by Amy E. Lilly
“Hmm…well, I’m reserving judgment until I meet him.”
“Your mother means until she interrogates him.”
Quinn’s mother glared at her husband. Rather than respond, she began adding names to the guest list. Fifteen minutes later, Quinn and her mother had a list of sixty guests. “Ask my brother who we’ve missed and call me tomorrow.”
“I will. I better get back home. I promised to stop by my new neighbor’s apartment and feed his fish while he’s out of town. Fat Panther is probably starving anyway.” Quinn grabbed her bag and after hugging her parents goodbye, she and Old Susannah chugged her way back to her apartment in Richmond.
She let herself into Zach’s apartment with the key he’d given her. She fumbled her hand against the wall and found the light switch. Flipping it on, she stood momentarily transfixed. Although Zach’s apartment mirrored hers, it couldn’t be more different. Rather than the stark white walls like her own apartment, Zach had painted his living room vivid shades of blue. His walls were covered with paintings and photographs depicting scenes from nature and old buildings from around the world. She slowly moved her way around the living room. Her eyes traveled across the artwork as she tried to take it all in. She found herself transfixed by the images of Gothic cathedrals and towering spires on castles and mansions. She looked around the rest of the living room and spotted a drawing table covered with large pads of paper. Next to the table was an empty easel. An artist. Her new neighbor was an artist. Darn it. She was all set to like him. He was funny and good looking, but she was over the artistic, flaky guys. She looked around for the fish tank and saw it near the small television tucked into one corner of the living room. She moved across the room and opening the jar of fish food, she sprinkled a handful of flakes into the tank. Little silver flashes darted to the surface and sucked in the reddish-brown food.
“Here, fishy, fishy, fishy,” Quinn cooed to the tank full of small fish. She wasn’t really a fish person. Too much trouble to clean the tank every week. Fat Panther would probably eat the fish anyway.
She glanced at the stack of movies next to the television. Zach’s taste in movies were similar to hers. Comedies with a sprinkling of drama and suspense. The shelf behind the fish tank contained a number of books. Quinn scanned the spines and found interspersed with books on medieval architecture, some mysteries by authors she liked, too. Her eyes lit up when she saw the latest novel from one of her favorite mystery writers. She had the same novel sitting next to her bed.
Taking a last look around the apartment, Quinn had a brief pang of regret. Zach and she shared so many of the same interests. Shaking her head, she closed his apartment door behind her.
chapter ten
Quinn woke up at five a.m. on Monday morning. She planned to arrive at work early this morning so she could try a new recipe. She had been experimenting with tiramisu and wanted to make it and a traditional peach pie.
She did her morning yoga. She finished her routine and took a quick shower. Once dressed in a pair of jeans and a navy blue V-necked t-shirt, she poured herself a cup of coffee and turned on her computer to check her email. As she scanned her inbox, she was surprised to see it was flooded with comments forwarded from her new blog, The Romance Report. Many of the comments posted were supportive although a few made snide remarks. Pleased, she closed her laptop, fed Fat Panther and headed to work.
By noon, Quinn had finished making her desserts and had the rolls prepped to go into the oven. Monday nights were often the restaurant’s slowest, so Quinn made a smaller batch. Her uncle arrived shortly after twelve to start prepping for dinner. He was thrilled with her desserts and Quinn felt a small rush of pride.
“I love baking. It makes me think of Grandma. Speaking of which, Mom wants you to call her and give her your list of guests for the big birthday celebration,” Quinn informed him.
“I only have a few folks I want to make sure are invited. If I know your mother, she probably has a list of two hundred people written down and has to figure out who to offend and who she needs to curry favor.”
“Not saying a word. I’m Switzerland when it comes to you and mom.” Quinn held up her hands in mock self-defense. “I said I would ask and my duty here is done.”
“It’s fine. I have forty-five years of big sister self-defense under my belt,” her uncle laughed.
“I bow to the master,” Quinn made a gesture of obeisance.
