by Jan Moran
Verena nodded knowingly. “That explains the smoking.”
“Yeah, I’m not proud of it,” he said. “Every year I quit for the first few months, and then wham, something sets me off again. But I promised myself that this year would be different.” He stirred the sauce and checked the contents of the skillet. “While this simmers, why don’t you tell me why you were roaming around the pool? With that dress—which looks quite amazing on you, by the way—I knew you weren’t going for a dip.”
Verena shivered with pleasure. She’d wondered if the silver silk Marchesa dress created just for her was too much, but its slim simplicity seemed the perfect backdrop for the iridescent South Pacific pearls that had belonged to her mother. Chic and classic had been her plan for the evening. Derrick hadn’t even mentioned her dress tonight, but then, he was often preoccupied with business. Such a trivial matter, she told herself. She shook her head as she thought of Marvin and her looming troubles.
“Anything you’d like to share? Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger.” He paused and tucked a wayward wisp of wavy blond hair behind her ear.
The delicious aromas wafting from the stove were comforting and drew her in. “I run a business,” she began. “It’s a skincare business—actually, we’ve opened a chain of salons now—and I’m in the middle of a fairly aggressive international expansion plan for our product line.”
He studied her face. “You’re having difficulties?”
“If you own a business, it’s always something. Products, employees, financing, government regulations.”
“So true. I must say, I’m impressed. How long have you had this business?”
“I’ve been running it for the last decade, straight out of high school. My grandparents started it in the late 1940s. When I was a young girl, I loved hearing them talk about the ‘old country’ and the ‘old days.’”
Lance started to ask a question, but another young man came around the corner. “Excuse me, boss, but I’m ready to leave.” He shifted from one foot to another.
“Raul, glad you reminded me. Come this way, I have your check.” Lance lowered the flame. “This should be fine for a few moments. Hold that thought,” he added, nodding to Verena. “I’ll be right back.”
Verena nodded, watching him leave the room. What an interesting man. Not a bit like Derrick, so easy going. She breathed in again; the simmering dish was emitting a delectable aroma.
While he was gone, she thought of her grandparents, and how she had loved listening to their stories. “Darling Verena, not again, let them rest,” her mother would say, lovingly scolding her. “Perhaps Mama and Papa are tired of telling you the same old stories.” And then she’d see her grandmother, Mia, wink at her mother and say, “It’s alright, Angelica. I’m not too tired tonight.” And the stories would begin.
After the war in Europe ended, her grandfather Emile became convinced that they should move to America. They had both grown up in Switzerland, and Emile longed for a new, modern place to begin a family. America sounded so exciting, so fresh and new. They had friends who had moved to America, and the letters they sent were buoyant, full of hopes and dreams fulfilled.
It wasn’t long before Emile and Mia Valent had saved enough money for the voyage to New York. Joining their friends, Emile quickly found work in construction in Los Angeles, where the air was fresh, and sandy beaches sparkled under rays of warm sunshine while palm trees swayed under cerulean skies.
Compact stucco cottages with Spanish-tiled roofs were springing up in the surrounding valleys for cadres of men who had returned from the war and moved west with their young brides and new babies in tow. The government had special mortgage financing for these veterans, and before long, Emile was earning a steady living as a construction superintendent.
Babies had not come as quickly as Emile and his wife had hoped. To fill the long days, Mia began to share with her neighbors the special formulas for skincare that she had created in Switzerland. American women weren’t used to such pampering regimens, so when Mia gave them a facial treatment, they saw immediate, dramatic results.
The women spread the word and brought their friends from Hollywood, Westwood, Fairfax, and Beverly Hills. Mia converted the dining room, and then the living room, but their small cottage soon proved too small for Mia’s burgeoning clientele. Fortunately, Emile had moved up the business ranks and they had saved money, so he bought a plot of land on North Beverly Drive in the heart of the village of Beverly Hills for a new salon for her. Fortunately, he’d also bought the adjoining plot, which later gave them room to grow.
