Before I Melt Away

by Isabel Sharpe

  What was she in the mood for?

  Quinn.

  Lying next to him. Cooking with him in the kitchen. Laughing, kissing, flirting like a stupid, giggling adolescent head case.

  It was heaven. And she’d been away from heaven for a very long time. She hadn’t felt this connected to someone since her mom had died. She loved her brother John, she was close to him, but he had his own family and rarely came home to visit.

  Okay, maybe that was partly her fault for not being more accessible. She should invite him to come up sometime.

  Either way, she really needed to get going.

  “Annabel.”

  Annabel yanked her head back from the glass and turned to send neighbor Kathy an embarrassed smile. “Hi.”

  “Are you okay?” Kathy’s plump face was creased with worry.

  “Yes. Fine.” Annabel smiled harder, touched that Kathy seemed so concerned about a woman who regularly avoided her. “Just gathering my thoughts before I go.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She didn’t look convinced, but thank goodness was too polite to pry. “Jackson said you came by to say hello to Brunnhilde.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Annabel tried not to look impatient. For once she wasn’t being people-phobic, she really had to leave.

  “Of course she’s not quite so glorious anymore with this melt. But anyway, Jackson said I should invite you to lunch sometime.” She smiled tenderly at the mention of her son. “You made quite a conquest.”

  “Oh. Well. That would be…nice.” Annabel laughed. She’d accepted to be polite, but was surprised to find herself thinking that lunch with Kathy might actually be nice. A break from her workday. Someone new to talk to after Quinn left.

  “Did you hear what happened to Mr. Bailey?”

  “No.” Uh-oh. Gossip coming. Annabel resisted the urge to do two things: check her watch and ask who the hell Mr. Bailey was.

  “He came down with a horrible flu and bronchitis. So now we’re going to have the party Christmas Eve at my house. It will be sort of cramped, my place isn’t as big as his, and he was going to provide the turkey, so we’ll have to do without that, but it will be fun, still.” She looked hopefully at Annabel. “Lots of good people on this block.”

  Annabel sighed. She had no desire to go to the party—until a picture came of her sitting alone in her house with Quinn in Maine. “Maybe I’ll stop by, thanks.”

  “Oh that would be great.” Kathy clapped her hands. “Well, I see you’re on your way somewhere, and I’d better get back to cleaning and make sure Jackson hasn’t torn the house apart.”

  “Okay.” Annabel gave a friendly wave, trying not to rush to her car too obviously. But chatting was one thing she didn’t have time for. She and Quinn and Stefanie, bless her, had managed to do a great deal of prep work, but there was still a lot left to do.

  She jumped into her van and drove just this side of recklessly over to Quinn’s apartment on Prospect Street near the lake. She parked, got out and opened the liftgate to unload. Perishables first—she’d put them in the bag on the right with the—

  Arms slid around her waist. “Your manservant awaits.”

  Annabel started, then turned, her heart going into triple-time rhythm—just because it was Quinn, not because he’d startled her. “How is it that you anticipate my every need?”

  “Because we’re cosmically in tune with each other on every level.”

  Annabel lifted an eyebrow.

  He grinned. “That and I was watching for you from the lobby.”

  “Thanks.” She took the time to trace his lips with her finger, because it seemed incredibly important to do just then. “You smile a lot more now than when I first met you.”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  “Um…you’re happier?”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  She shrugged and blushed. “Me?”

  “You,” he whispered, and kissed her. “Tomorrow isn’t going to be the end, Annabel. We’ll find a way.”

  She nodded, suddenly too thick throated to trust herself to speak. With every part of her being, she suddenly wanted that to be true. Wanted to dump her groceries and Adolph Fox into Lake Michigan and be swept off to…to…

  To what? Sit around and clean house for him? Hell, he didn’t even need someone to clean his house. He could afford one person for each room.

  She needed her career, and her career was here. She’d invested too much into Milwaukee to pick up stakes and move because she’d gone off the deep end over a man for a week. Whatever way they found to be together would have to include Chefs Tonight.

