After staring at us long enough to let us know we'd been naughty, Chef resumed her pacing. “I would hardly call this an assignment, Chef Best. This is a test of your skills and an evaluation that will determine whether you continue here or start bailing French fries out of McDonalds’ fat vats."
Ending her tirade, she continued barking instructions at us. After a half hour of it, she started handing out assignments. “Kitchen Taylor/Best,” she said as she neared our area, “I have saved a special ingredient for you. Since you seem to be fairly confident in your ability to successfully complete this assignment, I thought you deserved an extra challenge. You will be designing a full meal around squid."
"Squid?” I asked.
Kevin swallowed. “Did you say squid?"
"Squid,” Chef said, relishing our discomfort. “It's a task I am certain you are equal to."
She strutted away, leaving Kevin and me starting at one another open-mouthed. “Squid,” I repeated.
"Squid."
* * * *
"Thank you and come again,” I said, and gave Mrs. Gardener her change.
"I will, dear. And thank you.” She shook her bag of bagels at me, looking pleased.
I'd been manning the till all afternoon. Armand was making deliveries, Lyla was in the back doing the books, and Heather was pouring over the latest tabloid when I wasn't bugging her to bus tables.
While the lunch crowd dwindled, I considered what Lyla had said that morning. I hated to admit it, but she was right. I had to tell Ted. And my parents. Soon. If Bob was going to be a part of my life from now on, the sooner everyone around me knew that, the sooner they could deal with it. And so could I. I wasn't little Margaret Mary Donnely, the perfect daughter. I never had been. If people around me didn't like it, that was just too bad.
With this resolve, I turned to Heather and sniffed the air. “Did you take those cheesecakes out of the oven like I told you to?"
She barely glanced up from her magazine, obviously irritated. “Yes. Of course. I put them to cool on the counter, just like you said."
Four spice cheesecakes with a side of attitude, please, I thought, but kept it to myself. “Did you turn off the oven?"
"Ye-es. Duh!"
"Check again,” I said, proud of myself. Of course, I might have been more proud if I'd actually had the guts to fire her lazy butt, but then I'd have to do all the work she didn't. Or something like that.
She rolled her eyes, sighed and got out of her seat, schlepping to the back. In the meantime, I put on my professional perma-grin as the bell above the door rang. “Good afternoon, and welcome to Let's Di..."
I didn't get my entire spiel out of my mouth. When I turned back to the counter, I came face to face with those green eyes, crinkled smile and the roguish shock of gray at the temple.
"Hi, Maggie.” Kevin slipped his sunglasses in his pocket. “How are you feeling?"
"Irritated as hell.” I liked this new large-and-in-charge Maggie. Of course, it was probably temporary, fueled by anger. And, of course, the large part would get larger, and pretty darned soon. “When are you going to get the hint that I hate your guts and stop coming here?"
His smile never wavered. “You don't really mean that.” He shifted his feet and looked around, almost like he was self-conscious. “I wanted to check on you. You looked awfully pale the other day. I wanted to be sure it wasn't anything serious."
"It's not serious. So I won't be dropping dead and willing my recipes to you anytime soon."
He looked tired. Honestly, I was a little tired, myself. I sounded like a broken record, but no matter what I did, I couldn't skip the groove. My imposing stance faltered for a moment, and I looked into his rugged face. Rugged didn't seem to cover it, though. There was a gentleness, too.
"It's not your recipes I want,” he said, leaving me to wonder what the hell he did want.
The fire re-lit in my belly. That gentleness was just the way he tricked people. He'd tricked me before, and here I was starting to fall for it all over again. When would I learn?
"Are you sure?” I asked. “Would you like to look the case over to get more ideas? I have a black forest blintz that's getting a lot of attention."
A glimmer of surprise sparked in his eye. “Maggie, when are you going to realize I didn't steal anything?"
"Does lemon cream pound cake sound familiar?"
