Starlight Bridge

by Debbie Mason

  Liam stared at her. “You just stuck your finger in my food.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Fine. Here, you won’t mind. You eat it.” She removed Griffin’s veal, replacing it with the pork chops.

  If he could get her to take a bite, he didn’t mind at all. Right now, though, her attention was on Sully, who was studiously avoiding her gaze. She cleared her throat, smiling when Sully looked up. “How’s your duck, Joe?”

  Sully sighed and nudged his plate. “Have at it.”

  He didn’t need to tell her twice. Ava picked up the knife and fork from the place setting in front of her and cut off a piece. They all watched as she closed her eyes. She made that small humming sound again, only longer this time. She swallowed and opened her eyes, then slowly licked off the sauce glistening on her lips with the tip of her tongue. Griffin inwardly groaned. At least he thought it’d been in his head until three pairs of eyes turned his way.

  “Bone in my chop. I bit my tongue.”

  Liam covered the side of his face with one hand while Sully snorted a laugh, but Ava wasn’t paying attention to any of them. She’d turned when Erin approached the table four over with their order. “Erin,” she called out, hurrying to the other waitress’s side. She removed the sole dish from Erin’s hand, apologizing to the guests.

  Sully pointed his fork at Griffin. “If she comes back and offers you a piece of my duck, say no. This shit is good.”

  Ava returned with the plate, setting it down beside Liam’s on the cart. She checked their progress. “I’ll bring you a platter of pastries for dessert.”

  “Bring lots,” Griffin said with a smile. Ava used to love her pastries. Which meant, if he was lucky, more humming sounds.

  “Ava, you know, it might be best if I take those dishes back to the kitchen,” Liam said, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he pushed back his chair.

  “Don’t worry, Liam. I’m not going to hurt his feelings. I’ll just educate him on how to properly prepare mussels so he doesn’t kill our guests.” She turned to push the cart determinedly toward the kitchen.

  Liam swore and set off after her. “Ava, hang on.”

  Griffin laughed, settling back in the chair. “This should be good.”

  Sully looked at him. “When’s the baby due?”

  Griffin’s laughter faded. “April.” He never should have promised Lexi he’d stay away from Ava.

  “Good luck with that,” Sully said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ava had seriously miscalculated the benefits of mindless work. She would have been better off stopping by the corner store on the walk home and buying a pack of cigarettes, she thought, as she moved the steamer in a slow, rhythmic motion over the hardwood floor.

  She’d volunteered for the job in hopes it would relax her. She’d needed to relax after her stressful first day as a server. Not only did she have to deal with a fake French chef, but she also had to wait on Griffin. She’d tried to hand off his table to Erin, but the younger woman had apparently thrown in with Greystone’s matchmakers and refused.

  Without anything else to keep it occupied, Ava’s mind was playing a constant loop of her interactions with Griffin tonight. It was as though her brain was using the images and his words as evidence, trying to sway a jury. The left side using them as proof he didn’t love her, the right side as proof that he still did.

  She wondered if the jury was as confused as she was.

  Though the last image, the one where Griffin had decided he was too full for dessert and gave her an offhand “See you around,” should have been enough to clear the confusion. It would have been if she hadn’t made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Indigo eyes that had darkened with the same desire she’d seen earlier, only this time the want and need seemed to be accompanied by frustrated regret.

  She used both hands to maneuver the steamer into a corner of the octagon dining room. Obviously she was frustrated, too, because she rammed the black head against the baseboard, sending a shooting pain up her arm. She did a quick scan of the now shiny hardwood floors, relieved to discover she was done and a little disconcerted to realize she’d gone over the floors twice.

  More than ready to go home to put her feet up and ice her arm, Ava turned off the steamer. Her arm had begun to twinge toward the end of her shift. Thanks to the forceful contact between the steamer and baseboard, it had grown into a bone-deep ache. She made a mental note to bring Advil with her tomorrow. It was the first day of the bridal show and would no doubt be busier than today.