“Quinn, I wanted to talk to you about an idea I’ve been kicking around in my head.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“You have talent. Real talent and I’m not talking about your writing. Don’t get me wrong. I think you’re a talented writer, but I think you should go to culinary school,” Uncle Pat said.
“Oh, wow! I’ve never even thought about culinary school. I mean, Mom and Dad pretty much expect me to follow in their footsteps.”
“I’m not saying being a journalist isn’t a good career for you. What I’m saying is that you have a real gift in the kitchen. You always have. You love food. You love to cook. Maybe you would like to follow in your Uncle Pat’s footsteps and become a chef.”
“You really think I’m a good cook?”
“Definitely. I want to show you something.” He walked into his office and a moment later came out with a newspaper and handed it to her. “Read Jacob Malachy’s column.”
Quinn started to read. It was a review of her uncle’s restaurant. “Sounds like Jacob Malachy is a fan of Hanrahan’s.”
“Keep reading.”
Quinn continued reading the article. Hanrahan’s not only boasts a vibrant menu of fresh dishes sure to please even the most discerning palate, it serves the most delicious desserts this writer has had the pleasure to taste in some time. The chocolate orange cake melted in my mouth. It was a taste heaven here on earth.
“Quinnie Bee, Ma passed her gift in the kitchen to me and you. I’m not saying you need to make a decision or even go to school if that’s not what you want. I want you to think about it. If you decide it’s something you want to do, I’ll pay for you to go.”
“I can’t let you do that, Uncle Pat,” Quinn interrupted.
“I wasn’t finished. I will pay for you to go to school with the condition that you come work for me afterwards for at least a year.” Her uncle held up his hand to stop her from speaking. “Don’t answer me right now. Take some time and think about it.”
Quinn impulsively hugged her uncle and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re the best uncle in the world.”
“It’s because I’ve been blessed to have the best niece.” He patted her back and kissed her on her forehead. “Now go home and wash that flour out of your hair. You look like a bad imitation of a ghost.”
“Will do!” Quinn brushed through her hair with her fingers. “See you later.”
A half an hour later, Quinn arrived at the brownstone and found Indie waiting on the front steps. Her bright blue spikes bobbed in time to whatever music she was listening to on her IPod. Her eyes lit up when she spotted Quinn. She popped the earbuds out and hopped up off the step.
“What are you doing here?” Quinn asked.
“I stopped by the restaurant to give you a ride home and your uncle said I’d just missed you. Due to Herbie’s turbo speed and light traffic, I made it here before you. You need to get cleaned up so we can head down to Espresso Yourself.”
“Why?”
“We are going to experience speed dating,” Indie said excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to try it. Sean called to say he saw a flyer posted when he bought his coffee there this morning. Best thing is that you only have two minutes to decide if he’s a winner or a wiener. If he’s not a catch, you have an easy escape.”
“Ugh. Really? After the Dark Dreams fiasco, I don’t know if I’m up to meeting a bunch of losers one right after another. I might go into overload.”
“I promise you it will be a blast. Besides, the event only lasts an hour so we’re there and done by eight. If yo
u come with me, I’ll treat you to Genova’s Pizza beforehand,” Indie wheedled.
“With mushrooms and olives on the pizza?”
“Of course. What kind of bribe would it be without?” Indie joked.
“Alright. I’ve got to feed the Zach’s fish before we go out,” Quinn said.
“Aren’t we getting domestic and cozy with the hot new neighbor.” Indie raised her eyebrows.
“It’s not like that. First of all, he asked me to do him a favor and feed his fish while he’s out of town for a week on business. Second of all, he’s an artist so I’m so not going down that path again. No more poor, starving artists who need drama to feed their artistic angst. No more rock musicians begging for cash to get their guitars out of the pawn shop. No more broke deadbeats for me. From now on, I want a safe, responsible guy with a 401k.”
“Sounds boring to me,” Indie said dryly. “Not all artists are broke and not all musicians are jerks. You had a run of bad luck with two guys. To quote your Grandma Rose, don’t throw the baby out with the bath water.”