"Now wait a minute.” He raised his finger to point at me. “I've had about enough of this. If you want to start talking about stealing recipes, lemon cream pound cake was my idea."
An incredulous grunt escaped my mouth. “In what parallel universe?"
"We developed it together, you and me. But the idea was mine."
My temper flared to a full boil. “Interesting little piece of fiction you've concocted there. Who do you think you are? The second coming of Julia Child?"
He seemed to be making an effort to stay calm, but his jaw clenched. “Are you?"
I balled my fist and it took everything I had in me not to deck him right then and there. But having a knock-down, drag-out brawl in the dining room was probably bad for business. “I think you should leave now."
Kevin shook his head. “Believe it or not, Maggie, I don't come here to argue with you."
I put my hands on my hips, feeling as sarcastic and full of attitude as Heather. “I'll bet. Just why did you come here, Kevin? To rub my nose in the fact that you're stealing my business? Using my own ideas?"
"What business am I supposedly stealing?"
"Three words: Adler Rowenstien wedding."
He actually looked apologetic, a true testament to his acting ability. “Were you up for that? Maggie, she just came to me—"
"And you put on your famous charm. I get it, Kevin. And gave her a taste of my cake!"
I couldn't read his expression at that moment. It might have been pity, it could have been regret, all I knew was I couldn't trust the guy.
"I shouldn't have come,” he said.
"We have a breakthrough!” I said, shaking my fists. “'Bout damned time you figured that out."
He looked at me, his face looking battle-worn. Old. “Right. I just thought—"
"Well, you thought wrong, Kevin. Goodbye."
He started to leave, but stopped at the door and turned back to me. “I know you're not ready to face the truth yet. When you are, call me."
Kevin's back faded down the front walk and I felt Armand's presence looming behind me. “How long have you been there?” I asked.
"Not long.” I couldn't tell if he was lying, but I didn't much care. “You okay, Maggie?"
"Peachy."
"You got to hand it to him. He's persistent."
"Persistent or delusional, it's hard to tell.” I was still staring out the windows, though Kevin was long gone. “But I think that's the last we've seen of him. He seems to have finally gotten the point."
Armand's voice was carefully even. “Are you sure that's what you really want?"
I turned to look up at him and found his face blank. He wasn't going to commit one way or the other. But I knew which way I was going.
"Did you get the fruit for the tarts I need to bake this afternoon?"
"Yeah.” His voice was soft, but not patronizing. He knew better than to patronize me when I'm in a mood, and I was making it pretty clear that I was in a mood.
"Good. Get me the pastry blender. I feel like beating the crap out of something."
* * * *
"Is there something you want to tell me, Maggie?"
The sound of Armand's voice made my heart nearly stop dead, and it was a good thing that the hand holding my knife did. He'd been in the butler's pantry. Had he found the diary? Or worse! Did he know about Bob?
I looked over at Lyla, but she looked as surprised as I was. For once, it appeared that she hadn't ratted me out.
"What do you mean?” I casually continued to chop the herbs on my cutting board.
"This recipe.” He held the handwritten no
te in his hand. “Another one with booze in it. Are you turning into an alcoholic on me?"
I let out the breath I'd been holding. “The alcohol cooks out of it.” An edge crept into my voice. “Geez, Armand, you know that. Stop sounding like my mother."
He chuckled and moved to the stove, but as we practiced making our contest dishes, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Jack was eating his dinner at the end of the counter, his chubby fingers dipping his chicken nuggets into ranch dressing. I tried to ignore him, tried not to think about who might be sitting in the very same spot in a couple of years.
I reached into the cupboard to get pans for my cornbread dough. That's when I felt it. It may have been a hiccup, it may have been a kick, it may have been my imagination, but something in my belly lurched. So hard, in fact, that the bread pans hit the floor with a clatter.
"What the...” Armand said, jumping. “You okay, Maggie? You still sick?"
I wasn't going to get a better opportunity, and I was getting tired of worrying that Armand would find out. I looked down at the back of Armand's head as he picked up the pans. “No. I'm feeling better now. They say you feel better after the first trimester."
