Special of the Day

by Elaine Fox

  “Don’t think twice. Roxanne and I are sick to death of each other.” Skip grinned at her, while she did try to look pretty sick of him. “Just come on by in about half an hour.”

  Steve picked up his wrap and, with a wry smile, said, “All right then. Thanks.”

  6

  Bar Special

  Angel’s Kiss—devilishly delightful

  Crème de cacao, heavy cream

  “I can’t believe you did that.” Roxanne pressed the button on her car key and the automatic door locks beeped as they opened. “You shanghaied him into coming.”

  “Come on. I did you a favor. You said yourself you need to get on better terms with this guy and you were right.” Skip ducked into the passenger side and pulled the door shut.

  Roxanne got in her side. “What do you mean, I was right?”

  “Well from the expression on his face when I invited him, he looked as if he thought you might be planning to serve him arsenic.” Skip fastened his seat belt.

  She stuck the key in the ignition, then, sighing, lay her head on the steering wheel. “Great.”

  She’d seen it too, that look on Steve’s face. They kept butting heads, misunderstanding each other, and she didn’t know how to fix it. She hoped it was just a matter of earning his respect, but she feared it might be some prejudice he had against women owning restaurants. Young women, in particular. Her. Maybe he felt defensive, being her employee. Embarrassed about being older and without a career other than bartending.

  Maybe he just didn’t like her.

  In any of those cases, Skip was probably right to have invited him, or rather, bulldozed him into coming.

  “Look,” Skip continued, rubbing a hand on her back comfortingly, “for all your mother’s idiosyncrasies, she didn’t tolerate friction among the staff, right?”

  Roxanne raised her head with a laugh. “That’s right. Everyone came together to curse her.”

  She started the car.

  “So, you could do that, or you could make nice. Right now, most of your staff know Steve and are loyal to him. Not you. You need him on your side, Roxanne.”

  Roxanne grumbled, “Or I could fire him.”

  Skip patted her back one last time. “Easier to just make friends. He seems like a nice guy.”

  “Sure. To you. Me, he took an instant dislike to.” She remembered how snotty she was to him that day he came to give her the housewarming wine. A simple misunderstanding, but he hadn’t known where her attitude had come from.

  “All right,” she capitulated. “You’re probably right. But Skip, promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t tell him what I used to do for a living.” She turned pleading eyes to him. “I really want to get away from that, from being looked at like that. Right now he sees me as a kind of bitchy newbie owner, and that’s okay. He can still think I know what I’m doing. But if he found out I used to be a model I just know he’d lose all respect for me.”

  Skip studied her for a second. “All right. Laying aside that I think it’s unhealthy to be ashamed of something you spent ten years making a success of, I’ll honor your request. In the name of baby steps.”

  She quirked a smile. “Baby steps?”

  “Yeah, you know. Forward movement, progress. Sometimes it can only be accomplished by taking one baby step at a time. Whatever you can handle.”

  She put the car in reverse and looked at him sideways. “Laying aside how condescending that sounds, I appreciate your agreement to keep mum.”

  Steve hadn’t been sure what to expect, but it wasn’t the smiling, self-deprecating woman who was in the kitchen sautéing scallops and drinking wine when he arrived.

  “Can I pour you a glass of wine, Steve?” she asked when Skip ushered him into the kitchen. “I have to warn you, though, it’s French.”

  He laughed. “I think French wine was a positive on the list of French things.”

  He looked around the room. She’d fixed the place up since he’d last seen it—and apparently had been successful in fixing the sink drain—because the kitchen was warm and inviting and bubbling over with delicious scents. A basket hanging from the beamed ceiling held fruits, vegetables and herbs. The counters were clean, with minimal clutter, but were lined with sophisticated-looking salt and pepper shakers, an espresso machine and what might have been a pasta maker. A long loaf of French bread lay on a cutting board near the sink and a rack with copper pots hung near the stove.

  An island in the center of the kitchen held an open bottle of white Bordeaux, a wedge of brie, and plates of asparagus, mushrooms, butter and several spices, presumably to be added to the dinner dish.