  Carrying the steamer to a storage closet near the window, Ava glanced at the stars studding the black velvet sky, a half-moon shining down on Kismet Cove. At least her walk home would be a pleasant one. Over the past week, the temperatures had been slowly climbing, melting most of the snow.

  She pressed on the door that was hidden in the wall and set the steamer inside. Turning to flip off the sconces that graced the stone walls and the three burnished gold chandeliers hanging from the exposed beams of the ceiling, she frowned. The light was still on in the kitchen. Erin and the other server had left an hour ago. And Gaston had left an hour before they did.

  As Ava approached the kitchen, she heard someone softly crying. She pushed open the door. It was Helga. Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her white chef coat, the older woman hadn’t noticed her. Ava began to tiptoe backward and then sighed. Helga might hate her, but Ava’s conscience wouldn’t let her leave until she made sure the older woman was all right.

  “Helga, are you okay?”

  Short and heavy-set with dyed red hair that looked almost orange in the fluorescent light, the older woman covered her face and shook her head.

  Ava approached, taking in the two trays of pastries sitting on cooling trays. She gingerly placed a hand on Helga’s shoulder, fully expecting to be rebuffed. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Helga lowered her hands, a hopeless expression on her heavily powdered face. “He’s going to fire me.” She lifted her quivering double chin at the pastries. “I’ve been making dozens of these things all day, and he says he wouldn’t serve them to a dog. A dog, he says.”

  Since the day Sophie had taken over at Greystone, her cousin had been thinking of ways to get rid of Helga. Not only was the older woman cantankerous and contrary, but for the past several months, the guests had also been complaining about the food. But Helga had worked in the manor’s kitchen for decades, so as much as she may want to, Sophie would never fire the older woman.

  “Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what’s he’s talking about. He nearly poisoned three guests with undercooked mussels, and the veal was overcooked.” Ava picked up a pastry. “Are these for the bridal fair?” They were to serve hor d’oeuvres to the attendees throughout the three-day event.

  Helga nodded. “He says I have to have sixteen dozen of them made by tomorrow morning. If they don’t meet his approval, he’s says I’m done.”

  Ava took a bite and then wished she hadn’t. The pastry was thick and doughy. The filling, what little there was, had no taste. She worked the pastry down her throat with several hard swallows, forcing a smile for Helga, who watched her closely. “They’re not too bad. What exactly did Gaston say he wanted? Did he leave you instructions or a recipe?”

  “Some puff things with brie and mushrooms and a palmier with ham, Gruyère, and mustard.” Helga pulled two pieces of lined paper from under a stainless steel mixing bowl.

  Ava didn’t need to look at the recipes to know what the problem was. She took them anyway. “A palmier is made with puff pastry, Helga. Not regular pastry. I’m guessing Gaston forgot to mention that.” Either he assumed that Helga knew what a palmier was or he was trying to sabotage the older woman. For now, Ava would give him the benefit of the doubt. He knew how important the bridal fair was to Greystone.

  “I don’t know how to make puffy pastry, just the regular stuff.”

  Ava smiled and slipped off her shoes. “You’re in luck because I do. You make up new ba
tches of the fillings, and I’ll get started on the pastry.”

  Helga stared at her. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Because what Gaston did to you wasn’t right. Someone needs to teach that cocky little man a lesson. He thinks just because we don’t have his fancy schooling that we can’t cook? Ha. We’ll show him. He can’t just come in here and ride roughshod over all of us.”

  “I’m getting a taste of my own. I was no better to you and your cousin a few months back. Worse, truth be told.” The older woman raised her red-rimmed, tired eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s no excuse, but I thought Sophie was trying to get rid of me. Probably past time I did retire. But I love this old place, you know? It’s home. I don’t have any family. This”—she lifted a hand, her fingers swollen and bent with arthritis—“this is all I’ve got.”

  Knowing only too well how Helga felt, Ava spoke around the lump in her throat. “I don’t blame you. In your shoes, I probably would have acted the same.”

