“No,” Hunter said. “She’s creating a family, the way they used to be years ago when no one moved more than five miles from home and were all invested in the family business. She’s seventy-eight years old, and how much longer do you think we’re going to have her? I think it’s time to give back and make these last years the best years of her life.”
An odd feeling crept over Donovan. Miss E. had never seemed old. The thought of no longer having her around created a dark hole within him. But even he could see she’d slowed down over the past few years.
“She wants us settled,” Donovan said interrupting the silence of the SUV. “But she wants us settled where she can keep an eye on us.
Hunter turned off the truck and heat immediately started to build inside the car. “She wants us settled—wife, house, children, white picket fence, dog—in that order.”
Donovan opened the car door into the Reno sun and glanced around. Family had always meant a lot to Miss E. “Yeah, bro. You’re the closest one to having that.”
“Don’t remind me,” Hunter said with a laugh. “I had this cute little dachshund picked out for Maya and she decided she wanted a shelter dog instead. We ended up with a monster.”
Donovan had already seen the monster. It was nearly as big as a small pony, but Maya was happy with her choice.
“And now,” Hunter continued, “she announced the other day, she wants a baby sister and she wants her named Eleanor Grace after Miss E.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Scott said with a grin as they headed toward the hotel.
“Yeah, but eventually we’re going to have to tell her the baby is a boy.”
Scott choked on his laughter. “So that’s why you got the dog she wanted.”
Hunter nodded as he pulled open the glass door leading to the lobby. “Do I look stupid? A friend once told me that happy wives make for happy lives. I think that goes for daughters, too.”
Donovan slapped his brother on the back, delighted to know a new generation was on the way even though Hunter looked a little uncertain. “Way to go, bro. Have you told Miss E. she’s really going to be a boy.”
“No. She agrees with Maya and wants a girl, too,” Hunter said, “so I’m thinking of buying the dachshund for her instead.”
Donovan and Scott burst out laughing. “Nina already has Kong.”
Donovan knew Scott wasn’t thoroughly in love with the tiny creature, but Donovan thought the dog was cute.
He headed toward the elevators. He needed to change clothes before heading down to the kitchen.
* * *
Hendrix finished icing the last cake and set it to cool in the walk-in refrigerator. One side of the refrigerator held rolling racks with cooling pies, cakes, tarts and cookies. The other side contained drawers with the fruits and other supplies she used for her baking.
Back at the stove, she melted chocolate, vanilla flavoring and butter in a huge pan over medium heat and whipped it until it was smooth. All the while her mind went back and forth over the kiss she’d planted on Donovan and the way he’d kissed her back. Giving in to the impulse to kiss him had not been one of her most brilliant moves. It had been unprofessional. But...the kiss had been heavenly despite the fact Donovan wasn’t the type of man she was usually attracted to. She liked fun, uncomplicated men and Donovan was hardly that. He had layers and layers which both intrigued and worried her. She never knew what he was thinking, except for the knowledge he was as obsessed with food as she was.
She shouldn’t have kissed him, she thought as she measured flour into the chocolate mixture and folded it in. She’d originally planned on a simple brownie recipe, but it had evolved into s’mores. She poured the batter over the graham cracker mixture and set it in the oven to bake. While the s’mores baked, she sat down at Donovan’s desk, chin cupped in her hand, the memory of his lips on hers refusing to go away.
How could she have been so stupid? She was still proving herself to him in the same way she sensed he was trying to prove himself. She liked that he challenged himself. Like her, he didn’t settle for the obvious even though she’d thought him reluctant to experiment at first.
Lately, she’d been eating lunch in the main restaurant, trying the different dishes she knew were Donovan’s creations. The tastes were a mixture of subtle and refined. Almost a little too refined for the American palate, which seemed to prefer a bolder, spicier taste. Not that Americans were unsophisticated in their food choices, just more a product of combined cultures that intermingled heavily.
By the time the brownies were done and cooling in the refrigerator, Hendrix was hungry. Her shift was over. The head chef would send someone to collect the desserts for the day to be divided between the buffet, the diner and the restaurant. She decided she’d go to lunch.
In the bathroom, she changed from her uniform of white jacket and pants to her street clothes—a vintage fifties red, black and white plaid dress with a full skirt, trimmed with a white collar and cuffs. She then headed through the main kitchen and out into the restaurant.
The restaurant was busy with the lunch crowd, but she spotted an empty booth in a corner where she could watch everyone eat without being obvious.
The hostess brought her a menu. “What’s the dessert of the day?”
“S’mores,” Hendrix replied. “They’re cooling and will be available soon.”
The hostess grinned. “Everybody loves your desserts. Your white chocolate éclairs were the hit yesterday.”
“I’ll remember that,” Hendrix said. “I was experimenting.” She’d added a hint of nutmeg to the white chocolate cream filling—just enough to tantalize a person’s taste buds. The thought of the éclairs made her mouth water. She’d really enjoyed making them.
“You say that every day. When are you going to make champagne cake again?”
