Where Dreams Books 1-3
Page 36
He settled beside her as they both peeled the paper wrappers.
When she sank her teeth into it, the cold smacked her overheated body. This wasn’t some healthy, demure dish of frozen yogurt. This was a high calorie, fat-turbocharged treat of chocolate and nuts on cheap chocolate ice cream in a really crappy wafer cone, just like all good pre-wrapped freezer cones.
It tasted so damn good.
“Oh. My. God!” Her mouth still half full of ice cream. She turned and kissed Angelo right on the lips. “This is wonderful.”
It was only as she faced back out over the lake and took a second bite, despite the possible risk of serious brain freeze from eating it too fast, that she realized what she’d done.
Two ways to deal with it. Ignore it or risk a sly look from behind her dark sunglasses to gauge his reaction.
Her brain chose a third. She turned and shot him a chocolate-laced grin, then stuck her tongue out at him.
He laughed and, much to her relief, did the same through vanilla-covered lips.
Chapter 6
Angelo’s legs were shaking by the time he got back to his condo in Pioneer Square. A hot shower, a high-carb lunch, and then he’d have some chance of surviving Saturday night service. He’d never ridden the Loop of the Lake so fast, or had so much fun doing it. He felt simultaneously exhausted and supercharged.
They’d barely spoken during the three-hour ride, no way to really do it while riding. But it was as if they didn’t need to. He never knew what to say to someone so smart and beautiful as Jo Thompson anyway, but doing the ride together had been easy and fun.
In the park they had eaten their cones and laughed about the Thursday night disaster. Who knew he’d ever be able to find the least morsel of humor in the situation, but Jo somehow made the impossible possible.
His mother wasn’t at the condo, maybe she was out exploring Seattle. He’d have to remember to take fresh clothes into the bathroom with him. Thankfully his new place had two baths, so they could each have their own. There’d be at last some privacy.
He was halfway through his shower when he remembered where his van was parked. At the Fremont Bridge.
Angelo stuck his head out of shower to check the clock on the bathroom counter.
Great. Just great.
Not only did it mean getting back on his bike, but by the time he got there, if the Seattle Police were operating at their usual level of efficiency, he’d have a parking ticket as well.
# # #
Forty-seven dollars.
Angelo was out the cost of a good bottle of wine and now, as he tried to park behind his restaurant, the one space reserved for his own use had been taken by some damned tourist. Well, he was going to get their behind towed and cost them a serious chunk of change and irritation. Perhaps it would mitigate some of his own.
But it wasn’t some tourist. It was his own car, parked in the van’s space.
This was Pike Place Market on a Saturday afternoon. There’d be nowhere to park for blocks around that didn’t cost at least half as much as his parking ticket. The traffic was suicidal and it took him forever to escape.
He drove down to Pioneer Square and pulled into the secure garage, hauled his bike upstairs, and then set out on his usual walk back up the hill. By the time he was done, it had taken him almost two hours to reach his own restaurant just six blocks from his condo.
Okay, the bike ride had been good. He’d stay focused on that. He had finally found an interest in common with Jo and they’d had a good time. That ranked as a good date. Didn’t it?
He’d like to have discussed his mother descending on him. It would be nice to talk it through with her. The thought surprised him a little. He would have liked to hear Jo’s opinion. Angelo wagered that it would have been well considered and thoughtful. But the subject hadn’t come up and then she’d blanked his brain.
He’d been too surprised to react to the chocolaty kiss, and was glad she’d given him an excuse to not do so by sticking out her tongue at him. If he’d had a moment to think about it, he’d have found some way to screw it up. Instead, he’d laughed at the momentary image of the ever so proper attorney Ms. Thompson sticking her tongue out at a jury if she didn’t like their decision.
Angelo walked down the half block of Pike Street that led from First Avenue into the heart of the Market. The uneven brick was as packed with people as the sidewalks. Woe to a tourist stupid enough to attempt to drive on this street. He ignored the fact that he’d fallen into just that trap an hour before while attempting to park his van.
It was warm and sunny. The gelato merchant’s success was evident in dozens of people’s hands, bright globes of pure, glistening color perched on thin cones stood out among the kaleidoscope of summer attire. Bags held everything from fish and produce to soaps and trinkets. A woman wearing strike-you-dead-with-lust perfume brushed by him, her arm full of dahlias, her hair a bright chop of blond and chartreuse.
Left Hand Books was so crowded that people were visible through the window, doing the very slow shuffle step among the shelves. Henry shot him a friendly salute from the big fish stall right before flinging a twelve-pound salmon through the air toward the cashier for wrapping and sale.
He tossed a couple of dollars to Uli at Frank’s Quality Produce and snagged a basket of strawberries to eat as he headed along.
At Mr. D’s he gave the rest of the strawberries to Demetrios and his family and turned up Post Alley careful not to look in the Sur La Table display windows. He always heard tourists complaining that they, “really didn’t need anything more for the kitchen, but how could they resist” as they staggered out with the overstuffed trademark brown and maroon bags. For a chef, the place was a nightmare. Add on the commercial restaurant and Pike Place Market vendor discounts, and the place was beyond dangerous and often downright lethal.
