"You weren't happy. You needed more. You still do, even if you're too damned stubborn to admit it.” Another step. It was getting hard for me to breathe. We were mere inches from one another. He heaved a sigh, which hit me in the face with the sweet scent of mint and cream. “I screwed up, Maggie. Are you ever going to forgive me for that?"
It was too much. Too much physical input, too much honesty. I averted my eyes and stared at the floor. “I can't,” I managed to say. “I'm sorry, Kevin, but I just can't. Please. Just go."
I didn't look up. I couldn't. The only reason I knew he was gone was the jingle of the bell over the door. A sudden chill went through me, the warmth of his proximity gone.
I stood there for several minutes, my eyes frozen to the spot on the floor where Kevin's loafers had been. I heard quiet footsteps, but didn't move.
"Everything okay?” Armand whispered from behind me.
I let out a breath. “Yeah,” I said. “But, believe it or not, vomiting into a ficus wasn't the worst part of my day."
* * * *
The morning after my ficus assault, I sent Armand out for supplies right after his morning cups of brake-fluid coffee. Lyla was in the back room engaging in the usual discourse of “Cripes” and “Jesus, how do they expect me to make this come out in the black?” that told me she was figuring the books.
I put a batch of pumpkin pies into the oven and headed out front to do the morning cleaning. Heather was at her usual post—on her butt with her nose buried in a Seventeen.
I didn't even bother to ask for her help. I knew I wouldn't get it. But I probably wouldn't hear the oven timer with my head buried in a display case, either. “Heather, could you listen for the buzzer, and turn the oven down to three-fifty when it goes off?"
"Cool.” She flipped a page.
I hoped she'd understood what I said, but there was no way to tell. I stuck my head into the display case and started scrubbing. Every spot of caramel was Kevin, every cherry stain represented his face. Those cases had never gotten such a thorough cleaning, as I purged every ounce of guilt, regret, and longing from my system.
I jumped when I heard the quiet ding of the oven, almost banging my head into the top of the case. Behind me, I heard Heather haul off the stool and head into the kitchen.
"Will miracles never cease?” I muttered and went back to scrubbing glass. I spent the next half hour scouring Kevin out of my head. The bistro tables gleamed and reflected the sunlight that streamed in the crystal-clear windows. The green tile floors had been mopped to within an inch of their wear layer, and even the four-leaf clover on the front door seemed to glow.
So how come I didn't feel any better?
"Thank you and come again,” I told the tall lady in the denim jumper after filling her order for apple dumplings and clotted cream.
"I will,” she promised, and left with a wave.
I sniffed the air. “Heather, did you check the pies?"
"Yes,” she sing-songed from behind her magazine.
"And you turned them down like I asked you?"
"Duh!"
One of these days—"Well, then, what smells like it's burning?"
Heather looked ready to snap back with another smart remark, but then sniffed the air. “Huh. I dunno. Want me to check?"
"Don't bother.” I wiped my hands on my green apron. “I'll do it."
I was halfway to the door when the fire alarm went off. I ran into the kitchen, but couldn't see anything past the first counter. The place was full of black, acrid smoke and I felt heat rising in front of me.
"Lyla!” I called to the back, but couldn't hear a reply. I tried to make my way through the smoke to the back room but didn't make it five steps before I started choking. I turned to leave the room but had to fight through the darkness. The door seemed farther away than it should have been, so I felt the wall for some sort of landmark. All I could feel was the heat on my palms and the smoke filling my lungs. I was struggling for breath and trying to duck under the smoke when a strong hand grabbed me from behind and dragged me back into the coffee shop, coughing and sputtering.
"Lyla,” I cried. “I have to get Lyla!"
"She's out.” The voice was low and rough. Male. But not Armand. “Everyone's out but you. Come on."
I didn't think, I just moved, stumbling out into the late morning sunshine and coughing the gunk out of my lungs. Heather was there, looking frightened, and Armand was holding Lyla back by one arm.
