Even though she didn’t plan to hire Georgeanne, she figured that she’d let her fill out an application and send her on her way. She reached inside a bottom drawer as the bell above the door rang once again. She looked up and recognized her wealthy client. Like most cocktail-drinking, tennis-playing, country-club women, Mrs. Candace Sullivan’s hair resembled a platinum helmet. Her jewelry was real, her nails fake, and she was typical of every other rich woman with whom Mae had ever worked. She drove an eighty-thousand-dollar car yet quibbled over the price of raspberries. “Hello, Candace. I have everything ready for you.” Mae pointed to the round table where three photo albums lay. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Mrs. Sullivan turned her curious gaze from the girl in pink and smiled at Mae. “Thursday’s storm seems to have played havoc on the exterior of your building,” she said as she took a seat.
“It sure did.” Mae knew she’d have to repair the sign and buy new plants, but she didn’t have the money right now. “You can sit here,” she told Georgeanne, and laid an application on the desk. Then, with the job envelope still in her hand, she moved across the room and took a seat at the round table. “I’ve created several menus for you to choose from. When we talked on the phone, we discussed duck as your entree.” She removed the menus from the envelope, laid them on the table, and pointed to the first choice. “With roasted duck, I would recommend hunter wild rice and either mixed vegetables or green beans. A small dinner roll will-”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Sullivan sighed.
Mae was prepared for that response. “I have samples in the refrigerator for you to try.”
“No, thank you. I just had lunch.”
Tamping down her irritation, she moved her finger to the next choice of side dishes. “Perhaps you would prefer asparagus spears. Or artichoke-”
“No,” Candace interrupted. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I like the idea of duck anymore.”
Mae moved to the next menu. “Okay. How about prime rib of beef au jus, browned potato, green beans, sliced-”
“I’ve been to three parties this year where prime rib was served. I want something different. Something special. Ray used to come up with the most wonderful ideas.”
Mae shuffled the pages before her and set a third menu on top. She had a notoriously short amount of patience and wasn’t any good at this. She didn’t deal well with picky customers who didn’t know what they wanted, except that they didn’t want any of the suggestions she’d worked hard to put together. “Yes, Ray was wonderful,” she said, missing her brother so much it felt like a part of her heart and soul had died six months ago.
“Ray was the best,” Mrs. Sullivan continued. “Even though he was a… well… you know.”
Yes, Mae knew, and if Candace wasn’t careful, she’d find herself escorted out the door. Even though Ray could no longer be hurt by bigotry, Mae wouldn’t tolerate it. “Have you given any thought to Chateaubriand?” she asked as she pointed out her third suggestion.
“No,” Candace answered. Then in less than ten minutes she rejected all of Mae’s other ideas. Mae wanted to kill her and had to remind herself that she needed the money.
“For my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, I was hoping for something a little more unique. You haven’t shown me anything special. I wish Ray was here. He’d come up with something really nice.”
All the menus Mae had showed her were nice. In fact, they were from Ray’s menu file. Mae felt her temper rise and forced herself to ask as pleasantly as possible, “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I don’t know. You’re the caterer. You’re supposed to be creative.”
But Mae had never been the creative one.
“I haven’t seen anything special. Do you have anything else?”
Mae reached for a photo album and flipped it open.
She doubted Candace would find anything to suit her. She was convinced that Mrs. Sullivan’s sole reason for coming was to drive Mae to drink. “These are pictures of jobs we’ve catered. Perhaps you’ll see something you like.”
“I hope so.”
“Excuse me,” the girl in pink at the desk cut in. “I couldn’t help but overhear y’all. Maybe I could help.”
Mae had forgot Georgeanne was even in the room, and turned to look at her.
“Where did your parents honeymoon?” Georgeanne asked from her seat behind the desk.
“Italy,” Candace replied.
