Libby took a bite out of one of the peanut butter cookies that had just come out of the oven, noting, as she washed it down with another swig of coffee, that it had been baked about two minutes too long. No doubt about it: Family relations were a bitch. But she’d have to ask Bernie. She didn’t have a choice.
That was the problem with having a shop like this, Libby reflected. It was impossible to do it on your own. You needed at least one other person to cover for you. Because it didn’t matter what you felt like or how little sleep you had, short of a death in the family, or a catastrophic illness you had to open the shop on time the next morning, and you had to have an adequate amount of product to sell.
And the product had better be good. Her mother had impressed that fact on her. If it weren’t, people would stop coming. And once they got out of the habit of patronizing your store, they didn’t come back. That’s why everything at A Taste of Heaven always had to be perfect. Always.
Actually, Libby decided as she rearranged the almond croissants in the display case, if you thought about it, owning this store was almost like being married. If you weren’t fully committed to the relationship, it wouldn’t work out. And even after putting years into the relationship you never knew. Look at what had happened to her and Orion. She’d never have thought he’d end up marrying someone else. Hopefully she and the store would do better.
Libby sighed and looked at the clock again. Bernie had gone to the farm to get the free-range eggs about an hour ago. She was wondering when her sister would get back so she could start in on the curried egg salad when she saw Bree Nottingham, real estate agent extraordinaire, coming through the shop door.
As Libby watched her advancing to the counter she became painfully aware of the fact that she’d been too tired to go back upstairs and put her make-up on and that she was wearing a T-shirt that showed off the roll of fat around her middle. But then Bree had been making her feel fat and unattractive since the fourth grade. Maybe it was because even back then Bree had worn the equivalent of a size four and she had worn closer to a size fourteen.
“So,” Bree cooed when she got close enough, “I understand the Simmons family had some excitement yesterday.”
Here we go again, Libby thought. “You could say that,” she replied.
Bree got her wallet out of her bag, which Libby couldn’t help notice thanks to Bernie’s fashion tutelage, was the new Louis Vuitton.
“You can’t imagine what I felt like when I got to the estate gate and heard the news about Leeza. It must have been so much worse for you and your sister finding her like that,” she said. “I would have fainted.”
“Fortunately, I didn’t,” Libby replied. In her book, almost didn’t count.
Anyway, her father always said never to show weakness in the face of the enemy. All she wanted to do was forget about yesterday; and, even if she did want to talk about it with somebody, Bree Nottingham was the last person she’d want to talk about it with.
Bree extracted a five-dollar bill from her wallet then put the wallet back in her bag. “I hear the sandwiches you served were very good, although the coffee left something to be desired.”
Libby sighed. Screw up once and you never stopped hearing about it. She hated to admit it, but Bernie had been right about getting their coffee from the garage instead of using the swill in Jura’s house.
“I hope you’re not using the same type here in the store,” Bree continued.
“Not at all,” Libby told her pleasantly. “Jura asked us to use his.” When cornered, lie. “Would you like some of ours? We just got a new shipment in on Friday.”
Bree formed her lips into an O while she thought. “I suppose,” she said after a moment of reflection. “Make it one third French decaf, one third French regular, and one third hazelnut if you don’t mind.” Then she leaned forward and concentrated her gaze on Libby’s shirt. “Is that a spot?”
Libby looked down to where Bree was pointing. Sure enough. She had a blue dot on her white T-shirt. She must have gotten that when she made the blueberry scones. Unbelievable.
“Do you have any hard boiled eggs?” Bree asked.
“In the back,” Libby replied. She had exactly two, the yolks of which she’d been planning to use for her mother’s short bread cookies.
“Good. Because I’d like one.” Bree patted what in Libby’s opinion were nonexistent hips. “I’m on Atkins now and I’ve already lost five pounds.”
Where? From your skeleton, Libby thought.
Bree tapped an immaculately manicured nail against her tooth for a moment. Then she said, “And can you cut it in half, and sprinkle on some fleur de sel and a little cracked fresh pepper. You should try Atkins. It’s a miracle.”
Libby hoped she was smiling not gritting her teeth. “I am,” she replied although she had to admit she was honoring it more in the breach these days. Well, really she wasn’t doing it at all.
“Good. Because it would be perfect for you. You really don’t need any will power for this.”
Libby took a deep breath and pictured throwing Bree through the plate glass window. But then she reminded herself that despite the pleasure it would be bad for business, not to mention that getting the window replaced would cost a small fortune. And then there would be the lawyer’s fees. So instead Libby went to get Bree her coffee.
As she did Bree added, “I’m surprised the reporters aren’t here after yesterday.”
“They’ve already called,” Libby conceded. She’d told them neither she, her sister, or her father had anything to say. She’d said the same thing to the media people swarming around the estate last night.
“They were reporting the story on CNN.”
“I’ve been too busy to have the TV on,” Libby lied.
Bree sighed. “Bride killed on her wedding day. Shot through the heart. My dear, the story is simply too good to resist.”
Libby handed Bree her coffee.
