Instead, I bit off a string of curse words that would have taught Justin more than he’d ever heard from his father. Or his father’s platoon. Or division. Or however swearing soldiers were organized.
“Shawn!” I ladled years of onstage experience into the frosty greeting for my fellow actor. “What are you doing here?”
“Erin!” He matched my brittle greeting with an expansive shrug, leaning in to kiss me on both cheeks. “Darling, I’m here for moral support.”
I darted a glance at Timothy, who looked a little confused. He had no idea why I might need support, moral, immoral or otherwise.
Sure, I’d told Shawn about dinner. I’d wanted some sympathy. I’d wanted someone to remind me that I could juggle the evening with perfect aplomb, that I could stay sparkling and witty while my all my romantic worlds collided.
But I hadn’t expected an audience.
“I don’t need any moral support,” I said through gritted teeth.
Shawn wasn’t at all perturbed. “Then I’m here to celebrate Flag Day. Three cheers for the red, white and blue!”
Justin tugged at Amy’s hand and asked in a stage whisper, “Mommy, is that one of Aunt Erin’s friends? Is he the one who’s going to give her a bad mood?”
I barely kept from snapping at my nephew. Instead, I took my frustration out on Shawn. “Where did you leave Patrick?” I asked nastily.
“Patrick?” Shawn contrived to look utterly confused.
“Patrick Ferguson?” I demanded, planting my hands on my hips. “Your boyfriend? Let me guess. His Uncle Sam costume hasn’t come back from the cleaners.”
Shawn’s laugh was a sharp bark. “Uncle Sam is strictly amateur night, sweetie. You should see what he really wears to show his patriotism!”
Justin whispered loudly, “Mommy, what’s amateur night?”
Timothy swooped in to the rescue. “Table for four, then?”
I slanted a glance at Amy. I could see her giving Shawn the once-over, completely approving of his outrageous sense of humor, even if she immediately recognized that he would never be a challenge to the Master Plan. To the wreck of my love life. It was going to be a long, long night.
“Five,” I said through set teeth. “There will be five of us.”
Timothy shrugged. “No problem. Let me just slide that table over.” He matched actions to words, along the way producing a packet of crayons for Justin. He settled us in our chairs with an easy grace. “Wine, while you’re waiting?” he asked, already gliding toward glassware. Timothy poured generous amounts of Chianti into goblets and promised a glass of milk for Justin before disappearing into the kitchen.
Shawn watched him leave, cocking his head to one side to take a more appraising view of Timothy’s jean-clad backside. “Oh, sweetie, I think I’m going to like this restaurant.”
I glared at him before rolling my eyes in the general direction of my innocent nephew. “Don’t even get started,” I warned.
Before Shawn could reply, Justin shouted, “Dr. Teel!”
“Inside voice,” Amy said automatically, as we all turned toward the door. I barely heard her, though, because the temperature in the room shot up a thousand degrees. I staggered to my feet, as if I were a hostess greeting a treasured guest at a dinner party.
Teel strode across the room, comfortable, commanding. He wore a white dress shirt and charcoal slacks; he looked like he’d just come from a photo shoot at GQ. The smile that he flashed at me was so smooth, we might never have had our little confrontation in the Garden.
In fact, he looked so stunning, I found myself reconsidering the logic behind withholding my fourth wish. I’d been thinking about punishing him, about paying him back for trying to manipulate me. Maybe I should go with a different motivation instead. By holding on to my fourth wish, I could keep Teel close to me. Bind him to me forever in his sexy doctor guise…
As if he could read my thoughts, Teel walked directly to me. He kissed me hello as if he had every right to do so, not hesitating to settle his blunt fingers on my arms. Our kiss wasn’t as passionate as the one we’d shared at the hospital, but it felt more intimate, here in public, where I knew people were staring at us. I felt the corners of his lips curl against mine; he was smirking, even as he made my knees grow weak.
One tiny corner of my mind said that it was all right for me to respond to him that way. It was perfectly acceptable. He was a genie, not a man. He was wholly outside the boundaries of my Master Plan. I was going to explain that to Amy, use this dinner to illustrate the exception that proved the rule, the progress I was making with reforming my love life.