  Now that she thought about it, wasn’t that exactly what Ava was doing to Gaston? She’d been upset when she’d learned that Sophie had hired him, resenting him for stealing her opportunity to fulfill her promise to her father. But more than the promise to her father, it had been the loss of the opportunity to make more money. Money she needed to pay for Gino’s care. Maybe Gaston really was the best person for the position.

  In her opinion, his culinary skills could use some work, but at least he was actually passionate about his job. Which would serve Greystone well. In the end, that’s all that really mattered.

  An hour later, Ava discovered that, while Helga appreciated her help, she was still a cantankerous old lady. She slapped the back of Ava’s hand with the spatula. “Get your fingers out of my filling.”

  Ava ignored her, pinching some of the ham and Gruyère between her fingers “You have to taste it. How do you know if it’s good if you don’t?

  Helga elbowed her out of the way. “You just follow the dang recipe.”

  Trying not to make a face as she forced herself to swallow the filling, Ava asked, “So, how many teaspoons of honey mustard did the recipe call for?” She had a feeling she may have discovered the reason why Helga’s meals had been drawing complaints over the past few months. And it wasn’t only because the old lady needed to start tasting what she made.

  Helga picked up the paper, squinting at the recipe. “Honey mustard? I thought it said mustard, mustard.”

  Testing her theory, Ava tapped her finger on the line. “It’s more the amount than the type of mustard.” Which wasn’t entirely true. “How many teaspoons does it say?”

  “You can’t read?” Helga retorted.

  “Yes, I can read. But I’m beginning to think you can’t see.” There, she’d said it.

  “What are you talking about? Look, right there, it says eight tablespoons.”

  “Helga, it says three teaspoons.”

  The older woman brought the paper within an inch of her nose and then put it down. “Teaspoons, tablespoons, what does it—”

  Ava scooped some of the filling onto a teaspoon and shoved it in the older woman’s mouth.

  Helga scowled at her as she chewed and then looked at the filling in the bowl. “I guess it does matter.”

  “It does. So until you get glasses, you need to taste what you make, and tell Gaston.”

  “No, there’s something off about that man. I’m not telling him nothing.”

  Ava crossed her arms.

  Helga pulled a face. “I know I said the same thing about your cousin, but this is different. He’s up to something, mark my words.”

  “All right, if he gives you another recipe, bring it to me. I’ll go over it with you and rewrite it so you can read the amounts and ingredients.”

  “What we should do is get rid of him, and then you and me will take over the restaurant.”

  She didn’t like the glint in Helga’s eyes. Ava had enough experience with crazy old ladies to know what kind of trouble they could get up to once they set their mind on something. “Once I’ve paid off my father’s rehab bill, I’ll go back to housekeeping,” she said, taking off her brace in hopes of relieving the throbbing ache. She’d had it on too long anyway.

  “Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work, but you’ve been given a talent. Seems wrong to waste it cleaning toilets.”

  Two hours later, Ava found herself thinking about what Helga had said. She’d sent the older woman home not long after she’d made the comment. Not because Ava didn’t want to continue the conversation, but because the older woman was exhausted. Ava wasn’t, and she knew why.

  For the first time in a long time, she was enjoying herself. Tonight, cooking didn’t feel so much like a chore as a pleasure. She’d turned on the radio when Helga left, pounding the butter with the French rolling pin to the beat of ’90s rock music.

  She’d found herself moving in time to Pearl Jam’s “Black” while kneading the flaky, light-as-air pastry, taste testing a few other fillings she’d experimented with while singing—quietly so she didn’t wake anyone. She loved the textures, the smells and flavors. Quitting smoking had apparently reawakened her taste buds. Something her expanding chest and butt could attest to.

  The oven timer dinged, signaling the moment of truth. Did she still have it or not? If she were to listen to her cousins and aunt, she did. But to Ava’s mind, the dishes she’d made back in late November and December were missing something. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but the food had lacked that special indefinable ingredient. Her Auntie Rosa would say it was love. But Ava wasn’t sure she’d added that intangible element to the five pastries—each with a different filling—that she’d popped into the oven twenty minutes earlier.

