On Lavender Lane

by JoAnn Ross

  4

  The French lavender lining the roadway leading to Sofia De Luca’s Lavender Hill farm had burst into bloom, the grounds were bright with iris and rhododendron, fields of herbs were beginning to green up, and the rooms were perfumed with the quiet, soft scent of dried lavender potpourri. Lucas could not have thought of a better place to celebrate his father’s amazing life with friends.

  “Wow, what a crowd,” Charity murmured as she found him alone in the octagon-shaped parlor. “Not that I’m surprised. Your dad was a popular guy.”

  “He touched a lot of lives.” It seemed half the town had come to the supper, clasped Lucas’ hand, and shared some personal story of Duncan Chafee. So many so that after a while he’d just needed to escape.

  “That’s how people live on,” she said mildly. “In memories and stories. He truly did touch many lives. And was so proud of you,” she added, making him wonder if she’d realized that as much as Lucas appreciated all those anecdotes, they’d left him realizing what a huge legacy his dad had left behind. A legacy that wouldn’t be easy to live up to.

  “He sailed into town a couple weeks ago and we had dinner. He told me all about what a hero you were. And how you’d saved so many of your teammate’s lives.”

  “I’m no hero. I was just doing my job.”

  “Yeah. Kara told me that’s what Sax always says when people bring it up. I don’t believe him, either.”

  When he didn’t respond, they went back to looking out the window, as comfortable with each other as if they’d been lifelong siblings, and not steps who only shared a summer together a very long time ago.

  “I love wisteria,” she murmured.

  “Which would be?”

  “Those.” She pointed at the flowers that had climbed over the arbor. “The ones that look like a purple waterfall dropping from the sky.”

  It was a good description.

  Another silence settled over them.

  “It was nice of Sofia to hold this supper,” he said after a time.

  “Wild horses couldn’t have stopped her. And…”

  “What?” he asked when her voice trailed off.

  She paused, as if carefully choosing her words. Then shook her head. “It’s not any secret. You know her husband died.”

  “Yeah. Sax and Kara told me about that. I guess it was rough.”

  “Losing a life partner and your best friend can’t be easy at any time. But yes, his cancer made it worse.” She sighed. “Then Rosemary—that was her dog, who her husband had talked her into adopting—had to be put down last summer.”

  “That is tough.”

  “True. But I found her another—”

  “Why am I not surprised at that?” The idea made him smile. His old teammate had also told him that Charity seemed determined to place a pet with everyone up and down the Oregon coast.

  “It’s an older bulldog who was abandoned pregnant. I was hoping Sofia and Winnie would fit. And they did.” It was her turn to smile. “But although it’s a cliché, she’s not getting any younger, and I worry that this place might be becoming too much for her.”

  “She seemed distracted.”

  “She does, doesn’t she?” Charity agreed. “I wonder if it has anything to do with that phone call she got after we got back to the pier?”

  “I hope it wasn’t bad news,” they both said at once.

  “Jinx.” She hit him lightly on the arm. “You owe me a Coke.”

  They were laughing at the old schoolyard saying when the subject of their conversation joined them in the room.

  “You’ve got quite a crowd out there,” Sofia said. “Good thing I planned ahead and cooked for an army.”

  “I really appreciate you going to all this trouble.” Lucas repeated what he’d been saying since she’d first approached him with the idea. “But I wish you’d let me pay.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Your father was a dear friend. As are you. And friends certainly don’t charge friends at a time like this. Although,” she said, a little slyly, Lucas thought, “there is something you can help me out with.”

  “Anything.”

  “I’ve been rattling around in this house all by myself—well, myself and Winnie,” she corrected as she smiled at Charity. “But as good company as the sweet dog is, she’s not all that scintillating a conversationalist. Which is why I’ve been thinking of expanding to make room to bring more people here.”

  “Like a B and B?”

  “Oh, gracious, no.” She shook her head emphatically. “While I’ve always enjoyed cooking for people, I’ve never understood why anyone would want to spend their golden years making beds and cleaning bathrooms for constant houseguests.…No, I’m thinking of opening up a small restaurant.”

  “Would you be doing the cooking?” Charity, who was clearly concerned about the older woman taking on such a project, asked.

  “I’m not that ambitious, dear. No, I plan to start interviewing chefs in the next month or so. But I need a contractor willing to take on the job of turning my simple, admittedly outdated farm kitchen into a more commercial one.”

  It wasn’t the lofty plan of restoring grand old Victorians from San Diego to Vancouver Island that Lucas’ father had conceived. But, then again, the past years in a war zone had taught Lucas that life was what happened when you were busy making plans. And it would let him stay here long enough to reconnect with Charity. As well as Sax, who seemed to have settled comfortably into domestic bliss with his fiancée and her son while running his family’s Cajun restaurant and dance hall.

  “Sounds like an interesting challenge,” he said.

  He exchanged a look with Charity, whose expression shouted out, Say yes!

  “How about I come over tomorrow?” he suggested. “You can tell me what you have in mind and we can start talking about plans.”

  The elderly woman’s smile could have lit up all of Shelter Bay for a month of rainy Sundays. She reached up and patted his cheek with a weathered hand.

