"Fabulous? Really? Think about it, Maggie. If everything's okay at home, why are you here?"
"Because ... because...” And just why the hell was I there? “Because Ted doesn't like the smell of squid."
Kevin shook his head. “Ted's not even there. He's working, remember? Or so he says."
"What are you talking about? Of course he's working!"
Kevin grabbed a dishtowel and wiped off his hands. “Are you sure?"
"How dare you?” I gathered myself together as much as I could while still covered in flour and olive oil. “Ted works hard to help me get through school. He's putting in extra time with the team to help me out."
"It's possible,” he said. “But think about it. You say your marriage is perfect. You're sure? No deep dark secrets either you or Ted are hiding?"
I was shocked that he would imply something like that—whatever it was he was implying. “Ted and I don't have any secrets."
He shook his head. “Denial is great, isn't it? Listen, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but he's not right for you, Maggie, and I think you know it."
"He's perfect for me. He's my husband.” My mind was reeling. What could he mean by secrets? Why wasn't Ted right for me? What would he know anyway?
Then again, why had I kissed him back?
Before I could think about it anymore, I grabbed my squid-stinking coat and ran for the door. I didn't make it into the hallway before Kevin's hand closed around mine and he spun me to face him. His eyes were full of thunder, but the clouds parted as sadness crept across his face. “Ask Ted about the Mermaid Club in Soho."
"Soho? Ted doesn't go to Soho.” And yet my stomach lurched. He'd gotten a parking ticket in Soho just the week before. But he was having a suit tailored, not going to a bar.
Kevin bit his lip, but continued. “I've been subbing for a buddy of mine, bartending down there on Thursday nights while he takes a class."
"What does that have to do with Ted?"
His hand squeezed mine, but then he let go. “Just ... ask him."
I stared at him, my eyes once again locking with his. But this time I was able to break free, and ran for my life.
All the way home, my mind raced. What had I done? How was I going to tell Ted? Should I tell him anything? And why should I ask him about the Mermaid Club?
I ran into the house ready to confess my sins. He would forgive me if I told him, but I couldn't lie to him. After all, what I had told Kevin was true. Ted and I didn't have any secrets.
Ted was at the kitchen table when I walked in, in his hand a tall glass of something amber that smelled strong. He looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed with tears still lingering in the corners.
How could he have possibly known? Had Kevin called and told him what I'd done? No, he wouldn't do that. Would he?
Then Ted cleared his throat, took a breath and looked straight at me. “We need to talk,” he said, and I knew instantly that it had nothing to do with squid.
* * * *
Five in the morning has never been a good time for me. Add to that a damp alley, a few dozen fishmongers and the smell of eight gazillion varieties of fish, and I was in a pretty foul mood. But when the North Atlantic Fishery Association wants a seafood platter, you make a seafood platter.
I poked a trout and watched the meat sink in, which earned me a nasty look from the Captain Bly wannabe behind the table. “When was this caught?” I asked just to be difficult.
"Last night."
"Last night? In what time zone? Was the International Date Line involved?” I moved on quickly, looking for something that smelled slightly more like the sea and less like the trashcan behind Pally's Sushi Parlor.
I moved on to the shellfish, feeling a little safer in that domain. While the woman behind the counter weighed and wrapped my shrimp, I headed toward the salmon. I was walking along the table inspecting their bright, clear eyes when I stumbled right into something that felt like a brick wall but smelled like a woodsy forest.
"Oh, sorry! I wasn't looking."
"That's okay.” The voice was familiar. Too familiar. “I wasn't, either. I was trying to figure out which are the bad fish shops."
"Kevin?” I couldn't believe it. He was like an infestation. Every time I thought I was rid of him, he'd show up again. It occurred to me then that I was standing there unwashed, uncombed—hell, I hadn't even brushed my teeth. Not only that, I was holding a dead fish. “What are you doing here?"
"Shopping for ahi. Thought I might find some big eye here, or maybe I'll get some mahi-mahi. We're throwing a luau for some Shriners tonight."