He was, despite his best efforts, being drawn by the glistening copper Zabaglione pot in the window. His were getting pretty battered with use and some nights having only two caused timing problems.
That’s when he noticed the snarl of people up near his restaurant. At first he hoped it was the Perennial Tea Room across Post Alley, but it wasn’t. He hustled along and almost got clipped by a car as he crossed Stewart Street.
The day, delightful and warm a moment before, slapped him with a latent heat that had him sweating. People were milling around beneath the discreet Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth sign. Another disaster.
He’d apparently dodged the first crisis. No bad reviews had come of the Notorious Thursday Night Fiasco, as Jo had named it. But by the size of this crowd he was too late to recover from whatever was happening this time. They were between services, yet the crowd was massive. Kitchen fire. Or worse.
He resisted the urge to shove his way through the crowd, instead nudging and begging-his-pardon through the claustrophobic horde toward his own door. He’d almost made it inside when he spotted his mother.
She stood with a great smile on her face. Clad in a floppy sunhat, she wore a floaty blue summer dress with a deep cleavage that would have been totally inappropriate on a woman of her age if it didn’t look so good on her. A shawl of nearly transparent floral chiffon graced her shoulders. Daisies, she’d always had a soft spot for daisies. Her dark hair flowed to her shoulders and a tray of bruschetta balanced on one of her hands.
His avocados and artichokes.
He slid up beside her and gauged the crowd. They weren’t upset. They were smiling. Laughing, chatting, bantering with his mother, and enjoying themselves. They formed a line into the restaurant.
That was it. Service had crashed and was far too slow, and his mother was taking care of entertaining the crowd while they waited.
“Oh, there you are honey. Everyone!” She called out to the crowd and conversations hushed. “This here, he is my son. This food, it is his. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I think,” Maria Amelia leaned close to him and spoke softly, “that perhaps Manuel would like it to have you in his kitchen.” She stuffed a bruschetta in his open mouth. “Close your mouth, chew like a good boy, now tu vai!”
He went.
# # #
Even as Angelo chewed and went, the flavors began to bloom in his mouth. The lush richness of the avocado, the smooth balance of artichoke heart, a sliver of lemon-cooked swordfish and a chiffonade of fresh basil on toasted, thin-sliced Ciabatta bread was remarkable. It unfolded and unraveled, revealing layer upon layer, leaving him desperate for more.
“Angelo!” Manuel called out as he entered the kitchen. The man practically wept with joy. “Hurry, an apron, three orders of the Cioppino and I will marry you and bear your children.”
Angelo grabbed an apron and three bowls. With a rescue operation underway, you didn’t ask questions. After five orders of the Cinghiale, braised boar meat over pasta, and a half dozen more of the Stuffed Chicken Picatta al modo di Angelo’s, he began being able to see the flow of orders. There were no holdups. In fact, he’d rarely seen the team move food more quickly.
“What’s the problem?” He tossed some more pasta with olive oil as a bed for his Braised Venison in Marmora Red Sauce.
“The problem is your mother,” Manuel gasped out between commands to the grillardin to refire the duck breast and start another three orders of swordfish.
Angelo really didn’t need this. Was his mother going to destroy him?
“She saw the lunch rush fading,” Manuel talked between plating orders and yelling for Graziella to put some hustle on it even though she already was. “It was a good one for June, especially on a day when most people want to stay outside in the fine weather instead of sitting in a gourmet restaurant. Next thing I know, she takes a tureen of that chowder we were making for dinner, and a couple dozen spoons out the door. Before I can breathe, the restaurant, she is packed solid. When that ran out, she makes this bruschetta. You tasted it? Estupendo, eh? And she is gone out on the street again giving that away too. We’ve never had a Saturday like this one.”
Chowder gone. He needed to start a soup base for dinner service to replace that. He yelled for Marko. The boy came running, wiping the soap suds from his hands. Angelo dug into his wallet and pulled out whatever cash he had.
“Go. Buy green beans, baby ones, none bigger around than a chopstick, more artichokes, fresh parsley, and another thirty pounds of swordfish. Go, don’t gawk at me, tu vai.” It felt good to order someone else to jump on it.
Marko went at a dead run.
“If they’re out of swordfish,” Angelo yelled after him, “tell Henry you need twice that in fresh tuna.”
“Hope he heard you,” Manuel muttered. “Now I need at least a dozen more batches of fresh pasta dough. Go.” Angelo knew better than to mess with the flow sliding through and around Manuel’s station.
He went.
Chapter 7
Jo answered the pounding on her door. Only one person ever pounded on her door, and never like this. She found herself near to running across the charcoal deep-pile carpet of her condo and yanking the door open.
Perrin practically collapsed into her arms. She looked as if she’d been in a battle and lost badly.
“What happened? Are you okay? Should I call the police?”
“Oh,” Perrin leaned on her and allowed herself to be led into the apartment. “Thank God you’re home. Take off your clothes.”
From anyone other than Perrin, Jo would have been offended and made a sharp riposte. But with Perrin things always made sense, eventually.