“I had an idea for a variation on it. I’m going to practice it tomorrow and if it works, I’ll make them Friday morning.” The weekends were always the heaviest dessert days. She put in overtime on Friday to get the weekend desserts completed. And Friday night was her date with Donovan. She’s been a bit bold about that, too.
“Can’t wait!”
Hendrix glanced over the menu. “What do the employees eat?”
“They don’t eat in this restaurant very often. Usually the diner or the buffet.” The waitress looked a little uncomfortable answering Hendrix’s question. “Though the family eats here a lot. Miss E. really likes the tilapia, especially the sauce Mr. Donovan created just for the fish. I’ll admit I like it a lot better, too. The old chef, what’s-his-name, never asked anybody what they liked. Mr. Donovan does. He likes to check in to see what we’re eating.”
“I’m always curious about what people are eating. Especially dessert.”
The hostess grinned. She leaned over the table. “That strudel you made last week was so buttery I took home the last one for my midnight snack. I loved the cherries and walnuts and that hint of something that I couldn’t figure out.”
“Rum,” Hendrix supplied. “Butter rum. Helps with that buttery flavor.”
“Between you and Mr. Donovan, I’ve gained five pounds in the past month. He’s certainly made a difference. Before I used to have several complaints about the food each night. Now, I get maybe one a week.”
“That’s good to know, but you didn’t answer my question about what the employees like to eat.”
“They try everything,” the hostess said. “The only ones who don’t are the ones who are picky eaters to begin with or have certain allergies. Pam over in the diner has celiac disease. So she can’t eat anything with gluten. Don who manages the buffet is allergic to peanuts. And customers have their own allergies, as well. I always try to let people know if there’s peanuts in something.”
“But what do the staff like?” Hendrix persisted. She
glanced at the customers around the room. They all seemed to have something different on their plate.
“At the buffet, they like the shrimp. Here in this restaurant, the beef bourguignon is very popular. I don’t know about the diner since that’s just hamburgers and hotdogs, what I call family food for guests with children.”
“Okay, that’s interesting.” Beef bourguignonne was a safe dish. Most people were familiar with the ingredients and the taste. The dish was considered simple but sophisticated, which told Hendrix that most of the employees didn’t have an experimental palate.
“Most of us try everything so we can make recommendations,” the hostess added. “But we don’t always like everything.”
“Thank you,” Hendrix said. “I haven’t tried the beef bourguignon. I’ll have it for lunch today.”
“You won’t be disappointed.”
Hendrix sat back and looked at the other lunch diners. Most of the guests had sandwiches and salads in front of them. After all, it was lunchtime. She had a lot to think about.
* * *
Donovan watched the busboy pull the first of several racks into the main kitchen. Every head in the kitchen turned to glance at Hendrix’s offerings for the day. One of the waitresses licked her lips as the rack passed her, a look of pure heaven on her face.
“She makes good desserts,” Mitch, one of the line cooks said. He was young and had only been working for the hotel for a few months and was eager to learn.
“But have you seen the size of her butt?” another line chef said caustically. “She probably eats more than she bakes.”
Donovan’s hackles rose. “Excuse me.” The slightest slur against Hendrix sent him into defensive mode. She didn’t deserve such mean-spirited comments.
The two line cooks glanced at him. Mitch had the grace to blush. “Sorry, Mr. Donovan.”
“Your comments are in bad taste. I won’t have it in my kitchen. Consider this a verbal warning.”
Both men nodded. One slunk away and the other turned back to his station. Donovan continued on his way out of the kitchen into the dining room. He saw Hendrix sitting in the corner eating.
“Can I join you?” he asked.
She nodded. “Sure.”
“What are you doing?” She wrote in a notebook as she ate.
“Making notes?”
He tilted his head trying to see what she was writing. The notebook was open at the halfway point and the pages before curled slightly to show they’d been used. “Making notes about what?”
“About food,” she replied, her voice holding a touch of impatience. “About what people are eating and about what goes back uneaten. Interestingly enough, most of your employees are a little more adventurous in their food choices than the guests.” She flipped back through her notebook. “I thought my observations would add to your Dumpster experience.”
“In Paris, I used to set aside one day each month for my employees to try my new dishes. But it was a lot smaller than this. I couldn’t possibly do it for the hotel and casino employees.”
“Why not create a rotating group of twenty you could try out new dishes on?”
“That’s a good idea. I just haven’t had the time.”
She nodded in understanding. She knew the vandalism and petty thefts worried him. He could only work on one problem at a time.
“How to you like the beef bourguignon?”
“I’m loving it, but there are no surprises.”
He wasn’t certain he liked her answer. “How do you want this dish to surprise you?”
“I don’t know yet.” Her eyes widened as she let out a long sigh. “I’ll think on it.”
Her face was so expressive. She didn’t hold much back. He found that he liked knowing where he stood with her. “I suppose I could put a worm in it.” He half jested.
“That’s a surprise, but not what I had in mind.” She grinned at him.
Her smile warmed him. “But it would wake up your taste buds.”