"Let me in there after her!” she screamed. When she saw me, she ran to my side. “Oh God, Maggie! Thank God you're out of there. I tried to warn you, but I couldn't get to the front."
"What's going on?” I knew full well it was a dumb-ass question. Duh, Maggie. Your dream is going up in smoke.
Literally.
Everyone else must have known it was a stupid question, too, because they said nothing. They just watched as the Dish burned. And boy, did she burn!
As sirens drew closer, I turned to my rescuer to thank him. I was ready to give this friendly passerby free muffins for life. When I turned around, though, all thoughts of free muffins went out of my head. “Kevin? What the hell are you doing here again?"
"Saving your life,” he said. “And you're welcome."
"More like burning down my shop! You did this, didn't you?"
"What the hell—are you kidding me?” His face was already red from exertion and heat, but it reddened deeper. “I was driving by and saw smoke was coming out of the kitchen window!"
"Yeah right. You just happened to be driving past."
"You're on a main drag! Half the population of Fallsview drives by here twice a day."
My fists balled and I felt like decking him as hard as I could. And for once, I wasn't going to resist my urges. “You almost had me, Kevin. You almost made me believe your stupid line about winning that contest fair and square. And now you come over here to burn down my business! How dare you pull me out of there, Kevin Best? Or didn't you want to be up on a murder rap?"
Now Armand was holding me back, muttering something about how I was in shock and should come sit down. I wasn't in shock, I was mad as hell.
"Two can play at this game, Kevin. I'd be watching your back if I were you."
He raised a finger to my face. “If you even think about—” He stopped, taking a breath to calm himself. “You're upset, Maggie. Now just calm down—"
"Calm down yourself! Get the hell away from my store before I shove you right back into it."
Kevin looked at Armand. “One hell of a partner you have there. Save her life and she accuses me of being an arsonist."
"You are an arsonist,” I screamed, but Kevin had already walked over to the fire truck. Instead of pursuing him, I buried my face in Armand's chest and had a good bawl.
Six hours later, the sun was setting on what remained of the Dish. It hadn't burnt to the ground, but there was fire damage in the kitchen and smoke and water damage throughout. We wouldn't be reopening anytime soon, that was for sure.
The fire chief came over to Armand and me. Lyla had gone to get Jack and take him home, and Kevin had left hours before, after talking to the police.
"Was it arson?” I asked. I had calmed down considerably since I'd threatened to murder Kevin, but not enough that I didn't still suspect him.
"No, ma'am. It looks like the fire originated in the back of the kitchen, near the butler's pantry. There was a coffee pot there?"
Armand winced and I nodded. “Yes. Armand's special brew sits there. But I had Lyla turn the pot off this morning after Armand emptied it."
"Lyla turned it off?” Armand asked. “But I turned it off when I drank my last cup."
"But I saw Lyla push the button ... Oh, hell."
It hit us both like a brick. Trying to be safe, we'd out-thought one another.
"I'd say that was your problem,” the chief said. “Of course, that's only preliminary. We'll be doing a more thorough investigation in conjunction with your insurance company."<
br />
"Of course.” It was all I could say. He walked away as I leaned into Armand. “Look at it, Armand. It's gone."
"She's down, but she's not out.” He patted my back to comfort me. “Come on. Come over and stay the night with us. We'll see if we can get your stuff out of your apartment in the morning and get started on putting Humpty Dumpty back together again."
"Not with all the king's horses and all the king's men,” I muttered, but Armand had already pointed me toward the car. I prayed he was right, that my baby could be put together again. Somehow, though, I knew he was blowing as much smoke as the fire had.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Fourteen
I sat in the living room at Lyla and Armand's that night staring at the portrait of Papa that hung over the fireplace. In my hand was a large glass of milk, Lyla's substitute for a giant glass of vodka. In front of me on the table was a plate full of macaroni and cheese. The boxed kind. Even if I'd had an appetite, I don't think I'd be in the mood for cardboard mac ‘n cheese. Still, Lyla was trying to make me feel better while Armand tried to get through to the insurance company.
