by Nancy Warren
And, out of nowhere, irritation spurted. “No, I haven’t been eating properly. I’ve been holed up in my apartment scoffing junk food. I’m a chef, and I can’t even be bothered to cook for myself. I cry at commercials –- and not the long distance phone ones everybody cries at. I found myself in tears when some guy got a better rate on his credit card. I feel like my skin is breakable.” She leaned back into the couch until she was staring up at the ancient ceiling. “I think I’m having some kind of breakdown.”
“We’ll get that fixed, too.” Max reached over and patted Rachel’s knee briskly. “You’re going to be a lot happier when you start work.”
“If anybody still remembers me when I get back home.” She thought of the now defunct restaurant where she’d invested so much of herself and let a scowl settle on her face.
“I was thinking you might do some cooking while you’re here.”
Rachel had known that I-know-what’s-best-for-you expression too long to be fooled by it. She felt suspicion settle. “I’d be happy to cook dinner for you and George.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a professional gig.”
“I came here for a rest.”
“Mom says you’ve been ‘resting’ since the restaurant closed.”
“Mom should mind her own business.”
“Rach, we’re worried about you.”
“Well, don’t. Apart from the small breakdown, I’m fine. I’m free. Free of that phony bastard I married, and free of eighteen hour shifts.”
“The restaurant closing wasn’t your fault,” Max said gently.
“No. I know. Bad luck, bad management. Owners who didn’t have the same commitment.” But if it wasn’t her fault, then why did she feel like such an abject failure?
Max took the last Oreo and offered it to her, she shook her head. Around the cookie, Max said, “Your reviews were fantastic, your food is amazing.”
“Thanks.”
Of course, having grilled her about her professional life, Max wasn’t nearly done torturing her. After finishing the cookie she asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“You mean like a man?” The entire notion revolted her. She didn’t think she’d go out with a guy for a couple of years, at least. And as for weddings! She’d developed a severe allergy to tulle, cakes with pillars between the layers and vellum stationary. Max, with the chorus of Ave Maria playing in her head, was not good company.
“I meant like a therapist.”
“I’m not crazy.” Though secretly she thought she must have been to marry Cal, and throw her heart and soul into a restaurant that wasn’t hers.
“I know you’re not crazy. I think you’re depressed.”
Rachel picked at the end of her thumbnail. “You’d be depressed too.”
“I know. That’s why I have a therapist on speed dial.”
“You lived in L.A. too long.” But, amazingly, Rachel was smiling. It must have been a while since she’d tried it because her smile muscles felt lax and out of shape. Kind of like the rest of her.
“So, anyway, now that you’re here, we’ll have fun, you’ll rest, but George is trying so hard to make this estate pay for itself that he takes in catering jobs. It would be so great if you could help out—”
That was fair. If her possible future brother-in-law and host needed catering help it wouldn’t kill her. “I’ll do anything but weddings.”
If Maxine’s dominant quality was persuasiveness, Rachel’s was stubbornness and she glared at her sister.
Outside, two volunteer docents walked by sharing an umbrella.
“The catering job I’m thinking of is to celebrate a merger,” Max said.
Max had been in TV long enough for Rachel to be suspicious. “What kind of merger?”
“Look, it’s a dinner reception for a hundred people. You worry about the food. You can do something absolutely amazing. George is big on supporting local farmers and we always buy local. The quality of the meats and produce around here is amazing. With the right raw materials and your talent, word will get out and even more catering jobs will flow in.”
“What kind of merger?”
“Two separate entities becoming one.”
“Will there be champagne involved?”
“I think champagne is very likely.”
“A multi-layered cake with two tiny people perched on top perhaps?”
Max made a face. “I hope they have more imagination.”
“It’s a wedding.” She shot to her feet. “I don’t do weddings!”
“Honey, you’ve got to get back on the horse.”
“Get on a horse? I’m supposed to get on a horse? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Max rose and confronted her. “It means that your marriage is over, and I’m really, really sorry Cal turned out to have loose morals even by L.A. standards. But you can’t give up on all weddings.”
“Getting back on the horse after Cal left would be having sex again, not catering weddings. And, for your information, I have already done that.”
Max was staring at her. “You had sex and didn’t tell me?”
She flapped a hand. “Completely forgettable. I just needed to ride a different horse.”
“Who was he?”
“Friend of a friend. Like I said. No big deal.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
Her sister was suddenly grinning like a fool. “England has excellent horses.”
Rachel spent three days getting the industrial kitchen of Hart House cleaned, organized and stocked exactly as she wanted it. She’d been in England two weeks and amazingly, she was starting to feel better. The smell of crisp apples ready to be picked stirred her senses when she walked around the estate. The scents of lavender, rosemary and thyme lay heavy in the autumn sunshine bathing the kitchen garden and her hands itched to cook.
