She backed up against the cool exterior of the refrigerator with a grin. “You mean like the kind who call each other on the phone and talk nail polish, Tiger Beat, and Scott Baio crushes? Or the kind that have a peaceful, honest working relationship with no random surprises that leave one another blindsided?” she teased.
“It’s a tough choice. I mean, we are talking Scott Baio here, but I’ll take peace, honesty, and goodwill toward men for five hundred, Alex.”
Frankie stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
Nikos took it, entwining his fingers with hers. “Deal. Now in other important news. Christmas,” he said, still holding her hand.
“What about it?” she asked, forcing herself to keep her fingers from trembling.
Nikos wiggled his eyebrows. “The Antonakas Christmas bash, ma’am. It’s huge. Like invitation-to-the-White-House huge. Well, maybe not that huge, but there are at least as many people at our annual Christmas party as there are at a White House formal. I know it’s late in the game and you might already have plans, but I forgot to tell you before your day off. It’s Christmas Eve. I know that’s tomorrow, but we have tons of food, family by the busload, more nieces, nephews, and grandkids than ten daycare centers, and more chaos than a three-ring circus. It’s loud, bad for calorie counting, and there’s usually a drunken brawl with ringside seats, and we try to keep it all inclusive for every faith. It’s also one of the rare few days a year when the diner’s closed. And of course, both you and Gail are invited. All the employees and their families usually at least do a drive-by if they have other plans.”
Of which she had none, and that hadn’t depressed her much at all until Nikos described his family’s celebration. Then disappointment crept into her thoughts. Employees. Know your place, Bennett. Got it.
Frankie’s smile waned, but her tone, she was proud to say, remained steady as a rock. “Sounds like fun. I’m in, but I wouldn’t count on Gail. She was hedging about some invitation her gentleman caller extended to her, but she didn’t want to leave me alone. She’ll be happy to know I have plans. You know, the employee kind. So sure, I’d love to come. Need help prepping for it? Bring something? Maybe something with goat cheese and figs?” she joked.
Clearly, he’d missed her emphasis on “employee” because he skipped right over it and zeroed in on the party planning. “Nope. The rest of the family gives us a day off and they do the cooking. Anyway, good deal. So now that we’ve made nice, I have some details to work out for tomorrow’s party.”
“Then I’ll get to work,” she replied with forced good cheer.
By her late-morning break, Frankie smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done. A mountain of chopped onions and garlic even Barnabas couldn’t criticize lay in wait for Cosmos to marinate his next batch of brisket in, and she’d reorganized the fridge so each item he needed was at the ready.
The rumble of her stomach led her to find Voula and her infamous meatloaf. “Look at my Frankie,” she said with a gleam in her eye. “Now Mama doesn’t have to force her to eat. The horse finds the grass all by herself.”
“Water. You’re leading a horse to water, and if I eat any more of your water, I’ll need a bigger car,” Frankie said, smiling back, giving her a squeeze to her shoulders.
Voula pinched her at the waist. “In no time we have to buy you bigger pants. That makes my cockles warm. Now eat and make Mama smile.” She winked, piling the meatloaf and fries high on the plate, then dousing it with an overflowing ladle of brown gravy.
Frankie took the plate, and she and Voula headed to Nikos’s office, where he’d kindly offered to let her bring Kiki in for the afternoon while Gail was in Atlantic City on a senior overnight trip. As she walked, she scooped up a heaping forkful to stuff it in her mouth with a blissful sigh. “Voula, you should market this. It’s the best meatloaf I’ve ever eaten. It’s simple and rustic and there are so many flavors, my mouth does the happy dance. Trust me when I tell you, when I was married to Mitch, I tried a million different ideas, variations on the original theme, trying to make the perfect meatloaf. They all paled in comparison.”
Voula’s eyebrow rose as she made her way around Nikos’s desk to gather up Kiki from a napping Barnabas’s lap. “You mean mine is better than the bad Mitch’s?”
Frankie giggled, smiling at how comfortable Kiki was with Voula. “Yours is better than some of the best chefs in the world, Voula. It’s like uber-meatloaf.”
She frowned, her round face wrinkling. “Uber?”