"Yeah, I know Lyla did.” Either he hadn't heard me, or it hadn't registered. Lyla and I both stared at him until he popped up from behind the counter, banging his head on the cutting board on the way up.
It must have finally registered.
"Oh, honey!” Lyla squealed. “You okay?"
She ran to his side to check for blood, but Armand just rubbed his head and stared at me. “First trimester?"
"Yeah. I'm pregnant."
He nodded. “I figured that out. I take it's a ways along, too."
"About fourteen weeks.” He was still rubbing his head, but I don't think he was feeling any pain. He just stared at me, his eyes reflecting the thoughts that raced through his head. “What is it?” I asked. “Are you mad? I meant to tell you sooner, but I just—well, I just—"
"Are you going to sell the Dish?” His question caught me off guard.
"Sell? No! Why would I sell?"
"I don't know,” he said. “But maybe being a ... I mean, with Ted out of the picture, you might want to be with your parents."
My eyes flew wide. “My parents? Did you really think I would move in with my parents?"
Armand let out a nervous laugh. “Well, yeah, that does sound kind of silly."
"Yes it does. I'm not moving in with my parents, and I'm not selling the Dish. I'm just ... popping out a kid."
Armand grinned, and stopped rubbing his head. “Well, looks like Jack's going to have a playmate, then, huh?"
I nodded slowly, thinking this was a hell of a lot easier than I thought it was going to be. “Yeah. Guess so."
"Good.” He once again grabbed the bread pans. “Then let's get to work winning this competition. You need a nest egg."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Nine
November 21
Diary, I have discovered I hate seafood. I didn't used to, but the squid has turned me. It's slimy and impossible to work with. If it weren't for Kevin, I'd go insane! It's just too bad Ted has been working so hard. I see Kevin more than my own husband.
As we'd feared, squid turned out a little more difficult to manage than we originally thought. Chef knew what she was doing, and what she was doing was taking us down a notch.
Come hell or high water, Kevin and I were determined to make it work. We put in extra time after class. The smell of the calamari would linger in the air for hours and was more than Ted could take, so we chose to work in Kevin's miniscule bachelor pad kitchen. All I could think about was squid. Pound after pound of slimy, disgusting squid.
"Have we tried sautéing it in butter?” Kevin asked. He was elbow deep in a pan of salt water, rinsing yet another batch of the awful stuff.
"We've sautéed it, we've fried it. Hell, Kevin, we've even broiled it. Honestly, how many dishes can be made out of squid?"
He nodded, and I noticed he was looking a little green around the gills. “Wanna try squid ice cream?"
That was it. My stomach turned. “Oh, God, that's not even funny.” But inspiration had struck. “Chowder!"
He looked up from drying his hands. “Excuse me? Did you just call me a chowder head?"
I scowled. “No, you yutz. Chowder. We'll make chowder! Get me some potatoes and heavy cream."
He grinned.
Kevin had this devilish aura about him whenever he grinned, which was often. His eyes would crinkle at the corners and his mouth would twitch at the sides. To admit I thought he was handsome was further than I was willing to go. After all, I had quite a hottie at home. But I'd give Kevin credit for being okay to look at. And since we worked together like two parts of one well-engineered machine, I had to hand it to Chef for seeing our potential.
"I'll peel the potatoes, you measure the butter.” He sent the freshly washed squid sliding down the counter toward me. The excess water splashed over the cuff of my shirt and I cringed.
"Watch it, Chef Boyardee. I'll never get the smell out now!"
It was late and we'd been working far too hard for too long. “Here.” He pulled his head out of the refrigerator. “Rub some lemon on it."
He lobbed a lemon half at me, but it bounced off my chest and into the sink with a splash. “Watch it!” I squealed, and Kevin snorted with laughter. “I'll get you!” I grabbed a handful of flour from the bowl beside me and tossed it in his face. “How do you like them apples?"