“I have to say,” Bree said after she’d taken a sip. “Bad luck seems to follow you and your sister around. At least the murder is in West Vale instead of Longely this time,” Bree went on. “Although it would have been better if it wasn’t in this geographical locale.”
“I agree,” Bernie told Bree as she came sailing through the door. “It was so inconsiderate of Leeza to get herself murdered in the town next door.” Bernie took off her sunglasses and hung them from the neck of her T-shirt. “Next time I arrange a homicide, I’ll be sure and have it somewhere in Alaska. After all, we wouldn’t want you to lose any commissions.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Bree protested.
“Then what did you mean?” Bernie asked her as she handed Libby the three-dozen eggs she’d just gotten from the farm.
Nothing ever fazed her younger sister, Libby thought as she put the eggs on the counter. She always managed to have the right comeback. And she always look so pulled together no matter what. She didn’t have a stain on her shirt. And if she did, she would have made it into a fashion statement. Sometimes Libby just hated her.
Bree emptied a packet of Splenda into her coffee and stirred. “I’m just making the factual observation that there’s been trouble in town ever since you got here.”
“You can’t blame her,” Libby blurted out.
Both Bree and Bernie looked at her. Libby felt herself shrinking into her T-shirt. Why was she trying to defend her sister anyway?
Bree said to Libby, “I wasn’t blaming your sister for anything. As I said, I was merely making an observation.” Then Bree turned back to Bernie. “I was just about to say to Libby that I understand you and your father ran into a little problem last night.”
Bernie smiled back. “Not at all.”
“Oh. That’s funny. I’d heard you two were arrested.”
“No. It was just a mix-up,” Bernie assured her.
“So Marvin didn’t have to come up with bail money? That’s what he told me when he was pounding on the door at ten o’clock at night. I mean real
ly. I can’t believe he doesn’t have an ATM card?”
Bernie had two thoughts. The first one was: what was Marvin thinking of choosing Bree to ask for money. The second was: given the expression on Libby’s face the sooner she changed the topic of conversation the better.
“You know how overly dramatic Marvin can get,” Bernie told Bree. “But of course that’s why we love him.”
“Dramatic would hardly be the adjective I’d use to describe Marvin,” Bree replied.
Bernie plowed on. “That’s because you don’t know him the way we do. Nice bag by the way.”
Bree patted it the way you would a puppy. “I got it when I was in Paris two weeks ago,” she informed her.
Right, Bernie thought. Maybe it was a real Louis Vuitton, but if she had to bet, she’d lay money that Bree had picked it up from a street vendor outside of Bloomies. The woman was notoriously cheap. She was always haggling over the price of everything. “So how do you know the Raids anyway?” she said instead.
Bree took a sip of her coffee and put her cup down on the counter. “I sold them the house they’re living in. Or I should say estate.”
“I’ve never been in a place that big,” Libby observed.
“I’ve sold bigger, but it is large, isn’t it?” Bree agreed. “It was originally built by an Anglophile who wanted to live on an estate modeled on one built by a Lord Chesterton-Wilkes that he’d seen when he was over in Devon. Hence the layout.
“Then after Jura closed on the place he decided he wanted a hunting preserve conveniently situated for weekends—I guess the three brothers got tired of flying off to Louisiana—so he ended up buying several hundred acres to the south and building his hunting lodge there. It must be nice to have that kind of money. I’ve never been there,” Bree confided, “although I don’t agree with hunting. Even those dreadful birds . . .”
“Falcons,” Bernie said.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” Bree continued, “the birds that Joe insists on carrying around on his arm freak me out. I was so nervous sitting there going over the contract with those things looking at me. But given that, I’d still like to see the place. I understand from the article about it in Design it’s amazing. All the political higher-ups come there to shoot.” Bree patted Bernie’s arm. “Not to change the subject or anything, but is your dad all right?”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” Bernie demanded.
“Well, he hasn’t been out in almost three years and then with everything that happened yesterday . . .” Bree’s voice got lower. “You know sometimes stress can trigger an episode in someone with his condition.”
“He’s fine,” Bernie repeated. “Just fine.”
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Bree patted Bernie’s arm again, took her egg from Libby, and left the store.
“Well, he is fine,” Bernie said to Libby once the door had closed.
Libby just glared at her.
“In fact, I think he enjoyed having Fisher arrest him. It gives him something to stew about.”
Libby slammed the creamer down. Half-and-half slopped over its sides. The fact that she knew what Bernie was saying about her dad was true just made her madder.
“Having to call Marvin to post bail for you guys was one of the more humiliating things I’ve ever had to do.”
“Then you’ve led a very sheltered life,” Bernie replied. “Handing out ads while dressed as a banana was the most humiliating thing I’ve ever had to do.”
Libby turned her head away. “Don’t think you can turn everything into a joke.”
“Oh come on, Libby,” Bernie said. “Lighten up. You did Marvin a favor. How often does he get to play white knight coming to the rescue?”
“He was asleep when I called. I had to wake him up.”
“So what? He likes you. What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to me,” Libby told her. “I don’t like airing our dirty laundry in public.”
Bernie moved her silver and onyx ring up and down her finger as she considered her sister. It always amazed her how conservative Libby was becoming.
