Let's Dish

by Catherine Wade

  "Are you quite finished?"

  "Drop dead.” It was merely a suggestion, but at that moment, I don't think I would have cared if he'd taken me up on it.

  "Maybe later. You want to call a truce for a few minutes?"

  I glowered at him. “Why would I want to call a truce with you?"

  He pointed to the counter. “I meant with the bread dough."

  I stopped mid-slap, the dough hanging out of my hand like an old dishrag before it slid to the counter with a thwack. “Sorry."

  "Hey, don't apologize to me.” He settled down on a stool across the counter from me. “After all, I'm the one who showed up out of nowhere in the middle of the night."

  "And just why did you show up here in the middle of the night? I don't have any tarts baked, the croissants aren't even started. So whatever meeting or celebration you have, I can't do anything for you."

  "You might as well face it, Maggie. You love my company.” His smirk was so cocky I wanted to grab a cast iron skillet and ring his bell. The thought of it made the corner of my mouth stretch up into a grin, and I was afraid he might take it as encouragement.

  "No, but I'd love to part company. Permanently. Know any good exterminators? The kind that specialize in giant cockroaches?"

  He leaned across the counter, bringing his face close to mine. “You're the local expert."

  I'd intended to hold my ground, but the intensity of his gaze made me retreat a step. “Is that why you're here? To ask about local suppliers again? I spent months staking out the best wholesalers, Kevin. And I have no intention of letting anyone else, especially you, in on it."

  Kevin settled back on the stool, seeming surprised that I wasn't falling at his feet just because he was somewhat charming. “I didn't come to ask about suppliers.” He looked down and—I kid you not—actually scuffed around with his toe. “I wanted to ... well, apologize, I guess."

  "Apologize? Apologize for what? Ruining my life?"

  His eyes narrowed when he looked up at me again. “One could argue I saved your life."

  "One could also argue you're a human being.” My blood was so hot it burned in my veins. “But my money's still betting you're a jackass."

  Kevin's mossy green eyes turned emerald, a fire lighting behind them. But I could see him do his own mental two-step, maybe even counting to ten like me. It seemed to work for him, though, and he shook his head. “But that's not what I'm talking about. I should have given you a little more warning. Before I opened Best Dishes."

  "Oh, that.” I went back to slapping the bread dough on the counter. “Well, you're allowed to open a business, after all. Now stealing my recipes, that's another story."

  "What do you mean, stealing your recipes?"

  "Lemon cream pound cake, Kevin? White chocolate mints? These things sound familiar?"

  Kevin had the audacity to look indignant. “Yeah. They do. We came up with them together while we were partners at the Academy."

  "We? I don't think so!” I tossed the now unusable bread dough into the trashcan beside my counter. “I worked my butt off at the Culinary Academy, Kevin. I fought tooth and nail for everything I got, and you rode my coattails all the way. Those were my dishes, Kevin. Mine. I had the ideas, I did the work, we shared the credit, but the stuff was mine!"

  His eyes flared again, and no counting was calming him down this time. “When did you get so self centered? What did that man do to you?"

  "Nobody did anything to me."

  "Maybe that's the problem."

  That did it. If I'd still had the bread dough in my hand, Kevin would have been wearing it. As it was, I was tempted to pull it out of the trash and stuff it down his pants. “The only person who's doing anything to me is you, Kevin. And you're just screwing me over."

  "You have an inflated opinion of yourself, don't you? The world doesn't revolve around you, you know.” He stormed to the door. “I've tried to be civil. I've tried to rectify past mistakes. And you accuse me of stealing. It isn't worth it, Mags. I'm out of here."

  "Damn right you're out of here,” I screamed. “I'm kicking your sorry, thieving butt out of my store."

  "You're not kicking me out. I'm leaving on my own accord."

  "Take your semantics and just get the hell out!"

  The answer I received was the sharp slam of the front door, followed by the insistent ringing of the bell that dangled above it. With that wonderful start to my day, I glared at the bread dough in the garbage and decided to start a pot of Armand's famous sludge coffee.