  Steve slid onto one of the island’s bar stools. “The place is looking great.”

  She poured a generous dram of white wine into a large goblet and handed it to him. When he took it, he met her eyes and she smiled. A genuine smile, he thought. Less guarded than usual.

  “Thanks. It’s been a lot of work, but as of today the last of the boxes is gone. Not only that, the painters have finished downstairs. Now I can relax.”

  She held up her wineglass and he touched it with his.

  “Cheers,” he said. “To your new home.”

  She smiled, her dark eyes seeming to look all the way through him, and sipped from her glass.

  He wondered what was going on. In the grocery store, he could tell that inviting him to this dinner had been Skip’s idea, and Roxanne had been none too pleased about it. But now she seemed different.

  Maybe she’d thought he would refuse to come. (And he would have, if Skip hadn’t been so damned insistent.) Or maybe she felt awkward after practically accusing him of being behind the squirrel break-in.

  Who knew? She was a riddle (wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, etc. etc.). Maybe it was time to sit down and talk right up front about how they could work together amicably. Or whether they should work together, amicably or not.

  Roxanne threw a glob of butter into a hot sauté pan and directed a question over her shoulder at him. “So Steve, where are you from, originally?”

  He put his wineglass down carefully on the butcher block surface. “D.C. Out Sixteenth Street.”

  “Really? An actual D.C. native? That’s rare.”

  “Where are you from?” He directed the question to her but looked at Skip too. If they went to high school together they must have come from the same place.

  “Right here in Alexandria.” She reached behind her for the plate of mushrooms. She lifted the plate slightly in his direction. “Do you like truffles?”

  “Is that what those are?”

  She narrowed her eyes as she smiled, as if he was trying to pull one over on her. Fact of the matter was, he may know his alcohol but he had no idea about fancy French cooking. He’d heard of truffles and foie gras and all that, but he hadn’t spent much time eating any of it.

  He was about to pick up his wineglass when a huge orange cat, the same one he’d seen that first day, leaped onto his lap.

  “Whoa,” Steve said reflexively, moving his hand from his glass lest he knock it over. “Who’s this big guy?”

  Roxanne looked back over her shoulder. She laughed. “Oh, that’s Cheeto. You’re lucky he likes you. People he doesn’t like tend to leave with shredded pant legs.”

  Steve scratched behind one of the cat’s ears, but the animal ducked his head, giving him a look that said he was an imbecile and doing it wrong. He lifted his hand and looked into the cat’s face.

  “Cheeto, huh? That’s kind of an uncultured name for a French restaurant’s mascot. I would think something like Paté or Fromage would have been better.”

  “Not for him.” Roxanne slid the truffles into a bath of boiling water, then moved the scallops around a little in the sauté pan. “He’s definitely a junk-food cat. Besides, Cheetos are my downfall. Horrible for your health, just deadly to any diet, but oh so irresistible.”

  Aha, Steve thought, a chink in her armor. She d
id have weaknesses. “So will we be seeing Cheeto Almondine on the new menu? Vichyssoise with ground-Cheeto garnish? No wait, you’re desserts. Cheeto à la mode?”

  Skip laughed.

  Roxanne said, “Believe it or not, those all sound pretty good to me.”

  This drew a laugh from all of them.

  He tried petting the cat again, this time stroking him from head to tail. As he did, the cat rose up, arched his back and dug his needlelike claws into Steve’s legs through his jeans.

  He removed his hand again. Cheeto looked back at him, eyes narrowed. They regarded each other a moment.

  “So what are your plans for the bar,” Steve asked, “if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Cheeto leaped from his lap and thudded to the floor. After a pointed yawn, he proceeded to saunter off, obviously disappointed in Steve’s petting abilities.

  “My plans?” Roxanne said. “You mean the decorating?”

  Steve picked up his wineglass. “No. I mean the populating. Charters had a great happy hour. Brought in tons of people. People who then got hungry and stayed for dinner.”