"Yippee.” Even though the air around us smelled like fish, and I smelled of God-only-knows what, the space around Kevin was spicy and cool. I wondered for a second just why I had such an attitude problem when it came to him. If I let myself, I could stare at every nuance of his face until I memorized them. And the look in his eyes, especially when the fire of passion struck behind them. I'd seen that look. I remembered that look well.
And it was precisely that memory that made me shake my head to clear it. Damned hormones. My OB-GYN had warned about the whole libido issue.
Kevin took the fish out of my hand. “So, ah, finding any decent salmon?"
"Some."
"Got a big event coming up?"
"Why? You going to steal more of my clients?"
"Will you give it a rest?” He slapped the salmon into my outstretched hand. “I'm not trying to steal your clients. Or your recipes."
"I know you're using my stuff. And I have a suspicion you're stalking me to boot.” I threw the salmon in his face. “You want my recipe for salmon mousse, now? You can feed it to those Shriners and I hope they all choke on it! And their widows can sue you for—"
"Miss?” The lady behind the counter stood in front of me with a five-gallon bucket of shrimp. “Do you still want these?"
I froze and felt the blood rushing to my face. Not only were the hormones making me consider Kevin Best a hot ticket, they were making me completely insane. I'd never had so many public tantrums in my life.
"Oh, uh, yes,” I said quietly and handed her a check. “Sorry."
"It's okay. I fight with my boyfriend a lot, too. They can sure piss you off, can't they?"
"No, he's not my—” But it was no use. She had already moved on to another customer. I glared at Kevin as he had the gall to snicker. “Eat bad sushi and die."
"I most likely will someday. Never know about those sushi chefs."
"Argh!” I picked up my shrimp and stormed down the aisle. I wasn't sure what made me madder—the fact that Kevin had gotten to me again, or that I hadn't gotten to him.
* * * *
I looked at my reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror in my apartment over Let's Dish. The paleness was gone, replaced by the redness that lingered after a day standing over the stove. Perhaps there was a flush of anticipation, as well. Part of me was thinking I must be insane to be going to my parents’ house. It wasn't even Monday night. But the reaction I'd gotten from Armand had empowered me. Not only was I getting sick of keeping Bob a secret, I actually thought I might be able to live through telling people.
Well, maybe. Let's face it, I still knew I was a complete chicken, I just thought I'd better do it while I was on a roll. Either that or start coming up with excuses as to why I swallowed a basketball. It looked like Bob wasn't about to cooperate in the hiding department.
I had gone downstairs to pack up some plain cornbread—a peace offering for my dad—when Lyla came out of the back room. She gave me a suspicious look. “What are you doing?"
"Wrapping cornbread."
"For whom?"
I narrowed my eyes. “For whom? Since when did you start using the word whom?"
"With age comes grammatical correctness. Or something like that, anyway. So quit trying to distract me and ‘fess up."
I turned my attention back to the cornbread, grabbing a caramel apple pie out of the case to add to it. “'Fess u
p to what? I'm just going to my parents’ for dinner."
"I thought so.” Lyla grabbed the pie out of my hand. “I don't think so, girlfriend. Bad idea. And I can find a better use for that pie."
"What are you talking about, it's a bad idea? What's a bad idea?"
"Telling them about Bob.” She reached into the silverware drawer and pulled out a fork.
"And just why do you think I'm going to tell them about Bob?"
She dipped her fork into the pie's golden crust without bothering to cut a slice. “For one thing, it's Thursday. You only visit your parents on Monday and I know there is no way in hell you'd be going on a different night unless your dad had choked to death on a chicken wing or you were about to spill the beans."
I took a breath and got another pie out of the display case. “You know, most people lose track of their childhood friends. Forever."
"Yeah, yeah, we should work on that sometime. Now, though, we need to work on a plan of action."
"A plan of action?"