  “You’re such a good man, Lucas Chafee. And you remind me so much of your father at his age. I know you’re going to have a wonderful future.”

  She paused. Just a heartbeat, but long enough to catch Lucas’ full attention.

  “That means a lot coming from you.” Because he’d never been one to beat around the bush and knew Sofia was the same, he asked, “Is there something you’re not telling me? Something about dad?”

  “Oh no.” She shook her head. “It’s just that…well…something’s come up, and although I’m not exactly sure how it’s all going to shake out, would you have a problem working with my granddaughter?”

  “Maddy? She’s going to be your chef?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that.” Again Lucas had the feeling she was holding something back. “But she’s currently on hiatus between seasons. She has two culinary shows on TV—”

  “I’ve seen them,” he said. That comment drew a surprised look from Charity.

  “Have you?” Sofia’s eyes lit up. “Well, then you know that she’s developed into a wonderful chef. So I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to spend a bit of her hiatus here at home.”

  “I thought her home was in New York.”

  And didn’t that draw another, more probing look from his stepsister?

  “Well, of course it is,” Sofia agreed. “But everyone needs a little R and R from time to time. And what better place than here at the farm? Besides,” she tacked on, “although she’d deny it, I do think she worries about me getting older.”

  Lucas had known Sofia De Luca since he was a boy. He also knew she was not one to focus on age. Especially her own. Which could only mean she was playing the age card as an additional ploy to get him to agree to work on her project.

  Possibly with Maddy.

  Which could be really, really bad.

  Or, on the other hand, fate could have just handed him a do-over.

  Remembering what his dad had taught him about embracing whatever life tossed
his way, Lucas said, “You’ve got yourself a contractor.”

  The warm, self-satisfied smile the elderly woman flashed at him suggested she’d never expected any other outcome.

  5

  Since the taxi line wasn’t moving, Madeline put on her best public smile, dearly hoped the woman wasn’t going to bring up that damn video, and said, “Yes, I’m Madeline Durand.”

  “Well!” The woman fisted her leather-gloved hands on her hips. “Let me tell you, I bought those pans you have on your show. And they’re junk.”

  Do not argue with a viewer. Especially in public. If she hadn’t already known that nothing was private these days, the past few hours would have hammered the point home.

  “I’m sorry. What’s the problem?”

  “I was searing Parmesan-crusted pork chops in oil, just the way you said to, and they still burned so badly that they stuck to the bottom of the pan. Which, by the way, isn’t nearly as easy to clean as you advertise when there’s an inch of burned crud stuck to the bottom.”

  Madeline so didn’t need this. “I’m sorry,” she tried again as the line inched forward. “Did you heat the pan before adding the oil?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Which gave Madeline her answer. “You shouldn’t need a PhD to cook a damn pork chop.”

  Not only did she always, both on her show and in her cookbook, stress heating the pan first, but the booklet that came with the pans echoed that advice. But this was neither the time nor place to argue.

  “They come with a lifetime warranty. If there’s something wrong with the pan—”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” The woman’s cheeks flamed. “The pork chops burned. Of course there’s something wrong with the damn pan! Or maybe you had someone else ghostwrite that cookbook for you. Someone who’s never been in a kitchen.”

  The woman’s voice rose high enough to strip the yellow paint off the taxis that were pulling up to the curb. People were beginning to notice. And, oh, joy, they’d begun pulling out their smartphones. Probably to share that damn sex video with others in line.

  “I tested every recipe in that book.” Madeline tried for reason and prayed for the line to move more quickly. Why hadn’t she just sprung for a limo or town car? Then at least she’d have a driver to run interference for her. Preferably a big one. With a pair of wraparound shades and a dangerous, don’t-mess-with-the-chef vibe. “I also demonstrated most of the recipes, including the pork chops, on one of my shows.”

  She scrambled to remember which. “I think on Dinner at Home.” Yes, that was it. “It’ll be on the Web site if you’d like to—”

  “I saw the damn show. And the dish looked real good when you cooked it. Which is why I decided to make the pork chops for my husband’s birthday dinner. But, like I said, the pans are junk. You probably pulled some kind of bait and switch, making the finished chops in some decent brand. One you’re not getting paid big bucks to endorse.”

  People now seemed torn between whether to check out the video or eavesdrop on this worsening conversation. Many, Madeline noted with a sinking heart, were managing to multitask.

  No way was she going to discuss her contract, which wasn’t, by the way, all that lucrative, in public, with a total stranger.

  “Do you have a business card?” she asked.

  “Why?” The woman seemed taken aback by the change in conversation.

  “Because I’m very sorry for your problems, and if you give me your name and address, I’ll see that a replacement pan is sent to you.” She had no idea if ChefSteel would even do such a thing if there wasn’t an actual flaw in the product. But if they wouldn’t, she’d pay for one herself.

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest. Given her body language, the idea, which certainly seemed generous to Madeline, apparently didn’t impress.

  “How’s that going to help? Since the pan’s obviously inferior to begin with.”

  “Fine.” Now Madeline was losing patience. She dug into her purse and pulled out her billfold. “How much did you pay for the pan?”

