Can't Stand The Heat

by Louisa Edwards

  “I know,” Miranda managed to gasp out. “Claire, it’s so terrifically awful, I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “We shall see. Put down whatever it is you are drinking that is giving you such horrible fits.” Claire downshifted into practical French mode, every word brisk and devoid of nonsense. The knot in Miranda’s stomach loosened slightly; Claire’s take-charge attitude was oddly comforting. She set her bottle of wine on the coffee table.

  The French accent clipped on, relentless. “You have no mother to go to for advice; I make allowances for that. And my own advice, when I offered it before, you would not take. But that is finished. The book exists and cannot be undone. Alors, we must decide how to proceed.”

  “If your advice involves something more than hiding in my apartment and never speaking to anyone again so I can’t do any more damage, I’m afraid I won’t be taking it this time, either.”

  Claire clicked her tongue in outrage. “That is quite enough!”

  “It is enough!” Miranda banged a fist into the couch cushions. “I’m like a poison, a virus, infecting everyone I touch. I’ve done enough damage for any one person for a lifetime. Hurt so many people, and all for nothing.”

  “Yes,” Claire agreed. “It was moronic and entirely avoidable.”

  Miranda sucked in a breath that turned into a laugh. “Oh, thanks. Why did I call you again? Right, it was because of the two messages on my machine, yours was the one that exhibited more of the milk of human kindness.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by this milk.” Claire’s voice held the frigid disapproval she always evinced toward unfamiliar English colloquialisms. “But it is no matter. You’ve made a mistake. The important question is this: are you going to give up and hide away from the world in cowardice?” Dramatic pause. “Or are you going to use that brilliant mind of yours to discover a way to fight for what you desire?”

  Miranda sat up on the couch, wine forgotten, heart starting to pump battle endorphins into her blood.

  She’d never been very good at giving up.

  “Well, when you put it like that . . .”

  The next few days were spent in a flurry of phone calls and planning. Miranda did her level best not to watch the clock and think about what she’d be doing if she were at Market. It was strange not to be there. After only a few weeks, the routine of prep and service, cooking and expediting, was like a physical presence in her body. Her palm ached for the comforting heft of a well-balanced knife, her fingers itched to be arranging garnishes. It was a weird sensation that served to bring home to her exactly how much she stood to lose.

  It was harder to avoid thoughts of Market once normal business hours were done, and she had no more cajoling, pleading, bargaining phone calls to occupy her mind. Only visions of Adam in his chef whites, a dark whirl of motion as he bounced from station to station, checking that everything met his standards of perfection.

  Miranda distracted herself by dressing carefully for her final and most important meeting. It was tricky. What did one wear to debase oneself before an enemy in hopes of being granted a favor?

  Miranda tried to see the upside. Tonight couldn’t be worse than apologizing to Eleanor Bonning, the woman she’d essentially labeled a duped sugar momma. And then hearing, in no uncertain terms, that Eleanor broke off the relationship herself, because, while she appreciated Adam’s dedication from an investor’s standpoint, she didn’t enjoy competing with Market for his attention.

  That one had stung.

  Staring into her closet, Miranda decided she wanted to look competent and serious, but not in an uptight way. Unfortunately, her wardrobe didn’t really lend itself to that. She regarded her conservative gray dresses, sweater sets, and suits with dissatisfaction. None of those things worked for the place she was going.

  Finally, she grabbed a pair of jeans, so dark blue they were almost black. She topped them with a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Leaving it untucked, she decided, made her look a little less Brooks Brothers. For luck, she slipped on the same red satin pumps she wore that first night she met Adam. As always, they made her feel sexy and a bit dangerous, and now, they had the added benefit of reminding her of the hot look in Adam’s brown eyes when he took them in.

  Aware that she was fussing over her appearance purely as a stalling tactic, Miranda rushed through her makeup and left her hair down to curl around her shoulders.