"Well, yeah.” She leaned back against the fridge and poked at the pie. “You can't just walk in to George and Theresa's and announce you're on the roost. Your dad wouldn't have a chance to choke on a chicken wing ‘cuz he'd have a massive coronary."
I plopped onto a stool at the counter. See? Told you it wouldn't take much for me to chicken out.
"You're right. And Mom would stroke out trying to decide whether she should be happy or burn me at the stake."
"But not before sewing a scarlet K on your shirt."
My brain told me not to, but I had to. “A scarlet K?"
"Yeah. Knocked up."
I was the one who had to ask. “Do me a favor, Ly?"
"Sure, anything, hon."
"Don't ever try stand-up comedy."
She approached me, flicking her loaded fork. “Shut up and have some pie."
Fast-forward two hours. On the table, a decimated caramel apple pie. On either end of my couch, two overstuffed, thirty-something women hovering near sugar comas. Forget margaritas on Friday night. Let's talk pie on Thursdays.
"So what are you going to tell them?” Lyla asked. Her voice was low and slurred as she fought sleep.
To move enough to speak was a challenge, but I did it. “You know, I hadn't thought that far ahead. I figured I'd just work it out when I got there."
"Nope. I know you. If you don't have a plan, you'll cheese out."
"I won't cheese out!"
"Yes, you will. You cheesed out tonight, didn't you?"
I made a grunt of protest. “You made me."
Lyla wasn't buying it. “Face it, Mags, I love you, but you have never been any good at confrontation. You'd walk in, your dad would say something about ‘da Packers,’ Theresa would make something hideous in the kitchen, and you'd duck out without saying a word."
I gathered all the strength I had left to let out a defeated sigh. “Yup. Sounds about right.” Lyla chuckled and I lifted my head enough to give her the evil eye. “Okay, Miss Smarty Pants, so how am I supposed to do this?"
"By email?"
I snorted. “Email? Hello, Lyla, they don't even own a computer!"
"Exactly."
Well, this was helpful. “Sooner or later they're going to figure out something is going on."
"Knowing your parents, it's going to be later. Maybe you need to give yourself some time to adjust to it yourself."
"What is this?” I asked. “First, you're trying to convince me to tell everyone. Now you're saying to take my time?"
She adjusted on the couch, groaning from the effort. “Yeah, I know, but then I thought about how George and Theresa are going to react."
"I know, they're a little provincial, and I don't want to tell them, either, but I'm going to have to."
Lyla heaved herself off the couch and headed for the kitchen. She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water and turned to me. It was Lyla's version of Dirty Harry wielding his Magnum and threatening the bad guys.
"What? Drop the dramatics and spill it."
"You're not going to want to hear it."
My head lolled back on the pillow. Right at that moment, all I wanted to hear was that I could sleep for three days. “I don't doubt that, Ly, but tell me anyway."
She stalled another minute while she opened her bottle and took a long draw from it. “We shouldn't be planning how you're going to tell your parents. We should be discussing how you're going to tell Ted."
She was right. I didn't want to hear it. “Can we take one life-altering problem at a time, please?"
"You've got to tell Ted, Maggie. He should have been the first to know, not me."
"You're the first thing to know everything. That's your job."
"Well, it should have been his job this time. He is the father."
I went into my best Heather imitation. “I don't wanna,” I whined.
"Well, ya hafta. Come on, Mags, you know I'm right, and it's better to do it now before you show up looking like a Volkswagen."
A Volkswagen. The proverbial pregnant roller skate. The way this kid was starting to pop out, I suspected that in a few months, if I dressed in yellow and put on a pair of roller blades, I'd be a pretty close parallel to my aunt's old slug bug.
I closed my eyes, resigning myself to it. “I have to go to Atlantic City.” Actually, I'm not sure if I was telling her or asking.
She must not have been sure, either, because she took a gulp of her water and said, “You have to go to Atlantic City."
I got off the couch by rolling to one side and dropping onto the floor. To say I wasn't thrilled was like saying Michael Jackson is a little unusual.
I looked up at Lyla and sighed. “Can you be packed and ready to go in the morning?"
