Special of the Day

by Elaine Fox

  “And this place,” M. Girmond said, walking into the center of the small dining room and turning in a slow circle, “c’est parfait! Bien joue! I feel that I am back in Provence, in the house of my grande-mère. Lovely, lovely.”

  Roxanne clutched her hands together in front of her and scanned the room again. “Do you really like it? There were so many decisions to make, I second-guessed myself every step of the way.”

  “It is perfect.” M. Girmond faced her again with a smile. He took her clasped hands together in his and separated her tensely entwined fingers. “No more worries, oui? You and I, we do this to escape such things. This is un petit restaurant. Simple! We will enjoy ourselves. Have fun.”

  Roxanne felt as if a huge weight were being lifted from her chest and she inhaled what felt like the first truly unencumbered breath she’d taken in weeks.

  “I know,” she said on a long exhale. “Yes, you’re right. Everything is fine now that you’re here.”

  As she looked up into his face, her eyes were caught by a shape in the front window. She shifted her gaze only to have it land on Steve’s as he peeked inside.

  He looked as startled as she did and she raised her hand in an awkward wave. Steve did the same, then turned quickly away. He jogged across the street and down the sidewalk, out of sight.

  “Who was that?” M. Girmond asked, turning his eyes back to her face, which was much hotter than it had been before seeing Steve.

  “That was our bartender. Steve Serrano.” She brushed the hair from her forehead and ran her fingers through it over the top of her head, looking toward the bar. “You’ll meet him soon. He also lives upstairs, on the top floor.”

  At M. Girmond’s silence, she looked at him and saw his brows had risen. A small, very French smile curved his lips and he stroked his chin with one thick but gentle hand.

  “I see,” he said slowly.

  She wasn’t sure if it was just her guilty conscience, but she was afraid he really did see.

  “Okay—oof.” P.B. slapped the handball with a gloved palm and crab-jumped back to the center of the court. “I’ve made reservations at Le Gaulois, think she’ll like that?”

  Steve returned the ball, forcing P.B. to the back corner and took his place in the middle. “Sure.”

  P.B. lumbered to the corner, hit the ball and then grunted as his shoulder hit the wall. “What do you think we should talk about? I mean…”

  He returned Steve’s volley.

  “…what’s she interested in?”

  Steve slammed the ball to the crease where front wall met floor and it rolled off, impossible to return. He turned a triumphant grin on P.B. “Game!”

  P.B. put his hands on his hips and panted. “Damn, Serrano. For a guy who doesn’t exercise, you seem mighty cool.”

  Steve rolled his shoulders back a couple times and dipped his head from side to side, loosening up. “I exercise. Every day, practically.”

  “Bullshit.” P.B. leaned over, hands on his knees.

  Steve jogged in place. “No shit. I run and have free weights in my apartment. Come on, one more game, Blue Boy. How you gonna catch the bad guys if you can’t play three straight handball games?”

  “Give me a minute.” P.B. straightened. “I want to know about Roxanne.”

  Steve made an annoyed face. “What makes you think I know anything?”

  “Well for one thing, you had dinner at her place last night.” P.B. wiped his forehead with a sweatbanded wrist, his eyes tight on Steve. “I still don’t understand how you finagled that.”

  “Gimme a break. I didn’t finagle anything. I was forced into it.”

  P.B. wagged a finger at him. “Trying to upstage me to win that bet? It ain’t gonna work, compadre.”

  Steve laughed cynically. “You and your bet. Okay, I’ll tell you what I observed last night. She’s got class. She has posters from the New York City Ballet on her walls. She plays classical music. Bach, I think, last night. She speaks some French, though it might just be menu French for all I know. She reads, has tons of books on her shelves. Ah…” He stretched one arm overhead and did a side bend to stay warm, thinking about Roxanne Rayeaux’s apartment. He was surprised how much he could recall about it. “She’s got a knack for making a room comfortable. Good design sense, I guess. Likes rich colors. Is good with plants. And, most important to you, she loosens up nicely with a bottle of wine.”

