"Ma, I have something I have to tell you.” I braced myself. I had to tell her. She was going to freak out, but I had to tell her.
She looked at me with those damned deer-caught-in-headlights eyes and smiled her empty-headed smile. “What, Margaret? You can tell me anything."
Do it! I took a deep breath, looked up at her and said, “I'd really like some spaghetti."
* * * *
Late that afternoon, the fire department let me back into the Dish. The kitchen was still there, but my white cabinets were stained with black soot, and water sloshed every time I took a step. My apartment was intact but everything was soaked. The time I was going to spend on laundry over the next couple of days was staggering.
Heading into the coffee shop, I saw it wasn't a total loss. But the remnants of pastries charred to the glass case meant that I'd have to buy a new one.
"I guess I'd better start cleaning my apartment first if I'm going to sleep here tonight,” I said to no one in particular.
"Oh, you can't stay here, ma'am,” the fire marshal said. He'd been pacing around the room, making notes on a clipboard. “Until you get some of the structural beams in the kitchen replaced, this place isn't stable enough to live in. In fact, I shouldn't have let you in here to begin with, but I knew you needed some of your stuff."
"Oh,” was all I could manage. I was fighting tears as it was. “Thanks."
"No problem, ma'am. I know how expensive maternity clothes can be. The wife just had twins, so I thought you might like to get those."
I couldn't even manage the “yes” this time. This guy could figure it out, but my mom was putting me on diet pills. Of course, this guy had access to my closet. And underwear drawer. And dirty clothes in the bathroom closet.
"Thanks.” I stopped my train of thought before it could take me further toward it's-way-too-embarrassing-to-think-about.
He nodded in a too-polite manner and excused himself, leaving me standing in the middle of my drenched café wondering what the hell I was going to do. “Got any garbage bags?” I called after him. First thing I had to do was pack.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Fifteen
I cried all the way back to my parents’ house from the remains of Let's Dish. Tick tick tick tick BOOM! Tick tick tick tick BOOM! my ancient car protested. It sounded like a time bomb. I felt a little like a ticking time bomb myself. It was over. It was all over. I'd lose the Dish for sure, now. The only hope I had was that contest, and with nowhere to finish my planning and prep work, that dream was gone.
As I pulled into the driveway, I heaved a sigh and looked at the soggy black address book on the seat beside me. My next task was to go inside and hit the phone; canceling all the gigs I'd booked for the next ... the next forever, I guessed. There was no way I was getting my life back. It had only been an extremely generous gift from Ted that had allowed me to open the business to begin with. I couldn't ask for more, even if I wanted to. All his money was tied up in the Pink Squirrel. His dream.
God help me, but at that moment I wished that flaming pink box full of queens would burn to the ground. But I've been known to be a bit bitter when in the grips of blind panic.
I crept in the back door, slipping it closed behind me as quietly as I could. However, my father has never been much of a handyman so the screeching howl of the hinges announced my arrival better than honey, I'm home!
"Margaret Mary, is that you?"
The sound of my mother's voice was worse than nails on a blackboard. I had two choices—pretend I didn't hear and try to sneak back out again or pretend not to hear and try to sneak back to my room in the basement.
I chose option three—try to run like hell out the back door before she had a chance to catch me. I could sleep in the car. Yeah. Lots of people sleep in their cars. Look at Jewel! She did it and now she's a huge star!
Once again, though, my father's handiwork tripped me up as the doorknob came off in my hand.
"Margaret, what are you doing with that doorknob?"
You know those old horror movies where you see someone trapped in a room and the monster comes up behind them? You know that look of utter terror on their faces? That was me. Not that I would generally call Mom a bloodsucker, but sometimes I think she could give Dracula a run for his money when it comes to sucking the life force out of somebody.
"Sorry, Ma. It just broke off."
"Margaret, where have you been?"
