"You're joking, right?” I didn't mean to sound judgmental, but his face fell.
"No one believes me when I tell them that. But my grandmother told me the whole story. He was in Havana, working on A Farewell to Arms—"
"I thought he wrote that in Arkansas,” I said, but Armand shook his head.
"Only part of it. The rest he wrote in my great-grandfather's home in Cuba."
"I see.” He'd obviously missed his last dose. “So you know you sound like you need to be in a straightjacket, right?"
People generally didn't react well when my smart mouth ran on its own. Armand, however, grinned. “Yeah, okay. I get it. It is a bit far-fetched."
"Just a little."
"I still believe it, though.” He unwrapped his sandwich, checking mine. “Tuna?"
"Yeah. I know I'm in cooking school and should have something much more gourmet than this."
He held his up for me to see. “Spam. I don't have time to cook at home, either."
I sighed. “I didn't think we'd have this much homework. Man, this is so much harder than I thought."
Armand didn't look at all encouraging. “My roommate Chad started this course last year. He washed out in the second semester."
I slumped. “So Ratchet wasn't kidding. We won't all make it."
Armand took a bite of Spam and frowned. “If you think it's tough now, wait until we have to partner up."
"We partner up?"
"For the duration. So if you don't like your partner, you're pretty much screwed for the next four years."
"Terrific. I don't even know anybody here. I'd have no idea who to pick and, with my luck, I'd end up with Bawling Brenda."
"I'm in the same boat.” He put down his sandwich and wiped his hand on a napkin. “Well, there's only one solution. Time to make friends. Let me re-introduce myself.” He reached across the table to shake my hand. “Armand Hemingway. Possibly mentally ill Cuban guy."
I laughed. “Maggie Taylor. Probably repressed Catholic girl."
"See? We make a great pair already."
* * * *
That afternoon, the doctor confirmed everything I already knew. I was pregnant. Oh, joy. In my pocket was a crumpled piece of paper. It was a simple prescription for prenatal vitamins, but to me it represented so much more. It was a commitment.
Or a sign I needed to be committed. I wasn't quite sure which.
I headed to the supermarket with the least nosey pharmacist and proceeded to weave my way through aisles and aisles of jarring reminders. Baby food, baby bottles, diapers. Why couldn't the pharmacy be near the chips and ice cream section?
Just as I was getting comfortable with the sinking feeling of impending doom, I turned a corner and came face-to-face with a familiar leather jacket. Face-to-back, actually, so he hadn't spotted me. Kevin was hovering over the coffee section, five different cans in his cart. I froze in my tracks, wondering if I could somehow slip unnoticed back the way I'd come. My hesitation, however, turned out to be fatal.
He must have sensed me behind him, because his head swiveled around and he caught my eye. “Maggie. Hi.” There was surprise in his voice, but I noticed his shoulders droop a fraction of an inch. Wasn't he glad to see me? I mean it wasn't like I was going out of my way to be nice to him or anything, but he was the one who insisted on stalking me. A chance meeting should be a happy thing. For him.
"Uh, hi.” I was too busy trying to figure out how to extricate myself to think up a snappy retort.
He scrutinized me, perhaps surprised that I hadn't bolted the second I saw him. It's not that I didn't want to, but I seemed glued to the spot. “You okay?” he asked.
"Why?” My hand made its way into my pocket, self-consciously fingering the prescription.
"You look a little pale. And when Lyla said you were out this afternoon—"
"You talked to Lyla? What did she say?"
Kevin stared at me. “Nothing. Just that you weren't feeling well."
"Yeah.” Paranoid much? I scolded myself. Lyla hadn't outed me. She'd promised not to say anything, but she had an insane streak when it came to Kevin. Still, if this was the way I reacted to a simple question, I'd soon out myself.
"Nothing serious, I hope."
Oh, if he only knew. “Don't think this is your big break or anything. We're not going anywhere. Flu or no flu, we're still in business."
"I didn't say you weren't.” He was putting on his innocent look again, his bright eyes calm and clear like a forest lake. I wasn't buying it.