  “Help me unload?” She pulled him down by his jacket collar and kissed him.

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  They unloaded the van, brought the groceries and dishes in various states of completion upstairs to his apartment, where he’d set a beautiful table for six, a low, cascading floral arrangement in the center with red-berried holly and white freesia.

  Annabel got the leg of lamb into the oven and for the next two hours they worked companionably together, preparing the meal, setting out the hors d’oeuvres to have with drinks beforehand.

  They didn’t speak much, intent on working, but Annabel sensed another tension. Neither of them wanted the next day to come. For all Quinn’s assurances, neither of them could really see a solution to how they could end up together in any way that made sense or would keep their relationship thriving.

  She poured cashews into an olive-wood bowl and forced herself to concentrate. Adolph Fox was coming—earlier than the other couple who’d called to say they’d be late—and she wanted to make the best impression possible. That was the main thing tonight. She couldn’t lose track of that.

  Finally, at five forty-five, she showered and dressed in Quinn’s room, looking longingly at his bed, imagining them both in it later, spending a last lazy night together. She felt a strange push-pull about the evening, wanting it over as much as she wanted it to happen.

  Makeup on, panty hose, low heels, a black dress with red roses. She was just fussing the last fuss with her hair when the doorbell announced the arrival of Adolph Fox.

  She took her place at Quinn’s side, hostess for the evening as well as cook. For a second, she had a strange, disorienting flashback to her parents greeting arriving guests, and wondered if they’d taken this kind of pride in their planned evening and in each other.

  “Ready?” Quinn smiled at her, hand on the doorknob, and she nodded, her heart pounding for once over something other than the fact that he looked like a Greek god.

  “Let ’er rip.”

  He opened the door and there stood her hero, tall, handsome in a light gray suit with a silver tie, the man who had his picture in every freezer section in America.

  Except clearly the picture was several years old. Or decades.

  “Mr. Fox, nice to see you.” Quinn shook his hand and gestured in. “Mrs. Fox, you look wonderful. This is Annabel Brightman, your hostess and chef for the evening.”

  “Ahh.” Adolph Fox shook her hand, and kept holding it, eyeing her with his baby blues as if she were Grade A prime on sale for half price. “Enchanté as they say in France, delighted to meet you, Ms. Brightman.”

  “Annabel, please.” She smiled graciously and attempted to disengage her hand in order to greet Mrs. Fox, but apparently Adolph felt that was unnecessary.

  “And you must call me Dolph.” He smiled, showing teeth so blindingly white and perfect she suspected dentist interference.

  He really needed to let go of her hand, because his poor wife was still standing in the doorway while Quinn put their coats away, and Annabel hadn’t had the chance to say hello.

  “So Quinn tells me you’re a talented personal chef, eh, Annabel? Trying to carve out a niche for yourself?”

  “I’m off to a good start, sir.” The title her father had insisted they use slipped out before she could stop herself.

  “Uh-uh-uh, Dolph.” He waggled a scold
ing finger, then tucked her hand under his arm and dragged her into Quinn’s living room, but not before Annabel shot Quinn a look and registered his amusement.

  Fine, be that way. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for what was undoubtedly going to be a long evening. Her last with Quinn, at least this time around. And instead of spending it writhing in the sheets with him, she’d be pandering to this man who deserved a lot more respect than she was summoning for him at the moment. Not to mention that she owed Quinn a lot for setting this evening up.

  “So, tell me about Annabel.” Adolph sank into the large green-gray wing chair, tented his fingers under his lips, crossed his long legs and appeared to be all ears.

  Quinn escorted in Adolph’s wife whose name Annabel would apparently have to figure out at some point later in the evening, gestured her onto the dark blue sofa with silk-embroidered pillows and disappeared into the kitchen, ostensibly to pour drinks. Clearly he was trying to give Annabel as much time with her mentor as possible. And as grateful as she should be for the chance to talk to Mr. Fox, she kept glancing at the doorway of the kitchen to see when Quinn would come back.