A throat cleared behind me, and I leaped away as if I’d been burned.
Of course, Timothy stood there, holding Justin’s milk. A jaunty Mickey Mouse straw sprouted from the lidded cup, the squeaky-voiced little rodent waving a cheerful hello to anyone willing to pay attention.
Which, at that moment, was precisely no one.
“Aunt Erin,” Justin said, “why are your cheeks all red?”
Surprising salvation came in the form of Shawn, who rose and offered Teel his hand. “Shawn Goldberg,” he said, and I could tell from the roughness of his voice that he, too, was smitten by my genie. Poor Patrick—he might end up regretting his decision not to honor the Stars and Stripes with the rest of us. “Pleased to meet you.”
“And this is Timothy,” Amy said, gesturing to our host. “Timothy, this is Dr. Teel. A long-time friend of my sister’s.” She didn’t bother to disguise the amusement in her voice. I wondered what made her immune to Teel’s charms. She seemed to be the only person in the room not throwing herself at my genie’s feet.
Amy, that was, and Timothy. Timothy Brennan definitely did not warm to the genie in our midst.
He wasn’t rude. He couldn’t afford that, in his own restaurant. Instead, he became excruciatingly polite. Without asking, he poured a glass of wine for Teel as we all took our seats. He offered the Chianti with a steady gaze that would equal throwing down a gauntlet in some corners of the world. Or niches of history. Whatever.
If Teel recognized that he was being challenged, he didn’t say anything. He took up his goblet with a nod, half saluting with the glass. Timothy’s lips froze partway between a smile and a snarl, and the two men continued to take the measure of each other.
Once again, Justin broke the tension. “I’m hungry, Mommy. What are we going to eat?”
My laugh was an octave higher than I wanted it to be. I tore my gaze away from the Neanderthals in front of me and gave Justin an impossibly bright smile. “That’s just what Mr. Brennan was just going to tell us!”
Timothy shrugged back on his role of host. “In honor of Flag Day, I’ve got a fruit salad with strawberries, white peaches and blueberries. Or, if you’d prefer, there’s a green salad with cherry tomatoes, white radishes and a blueberry vinaigrette. For main dishes, I have molasses braised short ribs and firecracker shrimp.”
Justin wrinkled his nose. “What’s firecracker shrimp?”
Timothy addressed him directly, as if a five-year-old could be the most important food critic in his universe. “They’re shrimp, cooked in a spicy sauce. They still have their shells on, and you can see their eyes.”
“Cool!” Justin said with excitement. I didn’t know if he’d ever tried to eat crustaceans, but the notion of food staring back at him obviously had substantial appeal.
In the end, we ordered two plates of short ribs and three of shrimp, with fruit salad to go around. As the food came out of the kitchen, I forced myself to relax. I covered my most awkward moments with a clever application of fresh, hot bread, spread thick with creamery butter. What were a few extra calories, when I had my sanity to maintain?
Shawn and Teel devoted themselves to entertaining Justin, telling stories to make him laugh. They took turns drawing Soldierman on the table’s butcher paper, and each of them spun out a story about the superhero’s adventures.
Once again, I regretted not winning the gi
ant plush doll for my nephew. For all I knew, though, Justin was continuing to misbehave at home, continuing to drive Amy nuts with his disobedience. I certainly didn’t want to do anything to encourage my nephew to resume his flying career, or to do anything else to upset the balance in Amy’s challenging life.
Amy might drive me nuts with the games she played, but she was still my sister, after all. The only one I was ever going to have. And at the end of the road, she was always there for me—even if she made me crazy along the way. This whole insane test with Teel and Timothy was just another chapter in our lives as sisters, just another joke she was playing on me. We’d laugh about it soon enough. When we were staying up too late, drinking cheap wine and raiding the emergency chocolate stash.