How dare he catch me trying to sneak to the pharmacy? “What are you doing tracking me down at the grocery store, anyway?” I asked. “Don't you own a business? Or do you ever actually cook there?"
He grinned. “Hard to find time to cook, what with all the time I devote to tracking you down.” He made little quote marks in the air and tilted his head from side to side as he imitated my tone.
"Ha ha. Very funny."
"But a wise woman once told me there are bakeries in grocery stores.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet. He looked like a little kid waiting for a treat.
"This is the coffee aisle."
"Uh oh. You've discovered my secret.” He leaned close and I felt his breath on my cheek. “Sometimes I drink coffee with Danishes."
My eyes rolled back and I shook my head. “Whatever. I have to go."
I took a step backward and turned to leave, only to hear from behind me, “Don't you want to know why I called?"
Despite my better judgment, I turned to face Kevin again. “Not really.” What a liar.
Kevin's smile waned. “Listen, I'd love to stand here and mess with you all day, but the truth is I felt bad about how things ended this morning."
"Ended is right. I'm happy to live the rest of my days without listening to any more of your malarkey.” My tone was sharper than I'd intended, and my mother's guilt-trip tapes played in my head. But Mom never planned on Kevin Best coming along. He wasn't exactly getting the hint that I wanted him out of my life and, if possible, the galaxy. Being polite was not going to cut it.
"Maggie, I know we don't have the best history, but I've never lied to you. In fact, I may have been too honest in the past and pointed out something you weren't ready to see yet."
Immaturity as self-defense kicked in and I crossed my arms to pout. “I have no idea what you're babbling on about."
"Yes, you do. But I don't want to drag up the past. I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry about this morning. I shouldn't have come to see you so early. Before either of us had had our coffee.” He shot me a wink, and I clenched my fist.
"And here I thought I'd finally gotten rid of you.” I was still pouting. It was working for me. I wasn't ready to give it up yet. “After all, I'm not worth it."
"Maybe I decided I'm not ready to give up on you yet.” One side of his mouth slid upward. “You're worth a whole mess of trouble."
That's when the floor dropped out from under me. Or at least my stomach, because it felt like it plunged fifty feet and landed with a wet thwack. There I was, mute, with a million things running through my head. And I couldn't say a damned one of them. Instead I just stood there, and it only occurred to me after what felt like a million years to pick up my damned jaw to shut my mouth.
Kevin's gaze pierced me, and the goofy grin diminished. “I know you're at a vulnerable place in your life right now."
"You don't know the half of it, mister,” I mumbled.
Kevin cocked an eyebrow. “I'm sorry?"
I was at a crossroads. He was trying to reach out. He was trying to make things right. Then I realized he was also trying to run my business into the ground and came back to my senses.
"You're damned right you're sorry,” I said. “What's it going to take to convince you I don't like you? I don't want your sympathy, and I don't want you."
Kevin pursed his lips. He seemed to be trying hard to be patient. And I was trying hard to be trying. But his expr
ession shifted, his gaze turning intense. “You will."
If we hadn't been in a public place where there'd be witnesses, I probably would have decked him. Knocked out his teeth until he had to gum his freaking Danishes. “Why are you such a jackass?"
He let out a laugh that sounded half amused, half exasperated. “A jackass? I'm trying to make nice."
"I don't need your nice. Go make nice with Angela."
Kevin moved a step closer, his expression darkening. “Is that the real problem? You have some idea about Angela and me?"
"I don't care what you and Angela are doing,” I said. But I couldn't convince my knees, which were threatening to wobble.
He frowned at me a moment, seeming to debate with himself just how far to push me. Discretion being the better part of valor, one would think he'd start arguing again. But he didn't. “I hope you feel better soon. Have Armand make you some chicken soup. You need your strength."
"To kick your ass."
"If you need to.” He moved even closer, his body mere inches from mine. Something in my belly flickered as he leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Here's a secret, Maggie. I'm not the enemy.” He lingered a moment, letting his body heat sink in.