  “I don’t have any idea. I bought them as a set. They’re your pans. You should know they’re only sold on the Shopping Channel as a set.”

  “Fine.” Her dentist was going to love her. From the way she was grinding her teeth, he was probably going to make a fortune selling her a set of crowns. “What did you pay for the set?”

  Her detractor paused just long enough to clue Madeline in to the fact that she was trying to decide how much she could get away with.

  Surprise, surprise. She ended up naming an amount Madeline knew to be nearly double the actual price.

  Wondering if she could write this off on her taxes as a promotional expense, or maybe goodwill, she began writing the check. “I’ll need your name. Unless you want it made out to cash.”

  “Denise Walker.” The woman snatched the piece of paper the second Madeline had finished writing. “How do I know this won’t bounce?”

  Bitch. “It won’t. But I tape before a studio audience, so if it doesn’t clear, you can show up and tell the world.”

  “Someone should tell the world that your pots are junk.” The woman stuck the check in her bag. Then turned on a red suede heel and marched off.

  “You’re welcome,” Madeline murmured.

  “I would’ve decked her,” a woman standing behind Madeline said. “But you handled it with amazing class.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t had the best day. I really wouldn’t want to cap it off by getting arrested for assault.”

  “Yeah. I heard about your day.”

  Of course you have.

  “If my husband did that to me, they’d have to hide all the cleavers once I got home.”

  Madeline decided against mentioning she’d already considered that idea.

  “But if it’s any consolation, you’re a lot better-looking than the woman in the video.”

  “Thanks.” Not that it was any consolation.

  “And a better cook than your weasel of a spouse. I’ve tried some of your recipes and they’re great. But my husband took me to Maxime’s in Miami for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and I have to tell you, for such a big ticket dinner, we were not impressed.

  “My eggplant-stuffed roasted salmon was surprisingly bland. Plus, my husband’s scallops committed the cardinal culinary sin of being overcooked.”

  “I’m sorry.” A word Madeline seemed to be saying a lot lately. Two more couples and she’d be in her taxi and, thank you, God, could escape.

  “Well, it wasn’t a total loss. I will say he’s created the sexiest restaurant we’ve ever been to. Between the waterfall, the ocean view, and the cool South Beach vibe, not to mention the blindfolded Chocolate Seduction, we couldn’t wait to get up to our room.”

  The Chocolate Seduction—which involved one diner being blindfolded, then fed a sampling of exotic chocolates to guess the fillings—had been Maxime’s idea.

  Madeline had always suspected it was a dessert diners would order from room service, or take up to their rooms after dinner for fun and games later, but a surprising number of customers appeared to enjoy the exhibitionism of sampling while surrounded by strangers.

  She was wondering if Maxime had re-created the Chocolate Seduction game with the woman in the video when the woman in the taxi line suddenly turned as scarlet as a boiled lobster.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what had me bringing up the sex thing. I mean…considering that he…You know.”

  Unfortunately, Madeline did know.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Finally! She was being assigned the taxi that had pulled up to the curb. “It’s good to hear that the dessert made up for a less-than-perfect meal.”

  “Oh, believe me,” the woman assured Madeline as she escaped into the backseat. “It did.”

  The taxi had no sooner pulled into traffic when her phone rang again.

  She debated not answering, but knowing her agent’s tenacity, she’d just k
eep calling. And calling.

  “Please tell me there’s not another video out there,” she said.

  “No,” Pepper said. “At least not that I know of, but considering all the rumors over the years, I need to warn you, Madeline, you should prepare yourself for yet more shoes to drop.”

  “What rumors?”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. For a moment Madeline thought that perhaps the call had been dropped, but then her agent, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, asked, “Are you actually telling me that you’ve never heard the stories?”

  “About Maxime? No.” Apparently, the old saying was true: The wife really was the last to know.

  “Oh. Well, don’t worry about it. You know how rumors are; they probably don’t mean a thing.”

  “What rumors?”

  “Oh, Madeline.” A huge sigh. “You’ve already had such a rotten day.”

  “It hasn’t exactly been a picnic. But I did sell a bunch of pots and pans.” Which was so not why she’d worked nearly her entire life to become a chef.

  “Yay, you.”

  “Yay, me,” Madeline echoed with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “You were telling me about rumors?”

  “Oh, nothing specific. You know this city is basically just a small town. And people do gossip.”

  “People gossip about my marriage?”

  There was another longer, deeper sigh. “We need to talk. Why don’t you drop by my office on the way home?”

  “Which one?”

  There were two, including the “official” one in a beautiful landmark Victorian built by William Waldorf and John Jacob Astor III in the late 1800s. The other, which was usually saved for celebrations or serious career-planning sessions, was the Temple Bar in lower Manhattan’s NoHo, located between the East and West Village.

  “The one with alcohol.” The bar. Which likely meant bad news. “I’m leaving now.” The line went dead.

  After giving the driver the new destination, Madeline leaned back against the seat, closed her eyes, and tried to tell herself not to borrow trouble. But that didn’t stop her from worrying that perhaps ChefSteel had changed their mind about her being a proper spokesperson.