“Like the crème de la crème. The best,” Frankie assured her around a crispy-tender French fry.
Voula nodded, as if she knew she had the world at her feet with just one bite of her concoction of ground beef and spices. She dug around in her apron pocket, pulling out a treat for Kiki, who took it with her usual somber gratitude. “It is a secret I tell you one day, Frankie.” She chuckled, tapping the dog’s nose with affection. “But you know, my memory is so bad, I have to look at the recipe every time I make.”
Frankie gave Kiki a quick kiss and waved a fork at Voula on her way out of the office, plate in hand. “Whatever’s in it, it’s hardcore, and you should guard the secret with your life.”
Voula’s chuckle followed her out into the dining area where she went in search of her bottle of water and her latest magazine endeavor into finding a hobby, poetry writing.
“Frankie?”
A foreboding chill of unease skittered up her spine. No. It couldn’t be. How? And more important, why?
“Frankie?” An all-too-familiar hand tapped her shoulder.
Dear Universe, would it be an insult to my mother if I legally changed my name? I don’t think she’d be too upset with me, seeing as each time someone says it, the destruction of my fragile psyche and my newfound happy place typically occur.
Damn it all. Just when she was getting her groove back, or if not her groove, then at least a safe distance from the ledge she’d so precariously teetered on—in walks the one person who almost sent her over the edge.
She sucked in a breath, mentally arming for battle.
Okay, Frankie, time to man up. In the spirit of this changed-woman gig you’ve hired on to—face the ex. Like a big girl. Like you mean it.
Like the prick owes you money.
Her turn was a slow execution while she composed her face, forcing her body language to express an air of casual indifference. “Mitch.”
He smiled, that charming “come let me show you my spiderweb” smile. Nothing about him had changed. He was still handsome and camera perfect. His periwinkle blue shirt had not a crease in it, and his steel gray silk trousers were as smooth as glass. “It’s so good to see you, Frankie.” Mitch opened his arms as though she’d fall right back into them.
At one time, maybe as little as just five months ago, maybe, just maybe, she might well have dived back into the shallow end of the pool. Even with his infidelity, if only to find comfort in the routines of her old life with him and not to have to face life alone.
Yet, seeing him now, she was never so glad she’d slept her postdivorce trauma almost entirely away. The only emotion she could summon for Mitch was distaste and a mild case of anxiety. Anxiety that had nothing to do with his physical presence but rather stemmed from her question as to what exactly he wanted.
Booyah for time and distance and oh, yeah, functioning brain matter.
Frankie took a step back, placing her half-eaten meatloaf on the front counter. “How did you find me?”
His smile upped its wattage. “What difference does it make? I’m here now.”
As though that made everything all right as rain. “Phew, thank God, right? I mean, how was I going to go on breathing like I have for the past seven months without you?” She raised a condescending eyebrow to pack her punch.
Mitch chose to ignore her snipe, and instead, sat down on one of the counter stools, laying his forearm beside his identical, as yet untouched plate of meatloaf. “Can we talk?”
Frankie�
��s head cocked in an absurd parody of “what the fuck?” “About?”
He patted the stool next to his in a gesture of friendly warmth. “What’s been going on in your life. How you’re doing. You know, conversations people have when they haven’t seen someone they care about in a long time.”
People you care about? Seriously? Oh, tongue don’t fail me now. “When you find that someone who cares about me, have your people call my people. Until then, go away.”
“Aw, Frankie. We have some hard feelings between us, don’t we?”
“Well, they’re not soft and squishy.”
Mitch gave her his best “I haz a sad” expression. “Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”
“Oh, they’re bygone. All gone, in fact. Now go back home to Bamby.”
“Bamby and I are over.”
“Did she find out about Carrie?” Frankie asked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“Carrie?”
Frankie marveled at how dumbstruck his perfectly aged face appeared. How many women had there really been before Bamby? Something to ponder as she sent him packing. “I know how hard it must be to keep track of all the female pairs of eyes you’ve wobbled,” she sympathized, letting her words drip with false consolation. “Carrie was a woman you met right here in this diner. A foodie, so to speak. A foodie married to someone else. But that’s all water under the proverbial bridge now, Mitch. The past is the past and all that jazz. I don’t know why you’re here or how you found me, and frankly, I don’t give a prostitute’s checkup why, because we have nothing to say to each other. Now, you’re interrupting my lunch hour. Go. Away.”