Out of the blue, I was dizzy and the world swam around me. The air between us was filled with the scent of his leather jacket and blazed with intensity. I couldn't drop my gaze from his, and my cheeks burned red hot.
"I need cereal,” I said.
Kevin's brow cocked. “Cereal?"
In desperation, my eyes landed on a box of Fruitie Ohs and I grabbed for it. “For Jack. Lyla sent me to get cereal for Jack."
"Good. Cereal's good.” Kevin wasn't backing down, and I could see in his eyes he was mentally chalking up a victory.
At last, I broke the magnetic field that had formed between us and looked into his cart. “That brand of coffee is crap.” I shot him a defiant stare and stomped off in the opposite direction. Ha! Chalk one up for me.
I am so pathetic.
Bypassing the pharmacy, I got the hell out of the store as fast as I could. “You might not be the enemy,” I said to myself. “But you sure as hell are the devil.” I pulled the slip of paper out of my pocket and stared at it. “I wonder if you can take a lethal dose of prenatal vitamins."
* * * *
An hour later, full of Fruitie Ohs, I stared blankly at Pride and Prejudice on the TV screen. I was stretched out on the couch in a food coma when the nausea set in again. It was a gentle wave, not like I'd felt in the weeks and days before, but still, I looked down at my tummy and grumbled, “Knock it off, brat. I don't have to keep you."
Guilt shot through me the second the words left my mouth. Yes, I'd been raised Catholic, but it had nothing to do with that. When I first suspected I was pregnant, I opened the phone book and found the first clinic I could. Somehow, though, my fingers couldn't dial the phone. Deep down I knew this baby was a part of me, a part that, despite my reluctance, I didn't want to lose. Maybe that's why I waited so long to take the test. Too long. Too late to do anything drastic in a fit of irrational hormonal madness.
"Okay, kid. Time to have a chat,” I said to my belly. “First off, we need to decide on something to call you. I refuse to call you ‘it’ for the next six months."
I rubbed my stomach, but felt nothing. Nada. I knew it was too early to feel kicking or anything like that, but somehow I expected I should feel—I dunno, full. Happy. Fulfilled. I felt nothing. Okay, not nothing. Panic and exhaustion, but nothing good.
"Junior? No, not Junior. That brings to mind your father, and I think you're a little young to hear that story."
Ted. Cripes, what was I going to do about Ted? For the moment, I decided to do nothing. No use running a marathon when I couldn't even get myself psyched up for the jog to the pharmacy to buy prenatal vitamins.
"Pumpkin?” I regretted it right away as my stomach turned. Too sickly sweet. “Well, I'm definitely not calling you Fruitie Ohs. How about Peanut?” As my stomach lurched again, I decided against food references.
"Bob,” I said, and liked the ring of it. “Ya like Bob?” Bob responded by doing nothing. Well, nothing I knew about, at any rate. “So, Bob, if you're a girl, I guess you're going to be Roberta. But depending on how the competition goes, that might be a name I like a lot."
I ran my hand over my stomach again, and this time felt a flutter. Not from the baby, but from somewhere deep inside myself. It was a mixture of fright, nerves, and, believe it or not, anticipation. “I have no idea what we're going to do, kiddo, but it's just you and me. And your crazy grandparents, but let's not get into that just yet.” I looked again at the slip of paper on the dining room table. I still wasn't ready for the commitment. But if left to my own devices, I might never be ready. It was time to cowboy up.
"I guess a good start would be to fill that thing.” I hauled my butt off the couch and looked down at the bulge in my midsection. “Come on, Bob. It's time to go back to the pharmacy."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seven
October 12
Wow, Diary. The Academy is harder than I thought. I have to learn how to handle a knife and slice things and even boil water differently. I hope I have the stuff to make it.
"Today,” Chef Ratchet announced on a Monday morning, “you will become cooks. Note I do not say chefs. It will be decades before any of you are skilled enough to be chefs, if any of you even has the talent. Today, however, you will be pairing up with a partner. This individual will be your partner for the remainder of your education here."