“What are you looking at?” Libby demanded.
“I was just thinking that you have to give people a chance,” Bernie told her.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Libby said as she wiped up the spilled half-and-half.
Bernie watched her for another moment before she spoke.
“I guess you’re still mad at me,” she said.
“Good guess.” Libby went over to the sink, rinsed the sponge out, squeezed it, then put it back in its holder before speaking. “All I know,” she finally said, “is that I’m just glad Mother isn’t alive to see what happened last night.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“She would have been furious.”
“For about ten minutes.” She went over and gave Libby a hug. “Come on,” she said. “Look at all the business you’ve been doing today. Everyone wants to know what happened.”
“That’s a terrible way to look at things,” Libby told her.
“But true,” Bernie pointed out.
“Well, maybe a little,” Libby conceded.
Chapter 11
It was a little after seven at night and R.J.’s was nearly empty when Bernie entered the bar. In another hour it would be crowded with hooting and hollering postgame softball players, but right now there were only ten people in the place.
Glancing around Bernie realized how glad she was to be back here. She’d had enough of the L.A. esthetic. If she never saw another piece of chrome and black leather or ersatz Tudor it would be okay with her. There was no there there.
Bernie inhaled. Yes. It was good be home. She couldn’t believe she was saying this but she even loved the scent of Pine-Sol and chicken wings that seemed to linger in the air here. She loved the pictures of Longely from days gone by hanging on the walls. She loved the crunch of discarded peanut shells as she walked by the tables. She loved the old-fashioned dartboard. No electronic one here.
Okay, maybe the place was a dive, but it was her dive and that, in her humble opinion, was what counted. Besides, unlike the places she’d hung out in when she’d lived in L.A., the people at R.J.’s weren’t pretentious. Or maybe, Bernie decided, ostentatious would be a better word choice although affected might do just as well.
Heaven knows she liked her Manolos and Jimmy Choos and Lulu Guiness bags as much as the next girl, but she didn’t think of owning them as a matter of life and death. Well maybe she did a little she admitted to herself, but not to the extent that some of the other women did and she definitely couldn’t get behind the whole car deal.
Having a car that cost more to lease than your apartment made no sense to her at all. And then there was the plastic surgery thing. That was huge. Especially in L.A. Everyone she knew, from secretaries and script girls on up to producers, were always getting something done and that had kind of freaked her out as well.
And even if she’d wanted to—she wouldn’t have minded a little lipo on her thighs if she were being honest—even she, the person who could spend five hundred dollars on a pair of shoes, wasn’t going to take out a loan so she could fork over three thousand dollars so she could look a little better in her jeans. Although, Bernie mused, given the interest rates right now maybe she should have. As she was debating the question her eyes fell on Rob.
One of the things Bernie loved about him, besides the fact that he was gorgeous, funny, smart, and fantastic in bed was that he was always on time, unlike her previous boyfriend Joe who was always at least a half an hour late, if not more. In fact, Rob was altogether too good to be true.
She was still waiting to see his fatal flaw emerge. She knew he had to have one. After all, she liked him, didn’t she? What bigger proof was there than that? Or maybe Bernie was beginning to think it was her. Maybe she just wasn’t used to nice men anymore. The only thing she did know was that if things didn’t work out with Rob she was going to take a vow of celibacy. Well, not
really. But she was definitely going to lay off of men for a while.
“So how’s my little jailbird tonight?” Rob asked when she hopped up on the barstool next to him.
Bernie gave him a kiss. “Tired. Very tired.”
Rob grinned. “I know something that will wake you up.”
She punched him in the arm. “No. That will put me to sleep.”
“Either one is fine with me. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman while you’re unconscious. He he.” He leered and twirled an imaginary mustache.
Bernie grinned at him. “You’re impossible.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Sorry, but I have to go home tonight. Libby is still mad at me,” Bernie told Rob as Brandon materialized in front of her.
“God are you sunburned,” she said to him. “Your face is bright red.”
He smiled. “It goes with my hair.”
“I didn’t realize you were going for the monochromatic look. What were you doing?”
“I was out on a boat with Sam. I can’t take the sun. Us fair-haired Irish are a woodland lot.”
“Since when is Mazurski an Irish name?” Rob demanded.
“You mean it’s not?” Brandon said as he pushed a full stein of beer across the bar towards Bernie. “It’s on the house,” he told her.
“You do this for all the miscreants that come in here?” Rob asked Brandon as Rob tousled Bernie’s hair.
“Nice word,” Bernie observed. “Did you know it comes from Old French and originally meant heretic?”
“Fascinating,” Brandon replied. “Simply fascinating. I’ll have to write that down somewhere to share with the rest of the guys. They’ll be thrilled. No. The only miscreants I give free drinks too are my old classmates. The rest have to pay.”
“That’s rather arbitrary,” Bernie said.
“That’s because I’m an arbitrary kinda guy and no,” Brandon held up his hand, “please don’t tell me the derivation of the word.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Bernie took a sip of her beer. “Nice. What is it?”
“Brooklyn Lager. Actually consider this a bribe.” Brandon planted his elbows on the bar. “I want all the gory details.”
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