As I sat there, I realized that this home was my comfort. There was really nowhere else I felt as loved or as wanted. Not with my parents, not even in my own little apartment above the Dish.
I flinched when I thought about Let's Dish. Would we ever get it all back? Of course we would, I tried to convince myself. We were insured. It would cover the damages and we'd rebuild. But it would take time, and time was something I didn't have. I'd been biding my time with the bill collectors already—my last hope was winning that competition. If I didn't have the Dish's kitchen, I couldn't win the competition. If I didn't win the competition, there wouldn't be a Let's Dish. Talk about the ultimate Catch-22.
Armand emerged from the bedroom-slash-office and whispered something to Lyla. He was probably asking her if getting me trashed at this point in the pregnancy would hurt the baby. But then something flashed across her face that made me think that wasn't really the deal.
"What's up in there, you two?” I asked. “If you're debating between pizza and Chinese, I vote for Indian. You know, I could go for a good curry.” Yes, I was trying to be funny. I was failing, but I was trying.
Armand looked at me like a puppy who'd just piddled on the rug.
I looked from Armand to Lyla and back again. “What?” When he didn't answer, my tone was more desperate. “What?"
He came over and sat beside me, and Lyla took her post on the other side and grabbed my hand. “He's a moron, Mags. My God, is he a moron. But before you kill him, just remember I love him."
A rock landed in the pit of my stomach. This could not be good. “Why?"
"I just called the insurance company,” Armand said, as if I didn't already know. His face was so white I felt the blood drain out of mine, as well. “There's a problem."
The rock turned into a boulder. With jagged edges that dug into my gut like shards of glass. “What problem?"
"They won't pay damages from the fire."
"Why not?” Lyla took my glass from me. I think I'd managed to spill some, but it took me a moment to realize I was shaking. Armand didn't answer. Instead, his gaze fell to his lap and he held onto Jack, who'd wandered by. I wondered for a moment if the kid was supposed to be a human shield. “Why won't they pay, Armand? What is it you're not telling me?"
"I'd put it in my pocket,” he said.
"Put what in your pocket?"
"I was going straight for the mail. Right after I dropped off those peach dumplings at the band boosters meeting. I was going straight to the mail."
"With what, Armand? With what?” But even through my mind-numbing panic, I knew.
"I don't know what happened.” He buried his face in his son's silky hair. “I know I meant to do it. And I thought I'd done it. So when they told me it wasn't there, I couldn't believe it."
Lyla's hand tightened around mine as I felt the blood come back to my face in an angry flush. “Armand, what are you telling me? Just say it!"
He produced an envelope, beaten and torn around the edges. “I found this between the seat cushions in the van. I thought I'd dropped it in the mail, Maggie. God, I'm sorry. This is all my fault."
I took the envelope from him. This time I could see my hands shaking, but they had gone numb. All the blood had run to my cheeks. “You didn't pay the fire insurance? You didn't mail the check? How the hell could you forget something like the fire insurance, Armand?"
"I tried to talk to them, Maggie. I tried, but they didn't care. It's my fault. It's all my fault and I'm going to make it up to you."
"Make it up to me? How in the hell are you going to make it up to me?” Jack flinched from the tone of my voice, and Armand gripped him tighter. I was too damned mad to feel guilty about startling the kid. Instead, I flew out of my seat.
"Jesus, Armand, do you know how much work and money I have put into that place? Christ, you were right there with me the whole time! You damned well should! And you don't care enough about the place that we built together to pull your head out of your ass long enough to mail a freaking check?"
"Come on, Maggie.” Lyla tugged at my arm to get me to sit back down. “Calm down. It's not like he did it on purpose. We all make mistakes."
I turned on her in blind fury. “Yeah, like turning the coffee pot on instead of off? Didn't you see the little light come on? Or was your own bulb too dim to see it?"
Lyla drew in a sharp breath and gaped at me. This time it was Armand's hand I felt. “Maggie, she didn't know it was off. I'm the idiot who normally leaves it on. Go figure, the one time I turn it off it would end up in disaster."