As my sister watched her son soak up all the male attention, a wistfulness grew on her face. She might have orchestrated this dinner as a way to test me, but she’d been drawn to Teel herself. Oh, Amy didn’t want one of Teel’s knockout kisses for herself; I knew that she was one hundred percent faithful to Derek. It was just that there was something…satisfying about watching a man talk, watching a man entertain a worshipful little boy. It didn’t hurt, of course, that Amy thought Teel was a doctor at least partially responsible for Justin’s miracle recovery. She could never know precisely how involved Teel had been.
Once, when Justin earnestly announced that Soldierman wanted to be with his family but had to stay away and fight a war, I saw tears glisten in Amy’s eyes. She dashed them away before Justin could spot them. We adults saw them, though. Shawn leaned forward and seized three crayons at once, drawing a massive Humvee for Soldierman to drive. In short order, Justin had him add helicopter rotors and a giant drag parachute. Shawn complied, providing sound effects to bolster the vehicular embellishments.
Amy laughed and clapped her hands, earnestly thanking both Teel and Shawn for their handiwork. Shawn leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, while Teel merely gave her a solemn nod.
Soon enough, Soldierman and his incredible vehicle were lost in a riot of rib bones and shrimp carapaces. It was impossible to eat the Flag Day dinner with anything approaching grace or delicacy. Timothy acknowledged as much, carting out extra napkins and bringing us all finger bowls with slices of lemon. (Justin was enamored with the bowls, and he made Amy promise that they could use some at home for their next meal.)
When we got to the end of dinner, Justin’s glass of milk remained untouched. Amy nodded toward it and said, “Come on, Justin. Finish up.”
He took out the fancy Mickey Mouse straw and spun it around on his finger. “I’m not thirsty,” he said.
“Justin,” Amy warned.
My nephew stared directly at his mother. As if he were an automaton, he reached out, curling his fingers around the side of the cup. “Justin!” Amy said again, her voice cutting through the amusement of our little party.
Slowly, steadily, Justin started to tilt his wrist. The milk sloshed to the edge of the cup, teetering on the brink of pouring over.
I wanted to tell him to stop. I wanted to say something to Amy, to break the ferocity of her embarrassed glare. I wanted to explain to Justin that spilling milk was not a way to bring his father home, was not a way to make Derek love him from afar. I wanted to invent a cup that could never spill, never break, never ruin a surprisingly perfect meal out with family and friends.
Before I could figure out anything to do, though, Shawn reached out an easy hand, settling his fingers on Justin’s forearm. “Hey, dude,” he said. “Drink it, then clink it.”
Justin’s destructive concentration was broken. “What?” he asked.
“Drink it,” Shawn said, draining his own water glass. “Then clink it.” He set his glass down with finality, flicking his fingernail against the rim to make a faint belling noise.
Justin laughed. “Drink it!” he said, draining his milk in one long gulp. “Then clink it!” He flicked his own glass.
“Exactly,” Shawn said. “That’s the way Soldierman does it, right?”
Shawn winked at Amy and me, accepting my silently mouthed, Thank you. It took Amy a little longer to relax, to sit back in her chair, but she finally managed, with the help of her glass of Chianti. I knew that she was grateful to Shawn, but I suspected she was also a little jealous, frustrated that her little boy responded so much better to a man’s guidance.
Throughout the entire meal, Timothy remained on the edge of our increasingly louder little party. He spirited away empty plates like a ghost. He refilled water glasses. He replaced empty wine bottles.
I wanted to ask him to pull up a chair, to join us for a few minutes, but there were other tables to serve, other patrons to provide for. Once, I watched him usher an ancient homeless man to the small two-top by the kitchen; the mammoth plate of ribs that he served his guest threatened to upend the table. Another time, I caught him looking at me, his caramel eyes dark, shadowed by a dozen conversations we might have had. Should have had. Especially when he shifted his gaze to Teel, and the corners of his mouth turned down with a hundred unasked questions.
At last, Timothy emerged from the kitchen bearing desserts for all—generous portions of strawberry shortcake piled high with fresh whipped cream. He balanced a plate of star-shaped cookies, as well, each one covered in blue and red and white frosting. A bottle of Southern Comfort nestled in the center of the tray, presiding over tumblers full of ice.
