Once Upon a Christmas Eve

by Christine Flynn

  Tommi almost groaned—would have had the clearly curious Alaina not now been at her elbow. She’d spent a lot of time lately trying to find something positive about bad situations. There were times when she’d had to dig really deep for that bright spot. And finding something even remotely encouraging about her embarrassing non-meeting with Scott Layman had been a greater challenge than most. Especially the part where his partner had witnessed that humiliation.

  Apparently, she wasn’t even going to be allowed the little silver lining she’d finally found. The only good thing she’d come up with about yesterday’s fiasco was knowing she’d never have to see Max Callahan again.

  Now looking out the window herself, the older woman leaned closer. “Is he the one who sent the flowers?”

  The huge bouquet of red roses near the far end of the wine bar had been delivered midmorning. After reading the card that had come with it, Tommi had felt embarrassed all over again by Scott’s seemingly sincere apology for having left her waiting. She’d also left the bouquet out front. Keeping it in her office made the gift seemed too personal. Besides, the crimson blooms were the closest thing she had to Christmas decor at the moment. Though every other commercial establishment in town had had their holiday decorations up for what seemed like weeks, she hadn’t been able to get into the holiday frame of mind enough to even hang a wreath.

  Her only comment to her staff about the sender had been that he was a businessman who’d sent them in apology for having to miss an appointment.

  “No. No, he’s not,” she said, killing her waitress’s speculation. She had no idea what Max was doing here. She just knew she didn’t want to see him out front while she still had customers. “Show him to the kitchen, will you, please?”

  Rainwater dripped from Max’s open overcoat as he ended the call from his secretary. Facing the wet street from the dry side of the glass door, he distractedly snapped his cell phone onto his belt clip. It wasn’t raining hard outside, but he’d had to park a block down from the five-story, redbrick building where Tommi’s establishment anchored one corner. Between the curved green awning over the brass and glass door and the way she’d had The Corner Bistro stenciled in gold on both large windows, the place had been easy enough to find.

  He’d have taken off his coat had he thought he’d be there long, but he’d only come by to do what his partner hadn’t had time to do himself before Scott had left for Singapore.

  The fact that Scott had forgotten to mention that he was leaving two days early was just one more straw in the haystack of frustrations that had accompanied Max inside. Scott’s secretary had assumed Scott had talked to him about the change he’d had her make. Margie Higgins, Max’s assistant, had thought the same. Max had actually learned of the earlier departure purely by coincidence from J. T. Hunt last night. J.T. had been HuntCom’s chief architect before he’d left his father’s multibillion-dollar computer company a while back and gone into business for himself. Aside from the consulting work Max had done over the years with him and his brother Gray, HuntCom’s CEO, he and J.T. shared a mutual interest in sailing. That interest had prompted last evening’s meeting. J.T. wanted to sell his sloop to buy a bigger one for his growing family. Max had introduced him to a client interested in buying it. Conversation had inevitably turned to their respective businesses, though. That was when J.T. had innocuously asked about the expansion sites Gray was meeting Scott in Singapore tomorrow to see.

  Max knew Scott tended to be pretty laid-back at times, but it wasn’t like him to forget something as basic as keeping him in the loop with a major client. Scott was a smart man. He knew it took teamwork to juggle projects of the size they constantly dealt with.

  Just as he knew how hard it was to get prime Upper East Side office space.

  For months, Scott had been totally onboard with the idea of opening a New York office. He had even said he’d be willing to relocate there himself. He would handle the clients and accounts in the East. Max would do the same with the West. They’d split responsibilities at their Chicago branch. All they had to do was move some experienced staff from Chicago and Seattle to work in New York, hire the best of the best as they always did to fill in the gaps in all three places and they’d be up and running.

  Except, now, they didn’t have an office—which meant Max needed to look for another one.

  With irritation climbing up his back over that little addition to his already crowded agenda, Max tried hard to imagine what was going on with his partner. The only reason he could come up with for Scott’s lapse—and for his failure to mention his change in plans—was the guy’s uncharacteristic preoccupation with Tommi Fairchild.

  “Mr. Callahan?”

  At the sound of his name, he turned to the middle-aged waitress with the short chop of blond-on-blond hair. Like the younger waitress with the even shorter hair in shades that reminded him of a bruise, her long-sleeved black blouse and slacks looked as crisp and sharp as the smooth red apron tied low at her waist. He liked their look. It was at once trendy and professional. Their boss had good taste.

  “Tommi will see you in the back. Come with me, please.”

  With a pleasant smile, she turned for him to follow. It was only as he did that his preoccupation faded enough to appreciate the surprisingly cozy, urban yet rustic space.

  He’d noticed the framed reviews on the wall by the hostess desk, and been vaguely aware of the constant murmur of the patrons’ conversations. What he noted now were the two huge paintings of wine bottles in reds, burgundies and shades of slate hanging on one of the tall brick walls. Like the mural painted over the boarded-up window in the storefront next door, those same colors slashed across an equally sizeable abstract on the opposite wall of white.

  Conscious of his large frame, he moved along a narrow aisle formed between the occupied tables. As he did, he became even more aware of the mouthwatering aromas that had reminded him when he’d walked in that he needed lunch.