“You look awful. Can I get you some food or something?” Her slender frame was actually weaving with the effort to remain standing. Her hair was a frantic mess and she wore no makeup, revealing an abnormally sallow complexion. Both were so unusual for Perrin that Jo again checked her friend for cuts and bruises. Perrin was always immaculate in how she presented herself to the world. Outrageous, often, but always perfectly presented and attired.
Perrin braced herself against Jo’s cherrywood coat rack almost taking herself and Jo’s coats to the floor. “I’ll be fine once you try this on.” She wiggled a white dress bag she held slung over one shoulder that Jo hadn’t noticed.
“When was the last time you slept?”
Perrin waved one of her fine-fingered hands. “I dunno. Cassie’s wedding? Maybe a couple nights ago? What day is this? Never mind, don’t care.” She shoved Jo toward her bedroom. “Now go get naked and try this on. And if you look in the mirror before I tell you, you’re dead.”
Jo started down the hall toward her bedroom. Perrin followed close behind leaving palm prints in the middle of the glass of more than one of the framed pictures as she stumbled into walls. When Jo reached out to steady her, Perrin simply slapped her hands aside and nudged her along.
Once in the bedroom, Perrin hung the dress bag on the back of the door and collapsed onto the quilted white bedspread. But in seconds she was back on her feet and vibrating with energy as she opened the bag.
“Turn around and get undressed.”
Jo moved to close the curtains.
“Forget the damn curtains. You’re like a gazillion stories up in the air. No one can see you unless they have a monster telescope like on top of one of those mountains, and if they do, all they’re going to see is how gorgeous you are.”
Jo closed the curtains anyway, she had her standards, no matter how much Perrin enjoyed pushing them. Once they were closed, she shed the sweatshirt and pants.
Perrin rolled her eyes. “The woman is home alone and she wears a bra. You’re crazy, you know that? Lose it.”
Normally Jo would have argued at least for form’s sake, but Perrin looked so wound up and simultaneously so fragile, that Jo simply obeyed.
“Damn but it sucks that we’re both straight.”
Jo refused to blush at Perrin’s catty remark.
“Okay, close your eyes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Jo-o!” Perrin stamped her foot.
Jo closed her eyes and heard the zipper on the bag open the rest of the way. It was hard to resist peeking but she managed by thinking instead of the map of the North Slope continental shelf and the implications of melting ice access to oil and mineral resources.
“Arms out.”
She held them out and cool fabric slid over them, the sensual slickness of silk.
“Okay, now up.”
She raised her arms and the fabric slid down over her face and shoulders. She’d worn a lot of Perrin’s creations over the years. Back in college the results could only occasionally be conferred with a label better than “interesting.” But a decade later, “good” was a low standard and “exceptional” had almost become the norm with the occasional “sensational” like Cassidy’s wedding dress and the two bridesmaid dresses.
Jo did her best to ignore the way the fabric wrapped around her like a full-body kiss. She hadn’t been made so aware of every inch of her skin in a long time.
Perrin began tugging and adjusting, settling the dress into place.
“Can I look yet?”
“Don’t you dare!” Perrin’s voice was half shout, half mumble as though her mouth was full. Jo would bet it was, at least partly. She’d seen Perrin dozens of times, radiating near-mad intensity during a fitting, with her fingers flying deftly over the fabric, and a bunch of pins clamped in the corner of her mouth.
“Okay,” more of a mumble. Then her voice cleared as she stuck the spare pins back into a cushion, or perhaps into
Jo’s bedspread. She’d best check before lying down tonight. “I’m almost there. I got the idea when I saw that celery green on you last weekend.”
Jo typically wore black powersuits, but it had been nice to wear such a pretty dress for the wedding. It had been so pretty that it had made her feel almost confident as a woman.
“There, okay,” Perrin turned her slightly and pulled her half a step sideways. “You really should be wearing heels, but you hate them so I designed it so that I can make it work without. I’ll do that later, though your legs in heels would be damned amazing. Open your eyes.”
Jo did. Perrin had placed her directly in front of the full-length, beveled mirror that covered her closet door. But she didn’t recognize the woman reflected there.
Perrin came up beside her, scooped up a handful of Jo’s hair and held it up before turning to inspect the result in the mirror.
“I thought your hair should be up, but now I’m not sure.” She let it down again and brushed it back off Jo’s bare shoulders.
“What’s this?” the far away voice was all Jo could manage. The floor-length dress started at her feet like the palest blue sea foam, with a thousand tiny overlaps of fabric. The pattern built and strengthened as it flowed around her hips, somehow accenting their womanly curves while making them appear trim. From there it bloomed upward, wrapping her breasts in the palest-blue waves, as gentle as they were bountiful. A slit did indeed reveal some leg, but ended just above the knee allowing the dress to cling, but allowing the wearer to move about freely and look dazzling as well.
Perrin was rummaging through the jewelry on Jo’s dressing table, probably turning it into a hopeless tangle. She returned with the strand of Jo’s mother’s pearls, the only thing she had from the woman she couldn’t remember. Her dad claimed that she’d left them behind by accident, but she doubted that once she learned it had been his wedding gift to her mother. Perrin scoffed after a moment and tossed them carelessly onto the bedspread.