"Uh, yeah. Me, too.” His hesitance was evident in his voice. Even if he hadn't wanted to discuss something with me, his tone would have made me nervous. “You want to come over tonight?” he asked. “I'll cook."
"I'll bring a bottle of wine,” I replied. “Um, maybe sparkling grape juice."
"Sounds good.” He hung up without saying goodbye.
I stared at the receiver, still dangling in my hand. It made noises of protest, blaring a mocking whine. Something was wrong. “Duh,” I said aloud, annoyed with myself. “They hate you, you stupid bitch."
"Margaret, what are you watching down there? I'm not sure I like you watching television programs with that kind of language!"
I flopped back on the couch and let my head pound. “TV's off, Ma. I was just on the phone."
"Well, come upstairs and be sociable. I made you some oatmeal raisin cookies.” She said that like it was a good thing. As if they weren't going to be wholegrain hockey pucks. “And I bought you some Slim-Fast at the grocery store this morning so you can stop wearing those baggy clothes."
I shut my eyes tight, hoping that it was a dream and I could wake myself up.
"Margaret?"
No such luck. I heaved a sigh, rolled off the couch and headed upstairs to face my destiny of being a thirty-something pregnant woman living in her parents’ basement. Oh joy.
* * * *
My car rattled to a stop in front of an art deco nightmare. The windows were lined with chrome and a huge red and white checkerboard covered everything else. Best Dishes declared a sign in giant cartoon letters. I squeezed myself into the revolving door and entered a room that seemed half fifties diner, half sterile hospital room. Except everything was covered in red and white squares with chrome. It didn't fit Kevin. It was too sterile. Too cold.
The temperature, however, could be traced to a presence behind the counter. Bearing a frightening resemblance to Cruella DeVille, Angela Summerset made the cartoon villain seem like freaking Snow White. Of course, she wasn't exactly frowning when she saw me. On the contrary, I think she was trying to smile. She just wasn't very good at it.
"Maggie Donnely. So nice to see you,” she hissed.
I had the urge to start looking around for the snake from The Jungle Book, then wondered why I had a sudden obsession with Disney movies. Hormones. Babies on the brain. Abject terror. Take your pick.
"Hi Angela. Is Kevin here?"
From the way her eye twitched, it was fairly obvious she wasn't anxious for me to talk to Kevin. “May I help you?"
"Yeah, my car's overheating and I wondered if I could use some of that liquid nitrogen you have running through your veins to cool it off.” You know, it's a good thing I'm a quiet person most of the time.
"Not really,” I said aloud. “I just wanted to talk to Kevin about something we discussed the other day."
He must have discussed it with her, too, because her face puckered around something sour. “I thought you didn't ... that is, I was under the impression you didn't want to take Kevin up on his more-than-generous offer.” She was sure to emphasize the word more.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather discuss my business with Kevin."
I didn't think it was possible for her mouth to get any tighter. I guess it could, because the pucker totally sucked up her lips. Her mouth was a hard, fine, pissed off line. I actually shivered.
"He's in back,” she said at last. She pointed toward a door and started wiping down the counter with such ferocity I wondered if the ceramic tiles would hold up.
I shot a quick “thanks” over my shoulder—no point in being rude—and scuttled through the door as quickly as I could. I couldn't decide which was worse—sucking up to Kevin or dealing with Miss Ice Cubes.
The kitchen was as slick and stylish as the rest of the place. Everything was smooth metal and chrome, with the exception of a single butcher-block countertop where Kevin stood. I watched him as he tenderly wrapped thin slices of prosciutto around asparagus spears. His eyes were focused on the task at hand and his fingers worked so delicately it was almost sensual.
My stomach did an odd flip-flop, leaving me standing there with my jaw slack. Of course, that was when Kevin chose to turn and look at me.
"Maggie!” He looked pleased to see me, which I'm disturbed to report pleased me. I shook the hormone-induced cobwebs from my brain and set my shoulders in the same way that made Angela look like an iceberg. It probably made me resemble a pint-sized linebacker.
"Good afternoon, Kevin. What a ... neat kitchen you keep."
"Uh, thanks.” He wiped his hands on his apron and ambled toward me. “I'm really glad you stopped by."
"You are?” I winced and cursed myself for sounding too surprised. And a little too happy.
"Of course I am. I wanted to apologize. I've been a jerk."
"You do? You were?” Why was I suddenly unable to speak more than one syllable at a time?
"Yeah, I was. I'm sure you have other options. After all, your insurance would probably cover the rent on a new place long enough for you to get the café up and running again. And here I came along trying to look like a knight in shining armor."
My stomach quit doing flip-flops and sank. “I don't have insurance."
Kevin scowled. “Excuse me?"