  She checked the clock one last time. Edging past ten; the Market crew would be winding down, sending out more desserts than mains. The kitchen would be starting to clean up, set things for the next day. She knew the process by now, knew she’d have time to make it downtown before Market officially closed for the night.

  But not if she dawdled around much longer. With a last, nervous glance in the mirror, Miranda was on her way.

  Twenty minutes later, she was walking into Chapel. The place wasn’t marked at all; if she hadn’t known it was there, she never would’ve found it. As it was, it took several turns around the old, abandoned church on the corner of Grand and Orchard before she noticed a heavy wooden door that looked familiar.

  The inside of the bar wasn’t as loud or as smoky as she remembered, probably because the place had just opened. There weren’t any roving bands of cooks or punk rockers yet. But Miranda had hope that the man she wanted to see would be there, propping up the bar. He’d been an early bird the first time she went to Chapel. With any luck, that was his pattern.

  Blinking in the dimness, Miranda made her way toward the bar. She could barely make out the silhouette of Christian Colby, the long-haired bartender. He was slicing limes, quick and efficient, but he looked up when she got closer and let out a low whistle.

  “Well, look who’s here. Damn, darlin’, used to be I considered everyone who made it through my door a friend, but you make me want to revise my policy on refusing service.”

  Miranda stiffened at the open hostility in his voice. “I suppose you’ve heard about the Market book.”

  “Darlin’, everyone’s heard. You’re famous. Or is that infamous? Smart little writer lady like yourself ought to be able to tell me which.”

  “You really do all stick together, don’t you?” It was very appealing, that loyalty. When it wasn’t aimed at keeping her out.

  “Adam’s a good man. I’ve worked with him, and I know all about how he runs his kitchen. No way is Market like you said. No way did Adam Temple sleep with that woman like some kind of gigolo. And no way did any of his crew deserve to have their private lives dragged through the muck.”

  Miranda wasn’t about to explain everything to this guy, but the obstinate twist to his mouth made her think he wasn’t upset in the abstract—there was someone special at Market whose secret she’d revealed. She sighed, remembering how ready he’d been to jump in with that baseball bat when she’d thought Jess was being attacked.

  “I promise, you don’t have to tell me what a bitch I am, I already know,” she said. “I’m trying to do something about that. Is Devon Sparks here tonight? I need to talk to him.”

  Christian’s hands stilled their furious slicing as he stared at her. “For the record,” he said slowly, “I’d never use such ugly language to refer to a lady. And Devon’s not here.”

  Shoulders slumping, Miranda turned to go, already trying to devise some other way to get in touch with him. It wasn’t very likely he’d take her call, and she didn’t have his home address—

  “Yet,” Christian called, stopping her at the door. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “Yet.” Miranda pounced. “You mean he’ll be here later?”

  “Almost definitely,” he said, as if the words were being pulled from him. “Probably soon. He’s here most every night when the show’s filming a new season.”

  Miranda felt a strange mixture of relief and dismay. “Do you mind if I wait here for him?”

  The bartender sighed. “Always was a sucker for big blue eyes. Sure, come o
n and sit down, I’ll fix you something.”

  “Do I need to look at a cocktail menu or anything?”

  Shaking his head, Christian started mixing and pouring. The drink, when he set it down in front of her, was clear and fizzy, with a lovely garnish of fresh mint.

  “Club soda with mint-lime syrup,” he told her as she took a sip.

  “It’s good,” she said. “Very refreshing.”

  Christian winked. “No alcohol. I figure you’re gonna need to keep your mind as sharp as possible for the conversation with Dev.”

  “You taking my name in vain, Chris?” The smooth, sexy voice slid down Miranda’s back like an ice cube.

  Devon was here.

  “Hey, man,” Christian was saying, reaching across the bar to slap Devon’s palm. “How was shooting today?”

  “It was—Wait, you wouldn’t be trying to trap me, would you? Anything I say in front of Miranda Wake is liable to show up online later tonight.”