“Hmm.” Georgeanne placed the tip of the pen on her full bottom lip. “You could start with Pappa col Pomodoro,” she advised, her Italian sounding peculiar with that southern accent of hers drawing out all those vowels. “Then Florentine roast pork served with potatoes, carrots, and a thick slice of bruschetta. Or if you prefer duck, it could be served Arezzo style with pasta and a fresh salad.”
Candace looked at Mae, then back at the other woman. “Mother loves lasagna with basil sauce.”
“Lasagna with a nice radicchio salad would be perfect. Then you could top off the meal with a delicious apricot anniversary cake.”
“Apricot cake?” Candace asked, sounding less than enthusiastic. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s wonderful,” Georgeanne gushed.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the desk. “Vivian Hammond, of the San Antonio Hammonds, is positively mad for apricot cake. She loves it so much, she broke a hundred-and-thirty-year tradition and served it to the ladies at the annual Yellow Rose Club meeting.” Her eyes narrowed and she lowered her voice as if she were sharing a tasty piece of gossip. “You see, until Vivian, the club had always served lemon pound cake at their meetings, lemon being the same color as yellow roses and all.” She paused, leaned back in her chair, and tilted her head to one side. “Naturally, her mama was mortified.”
Mae lowered her brows and stared at Georgeanne. There was something a little familiar about her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it and wondered if they’d met before.
“Really?” Candace asked. “Why didn’t she serve both?”
Georgeanne shrugged her bare shoulders. “Who knows. Vivian is a peculiar woman.”
The more Georgeanne talked, the stronger Mae’s feeling of familiarity grew.
Candace looked at her watch, then at Mae. “I like the idea of Italian, and I’ll need a big enough apricot anniversary cake to feed about one hundred people.” By the time Mrs. Sullivan left the building, Mae had a menu plan, a contract written, and a check for the deposit. She leaned her behind against the table and folded her arms beneath her breasts.
“I have a few questions for you,” she said. When Georgeanne looked up from the application she pretended to study, Mae looked at the menu she held in her own hand. “What is Pappa col Pomodoro?”
“Tomato soup.”
“Can you make it?”
“Sure. It’s real easy.”
Mae set the menu on the table by her right hip. “Did you make up that apricot cake story?”
Georgeanne tried to look contrite, but a little smile tilted the corners of her lips. “Well… I did embellish somewhat.”
Now Mae knew why she recognized the other woman. Georgeanne was an unrepentant bullshit artist just as Ray had been. For a brief moment she felt the emptiness of his death recede just a fraction. She pushed herself away from the table and walked over to her desk. “Have you ever worked as a cook’s assistant or done any waitressing?” she asked, and glanced down at the employment application.
Georgeanne quickly covered the paper with her hands, but not before Mae noticed the poor penmanship and that on the job-you’re-applying-for line she’d written chief’s assistant instead of chef’s.
“I was a waitress at Luby’s before I worked at Dillard’s, and I’ve taken just about every cooking class imaginable.”
“Have you ever worked for a caterer?”
“No, but I can cook anything from G
reek to Szechwan, baklava to sushi, and I’m real good with people.”
Mae looked Georgeanne over and hoped she wasn’t making a mistake. “I have one more question. Would you like a job?”
Chapter Six
Seattle
June 1996
Escaping the chaos in the kitchen, Georgeanne walked the banquet room one last time. With a critical eye, she scrutinized the thirty-seven linen-draped tables carefully placed about the room. In the center of each table, pressed-glass bowls had been artfully piled with a variety of wax-dipped roses, baby’s breath, and fern fronds.
Mae had accused her of being obsessed, possessed, or both. Georgeanne’s fingers still ached from all that hot paraffin, but as she gazed at each centerpiece, she knew the aggravation, pain, and mess had been worth it. She’d created something unique and beautiful. She, Georgeanne Howard, the girl who’d been raised to depend on others to take care of her, had created a wonderful life. She’d done it by herself. She’d learned methods to help her deal with her dyslexia. She no longer hid her problems, yet she didn’t talk about them openly either. She’d concealed her dyslexia too many years to announce it to the world now.