Did I really need to think about that anymore? As if she didn't know. “I was at the restaurant talking to the fire marshal. I need to replace some of the structural—"
"That's lovely, dear.” My mother never listened. She scooted over to the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of lemonade, and then piled glasses and a plate of Oreos on a kitschy, fifties-style metal tray. Before I could unpucker my mouth from the mere thought of the combination, she said, “There's someone here to see you, dear."
You could pluck me like a guitar string, I was so tense, and here she was at it again. “Mom, I told you this morning I'm just not up to meeting this butt doctor."
"Say proctologist, dear. It sounds so much nicer."
I dropped the doorknob onto the floor, which earned me a black look from my mother. “Butt doctor, ass guy, proctologist, it doesn't matter. Mother, my business just burned down and you want me to start dating?"
"This isn't Terry.” She picked up the doorknob and set it on the counter as calm and collected as a Stepford Wife. “This young man came to see you and your father is talking to him. So if you don't want him to run away screaming with boredom, you'll come into the living room right now."
"What if I do want him to run away? What will I have to do then?” See, there are times I should just keep those lovely little thoughts to myself. This must have been one of those times.
"Margaret Mary, you get in there and be polite to your guest.” She thrust the tray into my hands and put on her mothering grin. “There. Now he'll think you're domestic and a good cook."
Lemonade and Oreos. Yeah. That makes me domestic and a good cook. Then again, it could work to my advantage. The mystery man might take one look at the nauseating combination and head for the hills. “Yes, Mother."
"But that was back in the days of Lombardi,” I heard my father say as I backed through the kitchen door. “He was the greatest coach that ever lived, I can tell you. Them head coaches these days just ain't the same. Not the same at all, I can tell you."
Dad could tell you a lot. Whether or not you could stay awake while he told you was another matter altogether.
"I don't know, Mr. Donnely. I think Mike Ditka might have made a pretty good contribution of his own. And you can't count out Dan Reeves."
I knew the voice, but there was something wrong with it coming from my parents’ living room. When I heard Dad laugh in that gee, this guy is great manner, I knew I was in big trouble.
"Kevin! No! Not you again."
He was sitting across from my dad in that ugly green chair all couples who got married in the sixties had. Seriously, I think it was a contractual obligation. There was no way in hell I was going to admit to myself that the ugly green of the chair made his eyes look all the more emerald.
"Nice to see you, too, Maggie."
Dad looked a little confused, but put on a hopeful smile. “So is this the young man you told us about, Margaret? The one you knew in cooking school?"
Kevin's lips curled in a self-satisfied smile that made me want to throttle him. “You've been talking about me?"
"Focus, Kevin. How did you find me?"
"I figured you'd be staying here since ... well, since your bad luck yesterday."
"Bad luck, my ass. It was sabotage.” I knew he had nothing to do with the fire, but since he was there at the time and I hated him on general principles, he was guilty by association.
Dad took a long, drawn-out and completely obvious stretch. “I'm tired. I think I'm going to go take a nap.” He stuck out his hand and s
hook Kevin's with gusto. “Good to meet you, Kevin. Come back soon, you hear?"
"I will, sir. Thank you."
Ugh! He was sucking up to my dad. I didn't need to be pregnant to be nauseated by that.
My father walked past me and, in a manner he thought was subtle, whispered, “This one's a keeper, Margaret. No dress-wearing fairy there. He knows football."
My head pounded in rhythm with the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. I frowned at Kevin. “Why won't you stop stalking me?"
He smiled. Damn, I hate how he's never intimidated by his surroundings, even when faced by a hormonal rhinoceros with a plate of lemonade and Oreos. “Are you going to put the tray down? Or did you want to stand there like a statue?"
"I'll put it down when I'm damn good and ready.” I was tempted to stand there all day, but then I realized just how moronic I had to look standing there with a tray in my hand. I set it on the coffee table and scowled when Kevin chuckled. “I was ready.” Somehow, I don't think it helped my case. “Now it's your turn. You going to sit here grinning like the village idiot or are you going to tell me what you want?"