  Since he’d been on the phone with Margie at the time, and knowing he had a 1:30 conference call, he’d already asked his secretary to order him a sandwich to eat at his desk. Noticing a freshly delivered, rather incredible-looking panini in front of a guy at the wine bar and the size of the shrimp on a plate of pasta by his companion, he thought now he should have just ordered to-go from here.

  The blonde waitress held open the right side of a pair of narrow swinging doors.

  Murmuring his thanks, he stepped past her, reached inside his overcoat pocket and walked into the small, efficient space.

  The room behind him offered texture, comfort and warmth. Here, stainless steel seemed to be the surface of choice. Racks, pots, pans, appliances. Much of it bore the patina of wear. Some shone with a glint that spoke of more recent purchase. All of it looked scrupulously organized. What had the bulk of his attention, though, was the unease in the features of the woman he’d met yesterday as she turned from setting a pan in a long, deep sink.

  The white double-breasted chef’s jacket Tommi Fair child wore over loose black pants was buttoned to her throat. A short white toque covered her head. Even with her hair hidden, he remembered its shine and its color. That rich warm brown held the same shades of gold as the flecks in her dark and wary eyes.

  He had no idea why he remembered those details. Especially since he wasn’t close enough to note much about her eyes other than the caution clouding them when she offered a small smile.

  “Hi,” she said, walking toward him as she wiped her hands on the apron tied at her waist. Looking as hesitant as she sounded, she stopped ten feet away. “What brings you here?”

  He knew she’d been embarrassed yesterday. Beyond embarrassed, probably, considering how totally she’d misconstrued the reason for his partner’s interest in her. There seemed to be another element to her discomfort now, though.

  From her puzzled question, she clearly hadn’t expected him.

  “Didn’t Scott call you?”

  “He called this morning,�
� she confirmed, looking as if she wasn’t at all sure what that had to do with his presence. “He apologized for not being able to meet yesterday.”

  “But he didn’t say anything about what you’d left at the hotel.”

  He offered the conclusion flatly, burying the exasperation that came with it as he took a step closer. Scott had offered no explanation for yesterday’s misunderstanding with this woman when he’d called on his way to the airport. Not that Max had wanted, or asked for one. Realizing last night that he couldn’t give the wallet to Scott to give to this woman himself since Scott wouldn’t be around, all Max had asked was that Scott let her know he had it and that he’d get it to her sometime that day.

  So much for follow-through.

  “You dropped this,” he told her, and held out the small rectangle of hot pink leather he’d pulled from his pocket. “It fell out of your bag.”

  There was no need to mention when it had fallen out. The unease in her expression told him there wasn’t much about yesterday that she’d managed to forget. Still, surprise stole much of that discomfort the instant she’d noticed what he held. It also had her speaking in a rush, making one word out of three.

  “Ohmygosh. I didn’t even realize it was gone!”

  “I thought you’d have missed it when you went to pay for your cab.”

  “I had money in my coat pocket. Change from the ride over,” she explained, stepping closer to take her wallet from him. “I had no idea it had fallen out, too.” Apparently realizing she was repeating herself, or maybe just not wanting to think about how desperately she’d wanted to leave the hotel, she cut herself off, shook her head. “Thank you,” she murmured as the door behind them swung open. “Thank you very much.”

  The younger waitress with short, spiked hair breezed in carrying an empty bread basket. As she headed for a tray of baguettes, Tommi turned into a short hall separating an open doorway from a wall of dry goods.

  “And thank your partner, too, please,” she continued, her hushed voice encouraging him to follow, “for the roses he sent. It was kind of him, but it really wasn’t necessary. What happened yesterday wasn’t entirely his fault,” she insisted, backing into a closet-sized office. “The miscommunication about why we were meeting, I mean. I’m sure he’d been misinformed somehow on his end, too.”

  Behind her, the wall was filled by a tall bookcase crammed with cookbooks and cooking magazines. A red metal desk and two black filing cabinets took up the narrow wall beside her. The top of one held binders, files and a gym bag. The other served as a space for culinary trophies that looked stored there rather than displayed. On the neatly arranged desk, below a bulletin board feathered with a haphazard array of wedding, birth and graduation announcements half covered by notes and reminders, a computer shared space with invoices and hand-written recipe notes.

  She opened the desk’s bottom drawer and bent to drop in her wallet. As she did, he couldn’t help but wonder at the odd mix of disarray and organization in the cramped and crowded space. It seemed as if she tried to control the chaos with order, but just couldn’t quite succeed. What struck him most, though, was her easy sense of fairness. Or maybe it was forgiveness.

  He didn’t know many women who wouldn’t have thought flowers the least a guy could offer after leaving her sitting so long. But she still didn’t seem to be on the same wavelength as his partner, either. However the meeting had come about, which he considered no business of his, Scott’s personal interest in her remained unquestionable. He’d even made a point of asking Max to say only nice things about him, and to tell her he’d make up for the misunderstanding as soon as he got back next week.