  Again, past images of her parents rose up—Mom entertaining guests, introducing them to each other and to appropriate conversation topics, while Dad manned the bar. Again she got that eerie sense that she’d grown up, gone beyond her childhood into a future like her parents, and that it fit her easily and comfortably. Whatever the hell that meant, she didn’t want to know. Not now, not tonight, with her dream career personified in front of her.

  She smiled at Mr. Fox—Dolph—and launched into a description of Chefs Tonight, how she’d started with one customer, the friend of a friend, and grown to ten regular families. She described the special programs she had in place, and the ones she was thinking of starting next year around more holidays—egg hunts at Easter, July Fourth picnics at the fireworks. “And then someday, I would like to have a mail-order business nationwide, with entrées prepared here and sent out, or…” She smiled, gestured to him.

  Dolph chuckled. “You want to be me.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Good.” He accepted a Kir Royale from a tray Quinn offered. “I like to hear that. But you should know the road is a tough, long one and there are lots of sacrifices.”

  “I’m not afraid of hard work.” She jumped to her feet and passed around the tray of blue corn chips spread with taramasalata, her own recipe and combination.

  “It’s more than hard work. My first marriage fell apart. And my second. And my third. Now I’m back with old Delia here, my first.”

  Annabel nearly tipped the hors d’oeuvres out on the carpet. If “Old Delia” was uncomfortable she didn’t show it, but then most likely the surgeon’s knife had rendered her unable to move her face.

  “I not only lost marriages, I lost friendships on the way up.” Adolph grabbed a chip off her tray. “Made dozens of enemies.”

  “And you barely know our children.”

  Adolph ignored his wife’s bitter comment and crunched the chip. His face spread into a smile. “Ingenious combination. Very good.”

  “Thank you.” Annabel’s pleasure at his compliment was tempered by dismay at the portrait of his personal isolation.

  “Humph. He’s a lonely old fart is what he is.” Delia handed her glass to Quinn, who registered a flash of surprise that it was empty before he got up to refill it.

  Annabel sat again and picked up her own glass, which had been depleted by all of a sip. Uh-oh. Husband neglectful. Wife drinking. Not a pretty picture. “So, Mr.—Dolph—do you regret what you’ve accomplished?”

  “Nonsense.” He lifted his glass in a toast; Delia rolled her eyes as if she’d not only heard what was about to come out of his mouth a hundred times, but had suffered during ninety-nine of them. “I am Adolph Fox. I promise fresh, honest ingredients at an affordable price. I didn’t get where I am today by faking it.”

  Annabel started feeling more than a little uncomfortable. Looked to her like he was left only with his vanity. Vanity and a wife who thought he was an old fart.

  And money. And his picture on every box in the store, and hundreds of thousands of households in the U.S. eating his food.

  Quinn walked back into the room carrying Delia’s new drink, sat next to her and met Annabel’s gaze. Even across the room, the pull to him was so strong, she could barely breathe. She found herself nodding automatically as Dolph started in on a long, overdetailed story of his beginnings. Only a small part of her sent warning signals that this was information she had been eagerly looking forward to hearing. The rest of her had gone off on a daydream. Wondering how she could take time away from the business, manage to fly to California here and there, maybe even have a couple of weeks off. After Easter and before wedding season might be possible. She had plans for simple post-wedding brunches to feed lingering out-of-town guests and relieve harried moms and dads of the happy couple who had hosted one too many meals.

  How much of it would she give up for this man?

  The doorbell announced the cheerful, chatty Fussells—she tall and thin, he short and round—who burst in with apologies for being late, politely declined a pre-dinner drink and were ushered by Annabel and Quinn to the table along with Adolph and a wobbly Delia.