Mitch’s face went hard for a moment, before he recovered and slapped on his smile especially made for his fans. The “I am the great chef and you are the minion” smile. “I can’t believe you’re working in a diner.” He pushed his food around his plate, wincing as though the mere idea that the food didn’t cost a hundred bucks physically hurt him.
“I can’t believe you have the balls to mock my job or the food here. First of all, that’s the best meatloaf you’ll ever eat, Chef Mitch. So if you plan to be insulting, take it elsewhere or I will bring my wooden spoon out of retirment. Second of all, at least here the only monstrous ego I have to contend with is the homeless guy’s out front who claims I’m blocking his sun when I park in the space in front of his bench. Believe me when I tell you, being employed here is like rainbows and rocking horses compared to working for you.”
But Mitch was ignoring her again. He’d decided to brave a bite of food for heathens and was too busy making groans of chef pleasure. “This is amazing.” Mitch held up a forkful of meatloaf. “Just amazing.”
Frankie gave him a sour glare. “Sometimes food for heathens can be that way.”
“Any chance I could get the recipe?” he asked, licking the fork like a cat licking cream from his whiskers.
Beyond flabbergasted at Mitch’s bold request, Frankie held herself away from the counter with stiff arms. “So you can tell the world you created it like you did with all of my recipes for the show? Fat chance, Mitch. Besides, it’s a family secret, and even if I did know it, I certainly wouldn’t give it to you so you could claim it as your own stroke of genius.”
“How’s my Kik?”
“Your Kik? You mean the dog you cared so much about you had a clause put in our divorce that said you wouldn’t be held responsible for any of her veterinary bills? That Kik?”
His face didn’t change, but his eyes shifted. “I loved Kiki,” he defended so weak and insincere, it was all Frankie could do not to gouge his eyes out with her fork.
She shook her head with an angry swish. “No, you loved the ratings she brought the show. You loved letting everyone believe the PETA-loving Mitch had saved her. But we both know the truth about that, don’t we?”
His mouth thinned, but only for a moment before he took his next turn in his attempt to keep things light. “So, created any interesting recipes for your new job?”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. Now she knew what this was about. Oh, yes indeedy. Mitch was recipe dry. What he lacked in food creativity, he’d made up for in charm, and that was how he’d nabbed the show at Bon Appetit. Because although she hated to cook, she had once loved to blend spices and create concoctions for Mitch. She’d had a good sense of what worked and what didn’t. She was also a master at substitution when they re-created a recipe and couldn’t decipher a spice or ingredient. So sayeth the great and powerful Mitch.
Her eyebrow shot up. “What’s the matter, Mitch? Running out of new and original recipes for the show?”
“I miss your input.” Mitch shot her a remorseful glance.
“No, you miss me doing all the work. Too bad you and Bamby broke up. Maybe she could have helped you with your lack of originality.” So shazam.
With a lean into her, Mitch’s eyes feigned contrition. “I admit I’ve had a setback or two. Ratings . . . well, they’ve been . . . Never mind.” He shooed the sentiment away as though he hoped she’d wring it out of him. When she remained silent, he added, “Maybe you’d like to come back and consult? I know Bon Appetit would love to have you.”
“I’d rather be hooked for cash,” was her dry response. One that surprised even her. “I like my job here, and I like the people I work with. Being left high and dry without a pot to piss in made me realize I’d rather be poor than be your wife.”
Oh, revelation. It was true. She was beginning to love more than just Nikos’s hot abs and suh-weet ass. She was in love with his family, their love of one another, their laughter, and even their bold, honest opinions. She even loved getting up at four in the morning to be in by five. Okay, maybe she didn’t love it, but it had come to represent a labor of her love for these people who gave her a reason to want to get up.
“You don’t really mean that . . .”
Mitch had said that often in their marriage, and she’d let herself believe it. But not anymore. “Oh, on the contrary. You can bet your bippy I do. Now for the last time, go away!” She hissed the words as quietly as she could, attempting to slide away from him to the next stool over.