  He tried not to imagine Roxanne leaning into P.B. the way she had leaned into him. Tried not to picture her lips parting and P.B. taking advantage of it. Tried not to see her lithe body being swallowed up by P.B.’s big muscular one.

  He jogged in place again. “Come on, let’s play.”

  P.B. stood with one hand on his hip, watching him. “That’s a lot to remember.”

  Steve waved a hand in his direction. “Take notes.”

  “No, I mean for you. You seem to have been paying pretty close attention.”

  Steve shrugged. “I’m an observant guy. Now come on. Your serve.” He trotted to center court and bounced on the balls of his feet.

  “Tell me one more thing.”

  Steve sighed and dropped his hands, turning. “What?”

  “What did you guys talk about last night?”

  “I don’t know. Regular stuff. Where’re you from? Where’d you go to school? What did you do before? That kind of thing. The kind of thing you should ask her. Be interested.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to tell me how to date, big guy. I know how to date. I just want to know what she’s interested in so I can be prepared.”

  “Oh, so, what, you gonna go home and listen to some Bach?”

  P.B. grinned. “Got any I can borrow?”

  “Yeah, right. And I’ll lend you my tape of Swan Lake, too. Come to think of it, I do have one of those NFL tapes set to ballet music.”

  P.B. snorted. “I’ve got that one, too. That’s pretty funny. Maybe she’d like that.”

  Steve just turned and gave him a deadpan look over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s play.”

  “One more thing.”

  He turned back. “You said that a minute ago.”

  “I mean it this time.” P.B. tossed him the ball. “You get a look at her bedroom?”

  Steve crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look stern, but he couldn’t help wondering if he might have been able to see her bedroom last night, if he’d reacted differently to the kiss. If he hadn’t stopped it, if he’d said something other than “Good night.”

  His gut clenched.

  He scowled. “No, I didn’t see her bedroom. Why?”

  P.B. gave him a shit-eating grin and said, “Just want to know what color flowers to bring, ’cause I’ll be carrying ’em in there at the end of the night.”

  Steve dropped the ball and slammed it, hard, into the front wall. It went untouched by P.B. An unreturnable serve.

  8

  Bar Special

  Rum/Brandy Flip—first one, then the other

  Rum or cognac, bar syrup, nutmeg, 1 egg

  Roxanne must have been crazy to have agreed to a date two days before the opening of Chez Soi. Especially a date with someone like P.B. From the first moments of the evening it was obvious he had no desire to talk about the restaurant, or indeed anything but himself. Not that Roxanne blamed him for this; she was sure the restaurant wasn’t all that interesting if you weren’t involved. And since it had been about all she’d had on her mind for months, she found she was something of a one-note conversationalist.

  During dinner a lovely French country meal at Le Gaulois, she’d had a hard time not examining the food and pointing out how they’d cooked it, what was in it, and how Chez Soi would be either the same or different, just as good or better.

  P.B. listened with patience at first, making the effort to look interested and nodding along, asking the occasional question. But after a while he’d begun to interrupt her and soon was talking pretty much nonstop about himself.

  Surprisingl
y, Roxanne found this something of a relief. She didn’t want to have to think up other things to say about her life when all she could think about was her current project—and by project she meant the entire move from New York and the subsequent shift in her way of thinking.

  She was busy breaking old habits—like thinking about how she looked all the time and watching every little thing she ate. She was relieved to be out of the pressure cooker of the high-fashion scene, and had given up the destructive pattern of alternately fitting in and kicking Martin out of her life. Now she was concentrating hard on making new habits, healthy ones.

  So letting P.B. ramble on about “life on the job” and “collaring perps” was fine with her. And he was interesting. She’d never known a cop personally before. It sounded like a world unto itself.

  The only problem was, he wouldn’t let the evening end. She had unfortunately started out the date tired from a long day in the kitchen with M. Girmond and overindulging at dinner had only left her sleepier. But after dinner, P.B. had insisted on taking her to Murphy’s Pub, his favorite bar now that Charters was gone.

