of tongs out of the drawer, reflecting as she did that the drawer was almost empty. This particular meal was using every limited resource she had.

  Joe tossed the spaghetti with the tongs, mixing in the anchovies and garlic, adding a splash of the pasta water from the cup. “Bread crumbs?”

  MG handed him her bowl, then watched him pour them over the top. He gave the spaghetti one last toss before sprinkling on the green onions. “I think we’re done.”

  “Good. After all of that, I’m starving.” She started toward the cupboard to get the plates, but he caught her around the waist pulling her tight against his body. Apparently, his recovery time was over. He cupped the back of her head and covered her mouth with his.

  A few moment later, he raised his head. “I’m starved too,” he growled. “Eat fast.”

  Chapter Eleven

  MG spent the next two days in a daze. Joe stayed over Monday night, then helped her gather the eggs before driving to the inn. She sat in the tiny living room of his cabin while he changed into his chef’s whites. The cabin was a square with an L-shaped living room-dining room that ended in a kitchen at the far end. The appliances were newer than MG’s, but the small space would be like cooking in an Airstream trailer. The bedroom and bath fitted into the central space of the L. So far as MG could tell there was nothing in the bedroom except the bed, which seemed to take up the entire space.

  It was significantly bigger than hers. She really hoped they got a chance to try it out soon.

  When Joe emerged in his crisp white coat and black pants, his
black beanie resting on his head, she felt a little dizzy. Had she really spent the night making love with Super Chef? Somehow he didn’t look like the same guy she’d had in her bed when she woke up an hour ago.

  He grinned at her as he knotted his bandana around his neck. “So how do you feel about Saturday nights?”

  “Saturday nights?” She frowned. “Okay, I guess. Is this a quiz?”

  He shook his head. “Saturday and Sunday nights are about the only nights I can go out. The others I work until eight or so, then go over the menus and the orders and check things out with Kit Maldonado, the manager. Plus I figured out a while ago you can’t hit the tiles every night and hope to cook a decent meal the next day.”

  “Oh, well, sure then.” She took a breath. “Saturday nights are great.”

  “Good enough.” He hooked his arm around her neck, then leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose. “Saturday night it is.”

  Once they were at the Rose, everything snapped back to normal, whatever normal meant. Joe disappeared to the omelet station. Darcy gave her a series of orders without more than a couple of glances in her direction. Jorge and Leo ignored her existence. Back to invisibility.

  Which wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. Fishhead came in after the breakfast rush. She really wished he’d ignore her too, but apparently that was too much to ask. She kept on the other side of the prep area as much as she could, but occasionally they had to pass each other. Once as he moved behind her, he grabbed her ass again, squeezing hard.

  She gritted her teeth and drove her heel down sharply upon his instep. Fishhead gave an outraged yip, jumping away from her. “Sorry,” MG said blandly. “I didn’t know you were behind me.”

  “Goddamn near crippled me,” he muttered.

  She stared straight at him. “Better keep farther back next time.”

  When she turned back to her prep area, she saw Darcy grinning at her from the other side of the kitchen. Score one for our side.

  Joe decided the results of sex with MG Carmody should be bottled and put on the market. He hadn’t felt this good at the beginning of the week in years. After breakfast service he found himself humming “Stay All Night”. It struck him as a good omen.

  He was still feeling good when he found Kit Maldonado waiting for him outside his office.

  Normally, he would have taken a moment to savor Kit, who was a sort of visual bonne bouche, with her long dark hair, her high cheekbones and her slightly slanted dark eyes. She was also firmly attached to her boyfriend, Nando Avrogado, who was a cop, so savoring was about the best he could do. And at the moment, his mind was too full of MG to savor anybody else. “Hey, Kit,” he said with a sigh. “What do you need?”

  “And a good morning to you too, Joseph.” She grinned. “You look amazingly cheerful for this early in the morning.”

  Kit had taken over as the restaurant manager while they were still getting up and running. Now that the hotel itself had new management, she was doing a great job, and Joe considered her a godsend. At the moment, however, he’d just as soon God would send her elsewhere. He wasn’t in the mood for administrative bullshit.

  “Just through with breakfast service. I need to finish putting the menus together for next week.”

  “I won’t keep you long, but I do need to talk to you.” Kit nodded toward his office. “Maybe we could go inside for a few minutes.”

  Kit might look like a beauty queen, but she had the mind of a corporate executive. And apparently she thought they had a problem. Joe’s brain promptly switched into alert mode as he unlocked the office door.

  “Now,” he said as he dropped down behind his desk, “what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think something is.” Kit placed a spreadsheet on the desk in front of him. “Is there any reason why we’d suddenly have a jump in expenses?”

  Joe shook his head. “We haven’t done anything unusual. Some new menu items but nothing that expensive.”

  “And yet we’ve got this little spike.” Kit tapped her fingernail on the page. “It sort of worries me because I can’t see where it’s coming from. None of our normal suppliers have raised their rates and we haven’t had any increases in stuff like printing or laundry. The only expense that seems to have gone up is the food bill.”