While Emile and his friends built the building, Mia planned the interior, fashioning it after fine salons in Switzerland. Ladies loved the European ambience, and the Valent Salon quickly became the favorite destination for the beautiful set. A grand initial “V” was soon imprinted on everything in the salon from tea towels to tea cups.
“Tell me about the actresses, Mia.” This was little Verena’s favorite part of the story. Everyone called her grandmother “Mia,” or “Madame Mia,” so she did, too. Her grandmother was simply Mia, the one and only in Beverly Hills.
“All the biggest stars came to the salon,” Mia told her. She often pointed out their clients in movies and on television, and she took her granddaughter to the salon to show her the stars’ autographed pictures that lined the walls. Mia loved to reminisce as she led her granddaughter through the powder pink rooms that smelled so fresh and clean. “Here’s Grace Kelly—what porcelain skin she had—Marilyn Monroe, and there’s Natalie Wood—I always told her to stay out of the sun—and Elizabeth Taylor, Doris Day—such an animal lover!” The younger stars and models had their photos displayed, too.
In her private office upstairs, Mia would share family photos with Verena of her father, Joseph—Mia’s only child—when he was a little towheaded boy, and Verena’s favorite, her parents’ wedding photo.
Verena always thought her mother looked like an angel in her voluminous white wedding dress. These were special visits for Verena; she loved her grandmother Mia, who always treated her like such a grown-up. People often thought that Mia was her mother, because of her pale blond hair and smooth, wrinkle-free skin. Mia would smile and tell them about her special formulas, and assure them that they, too, could have beautiful skin.
Her father laughed when Verena told him about these comments. He said that her grandmother was always selling, but Verena sensed that to Mia, sharing her passion was a natural part of who she was and what she believed in. As a child, Verena had listened and learned from Mia, internalizing everything her beloved grandmother said.
Lance rounded the corner. “How’s the sauce?”
Verena pulled herself back from her memories. “Hmm, looks fine, and smells delicious.”
“Now, where were we?” He picked up a spoon, stirred the sauce and checked the squab. Satisfied, he turned back to her. “Now, you were telling me about your grandparents.”
She nodded. “Before they left Switzerland, my grandmother created many of the natural products we continue to produce and sell today. Her father was a scientist, so she learned her craft in his laboratory. When I was a little girl, she taught me that any woman can be beautiful. To this day she believes that beauty begins with the way a woman treats herself. And she’s right; I can always tell if a woman is tired or has a poor diet.”
“How?” Lance asked.
“It shows on her face. Everything does. Alcohol, cigarettes, anything that’s toxic will affect the skin, and not in a good way. And the sun is extremely damaging—people must limit unprotected exposure outside.”
“Guilty as charged,” Lance said. His tone was teasing, but he was clearly impressed with her knowledge.
“Although a few minutes of sun for your skin to absorb vitamin D is actually beneficial. It keeps bones strong. But you can leave your legs unprotected for that,” Verena said. “Don’t worry, you look healthy, just don’t forget the sunscreen on your face.”
A
nother saucepan appeared on the burner, and Lance added a handful of tiny vegetables. “Can you help me find one that’s not too greasy?”
“Of course. I’m working on new men’s line.” For a moment, she imagined the pleasure of touching his supple bronzed skin. She cleared her throat and went on. “When I was just a little girl my grandmother shared her skincare secrets with me, along with her magical pots of creams. She still has some personal formulas that must be made fresh with each use—we can’t produce them commercially yet. Anyway, Mia used to give me treatments in her private facial room, and it’s one of my fondest childhood memories.”
Mia always made her feel so special, gently cleansing Verena’s skin and instructing her on each step and each product she used, explaining its benefits and how to use it for the best results.
Verena looked up at Lance, who seemed transfixed by her story. The way he stared at her made her chest flutter. She pressed her lips together. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but even then, all those years ago, Mia was training me to take over the business.”
“And your parents,” Lance said, “are they in the business, too?”