  I had a feeling I was going to need it.

  * * * *

  "Is it still pink?"

  "Of course it's still pink. It's not like these things just change from pink to not pink just because you want them to. We don't live in Never-never Land, okay, Maggie?"

  It was six in the morning and Lyla was already at my side. Before I drowned myself in caffeine, I'd decided it was time to determine if what I had suspected for some time was true. After taking one test, I took another. Since it was only a two-pack and sometimes you just need your best buddy to kick you in the head, I immediately called Lyla. She picked up another two-pack at the all-night market and arrived at my door.

  Two tests later I was still having a little trouble dealing.

  "You're pregnant,” she announced, as if I hadn't already figured that out. “I can't believe this. If one of us were to screw up like this, you would have thought it would have been me. No one would have been surprised if it had been me. Hell, when we were kids, people were giving odds on how soon I'd be an unwed mother, but even I managed to get married before my little surprise came along. Cripes, Mags. You're knocked up! You're single, and you're knocked up!"

  I stared at the stick, squinting to see if it would make that second evil line look more like an error instead of a monumental mistake. “Well, thanks for making it sound so attractive, Lyla! I feel so much better now. And, just to set the record straight, I did get married first."

  "Not according to your parents.” She just couldn't help but get that dig in, I guess. Still, looking at her face, she appeared to be as shocked as I was. “How long have you known about this?"

  I fidgeted with the box from the pregnancy test. “About two months. Maybe three."

  Lyla's eyes rolled toward the tin ceiling. “Three months! Geez, Maggie, three months and you haven't taken any prenatal vitamins or seen a doctor or anything?"

  "Who are you?” I asked, staring at her. “Whatever happened to my buddy who would help me out when I got myself into something stupid? Or at least do something equally stupid to take the heat off me?"

  She wasn't taking the bait, which meant I was going to have to stand there and take this surreal lecture. “Why did you wait so long?"

  I stared at her, putting as much sarcasm and meaning into it as I could.

  She reddened. “Okay, so I know why you waited so long. Sorry. But, still, Maggie, you could have made some decisions. There are things that can be done."

  "I wasn't sure I wanted things to be done.” I felt a pang deep down in my gut. “Or if they would even need to be done. But at this point, I don't think I can deny it any more."

  "How the hell did this happen?” I started the whole sarcastic stare thing again, and she heaved a sigh. “Of course I know how it happened, but who? Why? Oh, hell, how?"

  "Ted. I was drunk. And how? That would be on my grandmother's hope chest. Don't even ask how uncomfortable that was."

  She grimaced. “Don't worry, I won't.” Her expression reflected the litany of questions running through her head, as she debated what to ask first and what not to ask at all.

  I decided to save her from the fight between her curiosity and this sudden sense of delicacy. “It was the night we signed the divorce papers. He brought them over along with a bottle of wine. You know, a toast to say goodbye."

  "Ted did like to make toasts."

  "Well, the wine went down as we talked, then we started doing tequila shooters."


  "Tequila! Maggie!"

  I shrugged. “It was all I had in the fridge! I'd been making tequila barbequed chicken."

  Lyla nodded. “I get the picture. So you and Ted had one for the road, eh?"

  "More like three or four. By then my head was spinning, and he just looked so darned good. Oh, God! I nailed my ex! I am a living, breathing cliché!"

  Lyla nodded and brought her coffee cup to her lips. Realizing it was Armand's mix, she jerked it away and stared into its murky depths. “All those years and you never had any idea? I mean there was no clue at all?"

  I laid my head down on the cool granite of the counter. “No. Not really. In retrospect, I guess he kept buying me these dresses that were too big for me. Then instead of taking them back he'd just go buy me another. Hells bells, I used to tease him he's having an affair with the salesgirl at Saks."

  "Oh, for Pete's sake. And so you guys end up getting divorced and then get busy. Go figure. But how did you get pregnant? I thought you went on the pill after ... well, you know."