  I’m not asking you to sell me, buddy, he’d said, but at least don’t say anything that’ll scare her off. Okay? I’d be a fool to let her get away.

  The guy had it bad. Which was fine with Max. As sensible as Tommi sounded, she’d probably be good for him. Still, he wasn’t comfortable at all playing messenger between his colleague and the man’s intended romantic target. If Scott wanted her to know he’d make up for having pretty much stood her up, he could tell her that himself. If she wanted Scott to know he didn’t need to send roses, ditto. He was still curious, though, about the disappointment underlying her consternation yesterday when she’d figured out that the meeting hadn’t been about business.

  “Miscommunication,” he repeated as she nudged the drawer closed. “It’s pretty obvious now that Scott thought he had a date with you. Do you mind if I ask why you thought you were meeting him?”

  The hint of disquiet in her expression belied the dismissal in her small shrug. “I thought he wanted to talk about my bistro.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Because I was told that he’d read my latest review and wanted to meet me.”

  “Do you always meet men who read your reviews?”

  She eyed him evenly. “I do when the man is an investor and I’m in need of one. I saw on your website that Layman & Callahan invests in local businesses. I’d hoped to talk to him about mine.” A regretful little smile curved her mouth. “But that was before you said your company doesn’t invest in restaurants.”

  “What I said,” he clarified, conscious of her lingering disappointment, “is that we usually don’t. Our investors expect a certain return on their money. A business has to be big enough to produce an assured annual revenue before we’ll look at it.”

  She frowned at that.

  “What made you think mine wasn’t big enough?”

  “The Corner Bistro?”

  She’d named her place exactly what it was. And what it was, was small.

  “Oh,” she murmured, and went silent.

  His own quick silence had more to do with the deafening sound of opportunity knocking.

  He had no idea how Scott intended to pursue this establishment’s admittedly intriguing owner. All he knew for certain was that it could be in his own best interests if the guy succeeded, and that the opportunity to help both himself and his partner was literally staring him in the face.

  In the years since he’d helped the former college football hero save the company Scott had inherited from his father, Max had taken the business that did the legwork for corporations looking to relocate, from regional to national and beyond. As agreed when Max had achieved what Scott had thought impossible, Layman & Son had become Layman & Callahan. Driven, focused and refusing to stop there, Max had grown the company to include property investments for the same corporate officers who sought them for their company’s expansions.

  Tommi Fairchild’s bistro was definitely smaller than the apartment buildings, hotels, trendy nightclubs and high-end restaurants in their partnership portfolio. But the place did have potential. The framed reviews by the hostess desk were four-star. Aside from the FedEx guy eating a bowl of soup and two women with Book Nook shopping bags, the customers he’d seen leaving by cab and under umbrellas appeared to be brokers, secretaries celebrating someone’s birthday, and attorney-types from the high rises a mile away. To bring people out in the rain in the middle of the work week, it seemed to him that her food and service must be pretty amazing.

  He wouldn’t play messenger, but as he watched Tommi Fairchild’s pretty brown eyes shift toward the doorway as if waiting for him to move, he could certainly start checking out the place as a possible investment. Since working with her would give Scott the perfect excuse to hang around, his partner could pick up the ball when he got back and take it from there.

  “You said yesterday that you own this,” he reminded her, not above doing whatever he had to do to achieve a goal. As long as it was legal, anyway. “Are you the sole proprietor?”

  Looking surprised by the question, or maybe surprised that he remembered what she’d said, her glance shifted back to him. “I am.”

  He’d wondered before how that was possible, given how young she appeared. He wondered again now. “Do you mind telling me what kind of financing you have?”

  “I h
ave a small SBA loan,” she said, speaking of the Small Business Administration. “I needed it to buy a salamander and add the wine bar.”

  “Salamander?”

  “It’s a kind of broiler. I use it for fish and to melt and brown cheese on onion soup, and to caramelize the sugar and cook the fruit for some of my salads. The pear carpaccio, especially.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Oh, not at all.” Enthusiasm brightened her eyes as she quickly shook her head. “It’s good for crisping toppings, too, or to bring the temperature up on a dish that had to wait while others for a table were prepared. It’s a great piece of equipment. If I need to deepen a glaze—”

  “I meant,” he said, patiently he hoped, “that’s it as far as who’s financially involved in the business.”

  Her quick zeal faded with her quiet. “Oh. That’s it, then.”

  “There’s no bank? No investor?”

  She shook her head.

  “No loan from a boyfriend?”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “How about friends?” he ventured, noting the unquestionable finality in her last response. “Any side loans you have to repay for getting started? Any family members you owe?”

  “I understand what you mean by financially involved,” she informed him, her expression graciously tolerant. “But I said there’s no one. As for my family, they didn’t want me becoming a chef in the first place. Mom and two of my sisters, anyway. This is all mine.”

  The admissions caught him a little off guard. Especially the claim about her family. She didn’t strike him as much of a rebel. But instead of being intrigued by the possibility, or asking why her family had been against something that appeared so successful, he made himself focus on the note of protective ownership in her voice. Given how proprietary owners could be about what they’d created, that attitude could be a problem in a partnership. But that was the analytical part of him.