There it was. The question she always dreaded, the question that always changed the way people treated her. By now, she could forecast the pity in their eyes. She just wanted to be treated normally. But she’d probably never see Lance again…what did it matter what she said? She swallowed and glanced down at her fingernails, smoothing them out of nervousness. “No, not anymore.”
She thought he looked quizzical for a moment, or perhaps she was imagining it.
“And now, for the show,” he said. He poured cognac into the sauce and touched it with a match, sending flames toward the ceiling.
“I’d set off the fire alarm if I tried that,” Verena said.
Lance stirred the sauce quickly to thicken it, and then announced, “Ready to plate.” He worked quickly to arrange the squab with sauce and petit haricots verts and pearl onions on a plate.
“Voilà,” he said with a flourish of his hand. He placed the dish in front of her. Silver utensils and a linen napkin followed. “Wine?”
“Love some.”
He pulled a bottle from a high shelf. “Chef’s choice,” he said, uncorking it and pouring two glasses. “To you, Verena,” he said, giving her a glass, and holding his high in a toast. “May you never go hungry again. Please, begin.”
She took a forkful, savoring the delicate flavors in her mouth.
“And?” He leaned forward, clearly curious as to her reaction.
“Delicious, my compliments to the chef.” Maybe it was the sauce, or the fact that she was famished—or maybe it was the way he looked at her—but Verena thought the dish was one of the best she had ever tasted.
“Leave room for dessert,” he said.
While she ate, they continued talking about food and skincare, laughing at little jokes, and sipping wine. Lance folded his arms and leaned on the counter beside her, pointing out the best morsels and explaining how the ingredients melded together for a unique flavor.
They were laughing when the kitchen door burst open.
“My God, Verena,” Derrick said, anger etched on his face. “I’ve been looking all over for you. The security guard said he saw you go in the back door. What are you doing here?”
“Eating.” Verena calmly wiped a corner of her mouth. “Lance is the executive chef here, and he prepared a delicious meal for me.”
“You already had dinner.” He stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Lance, who just grinned at him over the top of his wine glass.
“No, I didn’t, you know I can’t eat before I get up in front of an audience.” She took another bite, chewing slowly. “I thought you left for your conference call with Tokyo.”
“It was cancelled.” Derrick’s face clouded, and his dark hooded eyes flashed. He didn’t bother to acknowledge Lance or thank him for preparing a special dinner for his starving girlfriend. “You’ve eaten, now let’s go.”
She gestured to her plate. “I’m not finished.” She’d never seen him act so rude, and she refused to be bullied. “Go on; one of my girlfriends will take me home.” Or she could call a cab. But how dare he burst in and demand that she leave now, without finishing her dinner. I have every right to be here. This was new behavior from Derrick, and she didn’t appreciate it, even if it was only jealously.
“Suit yourself.” Derrick huffed and seemed at a loss for words; he shot a final look at Lance. “We have dinner plans tomorrow night,” he added in a sharp tone.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” Verena said, keeping her voice even. “It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow.”
“You have no idea,” he said. “Instead of sitting here in the back of a kitchen, you should be worried about how you’re going to keep your company afloat without Marvin Panetta and National Western Bank. Didn’t I warn you?” With one last stony stare at the pair, he turned and left.
As she watched Derrick storm out, Verena wondered, why did I send him away? Normally, she would have left with Derrick, but tonight his manner was brusque, and it disturbed her. In her position as the head of her company, she didn’t accept bullying behavior, and she certainly wouldn’t accept it in a relationship.
Or was it the sudden comparison to Lance, the thought of the trials that awaited her tomorrow, or her desire for a simple break in her stressful day? Or was it her thoughts of Marvin and her parents, and the feeling that fine moments were all too fleeting in life and should be enjoyed?
Verena swung back to Lance, who stood taking it all in. “Now, how about that dessert you promised?”
3
Verena glanced around the posh Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, eager to find her friends.