He blinked and spat out a puff of snowy powder. “Not so well, actually."
I giggled. “Aww, but you're so cute. You look like a clown."
"Oh, that does it.” Before I knew it, I had ice cubes down the front of my shirt.
"Cold! Cold!” I writhed around as I tried to remove the cubes from my cleavage, but only managed to lodge one under the elastic band of my bra. At the same time, Kevin went down, slipping on the ice he'd spilled. I was giggling like an idiot, trying to catch my breath by taking huge gulps of air. “Oh God! That wasn't fair!"
"Who said I played fair?” Kevin had somehow managed to get to his feet, though he was still sliding in ice cubes and puddles.
He reached to steady himself on the edge of the sink but knocked over the olive oil. It splattered on my shirt, and the bottle skittered across the tile floor. I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe, let alone deal with the oil and an inconvenient ice cube.
"Oh no, your shirt.” He grabbed a damp towel off the counter. “Here, let me help you.” Just as he gained his footing, he slipped again—and this time plowed straight into me, slamming me to the ground.
The air was forced out of me. Not entirely by the blow, but by the sudden heat wave that flashed between us. We were face-to-face, Kevin hovering over me with his nose almost bumping mine.
When my breath returned, it was in deep, husky gasps and, for just a moment, I forgot where I was and what I was doing.
"Is the ice gone?” His voice was a mere whisper.
"No.” But it wasn't going to be a problem for much longer.
His eyes met mine with such power it was frightening. And yet I couldn't look away. I was drawn into a world where all that existed were those deep, soft green eyes. They were so calming and yet intoxicating. It was a good thing I was already on the floor, because I don't think my knees would have held me under his gaze.
Of course, if his eyes made me weak in the knees, his kiss finished off the rest of me. He was tentative at first, as if he'd bumped me by accident. But then he fell into it, and his mouth wrapped mine in a velvety, tender, needy embrace. His hands soon found my hair and my face. His fingers danced across my cheeks as our bodies locked together.
I pressed myself against him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I couldn't get close enough, couldn't hold him tightly enough. We were slithering around in olive oil and ice, but my brain only registered the tingling that ran through my entire body. His hand
slipped under my shirt and he caressed my stomach, massaging in circles until he discovered the front clasp of my bra. The last of the ice dribbled down my belly when he released it. I tugged at the buttons on his shirt. His chest was warm and his abdomen pressed to mine, fire and ice mingling and making every part of me ache.
And then his other hand found the waistband of my jeans. As his hand adventured south of the equator, his mouth found the sweet spot on my throat. My head lolled back and I let out a small moan. I hadn't been this turned on since my honeymoon.
Honeymoon! Ted!
I pushed Kevin off of me, shocked at my own reaction to his touch. “I'm married!"
He rolled onto his back and propped himself on an elbow. “Now you tell me."
I tried to stand up, but it was a struggle amidst the debris. “I'm serious! What do you think you're doing?"
He didn't look concerned. “What you wanted me to, judging from your reaction."
I tried to re-hook my bra while maintaining my offended stance. “What reaction? If you mean kicking your ass, you ain't seen nothing yet."
"You mean grabbing my ass."
I was too flustered for words. What came out was more an indignant squeak. “Grabbing—you actually think I'd—I never wanted—I'm married!"
He pulled himself off the floor, narrowly missing the oil. “You're right. You are. But you can't tell me your marriage is all it's cracked up to be."
"What? My marriage is wonderful, what are you talking about?"
Kevin looked skeptical. “Yeah. Just wonderful. Which is why you're making out with me."
"That wasn't making out!"
"Maggie, I've done this a few times before. And in my experience, that was a full five minutes of absolutely stellar making out."
My body was on fire, but not as it had been just moments before. I was mad as hell. He'd seduced me. I'd fallen for a slick Casanova. How stupid was I?
"I love my husband,” I hissed at him. “And I have a fabulous marriage."
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