  She was about to find out, Ava thought, as she bent to open the oven door. She pulled out the tray and smiled. They were perfect, beautiful and golden brown, and they smelled delicious too. Something else occurred to her as she straightened to place the baking sheet on the cooling tray; there wasn’t a speck of tension in her body.

  Yes, her arm ached, but other than that she was calm and relaxed. She hadn’t spared a single thought for Griffin in hours.

  “Ava?”

  She closed her eyes on a groan. Would she have to spend every minute of every single day, cooking just to keep the blasted man out of her head? “Go away. I’m done thinking about you. You’re making me crazy.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m done with you acting crazy. It’s three-thirty in the morning, Ava.”

  She slowly turned. And there he was in the flesh, perfectly beautiful and golden. As he prowled toward her, she caught a whiff of a delicious lemony scent. It wasn’t her pastries. Her gaze moved from his bare feet to his plaid sleep pants to the navy T-shirt that hugged his wide chest, stopping at his firm, sculpted lips. She wondered if he would taste delectable too.

  She lifted her gaze to meet his before she gave in to the temptation to find out. “I’m not acting crazy. Helga needed help with her hors d’oeuvres for tomorrow. So I helped her.”

  He looked around the kitchen. “Where is she? You lock her in the cooler?”

  The Gallagher grandchildren were well acquainted with Helga. “No, I put her in the oven,” she quipped, hoping to distract him from remembering what she’d said when he first entered the kitchen.

  His lips twitched. “Funny girl.” He nodded at the tray. “So Helga browbeat you into doing her work for her and toddled off home. Never thought I’d have to say this to you, but you have to start standing up for yourself, babe. You can’t let people take advantage of—”

  No, what she had to do was stop letting his casual endearments reignite the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not debate in her head. “Despite what you think, I’m perfectly capable of standing up for myself, babe.” She mentally gave herself a pat on the back when his eyebrows shot up to the messy golden brown hair that flopped over his forehead. “Helga wasn’t browbeating me. Gaston was browbeating her. He made her cry.”

/>   “You know what they say about karma. None of her assistants ever lasted more than a month.” Griffin leaned in and sniffed. “I probably should be giving you hell for staying up half the night to help her out, but damn, those smell good. Can I have one?”

  “If you promise not to tell anyone you saw me here tonight, yes, you can.” She frowned as she slid a red silicone spatula beneath the golden-brown triangle. “What are you doing up? The music isn’t that loud, is it?”

  He raised his hand to rub the back of his neck, the movement causing the hem of his T-shirt to rise, giving her a mouthwatering glimpse of sculpted abs. Maybe she was more tired than she thought because she had an almost uncontrollable urge to brush her lips over the golden skin that was lightly dusted with dark hair…

  She drew her gaze back to his face, only her eyes took a detour and got stuck on the flex of his impressive bicep.

  “Every time I fell asleep, I was woken up by…my stomach telling me I was starved.” A touch of color flushed his stubbled cheeks.

  “I don’t know why you’re embarrassed. It’s no wonder you’re starved. You didn’t eat enough tonight. You should have had dessert.” She offered him the pastry. “Careful, it’s…” He’d already popped it into his mouth. “Good?” she asked when he swallowed.

  “Good? Are you kidding me? That was amazing. What was in it?”

  “Ham, Gruyère, and honey mustard.” She handed him a square pastry. “See what you think of this one. It’s chicken, cream cheese, and a sweet chili relish.”

  He chewed slowly, a familiar expression coming over his face. She recognized the look. He’d worn it when they made love. Feeling a little flushed herself, she cleared her throat before asking, “Good?”

  “You really need to increase your repertoire of adjectives, Ava. Because that…that was…I might have seen stars.”

  He seemed closer. She wasn’t sure who was closing the distance between them—him or her. The one thing she knew for sure was the kitchen was growing warmer. She leaned back to turn off the oven. She already had. “Would you like another one?” she asked without looking at him.