She’d overcome many of her old obstacles, and at the age of twenty-nine, she was a partner in a successful catering business and owned a modest little house in Bellevue. She took tremendous satisfaction from everything the backward little girl from Texas accomplished. She’d walked through fire, been burned to her soul, but she’d survived. She was a stronger person now, perhaps less trusting, and extremely reluctant to ever give her heart to a man again, but she didn’t view those two qualities as impedances to her happiness. She’d learned her lessons the hard way, and although she’d much rather give a vital organ than relive her life before she’d walked into Heron Catering seven years ago, she was the woman she was today because of what had happened to her then. She didn’t like to think of the past. Her life was full now and filled with things she loved.
She’d been born and raised in Texas, but she’d quickly come to love Seattle. She loved the hilly city surrounded by mountains and water. It had taken her a few years to get used to the rain, but like most natives, it didn’t bother her much now. She loved the tactile feel of Pike Place Market and the vibrant colors of the Pacific Northwest.
Georgeanne raised her forearm, pushed back the wrist of her black tuxedo jacket, and peered at her watch. Elsewhere in the old hotel, her waiting staff served sliced cucumber topped with salmon, stuffed mushrooms, and glasses of champagne to three hundred guests. But in a half hour, they would make their way to the banquet room and dine on veal scallopini, new potatoes with lemon butter, and endive and watercress salad.
She reached for a wineglass and plucked the napkin stuffed inside. Her hands trembled as she refolded the white linen to resemble a rose. She was nervous. More so than usual. She and Mae had catered parties of three hundred before. Nothing new. No sweat. But they’d never catered for the Harrison Foundation. They’d never catered a fund-raiser that charged its guests five hundred dollars a plate. Oh, realistically she knew the guests weren’t paying that amount of money for the food. The money raised tonight would go to The Children’s Hospital and Medical Center. Still, just the thought all those people, paying all that money for a piece of veal, gave her palpitations.
A door at the side of the room opened and Mae slipped through. “I thought I’d find you in here,” she said as she walked toward Georgeanne. In her hand she held the green folder that contained work and purchase orders, a running inventory of all supplies, and a cluster of receipts.
Georgeanne smiled at her close friend and business partner and placed the folded napkin back in the glass. “How are things in the kitchen?”
“Oh, the new cook’s assistant drank all that special white wine you bought for the veal.”
Georgeanne felt her stomach drop. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s not funny,” Georgeanne sighed as Mae came to stand next to her.
“Probably not. But you need to lighten up.”
“I won’t be able to lighten up until I’m on my way home,” Georgeanne said as she turned to adjust the pink rose pinned to the lapel of Mae’s cutaway tuxedo jacket. Although the two of them were dressed in identical suits, they were complete physical opposites. Mae had the smooth porcelain skin of a natural blonde, and at five feet one inch, was as slim as a ballerina. Georgeanne had always envied Mae’s metabolism, which allowed her to eat almost anything and never gain a pound.
“Everything is progressing right on schedule. Don’t get excited and zone out like you did at Angela Everett’s wedding.”
Georgeanne frowned and walked toward the side door. “I’d still like to get my hands on Grandma Everett’s little blue poodle.”
Mae laughed as she strolled beside Georgeanne. “I’ll never forget that night. I was serving the buffet and I could hear you screeching from the kitchen.” She lowered her voice a fraction, then proceeded to mimic Georgeanne’s accent. “Cryin‘ all night. A dawg ate my balls!”
“I said meatballs.”
“No. You didn’t. Then you just sat down and stared at the empty tray for a good ten minutes.”
Georgeanne didn’t quite remember it that way. But even she had to admit that she still wasn’t all that good at handling sudden stress. Although she was better at it than she used to be. “You’re a horrid liar, Mae Heron,” she said, reaching up to give her friend’s ponytail a little tug, then turned to cast one more glance at the room. The china shined, the silver flatware gleamed, and the folded napkins looked as if hundreds of white roses hovered just above the tabletops.
Georgeanne was extremely pleased with herself.