Armand and I exchanged glances. It was just as he'd predicted. After bonding over our tuna and Spam, he'd rapidly become my bitching buddy. We knew without saying a word that we'd pick one another.
"Now, I've prepared a list based on what I feel your skills and weaknesses are.” She slid her glasses onto the end of her nose and peered at us over the rims. “Partners will be assigned to complement one another, having strengths in areas where you do not."
Wait a minute! We don't get to pick for ourselves? I began reciting Hail Marys in my head and begging God to cut me a break. I guess it wasn't my day for answered prayers.
As Ratchet read off the names, I crossed my fingers and toes. Not Harriet. Not Brenda. But I neglected to ward off the real danger—Kevin Best.
Was it fate or had I really pissed off God that much? When she read our names together, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I'd been avoiding Kevin since the first day. He made me giggle and blither on like a moron, for one thing, and for another, he brought about images that a married woman should just not encourage. I'd dreamt about him, and the dreams were decidedly not G-rated. And now he was my partner? This could not be good.
As the class paired off, I made what I hoped was a clever detour around the desks and headed toward Chef. She spotted me, though, and cut me off with a blank stare. “I should mention,” she said loud enough for the group to hear, “that partner selection is non-negotiable. If you are lucky enough to complete this program and are allowed to work in a restaurant kitchen, you will be faced with different personalities and working styles. This is only your first test in building working relationships with individuals you don't know."
Ouch. That was definitely aimed at me. But, I told myself, she was right. I could make it work with Kevin. I was, after all, happily married. I couldn't be tempted by anyone, really. And I'd learn to live with those green eyes staring at me. I'd learn to ignore the dimples. I'd never even notice the accent after a while.
I headed to our assigned kitchen, which we were instructed to set it up as we saw fit. The assignment would be graded, though we had no guidance as to what was wanted.
Poor Armand had been paired with Hurricane Harriet, whose first words to him were, “Don't get in my way, brown boy.” I shot him a sad glance.
Kevin and I met in our kitchen and I offered him a handshake. “I guess we're partners.” I was obviously hell-bent on keeping up my h
istory of moronic conversation.
"I guess we are.” He pumped my hand. “Between you and me, I'm glad I got you."
My heart did an involuntary thud. “Why?"
He pointed to Armand, who was already taking orders from Harriet like he was her personal whipping boy. “Can you imagine being her partner? Or hers?” He pointed toward Brenda, who was paired with another mousy girl. She was already tearing up trying to figure out which way the steamer went together. “And besides, I've been watching you."
Thud.
"You have?"
He nodded. “Yep. You're diligent. You don't like being wrong, so you work hard to make sure you've got it right."
Terrific. I was an overenthusiastic worker ant. Not that it mattered. “Thanks."
We started sorting through the various utensils, pots, pans and pantry items scattered on our counter. Somehow we did the same thing without ever discussing it: pots on the right, pans beside them sorted into non-stick and cast iron, utensils lined up by purpose, and food items at the end sorted by course or seasoning.
Kevin's eyes were focused on the task, but his tone was casual and conversational. “Mind if I confess something?"
Thud. “No."
"When I first met you, I thought you were just some housewife here for tips for the local potluck."
I laughed. Nervously. Oh, who am I kidding? I giggled. “No. I don't think I'd put this much effort, not to mention money, into getting better recipes for the church picnic."
His smile reflected in the Dutch oven. “I figured that out. So what do you want to do when you're done here? If you make the cut, that is."
His imitation of Chef made me giggle again. I had to get it together if I was going to work with this guy. “I haven't really thought about it."
"You're lying.” Kevin didn't bat an eye and started to sort through our allotted spices. “You've thought about it, you're just afraid of your own dreams."
The cumin fell out of my hand with a clatter, drawing Chef's caustic glare. “Ouch. You know, you may want to get to know me a little better before you start analyzing my personality with such pinpoint accuracy."
Let's Dish Page 7