  "I did, but then there didn't seem to be a need anymore."

  "Oy!” Lyla rubbed her temples. Oh sure, like she had a headache. She had no idea what a headache was.

  Jack sat at the end of the counter stuffing his face with a cream cheese blintz. Looking at the child and his perfect dark curls, my stomach turned and my heart ached.

  "It could be worse,” Lyla said. “Look at me. I never thought I wanted kids. Swore up and down I'd never have any. Now I thank God every day for Jack."

  "He's wonderful. But what the hell am I going to do with a kid?"

  There was always an energy about Lyla. Even when sitting still, she seemed to be vibrating. At that moment, though, she was utterly still. “What is there to do? I asked myself the same thing when I found out I was going to have Jack. Two years later I can give you an answer. You're going to love him, Maggie. More than anything you've ever loved. More than your parents, more than that ugly St. Bernard you had as a kid. There's nothing like it, Mags. Nothing. Trust me on this one."

  "I guess I'm going to have to.” I was praying she was right and that I would have the strength to do it alone.

  "But today you're going to take the day off.” She hopped off the stool and headed for the phone.

  "But the coffee shop! And we have a job this afternoon!"

  "I know.” She was already dialing. “Armand was up at four to make the crepes for the appetizers. I'll call him, he'll get his butt over here and you can go upstairs and nap. That is, until you go to the doctor appointment I'm going to make for you."

  "But who's going to help him? He can't do this alone."

  "I'll help.” She turned and grinned at me. “Don't worry, I won't cook."

  I laughed. “Thank God. Last time you tried, the oven caught fire. The last thing I need is this place burning to the ground."

  "Very funny.” Lyla turned her attention back to the phone.

  "But what about Jack?"

  She shrugged. “I'll let Mom deal with him. Why isn't that man answering the phone? I bet he's in the van on the way over."

  "You're still leaving him with your mother?” I hoped my skepticism wasn't too obvious.

  "Okay, so she doesn't exactly have the maternal instinct thing down. But she raised me and look how well I turned out.” She hung up the phone, and looked at me. “Shut up!"

  "What?” I asked. “I didn't say anything."

  "No, but you were thinkin’ it!"

  "Guilty."

  "Go to bed,” she ordered, pointing her finger toward the stairs to my apartment. “I'm going to track down that loser husband of mine, then I'm calling Heather in. She can get her rear out of bed early for a damned change. Now go!"

  Lyla never used to boss me around. Much. Maybe that's why I snapped to and started for the stairs. “Ly, just do me a favor and don't tell Armand yet, okay?"

  She paused with her finger hovering over the buttons on the phone. “He's going to figure out something's up."

  "Tell him I have the flu. I just want to figure out how to tell him in my own way. And everybody else while we're at it."

  "Wild horses won't drag it from me,” she swore. “Wild sex, either."

  I smiled. “Thanks, Ly. I really appreciate it."

  "Anytime, honey.” She came over to give me a hug. “Now get your ass upstairs and get some sleep!"

  I did as I was told and went straight upstairs. And bawled for the next half hour.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Six

  September 1

  I've been getting ready for the Culinary Academy like a kid getting ready for the first day of school. I have all my knives picked out, but it cost a fortune. Thank God for Ted. He's going along with it all even though this isn't what he signed up for.

  The French pastry class had gone well, and my instructor said I seemed to have a knack for baking. Shocked the hell out of me, since all I'd ever managed to bake before was meatloaf from a box. She gave me some private lessons and after a few months I'd mastered the basics. She encouraged me to apply to the New York Culinary Academy, but just the thought of enrolling in a professional four-year program scared me half to death. After all, it wasn't so long since I'd been in the throes of depression. But I figured life couldn't get much worse than it had been. And if I could pass muster and make it through the program, maybe I'd even find some direction in my life. I threw caution to the wind and applied.