But Mitch grabbed hold of her sweater, tugging her back to him, leaving her pressed against his body. “This is a public place, Frankie. I have every right to be here, honey.” The words themselves might be threatening, but they had a seductive hint to them she wasn’t liking.
“Yeah, and it’s my public place, and if I say you go, you go, honey,” Nikos said from behind them, a clear threat in his words.
Frankie swung her head around to find Nikos, hands on his lean hips, an angry scowl tightening his usually relaxed face. Her first inclination was to stop Nikos from rescuing her one more time, but that notion fled, because seriously, her radiant warmth over having a real live hero was winning the race against her new-woman independence.
Mitch swiveled on his stool, waving his fork around to point it directly at Nikos. “Do you know who I am?”
Oh, the celebrity card. Well played, but clearly not making the intended impact with Knight In Shining Armor Nikos.
“We have a problem here?” Cosmos growled.
“No,” Frankie began, holding up a hand. “It’s okay—I’ll handle—”
“I think we do. I’m being harassed by the pseudo Calvin Klein model,” Mitch said caustically. “Maybe his jeans are so tight he’s lost his ability to behave properly in a social setting.”
Uh, eek.
The situation went from mildly threatening to all-out warfare when Cosmos gathered Mitch up by the collar of his wrinkle-free, periwinkle blue shirt, pushing Frankie away from Mitch and smack into Nikos. “Yeah? Well, I’m Calvin’s little brother, and you’re not welcome in this diner. If I were you, I’d hit the bricks that led you here.”
Mitch blustered, his passive face going from pale to an angry crimson red. “Take your hands off me!”
Out of nowhere, Voula was sprawled across the top of the counter, hip deep, waving her rolling
pin as flour spewed in the air, with Barnabas right behind her. “You go away, bad Mitch, or I show you what I do with this rolling pin!” she shouted.
Barnabas tugged at Voula, but not to thwart her efforts to clock Mitch. Nay, he wanted a shot at him, too. He shook the three-pronged fork from the kitchen at Mitch’s shoulder. “Go back to your TV kitchen, Mr. Fancy Pants, and you leave our Frankie alone!”
Nikos diffused the situation with two hands by snatching Voula’s rolling pin away from her and simultaneously latching onto Cosmos, then blocking Barnabas. “Knock it off. All of you!” he roared, making Frankie glad the lunch hour hadn’t quite begun. “Mitch, take it on out of here, and don’t come back. If you bother Frankie again, it’ll be your ass on my plate! Now get the hell outta my diner!”
Mitch shoved his way between Cosmos and Nikos, yanking at his shirt with an angry hand to straighten it as though someone lesser than him had touched him. “I’ll have you arrested, you animals! This was assault!”
Cosmos opened his mouth, but Nikos clamped it shut with just one glare, pulling Frankie tight against his strong side. “You be sure and get my name right when you file your complaint, Bennett. It’s Nikos Antonakas. Write it down now. One O, three A’s in my last name. Or do you want Frankie to do it for you? You know, because you’re incapable of wiping your own ass without an assist.”
Mitch shoved his way toward the doors of the diner, brushing against the small Christmas tree with so much force it fell over in a heap of crashing gold bulbs and sprays of tinsel.
Chloe backed away from the corner she was skulking in, but not before a look passed between her and the retreating Mitch that Frankie didn’t have time to question. “You’ll hear from my attorneys!” he yelped into the cold rush of air.
Frankie was speechless—mortified at the plate of meatloaf dripping down the front of the counter in globs of ground beef and gravy. Voula huffed her fury as Barnabas slammed the heavy fork down on the counter. Cosmos’s nostrils flared, and Nikos’s jaw clenched.
Tears for the trouble she’d brought welled in her eyes, flustering her. “I—I’m—I’m sorry. Omigod . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know how he found out I was working here. I’ll clean it up,” she said with haste, dropping to her knees to recover the broken pieces of plate. The moment she knelt, scrambling to clean the mess, a memory of her old life collided with the new.
Burning Down the Spouse Page 17