"Fair enough.” He swiped an Oreo. “I was worried about you after the fire. Wanted to make sure you weren't hurt. Didn't have smoke inhalation, or anything."
"Yeah, right."
"I'm serious.” Even I had to admit he looked sincere. “I know we're competition now, Maggie, but I wouldn't wish what happened to you on my worst enemy."
"I thought I was your worst enemy.” Yeah, I was baiting him. I have no idea why. Must be hormones again.
His smug grin made my blood pressure soar. “Nah, you're just my favorite sparring partner. What would I do without you yelling at me at least once a week? It makes me feel loved."
"Oh please!” I groaned.
Kevin put up his hands in surrender. “Listen, I came with a peace offering."
I raised an eyebrow. “A peace offering? This should be interesting."
"Be nice. This is a legitimate offer."
I wondered if I could sneak some of Dad's blood pressure pills. “What kind of offer?"
"Don't worry.” His expression didn't exactly still my nerves. “Not that I'm not considering more stimulating propositions, but today I'm talking business. I know you won't be able to participate in the competition without a professional kitchen."
Stab me in the back again, why don't you? “Nice for you then, isn't it? So is the idea to slowly eliminate the competition one by one?"
"Oh no! You discovered my diabolical plan.” He laughed, but when I didn't join in, he stopped and cleared his throat. “This competition isn't going to be any fun without—well, actual competition."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about lending you my kitchen at Best Dishes to help you get ready for the contest."
I'm not sure how long the silence drew out, but I couldn't talk. My brain was too busy racing, trying to decide if I really heard what I thought I'd heard and, if I did, what the hell was he up to? “Huh?"
"I'm offering you the use of my kitchen. Hell, I think we can put the past behind us and share for a while, don't you?"
"Huh?"
"While you're at it, maybe you can fill some of the orders you've had to cancel. We might be tripping over one another a bit, but if you're willing to work later in the day and at night, I think we can eliminate a lot of that."
"Huh?” Believe it or not, my fifth grade teacher told me I would be revered for my intellect.
"So what do you say, Mags? You want to try burying the hatchet?"
I found my voice. “I'll bury the hatchet, all right. Just as soon as I retrieve it from where you plunged it into my back!"
Kevin's face grew weary. The whole spite thing was starting to wear on me, too. But you know how you just can't give an inch without losing face? Well...
"Come on, Maggie. Unless you've got something else waiting in the wings, what choice do you really have? And don't start in about how I stole your recipes, because I didn't."
"Having me in your kitchen would make it easier for you to steal my ideas, wouldn't it?"
That damned grin reappeared. “I wouldn't say I'd be having you in my kitchen. Not until you stop making death threats, anyway."
I folded my arms. “Not funny."
"It's a little funny.” He wasn't apologetic, but he took the high-beam smile down a notch. “Maggie, I'm serious about this. You're an extremely talented chef, and you make me work harder to be better. I want you to challenge me in this competition."
"Well, right now I'm challenging you to get out of my ... parents’ house!"
Kevin's expression grew serious. He hesitated and seemed to want to say more, but instead got out of the chair and headed toward the door. “All right. I'm going. But think this over, Maggie. It's your funeral. Is losing everything worth keeping that hard shell of pride intact?"
He closed the front door behind him with a click. I was fuming, my cheeks hot and, I was certain, burning red.
"Damn it!” I said to the closed door. “I hate it when he's right!"
* * * *
I don't know why I kept going back to the Dish, but I visited the empty, sooty mess every day for three days in a row. I kept picturing it the way it had been the first day I'd seen it. In truth, it wasn't in much worse shape than it had been then, but that was only an indicator of how much sweat and blood I had put into it that had now all gone up in smoke.
But the Dish wasn't the only thing in ruins. For the first time in twenty years, I hadn't heard from Lyla. We always checked in daily, even when we were on our honeymoons. Armand hadn't called or been lurking around the remnants of our joint venture, either. I wasn't sure if he had given up, or if they were just so mad that they couldn't speak to me.