She grinned and I half expected her to do the Snoopy dance. “Honey, I can be packed and ready to go in a half hour."
"No rush.” I laid my head back onto the floor. “Since I can't get drunk to do this, I need some time to stock up on a helluva lot of chocolate."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Ten
November 27
Oh, Diary, could it be any worse? What Ted told me tonight, I just don't know how to deal with it. I love him, but if I had known before I married him—No, I love him. That's what matters. No matter what. Right?
"Unbelievable! Are you serious?"
"Dresses.” I hung my head over my beer. “He decided to experiment and started singing at this lounge in Soho."
"While you were cooking with Kevin?” Armand shook his head as he stared at me, wide-eyed.
"Yup.” Not to mention cooking up more trouble than I'd bargained for. “That was the real reason he didn't want us using our kitchen. Then I wouldn't know when he came and went, and he wanted to keep it a secret. Except one night, Ke—ah, a mutual acquaintance was bartending down there and caught my husband dressed up like freaking Liza Minelli singing the score from Mame!"
"Unbelievable!” Armand's mouth curved into a smile that made me want to beat him senseless.
"You said that already! Get a grip!"
He shook the grin off his face. “Sorry. I don't mean to make light of it, but it's all just so ... unbelievable!” He started to chuckle, but caught himself. “So, is this something he always wanted to do?"
I shrugged. “I guess so. He said he was inspired by me trying different things, and thought he should try to live out something different, too."
Armand stifled another giggle. “That's different, all right."
I glared down at my beer and ground my teeth. With a deep breath, I looked back at Armand. “Come on, we'd better get to work. We have to present this whole squid thing tomorrow."
He followed me back into the kitchen, ready to get back to work on what was to him a last-minute, almost impossible assignment. “If you don't mind me asking, why did you dump Kevin as your partner? We were all thinking you guys were going to go on to open a restaurant or something."
Pangs of guilt st
abbed at me again. I hadn't had the guts to admit my transgression to Ted, and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell Armand. “We'd talked about it. But I'm just not comfortable with him anymore."
"Because you told him about Ted? But you told me about Ted and you're still comfortable with me."
How the heck was I going weasel out of this one? “I know, but you're my friend, not just a cooking partner. You won't judge me. You know.” Good ad lib, Maggie.
"I don't think Kevin would judge you. He seems like a pretty decent guy, all in all.” He dropped ribbons of squid into sweetened dill batter.
"There are other things,” I said, and Armand stopped stirring the bowl.
"What other things?"
There was no way I was getting out of this scot-free. But I didn't need to share the whole story. “Kevin has ... well, let's just say our working relationship became complicated."
Armand looked confused, then suddenly stiffened. “Did he come on to you?"
I looked at the floor and shifted my weight. “Yeah."
"I'll kill him,” Armand said. “Maggie, I swear to you, I will take him out and break his neck if you want me to."
"No, no.” I smiled at him in false gratitude. After all, if Armand knew my part in the whole food-fight/make-out incident, it might be my neck he'd want to break. “It's okay. Kevin's not a bad a guy. Exactly. I just can't work with him anymore."
Armand seemed to calm down, but his Cuban blood would take a while to cool to a simmer. “I can understand that. Still, I can't believe Chef went along with it."
That had been no easy task. Just like with Armand, I'd been forced to confess that Kevin had come on to me, but I'd failed to mention that I'd liked it. Chef grew incensed and promised to expel him. It was tempting to let her do it, but even as angry as I was, I couldn't ruin Kevin's career. I was able to convince Chef that dealing with headstrong Hurricane Harriet would be punishment enough, thereby securing my buddy Armand for a kitchen partner.
"I bribed her with macadamia nut cookies.” If I wasn't going to hell for kissing Kevin, I sure was for lying.
Armand looked around my kitchen, seeming a little self-conscious. “So where is Ted, anyway?” he asked, as if Liza would jump out from behind the refrigerator singing about how life is a cabaret.
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