  Much to my shock, I was accepted to the Culinary Academy. I don't think I was that nervous starting kindergarten, although I vaguely remember wetting my pants when Ricky Baker asked to see my Holly Hobbie underwear.

  I was halfway down the hallway from my first class when I saw a tall, athletic and graceful man approaching the same door. His hair was sandy blond, and his eyes such a striking shade of green that one look in my direction practically made me stop breathing. Since meeting Ted, I'd never seen a man who could make me stop in my tracks. This guy definitely did.

  "Puff pastry?” he asked as I came near. His voice was pure silk with a hint of a southern accent.

  "Excuse me?” I forced myself to regain possession of my brain.

  He smiled and I just about lost it again. “I was asking if you're signed up for the puff pastry class."

  "Uh, yes."

  "Good. Then I already know a friendly face here.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it without even thinking. I was still concentrating on those deep, mossy eyes when he spoke again. “I'm Kevin Best."

  "Maggie Taylor."

  "You from around here?” He winced. “Sorry. That sounded like a pickup line. We're in school, not a bar."

  "That's okay.” I giggled like a hormonal thirteen-year-old. “I take it you're not from around here."

  "South Texas,” he said. “By way of Colorado and Florida. But I was born in Birmingham."

  "Alabama?"

  Kevin nodded. “That's the one."

  He opened the door for two of our classmates. Younger girls, who twittered when they passed him. I could understand why. He seemed to radiate sexual energy.

  "So why all the moves?” I asked.

  "Air Force. My dad's a Lt. Colonel. Retired now, thankfully. But he still thinks wanting to be a chef means I'm gay."

  Yep, I twittered. I had years on those other girls, and I was still dumbstruck by this guy. If he was gay, there were going to be a lot of disappointed ladies in our class.

  "So what's your story?"

  "I'm married,” I said, almost like I needed to remind myself. “My husband let me enroll this semester, but I want to finish the program and maybe become a real chef."

  An odd expression crossed Kevin's face. I wondered why. “If your husband lets you?"

  I blinked. That had come out wrong. And yet ... “Yeah,” I said. “Oh, he'll let me."

  "Good.” He was smiling, but it didn't look convincing.

  My words were coming out all tangled. Ted was a wonderful man. I knew that. So
how come I heard my own words and found a glimmer of something different?

  We took our seats, happening to land next to one another in the rows of tiny desks. There were twenty of us in the class, and all sixteen women had trouble keeping their eyes off Kevin. He had some competition, though. In the second row sat Kevin's polar opposite: a shorter, darker man with chocolate eyes and a tentative smile. He was younger than we were, but not as young as Kevin's fawning fan club.

  The first three weeks at the academy were enough to try the Pope's patience. The first day, the instructor—affectionately known as Chef Ratchet—informed us she would be cutting the dead wood and only a few of us would make the cut for graduation. It soon became apparent that her tactic was to bore us to death reviewing teaspoons, tablespoons and metric measurements until we were suicidal.

  As I fought a doze during those first days, I sized up my classmates. Brenda Whitestone was a twenty-something with all the backbone of a jellyfish. When Chef Ratchet informed us we were the worst cooks ever—before we'd even made a bite of food—poor Brenda broke down into tears. Harriet Warner was a no-nonsense grandmother who was ready to start a new life after being widowed. No one was stopping her, not even a nasty has-been chef with a bad attitude. Most of the other women in class were like me—nondescript and not quite sure what we were doing there.

  I got to know Brown Eyes over my tuna salad one day. The cafeteria was small, and Harriet's daughter brought the grandkids for lunch. This left few seats available, one of which happened to be next to me.

  "Mind if I sit here?"

  I looked up from my review of metric weights to find Brown Eyes standing beside me. “Sure.” I motioned for him to take a seat.

  He slid into the chair and took out his sandwich. “I'm Armand Hemingway."

  "Maggie Taylor. Hemingway, huh? Any relation?"

  He lit up like a Christmas tree. “Actually, Ernest was my grandfather."