If Max was going to make her cater events then she was going to have the kitchen as efficient as possible. She’d brought her favorite chef’s knife with her, the one tool she hated to be without. Vaguely, she’d imagined cooking a few meals for Maxine and Earl George. Never that she’d be catering a wedding. But holding out against Max at the best of times was tough. When she was emotionally pathetic, it was hopeless. In fact, there were lots of catering jobs large and small she could do while she was here, and after she’d heard about the mother and son catering disaster, she knew she had to step in and help her sister. On some level she even understood she needed to do this for her own healing.
The knife was lightweight Japanese steel and fit her hand so well it was like an extension of her fingers. The rest of the knives at Hart House were German and so dull she’d made Max drive her into town this morning to get them sharpened.
A mistake she wouldn’t be making again anytime soon. How had she forgotten that Maxine couldn’t talk and drive at the same time in the States, never mind while driving on the opposite side of the road?
She shuddered in memory. She was hot, frazzled, had seen her life pass before her too many times today, discovered something called a roundabout, a traffic circle of hell. She wished she hadn’t picked today to offer to cook for Maxine and George because Maxine had trilled her excitement and run off to invite a few friends.
Max hadn’t lied about the local produce, though. Before her lay a perfectly-ripe soft cheese. Marinating in the fridge was lamb so local she didn’t want to think about it too closely.
She was alone but for the big orange cat who nosed around the place make a nuisance of itself. Rachel did not allow cats in her kitchen, but this old tabby was acting like the kitchen was his and if she fed him enough tidbits, he might consider letting her stay.
The territorial war between her and the tabby had been going on for a couple of hours now. She hear or see it sneak in and grab the broom and run at it, snarling. The cat would hiss at her and then stalk out, tail in the air.
No doubt the cat had a useful purpose and kept mice out of the kitchen, but th
ey needed to work out boundaries. If she’d been clearer about boundaries with Cal, maybe that Tomcat would have learned manners.
It was hot, too hot to close the door that led to a small yard and then the kitchen garden.
Still, she was cooking again. The knife felt like a forgotten lover back in her arms, the vegetables and fruits and fresh herbs scattered before her were like paints ready to be mixed and, by her hands, turned into art.
Some of her black mood drained and she found herself falling into the rhythms that gave her life work and made her work pleasure. While she prepared a sauce for the lamb, she mentally worked out the timeline for table service and made a list of the wines she’d need.
That done, she moved to the homelier task of peeling veggies. When she thought about how many aspiring chefs had fought for the sous-chef jobs in her restaurant, she smiled to herself. How far the mighty have fallen. She didn’t really mind, though. The rhythm of the movements, the scrape of peeler on carrot, the smell of vegetables and herbs fresh from the earth pleased her.
The scrape of gravel informed her she had a visitor and her moment of Zen tranquility vanished. Damn cat.
“Out!” she yelled, determined to get rid of that infernal mooch once and for all. The broom was on the other side of the kitchen so she grabbed a potato from the tile counter and threw it hard, but high enough that it wouldn’t actually hit the cat, simply let the animal know that her kitchen was out of bounds.
In fact, she discovered that she’d pitched the potato exactly at crotch height on a tall man, when she heard a distinctly human oomph and spun around.
His instincts were quick, at least. He had his hands crossed over his privates as the missile hit the cupped backs of his hands and bounced to the floor with a hollow plop.
For a stunned second there was utter silence. She stood there, staring at a rangy, athletic man with close-cropped hair and a lean, intelligent face with his hands crossed over his crotch. Slowly, he removed the hands and straightened.
“Unmanned by a spud,” the man said, looking down at the potato, which rolled, as though embarrassed by its bad temper, under the butcher’s block.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were the cat,” Rachel said.
“Ah, that explains it.” He had a cultured voice. Crisper than George’s, though. More BBC America announcer than royal family. Sharp gray eyes and hair that would curl if he didn’t keep it so short. An athlete’s build. As she replayed the protective move with his hands, she realized she’d seen that same posture during shootouts in soccer games.
He was looking at her as though wondering whether he dared cross the threshold. Smart guy.
“This is the private part of the house,” she said, glad Max had warned her about the tourists who sometimes got lost. “The old kitchen is in the next building, around the corner. Do you want me to show you?”
“No thank you. I came to see you.”
He looked at her with those heavy-lidded gray eyes and for the first time since Cal Moody had broken her heart, she felt the stirring of … something. A little of that male-female thing that always led to no good in her experience.
“You came to see me?” she repeated stupidly.
“About the wedding. I understand from Maxine that you’ll be doing the catering.”
“Right, the wedding.” She picked up a carrot and attacked it with the peeler.
Her unwanted visitor knelt to the ground and picked up the potato, then walked briskly forward and placed it beside her. “Do I detect a certain animosity toward the upcoming happy event?”
Silently, she marveled at the sheer number of words guys like George and this dude needed to say the simplest things. She also reminded herself to remain silent about her feelings re: the upcoming ‘happy event.’ George and Max needed the money and it was up to her to make sure the catering was superb. That was all she had to do. So, she forced herself to look up and try to keep her expression pleasant. She’d always stayed in the background and stuck to food preparation for good reason. She hated dealing with the customers.
“I’m sure the event will be so happy it will do cartwheels. I promise the food will be good.” And she went back to her carrot.