  The question lingered in Annabel’s mind throughout the meal, which she was thrilled came out perfectly. The lamb was cooked just right; the courses arrived at a proper pace at proper temperatures; the wines Quinn chose complemented the food perfectly. Adolph ate with relish, praising the food, the ambiance, the table. And more and more as the meal wound down, as they went back to the living room for coffee and cognac and Valrhona chocolate, he’d lapse into silence, studying Annabel speculatively until she was going nuts wanting to ask what the heck he was thinking.

  Finally, after yet another European vacation story by the Fussells, a telling silence hit and the Fussells made their excuses and left, heaping praise on Annabel and promising to hire her for their next event.

  Back in the living room, the party essentially over and her precious time with Quinn ticking away, Annabel was dismayed that Mr. and Mrs. Fox showed no signs of leaving. Adolph requested another cognac. Delia closed her eyes and slid gracefully sideways to snore, openmouthed on the couch.

  “And she wonders why I have mistresses.” Adolph spoke with contempt, which made Annabel wince. She tried to imagine Adolph and Delia young and falling in love. Imagined her parents and what they had together. What made the difference? Luck? Maturity? Had Adolph’s career contributed as much as Delia seemed to think?

  “So.” Adolph put his drink on the table beside his chair. “Now that we’re alone, on to the more important things. Annabel, I’m getting old. My advisors are telling me I need youth in my company, a younger image.”

  He paused and sipped his espresso; the cup looked tiny and too dainty in his large hands. Annabel’s heart started to pound. She glanced at Quinn, who’d moved himself out of drool-reach of Delia and was watching Annabel intently with an expression she couldn’t read.

  “I want someone presentable to be a co-representative to the public, but who knows her way around a kitchen. No faking it in my company. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do.” She tried to say the words in a clear voice, but they came out croaky. Was what she thought was about to happen really about to happen? Her cheeks felt hot; her eyes saw the room slightly indistinctly.

  “I didn’t want a big-name chef or a rising star, I want someone who will carry the stamp of Adolph Fox.”

  Annabel nodded, too overwhelmed even to speak.

  “Quinn and I met at some charity fund-raiser or other, what was that, Quinn?”

  “American Heart Association.” He spoke still looking at Annabel.

  “Yes, right, that was it. Memory like a sieve these days. Anyway, he called when he heard I’d be in town and mentioned you, and you sounded like you had the right stuff. I asked him to set up this littl
e dinner party and I’m delighted I did.”

  She smiled graciously, mind whirling. Was she crazy, or was she about to get everything she’d ever wanted handed to her on a silver tray she wouldn’t even have to wash afterward?

  “So.” Adolph Fox put his cup down, leaned back in the chair and crossed his hands over his belly. “How would you, Annabel Brightman, like to be the very first Adolph Fox Girl?”

  12

  THE SECOND THE DOOR CLOSED behind Dolph’s broad back and Delia’s round tottering one, Annabel cut loose.

  “Oh, my gosh!” She put her hands to her face, took them off to stare at Quinn, then let out a burst of slightly hysterical laughter. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.” He smiled, hands to his hips pushing back his jacket. “Pretty amazing, Fox Girl.”

  “Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate the title. But I’m sure that won’t show up on the products. Just my picture and my signature, as he said.”

  A huge burst of adrenaline shot through her and she did an absolutely appalling version of a pirouette. “My picture! My signature! This is so huge! This is so amazing! Everything I’ve wanted just like that.”

  “In one swell foop as your mom used to say.”

  Her appalling pirouette came to a merciful end. “Mom would have been so proud of me. And Dad, ha! He’d be eating his shorts. His own daughter, who happens to be a woman, making it this far. Ha!”

  “He’d be proud of you, too.”

  “I know.” She floated her way over to Quinn and took hold of his jacket lapels. “He would have been, deep down. Though it also would have made him a little cranky.”

  “You think?” He covered her hands tenderly with his, but something about the way his words came out and the way his eyes had lost some of their earlier warmth made her joy sit up and get nervous.

  “I have you to thank for all this, Quinn. Don’t think I don’t realize that.”