I grimaced as I thought about how I'd lost it the day of the fire. First I'd yelled at Kevin like a banshee, which he probably deserved whether he was guilty or not, but then I'd turned on the best friends I'd ever had. I was starting to feel like there were just too many things to fix. That I'd screwed up one too many times. I kicked a shingle that had floated down from the roof. All that work, all those years down the drain.
"My God, Mrs. Taylor,” I heard a voice from behind me cry. “Kevin told me about the fire, but I had no idea."
I turned to face the perfectly coiffed and tailored Roberta Hansen, and disappointment washed over me like Niagara Falls. There would be no money, now. No spread in Atlantic Gourmet. Nothing. It felt like I'd just dreamt about the world's biggest marshmallow only to wake up and find out I'd eaten my pillow.
"Oh no,” she continued, her mouth agape. “And with Great Northern Pumpkins coming on board, too!"
"Excuse me?"
The ever-poised Mrs. Hansen picked her jaw up off the cracked concrete. “When Great Northern saw the contestant list and sample menus, they came on board and added another fifty thousand dollars to the prize money."
If I could have breathed at that point, I would have gasped. “Fifty. Thousand. Dollars?"
"Yes, it is generous, isn't it? Oh, Mrs. Taylor, I would hate to see you not participate because of this. Is there another option available to you? A restaurant kitchen you could rent? Another caterer who could extend you a courtesy?"
My gut sank, my jaw tightened and my knees went weak. Try doing that and maintaining a professionally distanced look at the same time. “There is one possibility.” I nearly choked on the words.
She smiled. “Excellent. Then I shall leave your name on the contest roster. I'm looking forward to this, Mrs. Taylor.” She swept her perfectly styled sunglasses back onto her perfect cheekbones and flashed perfect teeth before sliding behind the driver's seat of her Mercedes.
"At least one of us is,” I said to her exhaust. So now that I'd decided to sell my soul, how was I going to tell Armand?
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Sixteen
I'd gotten my room in the basement into shape and tucked my diary
back onto a shelf far enough that I hoped my mother wouldn't find it. Then again, she'd probably already read it when she dug it out the first time.
I rubbed my tummy with one hand while the other tapped out a tarantella on the phone receiver. I'd hidden myself away for the afternoon trying to decide just who I wanted to lose face to first. Armand? Neither he nor Lyla had called yet. Of course, neither had I, but that was beside the point. Kevin? He'd said his offer to share his kitchen was legitimate, but I couldn't help but think he had some ulterior motive. Even if he didn't, how was I going to swallow my pride enough to take him up on it?
One hundred and fifty thousand dollars, I repeated in my head. Enough to save Let's Dish. I grimaced, picked up the phone, dialed, and slammed it down again.
So Kevin's slime; that we've established. But should that fact keep me from salvaging what was left of my life? I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to wander to a time in the future where Jack and Bob played in the corner of my kitchen. Lyla sat at the counter with her laptop, tapping away at the keys with a smile on her face. Armand was there, covered in flour as he kneaded the bread dough. The sun was shining through the old Victorian windows, and Kevin was helping me bake—
Kevin! What the hell was Kevin doing in my perfect picture? I slumped over the phone, knowing exactly why Kevin was there. Because if Kevin wasn't there, there was no way I could make it happen.
I picked up the phone again and dialed. This time for real. Might as well suck it up and get this over with.
"Hello?"
"Armand, hi! It's Maggie.” The response was silence. Things had never been awkward between Armand and me, yet even over a phone line I could feel the tension. “How you doing?” I asked. As if I had to.
"Uh, I'm good,” he said, then quickly added, “Jackie keeps asking about you."
"I miss him.” Regret shot through my heart.
"You should come for dinner. Lyla's missing you, too."
Oh thank God. Everything was normal. Or was it? Why no calls? Why the edge in Armand's voice? “I'd like that.” I was cautiously optimistic. “I have something to talk over with you, anyway."
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