  Murphy’s was a lively place with lots of people and good music, and because P.B. knew almost everyone who worked there they were still able to score a seat at the bar. Though it was freezing outside, the crowd was so tight and the thermostat had been cranked up so high to compensate that after about ten minutes Roxanne had to take off her sweater.

  She pulled it over her head, trying hard not to elbow anyone next to her, and shook her hair loose, glancing at P.B. just in time to see his eyes jerk up from her breasts. It startled her, the suggestiveness of his gaze.

  He leaned close, his breath fanning her cheek, and grinned. “Can I help you with that?”

  She brought the sweater down between them, forcing him back a few inches, and pulled her hands from the sleeves. With an impersonal smile she said, “No thanks.”

  He backed off. “Hey, I heard you had dinner with Steve the other night.” He raised a pint glass of Guinness to his lips, his eyes steady on her.

  Roxanne folded the sweater in her lap and rested her fingers against her glass of wine but did not pick it up. “I did, yes. Skip and I ran into him at Whole Foods. We saved him from a night of carry-out.”

  “Hah! Good old Steve and his carry-out. That’s what he said.” P.B.’s light eyes were on her with a small smile that made her wonder just what else Steve had told him about the evening. “He’s a pretty good guy, Steve is. But we’re all still waiting on him to grow up, if you know what I mean.”

  “We are?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Sure. I’m pretty close to his family and I know his sister wishes he’d get a real job and settle down. For a long time now he’s been, you know, pretty stuck.”

  Roxanne stifled a yawn. “You mean stuck in his job?”

  “Yeah and, you know, in his life. He doesn’t have much drive. No ambition. I tried to get him on the force once.” P.B. boomed a laugh. “Said he didn’t even want to attempt it. He was happy doing what he was doing.”

  Roxanne tried to picture Steve’s lanky frame and general air of insouciance contained in a police uniform. “No, I can’t really see him as a cop.”

  “Me neither, tell you the truth. He doesn’t have the right attitude. But he needed some direction and I thought he could cut it, make it through training. Maybe make something of himself, you know?”

  “You don’t think he’s made anything of himself?”

  P.B. tilted his head and gave her a benevolent smile. “Don’t get me wrong. I think Steve’s a great guy. But let’s face it, he could be doing something a helluva lot better than bartending. I mean, where’s that gonna get him?”

  Roxanne nodded, not really liking the fact that she agreed with this. Or maybe she just didn’t like talking about Steve with P.B. She still hadn’t talked to him about the kiss they’d shared and was feeling strange about what he must be thinking. It had only been a couple days, but she felt more and more strongly that she needed to define it for both of them as something that could not be repeated. But the two times she’d gone upstairs to knock on his door he hadn’t been home.

  Or he hadn’t been answering.

  “What about all that history he studies?” Roxanne asked. “Does he do anything with that?”

  P.B. grinned. “Hell, yeah. He impresses the hell out of women at the bar. Makes him sound smart, I think.”

  “Surely that’s not the only reason he does it. He even goes down to the Library of Congress. He must be doing something with it.”

  P.B. shrugged, careless. “It’s just a hobby. I mean, what’s he gonna do with history, huh? It’s not like he’s gonna become a professor or anything.”

  “He could go to law school,” Roxanne mused. Would that make him seem more eligible, she wondered. Was she really just all about careers?

  No, she knew it was more than that. It was a guy with direction. Purpose. Somebody looking for some meaning in life.

  “Yeah, right,” P.B. scoffed. “Steve, a lawyer. He’d be about as cutthroat as Santa Claus.”

  “Santa decides who’s naughty and who’s nice,” she pointed out.

  P.B.’s eyes gleamed. “And are you naughty, Roxanne?”

  Roxanne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead she shifted her eyes away from him and said, “Well, all I know is Steve’s making good money and he seems happy enough. Isn’t that all any of us can ask? To be happy in our work?”