"Well, I guess that's what I get for having you two as partners. A couple of disasters waiting to happen."
"Okay, that's enough, Maggie!” Lyla said more sternly. “We've stood by you through all your stupidity over the years. You're not going to start blaming us now."
My brain surged with a rage that made my head swim. I don't remember what happened next. All I know is the next day my throat ached from all the screaming. What finally shut us up was the piercing scream of the baby as he began to cry.
"I sowwy, Mama!” he cried. “I sowwy, Maggie. I sowwy!"
Tears were running down my face before I reached him two steps away. Lyla was there, too, the two of us hugging the boy as he sobbed.
"I'm sorry, baby,” I said to him and landed a kiss on his cheek. “You're a good boy. We love you, honey."
After we got Jack settled down, I cuddled him on the couch and looked at Lyla and Armand. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm an evil bitch and I know it."
"You're upset,” Armand said.
"So are you.” I was still crying and shaking, gripping the child in my lap with such force I was afraid I might break him. “I know you didn't mean to forget. I know how hectic it all gets. I could have forgotten it, too. I'm sorry."
Lyla rubbed my shoulder, all the obscenities we'd thrown at one another five minutes earlier forgotten. “It's the hormones, honey. It's okay. We'll work this all out."
We spent the next hour trying to figure it all out before we succumbed to the exhaustion we'd worked ourselves into. We'd forgiven one another, I knew that. Neither Lyla nor Armand would hold anything against me. But I lay awake in their guestroom that night realizing that something in my life was suddenly broken. And it wasn't Let's Dish.
* * * *
My hair still smelled of smoke. I'd showered what seemed like a hundred times at Lyla and Armand's, but the stink was relentless. I'd fought insomnia all night, tossing and turning until I finally gave up around three in the morning. Then I turned my attention to my diary and re-read nearly the whole damned thing. Just my luck, it had been in my bag in the car. If there was one thing that should have gone up in flames, it was probably that book. As shameful as it was, though, I was driven to near ecstasy when I stumbled on it in the wee hours.
So on no sleep whatsoever and e
ven less good judgment, I drove to my parents’ house before the morning paper could inform them of my misfortune.
"Honey! What are you doing here? Come on, have some coffee. You look terrible. Why aren't you at your little store?"
"Because my little store is in cinders, Ma.” And yes, I did say that out loud. I was too tired to be coy and break it to her gently. I just wanted to get it over with and get some sleep.
"What? Margaret Mary, what are you talking about?"
"Fried like your toast.” I tossed my purse across the back of a chair and made a note to forget it in the delivery van more often. “The coffee pot was left on and the whole goddamned thing burned down."
"Margaret, watch your language! You don't take the Lord's name in vain!” She crossed herself and fiddled with her rosary beads.
Ugh. No wonder I'm a little nuts. No “are you okay” or “I'm sorry you can roast marshmallows on your dream"—just praying to save my soul from hell.
"Mom, my apartment has some smoke damage and stuff. Can I stay here tonight?"
That got her attention. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed and wrapped her arm around my waist. “Of course you can stay here. Forever, if you need to. Oh, honey, you're getting a little chubby here.” She rubbed my tummy right where Bob was showing his little rotund self. “And these clothes. When did you start wearing such baggy shirts? Goodness, this will never do if we have Terry over for dinner tonight."
I was afraid to ask. “Terry?"
"Yes, dear, we have a new neighbor. And since we haven't heard anything more about your young man, we just assumed—"
"Ma—"
"Now before you tell me not to introduce you to a nice young man, you should know he's a doctor."
"Ma, there's something I need to—"
"Now, people may laugh at proctologists, but after all, they're necessary, too."
"Ma, I think you should know—a proctologist?” Great. Mom was trying to set me up with an ass doctor.
"They make very good money. Come along, Margaret. You get some rest and we'll go shopping this afternoon to get you some better clothes.” She grimaced, looking me over. “And maybe some Dexatrim.” She shook her head again, but then refocused on my face. “Now, dear, what were you going to say?"
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