Glancing around the room to make sure that the few remaining patrons were taken care of, Timothy hooked a chair with one foot, pulling it up to our table. He finally sat down beside me, relaxing as if the furniture had been made for him. His ease seemed like an extension of his flowing grace, light-years away from the exhaustion of a man run ragged from serving up perfect dinners for dozens of customers.
As he started to pour the liqueur, everyone complimented him on the food.
Everyone but Teel, that was. My genie merely accepted a glass, then sat back in his chair, watching. His cobalt eyes were hooded, as if he were thinking, calculating. As if he were trying to figure out a way to use Timothy to get what he wanted. To trick me into making my fourth wish.
I smiled at Teel sweetly and was rewarded by his quirking a single eyebrow. I suspected that both of us were suddenly thinking of the kisses we’d shared, the two electrical storms we’d ridden out together.
I was, in any case. And my water glass was empty, just when I needed it most. I blushed when Timothy passed me his own.
Shawn sipped his Southern Comfort and shuddered with all the excitement of a lapdog. “This has been wonderful,” he drawled. And then, he sat upright, as if he’d been struck by lightning. Or by a brainstorm—something possibly much more dangerous.
“Timothy!” he exclaimed. “Have I got a business deal for you!”
The restaurateur eyed him with a panther’s cool amusement at a frolicking cub. Shawn glanced at me, bouncing up and down in his seat, as if he’d become possessed by the spirit of our hyperactive theatrical director. “Erin! This is going to be perfect!” He turned back to Timothy before I could begin to figure out what he was going to say. “Come work craft services for Menagerie!” Shawn exclaimed. “For the show that Erin and I are in.”
Amy barely had the decency to cut off a snort of amusement. “Inside voice,” I muttered, glaring at her. She should have been proud of me. Supportive. I’d proven to her, all night long, that I was sticking with the Plan, that everything was perfect. Well, almost perfect. I felt Teel stiffen beside me, and he shot his cuff at Shawn’s invitation to Timothy, as if he needed to check the time.
I turned to face Timothy head-on. Part of the motion was so that I wouldn’t be snared by Teel’s tattoo. But part was truly because I wanted to hear what Timothy would say.
“Isn’t craft services more of a movie thing? Catering on a set?” Timothy sounded polite, but perplexed.
Shawn guffawed, his enthusiasm enhanced by the sweet peaches-and-whiskey liqueur in his glass. “Exactly. We’ve got a movie star in
the cast. A true diva.” He explained about Martina. “After the trick she pulled today, the director is desperate. You could name your price, if you could just get Martina to shut up.”
Timothy whirled on me, his eyes narrowed. For the first time since I’d met him, I felt a little frightened by the power he kept under control, intimidated by the energy he kept under wraps. “Did you tell him?” he asked, nodding toward Shawn with an intensity that seemed completely disproportionate to our lighthearted conversation.
“Tell him?” I managed to ask, astonished by the force of Timothy’s question.
“About my deadline.” Timothy’s eyes drilled into me. His nicked pride shimmered around him like an aura. “About the lease.”
“No! I didn’t say a word!” Amy was nodding, though, clicking her fingernails against the table in that way she had when she was speculating on a good business deal. Okay, maybe I had shared a few details, but only with my sister. She didn’t count.
Shawn saved the day with his perfect look of confusion. “Erin didn’t tell me anything. But your food certainly did. If you can turn out this sort of stuff for a minor patriotic holiday, I can’t wait to see what you could do for us on a regular basis.”
And that was when it struck me: Timothy was an artist. Just like I was, like Shawn. He created something out of practically nothing, manufactured a party out of raw ingredients.
Everything that had happened that evening should have thrown Timothy for a loop. Shawn’s outrageous interference. Teel’s possessive attention toward me. Justin’s restlessness at a table full of grown-ups. Amy’s moodiness, her occasional tearfulness as she contemplated her uncertain future.
But Timothy had risen to the occasion. He’d presented a dinner that would make any chef proud, as casually and as gracefully as if he were boiling a couple of eggs for breakfast. He made everyone—even me, as I struggled to prove that my Master Plan was in full force and effect—feel comfortable.
Wish Upon a Star Page 17