  “Sure.” He smiled at her, his eyelids half lowered. “I like the way you think, Roxanne. You’re generous, you know that?” He let that statement hang a moment, while Roxanne took a sip of her wine. “And who could blame Steve for being happy? The way things were at Charters, back when it was popular, he was like a rock star. You know how the bartenders at hot spots are. He got the girls, made the bucks, partied after work and slept all day. Great life for a twenty-five-year-old. But Steve’s thirty now. How’s he gonna feel in five years? Or ten? Permanently hungover, that’s how. Hungover by life.”

  “Hmm.” Roxanne let her eyes scan P.B.’s solid frame as he looked off down the bar. He waved to another friend—he had many here—and laughed at something they said or did. Roxanne was too tired to turn around and look.

  But P.B. was right. Steve was the kind of guy with a lot of charisma, the kind that made him a social success early in life. But it took drive in addition to charisma to really get somewhere. And it took a lot of hard work.

  “So what’s your goal, P.B.?” she asked him, forcing herself to remember with whom she was on a date. And as dates went, she could do worse than P.B. He’d taken her out for a nice dinner.

  “Me?” He looked delighted at the question. “I’m working toward detective. Then, what the hell, maybe chief. I tell you, I got a helluva lot more ideas for running that place than the current chief. He’s all right, but he doesn’t think, you know? I’m always thinking.” He tapped a finger to his head and looked at her intently, as if she might not have understood just what he meant.

  “Sure,” she said, holding back another yawn as if her life depended on it. “I can tell that about you.”

  And she could. But she would have used the word calculating instead of thinking. Something about him struck her as very shrewd.

  “So, Roxanne.” He said her name in a half growl and grinned at her. “I like saying your name. Rrrrrroxanne. Roxie.”

  She smiled, wishing she were home in bed. Alone.

  He leaned one hand on the bar beside her and let his hip touch her legs. “I was looking in the paper and saw the National Symphony’s playing some Bach in a couple weeks. Wanna go? Bach’s one of my favorites.”

  “Really?” Roxanne couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “Yeah, I like all that classical stuff.” He waved a hand nonchalantly but kept his eyes expectantly on her face. “Whaddya say?”

  The last thing she would have guessed was that P.B. was a classical music fan. But then, ever since Martin, she’d had
to doubt all her perceptions about men. And this was just more evidence of how off her instincts could be.

  She straightened on the bar stool and took a deep breath in an attempt to wake up. “Well, it sounds great, but I’ll have to let you know. I’m not sure how the restaurant will be doing, but it’s going to keep me really busy, especially at first. These things take up a lot of time. And I mean a lot.”

  P.B. sank down on an elbow, bringing himself even closer to her, and fingered the ends of one lock of her hair. His hand lingered close to her breast. “Aw, come on.” He gave her a boyish smile. “It’s just a couple hours, one evening. I’ll make sure it’s a night you’re closed.”

  She was sorry now she’d told him they were only going to be open Wednesday through Saturday at first. But then she wondered why she was sorry—an evening at the symphony sounded fabulous. Just the kind of thing she’d been missing without Martin. But…with P.B.?

  “Okay,” she said, regretting it instantly.

  He beamed and clutched her upper arm in one big square hand. “Great. That’s great.”

  “But, can I let you know when it would be best?” She was desperate to backpedal. From the look on P.B.’s face it seemed he thought she’d just agreed to far more than a night at the symphony. “I just know these first few weeks are going to be hell. Exhausting hell. And speaking of that”—she looked pointedly at her watch—“I really should be going. I have so much to do tomorrow.”

  P.B. stroked a hand down her upper arm familiarly. “Sure, Babe. Whatever you say. I’m ready to blow this joint, too.”

  Roxanne felt simultaneously drawn to and repelled by the contact. Her body ached for a soft touch—she’d always been very physical in her relationships—but her desire was different from what she’d experienced the other night with Steve. Then she had felt overwhelmed with need, and blind to the consequences. With P.B., all of her senses rebelled against the idea of him touching her.