“Boring is what I’m looking for right now. Not everything has to be rainbows and unicorns,” Quinn defended herself.
“If you say so,” Indie followed Quinn up the stairs. “Personally, I love rainbows and unicorns. I think you should wear that orange top Sean picked out for you. It looks good on you.”
“Orange isn’t usually my go to choice, but maybe it will become my lucky color if I meet a nice guy tonight.”
chapter eleven
http://theromancereport.blogathon.com
The Romance Report
A blog dedicated to the pursuit of love and happiness.
Monday, September 16, 9:17 p.m.
Dear readers, I knew I was right to be afraid when my dear frenemy returned with a proposal. “Let’s try speed dating,” she said. “It will be fun,” she said. Well, let me enlighten you. Having a tooth pulled without Novocain is more fun. Stubbing your toe on a chair as you make your way to the bathroom in the dark of night is more fun. Listening to your friend’s child play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star at their first violin recital is infinitely more fun. Well, you get the point.
The evening didn’t start off too badly. I did get a free pizza out of the deal. Frenemy (as she will now be forever named) and I shared a bottle of cabernet and a medium veggie pizza at my favorite pizza joint, Genova’s, before heading to Espresso Yourself.
Some brilliant barista decided that speed dating hadn’t completely died out and wanted to revive it at my favorite coffee spot. (If you haven’t had their Mocha Monkey Chino, you are missing a coffee dessert explosion in your mouth. Try it. You’ll thank me later.)
Frenemy and I arrived at the coffee house a few minutes before the torture was scheduled to start. The place was packed. To be honest, I was secretly glad that I wasn’t the only person who needed help to get a decent date. Some of the guys there were good looking although there were a few duds in the crowd. Of course the first guy I was paired up with was a mini Donald Trump with a bad comb over and socks with sandals. The only people who wear socks with sandals are mental patients and prisoners. He was an accountant so my mother would have loved him despite his fashion faux pas. She would look at it as a challenge and opportunity to do a makeover. Downside (not including the sock/sandal disaster), he had the personality of a slug. I felt like a spreadsheet with my assets and liabilities being entered. From his reaction to me, I could tell he felt I had a negative balance. I gave a silent prayer of thanks when the timer buzzed and we changed tables.
Guy Number Two was a construction worker who was divorced twice, thirty and had three kids. Need I state the obvious. I’m not looking for love in that wrong place.
Now for the highlight of the evening. The frosting on the cupcake. The marshmallows in the hot cocoa. Guy Number Three or should I call him Inmate 5486955. Why you ask? Let me set the scene for you, dear reader.
“Hi, my name is Quinn.”
“I’m Luke. Nice to meet you . You’re too hot for speed dating.”
“Ah, thanks.” I blush and bat my eyelashes coyly because this guy is hot. Black hair. Blue eyes. Tight white t-shirt that showed his magnificent physique. I knew it was too good to be true.
“I’m a pastry chef and a journalist. Kind of trying to decide between the two. What do you do?”
“I’m looking for a job. I just got done doing a dime.”
“A what?”
“A ten year stretch.”
“Ah. So you were in the military? Cool. My grandfather was in the military. What branch of service?”
“Nah. Not the military. I just got done serving ten years in the state penitentiary. Armed robbery. But don’t worry because I’m completely reformed. I got my G.E.D. and my college degree in marketing while inside. I’m ready to start a new life with a good woman by my side.”
“Armed robbery,” I squeaked. I searched frantically for a policeman, security guard, a granny with a gun in her purse.
“Don’t freak on me. I’m serious about turning over a new leaf. Just ask my parole officer. You’re gonna meet him. He’s at the next table.”
I didn’t wait for the timer. I grabbed my purse, grabbed Frenemy and hit the door. I’m glad I didn’t give the guy my last name. Even so, I put a chair under my front door for good measure.
Until next time, dear reader, goodnight and good luck in love.
Comments:
CourtneylovesTom: Yikes! I almost went to this tonight. Glad I dodged that bullet! Better luck next time.
QuinnieBee: Thanks. I don’t think I’ll try speed dating again. Not really my thing.