A frown furrowed John Kowalsky’s brow as he leaned slightly forward in his chair and took a closer look at the napkin stuffed in his wineglass. It appeared to be a bird or a pineapple. He wasn’t sure which.
“Oh, this is nice,” his date for the evening, Jenny Lange, sighed. He glanced at her shiny blond hair and had to admit that he’d liked Jenny a lot better the day he’d asked her out. She was a photographer, and he’d met her two weeks ago when she’d come to take pictures of his houseboat for a local magazine. He didn’t know her very well. She seemed like a perfectly nice lady, but even before they’d arrived at the benefit, he’d discovered he wasn’t attracted to her. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t her fault. It was him.
He turned his attention back to the napkin, plucked it from the glass, and laid it across his knee. Lately he’d been thinking about getting married again. He’d been talking to Ernie about it, too. Maybe tonight’s benefit had triggered something dormant in him. Maybe it was because he’d just had his thirty-fifth birthday; but he’d been thinking about finding a wife and having a few kids. He’d been thinking about Toby, thinking about him more than usual.
John leaned back in his chair, brushed aside the front of his charcoal Hugo Boss suit jacket, and shoved his hand in the pocket of his gray trousers. He wanted to be a father again. He wanted the word “Daddy” added to his list of names. He wanted to teach his son to skate, just as he’d been taught by Ernie. Like every other father in the world, he wanted to stay up late on Christmas Eve and put together tricycles, bicycles, and race-car sets. He wanted to dress up his son as a vampire, or a pirate, and take him trick-or-treating. But when he looked at Jenny, he knew she wasn’t going to be the mother of his children. She reminded him of Jodie Foster, and he’d always thought Jodie Foster looked a little like a lizard. He didn’t want his children to look like lizards.
A waiter interrupted his thoughts and asked if he wanted wine. John told him no, then leaned forward and turned his glass upside down on the table.
“Don’t you drink?” Jenny asked him.
“Sure,” he answered, and taking his hand from his pocket, he reached for the glass he’d carried in with him from the cocktail hour. �
�I drink soda water and lime.”
“You don’t drink alcohol?”
“No. Not anymore.” He set down his glass as another waiter placed a plate of salad before him. He’d been dry for four years this time, and he knew he’d never drink again. Alcohol turned him into a dumb shit, and he’d finally grown tired of it.
The night he’d hit Philadelphia forward Danny Shanahan was the night he’d hit rock bottom. There were those who thought “Dirty Danny” had deserved what he’d been given. But not John. As he’d stared down at the man lying prone on the ice, he’d known he was out of control. He’d been cracked in the shins and elbowed in the ribs more times than not. It was part of the game. But that night something in him had snapped. Before he’d even realized what he was doing, he’d thrown his gloves and had bare-knuckle sucker-punched Shanahan. Danny had received a concussion and a trip to the infirmary. John had been ejected from play and suspended for six games. The next morning he’d awakened in a hotel with an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bed filled with two naked women. As he’d stared up at the textured ceiling, thoroughly disgusted with himself and trying to recall the night before, he’d known he had to stop.
He hadn’t had a drink since. He hadn’t even wanted one. And now when he went to bed with a woman, he woke up the next morning knowing her name. In fact, he had to know a lot about her first. He was careful now. He was lucky to be alive and he knew it.
“Isn’t the room beautifully decorated?” Jenny asked.
John glanced at the table, then at the podium in the front of the room. All the flowers and candles were a little too fruity for his tastes. “Sure. It’s great,” he said, and ate his salad. When he finished, the plate was taken and another set before him. He’d attended a lot of banquets and benefits in his life. He’d eaten a lot of bad food at them, too. But tonight the food was pretty good; skimpy, but good. Better than last year. Last year he’d been served a rubbery game hen with really shitty pine nuts stuffed inside. But then, he wasn’t here for the food. He was here to give money. A lot of money. Very few people knew of John’s philanthropy, and he wanted it to stay that way. He did it for his son and it was private.
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