  She made a light scoffing sound. “If only to sober up before getting in their cars and driving home, no doubt.”

  She flipped the scallops over in the pan, shook the whole thing in a circular motion, then slid them onto a plate. He had to admit, he liked the way she moved. Graceful. Practiced. Like a ballerina in the kitchen.

  “Happy hours are great,” Skip volunteered, pouring himself more wine. “They give people a chance to taste your food, too. It’s like advertising.”

  “Exactly.” Steve shared a companionable look with Skip. He was starting to like the guy. Maybe Roxanne wasn’t all bad, if she had normal friends. And if he could get her friends on his side, then maybe he wouldn’t end up yawning through nothing but predinner kirs night after night once the place became a haunt for people following the latest haute cuisine.

  If they were that lucky.

  “I’m not interested in catering to the happy-hour crowd.” Roxanne threw the asparagus rather vehemently into some boiling water. “Happy-hour drinkers are people after a cheap drunk and they’re not particularly discerning. Furthermore, generally speaking, people who show up for free food are not going to fork over twenty-eight bucks for cuisses de grenouilles.”

  Steve raised his brows. “What the hell is that?”

  She smirked at him through her lashes. “Frog legs.”

  “No. Please. Tell me you’re kidding.”

  She just laughed and continued slicing asparagus.

  Steve looked at her face—so much easier to do with her eyes downcast—and realized again how stunning her features were, especially when she was smiling. She looked like someone off a magazine page. Advertising mascara or face makeup with those lush lashes set against smooth skin.

  “Okay, well, frog legs aside. You don’t have to serve dollar beers and hot wings for happy hour,” he offered. “You could put out some showy, frou-frou stuff and lure them in with, I don’t know, change-back-from-your-ten brandy night or something.”

  Roxanne looked up and laughed again. Perfect teeth, Steve noted. And he liked the way her lips curved into a flawless bow. Was she wearing lipstick? Or were her lips just naturally that color?

  “Change-back-from-your-ten,” she repeated. “I like it.”

  He couldn’t believe this woman had agreed to go out with P.B. Steve tried to remember the face of the last girl P.B. had dated, but could only recall big hair and giant breasts.

  Roxanne, on the other hand, was sleek. Both her hair and her body. She was tall, thin, and knew how to dress to accentuate her curves, as opposed to putting them up on display like a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

  “I’ll think about it,” Roxanne said, her voice low and husky. For a second Steve had to work to remember what it was he’d last said. For another second he wished he’d said something more provocative and gotten the same response.

  Skip cleared his throat. “Speaking of happy-hour crashers, what about this friend of yours: P.B.?”

  Steve’s eyes shot to Skip’s as if the latter had been reading his thoughts. “What about him?”

  “Oh Skip, please.” Roxanne’s expression was stern. “Don’t bother Steve with that.”

  Skip looked at her and shrugged. “What? I’m just wondering what kind of guy he is.”

  Steve took another sip of wine. “He’s all right. Why?”

  Skip filled Steve’s glass again, then his own. “Did you know he asked Roxanne out?”

  Roxanne checked the asparagus.

  Her back was ramrod straight and her hands moved with confidence. She took the truffles off the stove and drained them. Then did the same with the asparagus. Steam rose in the air over the sink like a ghost.

  “I heard he might.” Steve looked at Skip, keeping his face bland. Skip obviously didn’t like the idea of Roxanne going out with P.B. He didn’t need to know that Steve was disappointed in her for accepting the date, too.

  “Well? Is he a good guy?” Skip asked.

  Steve made a noncommittal gesture. “I think he is. But then I’ve never been on a date with him. He could be a total cad. Talk with his mouth full, split the check, that kind of thing.”

  Roxanne turned back to the island with a chuckle. She picked up her glass. “That, I can handle.”

  “I’m sure you could.” Steve tilted his head. “What couldn’t you handle?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?” She sipped her wine.