He rolled the potato back and forth under his fingers as though it were a bumpy and rather dirty marble. She couldn’t help noticing his hands. He had great hands. They looked tough and strong, like a fighter’s -- or a chef’s. Better on a man than a woman. Hers were so scarred, burned and generally mistreated that she never drew attention to them. On a guy, though, the roughed-up hands looked good – sexy. For a blind moment she imagined those hands on her, and then snapped herself out of her inappropriate sexual reverie.
What was wrong with her? She must be crazier than she thought.
She felt that he was watching her and wished fervently it had been the cat who’d intruded on her kitchen.
Unlike the cat, however, a well-thrown potato didn’t seem to bother the man at her side. If anything, he seemed to be hanging around.
“For a guy who almost lost his privates to a potato, you’re standing awfully close to a woman with a very sharp knife.”
“I live for danger,” he said. She glanced up and something about the way his eyes glittered made her feel like she was the one likely to be in danger. And him a bridegroom. No wonder she’d given up on men.
“Okay, maybe we should start over.” She held out her right hand after carefully putting down the knife and wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Rachel Larraby. I’ll be catering your wedding.”
Chapter 3
He took her hand in his, and shook it gravely. “Jack Flynt. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s not my wedding, actually. My sister is the one getting married. She’s out of the country, most conveniently, so I’ve had to come about the arrangements.”
Jack didn’t know what it was about this woman that intrigued him so much. But he knew himself well enough and he’d enjoyed women long enough that he never ignored the pull of attraction when he felt it. There was something about this woman with her lethal aim, and her wild hair that she’d tried to tuck out of the way under a cap, but which still curled provocatively. He wanted to pull out every one of those hairpins and run his hands through the richness.
Her eyes were brown with flecks of green and gold, her skin pale and smooth and her mouth full lipped and luscious. It was a mouth designed for savoring food, or kisses.
The knife-wielding cook was voluptuous, all right, as were the scents emanating from this kitchen. He liked her efficient movements and the way she was trying so unsuccessfully to hide her irritation at his entrance into her kitchen.
Even under the apron he could see her curvy body. It made him think of plenty. He’d known so many women on slimming diets that the words Atkins, South Beach and macrobiotic made him want to track down the purveyors of diets and force feed them butter, cream and fois gras. Or better still, choke them on their brown rice cakes and meals in tins.
Rachel Larraby was obviously a woman who understood the intimate connection between food and pleasure. “Are you working on a catering job now?”
“No. The honest truth is that I am trying to get to know this kitchen. I’m starting small. Tonight, I’m cooking dinner for Max and George and a couple of their friends.”
“I hope you’ll be joining us for dinner,” he said with the smoothness of a born salesman. He enjoyed the sudden widening of her eyes and the flash of awareness that told him he wasn’t the only one feeling the attraction.
“I thought it was just George, Maxine and one other couple.”
“Well, I’m invited too, so that would leave an uneven table,” he reminded her. “It’s much more interesting to have everybody paired up, don’t you think?”
She was looking at him as though she wasn’t entirely sure whether there was hidden meaning behind his words. Leaving her to ponder, he said a cheerful goodbye and strolled out to find his old school friend George and see about mooching an invitation to din
ner.
He’d been irritated as hell with his spoiled little sister and her endless demands, but suddenly he was grateful to Chloe for introducing him to Rachel Larraby. As he emerged into sunshine, he passed an overfed, imperious looking cat. He knelt to scratch its ears and the tabby rubbed itself against his legs and then headed for the kitchen door with its striped orange tail held high. “I wouldn’t cross that threshold if I were you, old chap.”
The cat didn’t seem to have any better idea of self-preservation than he had himself, so he watched the open doorway in some anticipation and was rewarded by the same shouted voice. “Oh, no you don’t!” and the potato that he had come to recognize came sailing out of the doorway, closely followed by the cat.
They strolled a little way together, he and the cat. Jack wasn’t much for the country, but it was difficult even for a Londoner like him not to appreciate the view. Gently rolling hills, green fields dotted with contented-looking sheep, a few cottages and outbuildings. The slow amble of a river curling around a stand of fine old trees, and in the center of it all, the ancestral home. Hart House.
Where his lordship might be at this time of day, Jack had no idea, but he was fairly certain that if he kept walking somebody, somewhere could direct him.
In fact, it took him almost no time at all to locate George. He and Maxine were standing on the Palladian bridge that arched gracefully over the river. They were close enough to touch and Jack was about to think better of intruding on such an intimate scene, when he noticed that Maxine was holding a clipboard and gesturing with her cell phone.
Not love then but business, which, since he was here on business himself, he felt entitled to interrupt.
After the usual insults, without which no Englishman can greet a friend, he said, “I’ve just been chatting up the wedding caterer.”
Maxine looked alarmed. “Oh, I wish I’d known you wanted to meet her. I’d have—“
“Warned her to be civil?”
Maxine’s pretty mouth turned down. “I’m really sorry. She hates being disturbed when she’s working. Was she awful?”