Shawnalovesboys: Girlfriend, did you wear that orange shirt I gave you because you would have had better luck if you had. Orange is lucky for love.
QuinnieBee: Yes, I did, and no, it clearly is not. Orange is also the color of the jumpsuits at the county jail. Hmm…Coincidence? I think not.
Grayson14: Hi. My friends and I saw your picture and if that’s really you in the picture you’re hot. We want to know why you can’t get a date.
QuinnieBee: I ask myself that very question every day.
Grayson14: If you’re still single when I’m a senior, will you go to prom with me?
QuinnieBee: Sure.
Grayson14: Do I get to touch you?
QuinnieBee: Isn’t it past your bedtime?
Dreambuilder: So you like dark hair and blue eyes?
QuinnieBee: Not necessarily. I don’t have a type when it comes to looks. I like a guy who is funny and smart. No artists. No musicians. Other than that, I’m not particular.
Dreambuilder: Good to know.
Chapter Twelve
Quinn spent the rest of the week in a haze of flour, cocoa powder and yeast. Hanrahan’s was booked solid for the week with reservations, so Quinn spent her afternoons and evenings that week sorting through her Grandma Rose’s recipe box to add new items to her dessert repertoire. On Thursday afternoon, she decided to take a detour on her way home and went to Mary’s Garden Home to visit her grandmother.
The assisted living apartments they had moved her Grandma Rose to were very nice. Each resident had their own apartment with a kitchenette; however, it was still difficult for Quinn to see Grandma Rose in new surroundings. She missed the scarred wooden floors and outdated cabinets of her Grandma’s house. It was where she spent much of her childhood while her parents were busy working. Quinn, Grandma Rose and her Uncle Patrick would cook and sing up a storm in the evenings. Quinn knew every dirty Irish limerick and pub song much to her grandmother’s chagrin and her uncle’s amusement. Uncle Pat’s sense of humor sometimes drove his mother to rap him gently on his knuckles with her wooden spoon and admonish him to “stop teaching the child to sing those dirty ditties!” Quinn smiled at the memory.
She knocked on her grandmother’s apartment door. She waited a moment and knocked again. When she still had no answer, she headed to the community house in the center of the assisted living complex. Senio
rs could play cards, dance, watch movies or just sit and visit. Quinn knew her grandmother loved her card games. Hopefully she wasn’t fleecing her fellow residents of their pensions.
She spotted her grandmother sitting with an older gentleman in the solarium. They were listening to music and appeared deep in conversation. Her grandmother’s face lit up at the sight of her. Quinn leaned down and kissed her on her cheek, then sat down at the table.
“Quinnie Bee! What brings you to visit my tired, old bones on this beautiful fall afternoon?” Grandma Rose asked. “I’m glad of the visit, mind you. Gives me a break from all these old timers.”
“Hey now. I’m one of those old timers!” The older gentleman sitting with Grandma Rose protested.
“Harold, I’m not talking about you.” Grandma Rose patted him on the hand, then to Quinn said sotto voce, “Actually, I am.”
Quinn grinned and held out her hand to Harold. “I’m Quinn Daniels, Rose’s granddaughter. Nice to meet you.”
“Harold Vogelstein. Pleasure to meet you, too. Nice to finally see a pretty face around here.” He winked at Quinn, then turned an innocent face towards Rose.
“Touché. So, Quinnie Bee, what brings you out today?”
“Nothing special. Just missing you. I’ve been helping Uncle Pat out at the restaurant. He has me working as the pastry chef while Jenny recovers from a broken leg. I’ve been using some of your recipes.”
“Patrick told me you’d been helping out. He also told me what a great job you’re doing. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Grandma. I learned everything from you.” Quinn blushed at her grandmother’s praise.
“He also told me he suggested you go to culinary school. Mind you, I never had to go to school to learn how to cook, but these days, a restaurant likes to hire someone with initials behind their name.”
“I don’t know. Mom and Dad spent so much money sending me to college. I think it would break their hearts if I chucked it all and became a chef.”