  Joe stared down at the figures. “You think somebody’s up to something?”

  Kit shrugged. “Possibly. I don’t like to think so. I was hoping you could pinpoint something I hadn’t seen before.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing stands out. Could be somebody raised their rates for arugula or something. I’ll check back over the invoices and see what I can find.”

  “Good idea.” She gave him a rueful smile. “It’s not much to worry about yet, but I thought we needed to start looking now. I figured if I came in early, I might be able to catch you alone.”

  “You’re lucky. Darcy and the Beav were both here earlier, but they’re back in the kitchen now.”

  One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched up. “The Beav?”

  “Fairley.” He grimaced. “I shouldn’t call him that. Only it fits so well.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Kit shrugged. “He looks more like Howdy Doody to me.”

  Joe guffawed, then shook his head. “Okay, now you’re just screwing with me. Go back to your office, Ms. Maldonado. I got work to do.”

  “Me too.” She smiled at him. “You should try getting out a little more, Joe. There’s more to life than the Rose.”

  No shit. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he muttered, picturing MG’s perfect breasts as Kit headed back out the door.

  MG was just as glad that Joe didn’t come over Tuesday night, which wasn’t likely anyway since he ran the kitchen at dinner. She needed to practice for her gig with Dewey Wednesday. She carried the Martin outside and watched the chickens again. They seemed to be okay with the whole concert thing, largely because they didn’t seem to notice her at all once she’d put them in the yard. She wondered if chickens had ears. If they did, they didn’t seem to use them all that much.

  On Wednesday afternoon, she fought down an attack of nerves. She’d been singing for a long time, but she hadn’t been on a stage for almost a year and she’d never been on Dewey’s stage before. She tried to block out her manager’s voice in her memory. You’re not that good, sweetheart. You’re not even that mediocre. Wise up or get out.

  Well, she’d gotten out. But now she was getting in again, apparently.

  After she got off work, she went back to the farm and did chicken chores. They were a great way to distract herself from performance anxiety. By now, Robespierre had come to associate her arrival with a handful of treats, and he no longer attacked her ankles with vigor, although he was still happy to dog her footsteps around the chicken yard, making threatening noises. She wished Hen Nine was as forgiving. Although she no longer pecked at MG’s wrists when she took the eggs, she could swear the hen gave her a resentful look every time she approached the nest box.

  After a shower and a sandwich, however, she had to face facts. It was time to dress for a performance in a club she’d never seen in front of people who’d never heard of her. She pulled on her best black jeans, then stood in front of her closet, considering options.

  The last time she’d played in Nashville, she’d worn her black Scully shirt. But that was Nashville. She wondered if the audience would take one look at the embroidered red roses curling down the front and figure she was some kind of drugstore cowboy, pretending she belonged in Texas.

  She ran her fingers across the blue satin shirt she’d bought at Rockmount Ranchwear in Denver. Gorgeous and not too Queen Of the Rodeo, but still pretty fancy for a place that was probably a honky tonk. Finally she settled on a lace-trimmed tank top and a denim shirt. She also found a pair of earrings made out of pheasant feathers she’d bought at a farmer’s market back home in New Mexico. That was probably enough local color to make her memorable.

  She pulled on her l
ucky cowboy boots, black Tony Lamas with white wings embroidered up the sides. No way was she performing without these. If the audience didn’t like it, screw ’em. She grabbed her guitar case and headed for the car. “Showtime, baby,” she muttered.

  Dewey’s place was called the Oltdorf Hall, and it looked like it had once been some kind of town gathering place. A small, dingy room at the front housed one side of the bar and three or four tables for the serious drinkers who didn’t want to be bothered by music. The other side of the bar opened onto a large, airy room with a small stage at one end. A few couples and one or two families dotted the long tables that filled the audience side. Judging by the smell, it looked like the hall must have a deal with a barbeque place somewhere nearby.

  Dewey stood with a guy she guessed was the sound man in front of the stage. He came up to the sound man’s shoulder, although the buff-colored Stetson he wore brought him closer to his forehead. He wore a tan jacket with dark leather inserts along the lapels.

  His round face eased into a grin when he saw her, his eyes twinkling behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “Hey, sweet thing, good to have you here.” He walked toward her, limping a little in his narrow-toed boots. “You can leave your stuff in the back. There’s an alcove. No dressing room, but you can use the Ladies if you need to.”

  “That’s okay.” MG pushed her lips into a smile and ignored the fanged butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach. “Just let me get set up. Is there a stool I can sit on?”

  “Sure thing.” Dewey grinned again. “We’ll put the mike up in front for you.”

  The sound check took around fifteen minutes. All evidence to the contrary, the sound man knew what he was doing, even if the club was in the middle of nowhere. The people at the tables glanced at her curiously before returning to their brisket and coleslaw. MG pushed herself off the stool and walked backstage, such as it was.

  Dewey was talking to a long-haired guy in a leather coat. He waved her over. “This here’s Brett Coleman. His band’s the main act tonight, Antietam.”