  Pulling her best poised, calm demeanor around herself like a cloak, Miranda gave Devon a serene smile. “Devon Sparks. Nice to see you. Won’t you have a seat? I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Devon snorted, but he was obviously intrigued enough to slide onto the barstool next to hers. “It’s cute that you think I pay for drinks. Ever. Dirty martini, tonight, Chris, none of your little experiments.”

  “One day I’m going to send your bar tab to your accountant and give the guy a heart attack,” Christian threatened over his shoulder as he picked through the gin.

  “Don’t skimp on the olives,” Devon demanded before settling back and looking Miranda up and down. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your return to this shithole? Looking for fresh material? Or were you hoping to replace Temple in another way”? His sneer was blatantly sexual, but his eyes were cold and flat, like a shark’s.

  She’d taken a lot of abuse in the last few days, most of it deserved, but this was too much. Her temper flared. “Don’t be more disgusting than you have to be, Sparks. I’m not here for that, and if I were, you’re the last man I’d choose.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, she cringed, wishing she could call them back.

  What a clever negotiating tactic. Insulting and alienating the potential benefactor. Go me. Perhaps next I’ll spit in his drink, then see where the evening takes us from there.

  To her very great surprise, however, nothing more extreme than curiosity flashed in Devon’s extraordinary eyes.

  “Then is it the other? You’re looking for more dirt on Temple and his pals? I suppose I’d be a natural source, having employed most of them at one time or another.”

  “That’s not what I’m after,” Miranda hastened to assure him.

  “Good, because I wasn’t planning on telling you anything,” Devon said, pulling his martini closer, “except that Adam Temple was an exemplary employee and one of the best cooks I’ve ever had working for me. He chose his people well; poached most of them from my staff, in fact. Which, by the way, is the quote I’ve given six different newspapers, four magazines, and twenty-five Web sites today.”

  Miranda smiled for the first time since staring into Grant’s accusing face. “That lovely loyalty again,” she breathed. “I wasn’t sure it would extend to you, too.” This made her request so much more viable, she wanted to climb up and dance on the bar.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Devon said crossly. “It’s nothing but the truth. I realize you’ve got only a passing acquaintance with the concept.”

  Miranda swallowed that down without a flinch, flying on the idea that this might actually work.

  “I’m talking about Adam,” she said. “And a favor. Not for me, but for him. To sweeten the deal, let me add that this favor will not only help the Market crew, but it will also cause me considerable personal trouble and humiliation.”

  Devon cocked a brow at her and took a maddeningly long sip of his martini.

  “Fine,” he said at length. “You’ve got my attention. Tell me what you have in mind.”

  THIRTY

  How was it that one person being missing from the line for a week threw the whole kitchen into chaos? Adam wondered tiredly as he schlepped up the stairs from his tiny, cluttered office.

  He’d slept at the restaurant again, on the narrow couch in his office, after last night’s difficult service. They’d missed Frankie and his irrepressible energy on the grill station.

  Adam refused to consider who else he’d missed.

  Today will be better, he promised himself. Frankie was due back in the kitchen tonight, healed enough from his brush with death to sling some hash under Adam’s watchful eye. It was a little sooner than the doctor had recommended, and before Frankie received permission to cook, Adam had endured a very uncomfortable conversation with Jess. While both of them danced carefully around the slim, pretty redheaded elephant in the room, he’d sworn to Jess that he’d keep a close eye on Frankie and make sure he wasn’t overdoing it. For a while there, he wondered if he’d have to take out some kind of affidavit signed in blood and notarized by a priest or something. Jess did cave, eventually, to the relief of the whole Market crew.

  It had been a weird week.

  The first day back was the hardest; Frankie’s conspicuous absence, plus the horror of finding out shit he never wanted to know about his employees. The awkward, embarrassed way people moved around each other, each cook in his own orbit, never touching anyone else. No one made eye contact. Adam became hyperconscious of everyone’s left ears, the shape of their foreheads.