“Johnny said they’d wait for you,” Lance said, touching her arm. He’d changed from his chef’s jacket into a white open-collared shirt, and had draped his sports coat over her shoulders when she’d mentioned she was a little chilly.
His jacket was still warm with the heat of his body and it held a citrusy, musky scent in its lightweight woolen fibers. Verena inhaled and drew it closer around her shoulders, drinking in his lingering aroma.
“There they are,” Verena said, spotting her friends through the crowded lounge area. Scarlett, Dahlia, and Fianna sat in a plush curved booth, positioned, Verena knew, so that everyone entering could see beautiful women—at least, that’s what their friend Johnny Morales, the maître’d, always told her. Her friends might be attractive, but they were more than that—they were smart, independent, interesting, and hard-working. Their lives were intertwined and had been for many years.
Verena made her way through the standing crowd, and Lance followed her. She saw Scarlett’s eyes widen when she saw Lance. “Thanks for waiting for me,” Verena said. “I’d like to introduce you to Lance Martel, the executive chef here at the hotel. He found me wandering by the pool, and offered to feed me. I was absolutely starving. Lance, I’d like you to meet some of my dearest friends.”
“Very nice meeting you, ladies,” Lance said. “How do you all know Verena?”
Dahlia spoke first, her green eyes sparkling with questions Verena knew would spill out later. “Verena and I met when we were children. Our grandmothers are friends.”
Scarlett added, “I was a salon client—still am, of course. Verena has a wide circle of friends from her business.”
“And I used to help Verena with the twins when they were little,” Fianna said.
Lance looked interested in this last comment. “You have twins?” he said to Verena.
Verena was used to this response. “My younger sisters. I look after them.” Why elaborate? Sympathy made her uncomfortable. She turned back to her friends, eager to change the subject. “Lance whipped up the most amazing dinner—the squab was absolutely delicious. And an organic tofu dark chocolate mousse that was to die for.”
A lazy smile grew on Lance’s face, and his gaze was fixed on Verena. “You’
re a pleasure to cook for,” he said. “I like women who enjoy eating. Too many women in the city just nibble on lettuce.”
Verena slid into the booth, but Lance remained standing next to her. “Can one of you give me a lift home?” she asked her friends.
“Sure,” Dahlia said, stealing a glimpse of Lance. “Where’s Derrick?”
“He had to leave early.”
Lance slid a quizzical look at Verena.
“Actually, Lance met Derrick,” she added.
“He stopped by the kitchen,” Lance said, never taking his eyes from Verena.
Scarlett frowned. “How did he know where you were? I wouldn’t have thought to look in the kitchen. Did he follow you?”
“One of the security guards saw me.” Nothing slipped past Scarlett. With reluctance, Verena removed Lance’s jacket from her shoulders and returned it to him. She lifted her hand to shake hands with him. “Thank you for cooking for me, it meant a lot to me.”
Instead of taking her hand, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, carefully brushing her hair aside as he did. “I told you, it was my pleasure. Good night.”
It was a small gesture, but it made her catch her breath. “Good night, Lance,” she murmured.
He turned to her friends. “If you dine with us again, ladies, please let me know you’re here so I can take extra good care of you.” He grinned at them, and then turned and left.
“Wow, weren’t you the lucky one,” Fianna said, watching him walk away.
Verena shrugged. “He was nice, that’s all.”
“I’ll say.” Scarlett sipped her sparkling water with lime, nodding.
Scarlett didn’t drink; she was always the designated driver in the group. Verena valued her opinion, too. Scarlett’s training in law had taught her to be observant, to look beneath the surface for clues, and to be attuned to the subtext in conversations.
Scarlett was street smart, too. She and Johnny, the maître d’ at the Polo Lounge, had grown up together in the barrios of Los Angeles after her family had moved from Spain during a recession. She and Johnny had been as close as siblings. And just look at them now, Verena thought, pleased for her friends. A smile curved her lips. Johnny had also turned out well, and he knew all the important people in town.