“I’ve had worms. They aren’t a surprise. They’re a turn-off.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t like them?”
Hendrix cringed. “They were actually pretty tasteless. It was the idea that made me squirm. But I pride myself on the fact that I did try them even though I was only six years old.”
Donovan tried not to laugh. “I know for myself food is comfort.” He liked knowing when he opened up his favorite package of cookies, the taste would always be the same. He would feel the same emotions he did when he was six years old. People ate certain foods for certain reasons.
“For me, it’s the wonder.” Hendrix paged through her notebook. “I like that unknown taste that lingers long after you’ve finished eating.”
He chuckled. “You probably spend hours trying to figure out what that taste is.”
“Nope, the thought usually pops in my head that this dish needs something to deepen the aftertaste, to bring it to full bloom, to increase the sensual feel of it.”
He wasn’t expecting that answer. “I’m not disagreeing with you.” His gaze lingered on her lips and the memory of their kiss suddenly flooded him. “But most people eat for comfort. You eat for the adventure.”
“And I’ve had plenty of adventures.” She twitched a little as though showing off her waist.
For a second, anger flooded him. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” She looked confused.
“Stop acting like you’re fat. You’re not fat.” She had such pleasant curves his fingers itched to explore them.
Her head tilted as if she were trying to understand him. “You lost me. What are you talking about?”
“When you said ‘plenty of adventures’ you seemed to mean that the food you eat goes right to your hips.” Her hips were fine—he liked that she had lush curves. They matched her luscious personality.
She burst out laughing. Her laughter rang out over the dining room and several heads turned to look at her. “I meant the adventure of discovery. My parents were in Vietnam buying silk and I found this marvelous hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Hanoi. It was down this horrible little alley, but I still found it. I couldn’t speak one of word of Vietnamese and this little old man who did the cooking couldn’t speak one word of English. But once he figured out I wanted to try his food, he made samples of everything, and I ate every morsel he brought to me. I didn’t know what was in half of them but the adventure stayed with me. And the tastes. I was twelve years old then, and my parents thought I was lost or kidnapped. They were at the American embassy trying to convince the US Marines to search for me.” She chuckled and her face grew soft with the strength of her memory.
His anger died away and he realized he was a touch jealous. She’d done all these things, explored most of the world and all he’d ever done was go to France because France was where a person went when they wanted to learn how to cook. He’d been deeply influenced by Julia Child. The first cookbook he studied had been Mastering the Art of French Cooking. He’d saved his allowance for six months in order to purchase that book. He still referred back to it when he wanted inspiration.
“You seem troubled. What’s wrong?” Hendrix finished her food and slid the plate away, her gaze on his.
“You’ve had this great big adventure. You’ve seen more of the world in your short life span than 98 percent of the population sees in their entire life.”
“Am I hearing envy in your voice?”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted.
“Like you stayed home on the farm or something? You built a successful restaurant in Paris, probably the most food competitive city in the world.”
“I never went any farther.” And he should have. He’d traveled around Europe, not as an adventure, but as another tourist.
“Don’t be jealous. My parents
wanted me to experience everything I could. I loved it, but after a while I wanted to stay home and do nothing. Yes, I had adventures, and I will always cherish them. I love my parents no end, but I’m perfectly happy in Reno. It’s quietly exciting. Before I moved in with my grandmother, I didn’t know I could be friends with my neighbors, I didn’t know I could have a best friend, and I discovered that being in one place is just as exciting as being everywhere. I have a car I love, and I’m thinking about buying a house. I’m pretty sure I want to stay in Reno.”
The image of her VW painted like a ladybug sprang into his mind. Somehow that car personified her. “Someplace you can put your flamingos out in the front yard?”
She held out her arms. “Right where everyone can enjoy them as much as I do. I’m enjoying domesticity.”
“Me, too,” he replied. “I loved living in Paris, but I’m learning to love Reno. It’s not as pedestrian as I thought it would be.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure the inhabitants of Reno appreciate that.”
He laughed. “I sounded like a pretentious snob, didn’t I?”
“A wee bit.” She held her thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “But I’ll keep your secret.”
He laughed with her. “Listen, about yesterday.”
With her head slightly tilted, she watched him. “What about yesterday?”
“We...you know...”
“Kissed,” she supplied.
“That can’t happen again.”
She studied him for a few seconds, then shrugged. “Okay.” She slid out of the booth. “I’ll see you tomorrow night then. You remember, swing dancing at the Orpheum. Wear comfortable shoes.”
“I’ll be there.” He watched as she strode away, her hips swaying and he wondered if he’d done the right thing, because he really wanted to kiss her again.
Chapter 7
The Orpheum Ballroom had started as a movie theater, but as theaters started growing in size and number of screens, the Orpheum had been left behind with no purpose or future. The front still had a theater marquee and ticket booth. Hendrix loved the 1950s flavor of it. Inside the seats had been removed, though a few had been left in the gallery for people to watch the dancing. A dance floor had been installed to level the slope of the floor.
Bet on My Heart Page 7