  Some of those so-called secrets Miranda had written about were things Adam had known forever, and the rest weren’t exactly a surprise. The fact that Quentin had done time shocked no one; the confirmation that Milo’s family was Family, likewise. Adam had known when Violet got her divorce that it was beyond acrimonious, because one day in the middle of all of it, she’d forgotten to add yeast to a whole batch of bread. When the sad, flat goop refused to rise, she’d broken down and told him all about what a bastard her soon-to-be-ex was.

  Frankie’s parents had mailed the papers that officially declared him no longer their son to his work address, back when they’d both been at Appetite; Adam had actually been standing beside him when he opened the letter, close enough to steady him when his knees buckled.

  It wasn’t that he was shocked by the skeletons in his crew’s closets. He knew who they were, and liked and respected them all. It was the ugliness of having those private sorrows and failures and foibles thrust into the spotlight to be salivated over by the grasping public.

  What lifted his spirits was the avalanche of business all the extra publicity had generated.

  Adam hadn’t known what to expect, that first day. He and Grant had spent the hours before service calling the line cooks and telling them to come in, cleaning up the traces from the stampede of police and ambulance people. Then they’d split up, Adam to comb through the walk-in cooler for ideas for specials, and Grant to stand by the full reservation book, wringing his hands and waiting to see if any of the people who’d booked tables would show up.

  They did. And so did about three hundred more would-be customers. As busy as they’d been since opening, it was nothing compared to how slammed the restaurant was now. And they weren’t all novelty diners, either—more than half of them went home and called Grant the next day to make return reservations. Every so often, Adam would check in with front of house and hear Grant gleefully informing some hopeful that they were currently booked solid for the next three months.

  As messed up as things had been in the kitchen, the cooks hadn’t let it affect the quality of the food they were sending out. The customers never knew the difference; it was only Adam and his crew who pined for the way things used to be.

  After the past week, they’d lost the fun.

  Adam bumped the kitchen door open with his shoulder, hands full of pen and memo pad, trying to compose something appealing and elegant to describe the riff o
n succotash he was doing for that night’s special. Sort of a summer pot pie, with sweet corn and buttery lima beans in a flaky, golden crust.

  What exact words would make it sound good to customers? Adam sighed. He sucked at writing menus, always had.

  Miranda had been great at it. Not surprisingly, she’d made quite a study of menu wording, the ways the choice of adjectives and which ingredients were included in the description colored the reader’s understanding of what was on offer. By switching a couple of words and adding a vivid adjective or two, she’d turned a boring-sounding dish into something everyone wanted to try. Adam swore she could make a vegan order the rib eye, the imagery she evoked was so tantalizing.

  Once Adam had discovered this miraculous ability, he’d put her to work on the special addition to the menu every night.

  Not thinking about her, he reminded himself. I wrote a thousand menus before Miranda Wake, and I’ll write a thousand more without her.

  Not a particularly cheerful thought.

  He tossed the empty pad on the counter and looked up in time to see Frankie clattering into the kitchen, laughing uproariously, one arm slung around Jess’s neck.

  Adam narrowed his eyes against the almost overwhelming rush of relief.

  “Is he high on painkillers?” he demanded, pointing at Frankie with the pen he was still holding.

  “High on life, mate,” Frankie crowed. “Fucking hell, but it’s good to be back in the kitchen.”

  “I haven’t let him touch a knife in six days,” Jess explained, watching fondly as Frankie jitterbugged his way to the magnetic strips running along the walls above the counters. Each strip held at least five knives, all-purpose chef’s knives of different lengths and weights, carving knives with their long blades and rounded tips, and short, broad cleavers for hacking through bone.

  Frankie went straight for his favorite nine-inch stainless steel, lightweight and agile, sharp enough to tackle almost any cutting job. Not sharp enough for Frankie, evidently, since he rummaged through a utility drawer until he came up with a whetstone and began sharpening the knife with reverent attention.