  “I’ll tell you,” Skip said, reaching across to cut a piece off the wedge of brie. “She doesn’t handle liars very well. He doesn’t have a wife tucked away somewhere, does he?” He popped the cheese in his mouth.

  At that, the look Roxanne shot her friend was enough to burn holes in his face. If her friend wasn’t already immune, that was, as he seemed to be. There was a story there, Steve could tell.

  He shook his head slowly. “No, he doesn’t have a wife. Not unless he’s keeping it secret from me, too. Though it wouldn’t be like him not to ask for a wedding gift.”

  Roxanne moved to a cabinet and pulled out a trivet. She looked as if she wanted to hurl it at Skip but she merely placed it in front of him.

  “Make yourself useful and put this on the table,” she said to Skip. Then, turning, she said, “Look, Steve, no offense, but I’m just going out with P.B. as a friend. He…well, he doesn’t really seem like my type. Though he certainly seems to be a nice guy.”

  Steve chuckled. “How would that offend me?”

  Skip got up, took the trivet and went into the dining room.

  “He’s your friend.” She paused. “Isn’t he?” She looked genuinely curious.

  “Sure.” Steve nodded.

  “I just don’t want you to think I don’t like him. Or that I’m—using him or anything.”

  Steve lifted his brows. “Using P.B.?” he mused. “That would be novel.”

  She frowned and looked down at the cutting board. She pushed a few truffles around on it.

  “Roxanne”—he leaned slightly toward her until she lifted her eyes to his—“what goes on between you and P.B. is your business. He doesn’t need me to protect him and I’m sure you don’t want me chiming in about your decisions.” He let that stand a minute before adding, “Me, I’m just the friendly barkeep.”

  “Ah yes.” Skip re-entered the kitchen, his glass raised. “To the friendly bartender. You probably see romances come and go all the time.”

  “This is not a romance.” Roxanne began cutting the truffles in circles.

  Steve raised his glass to Skip’s and smiled. “I do, that’s true.”

  They drank, emptying their glasses.

  “You any good at telling which ones will stick?” Skip poured the last drop of wine into his own glass, made a face at its demise, then got up and grabbed the second bottle.

  “Sometimes. Here, let me.” He took the corkscrew from Skip and opened the bottle swiftly with a soft pop. He
first poured more into Roxanne’s, then Skip’s goblet.

  Roxanne turned from the conversation to combine the scallops, truffles and asparagus on a plate. “I’m sorry, Steve, it was not my idea to put you in the middle of this. I’m sure you have no interest in what I do.”

  He rubbed one side of his face thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  She turned to look at him, her face aglow either from the heat of the stove or from a blush.

  “I’m very interested in what you do with the restaurant.” He swirled the new wine in his glass, sniffed it, then took a sip. “Pretty good,” he admitted. “I could get used to this part of the French atmosphere.”

  “What is it you want to know?” Her eyes seemed to glow, paralyzing him where he sat. “I’ll tell you anything.”

  A shiver ran up his spine and he was again transported to some completely different situation in which she might say the exact same words.

  A married man, he pondered. How long had that gone on?

  He patted his breast pocket halfheartedly and smiled. “And here I’ve gone and forgotten my list of questions. Can I get back to you?”

  She inclined her head. “Any time.” Then she turned, took up the platter now filled with scallops, truffles and asparagus and added, “But first, dinner. Come on, into the dining room.”

  The dining room was really a dining area between the kitchen and living room, just as in Steve’s apartment. But through the miracle of fabric and screens and lighting, not to mention a generous wooden country dining table, the place was transformed. It felt cozy and intimate.

  Skip lit a series of candles on the table and a couple more on tall pedestals near the sideboard as Roxanne set out the food.

  “So what did you do before buying this place?” Steve asked as they sat down around the table, arranging wineglasses, moving water glasses and picking up napkins.

  Roxanne shot a quick glance at Skip, then said, “I was at the CIA for a year. I told you that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but, what did you do for a living? Acquiring this place was a pretty brave thing to do and couldn’t have been cheap.” He sent his eyes around the room as if to encompass the whole building.