"Armand—well, we had insurance, but when it came time to renew, the check didn't get there in time."
To his credit, Kevin didn't dance in joy, as I would have expected him to. Instead, his scowl grew deeper. “Oh hell. What are you going to do?"
My bravado fell like a cheese soufflé and tears started leaking from the corner of my eye. “I don't know. I've lost everything. Everything. Unless I win that contest—” I stopped and took a look at myself from the outside. It was beyond absurd. I was standing in the competition's kitchen bawling about what I loser I was. Which pretty much sealed my fate to loserdom.
Kevin looked hesitant, as if he wanted to do something but wasn't sure what. “Maggie, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
I pulled myself together as much as I could, which wasn't an easy feat. Damned hormones. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—what I meant to say was—well, ask, really—was if ... if the offer you discussed the other day—if Angela is so inclined, if Armand and I could take you up on your offer."
Kevin nodded. “Of course. I'm afraid we're pretty booked up this week, but if you'd be willing to work after hours—"
"Sure,” I said. “And I will pay you rent, although I'm not sure when I'll be able to come up with it—"
"Don't sweat it. We'll worry about that later. In the meantime, I'll make you a key. Then you can come and go as you please."
The uneasiness I'd felt earlier returned. What was this guy up to? And how could he make me trust him one minute and be suspicious the next? “Why are you doing this?"
"What? I can't just be a nice guy helping out an old friend?"
I let out a low chuckle. “That's a good one, Kevin. I don't think I'd describe us as friends."
Kevin frowned and went back to his ham and asparagus. “No one's twisting your arm. If you want to use my kitchen, use it. If not, I wish you luck."
I checked my attitude. I could be as suspicious as I wanted to, but something about gift horses and mouths ran through my head. “I'm sorry, Kevin. You're right. I owe you one."
He shrugged, his eyes still glued to his work. “We'll call it even. Come by tomorrow and I'll have a key ready for you."
"Thanks.” I felt something more needed to be said but had no idea what. Not only that, but Kevin's body language made it abundantly clear the conversation was over. It was odd, the role reversal.
I managed to dodge Angela on the way out, but only because she was waiting on Mrs. Adler and her granddaughter.
"This is such lovely almond fudge,” Mrs. Adler said. “I've never tasted anything quite like it."
I hurried past them in hopes of ducking out before being recognized. I hopped into the car and fired her up. Tick tick tick ti
ck BOOM! it protested.
"Will you just blow up already and put me out of my misery?” I said, and put her into gear.
* * * *
I pulled into Lyla and Armand's driveway a little before seven, a bottle of Merlot in one hand and a bottle of sparkling grape juice in the other. I really wished I could have the Merlot.
I braced myself for Jack to come barreling into me at full blast, but he was nowhere to be seen. As I approached the door, it didn't pop open like it usually did. I didn't know whether to knock or just go in; I'd never had to make that decision before. In the current atmosphere, however, I decided it was probably best to ring the bell.
I never knew their doorbell played a tango.
I could see Lyla behind the frosted glass panes inset in the door. She hesitated. Not a good sign. But when she opened the door, she was smiling. “Since when do you ring the bell?"
"Well, I just thought ... well, you know, I didn't want to barge in."
"You're not barging.” She gave me a hug, and held onto me a second longer than was comfortable, especially under the circumstances. Then again, maybe I was just being paranoid.
I walked into the house, which was eerily quiet. “Where's Jack?"
Armand was stationed behind the counter in the kitchen, leaning over a pan of steaming something. I wasn't paying attention. Instead, I was focusing on Armand's wan expression.
"He's in bed,” he said. “We put him down early tonight because we have to ... well, we thought you might want to talk. You know."
"Talk?"
"Yeah.” Lyla came around me and gently took the bottle of wine. “We have something we need to discuss with you."
Guess I wasn't being paranoid.
"Discuss what?"
Lyla took the other bottle. I think she may have been making sure I didn't have anything lethal on me. “We'll talk about it over dinner. Armand made his famous baked ziti. Come on. Have a salad, have a drink of grape juice, and let's just enjoy the food."
"Discuss what?” I asked, more insistent this time.
Armand looked defeated. Lyla looked ashamed. I tried not to look mad as hell, but the avoidance tactics were frankly starting to piss me off.
"I got gumdrops for dessert,” Lyla said. “You love gumdrops."
I took a breath. “Lyla, I've known you for how long? And you think a gumdrop is going to distract me from a bombshell like we have something to discuss with you?"
"They're tropical fruit gumdrops,” she added. Weakly, I might add.
"Ly, let's just sit down and talk,” Armand said. “I can reheat the ziti when we're done."
She nodded. We all trudged into the living room, where Lyla and Armand ganged up on me by sitting together on the couch. I'm sure they didn't mean it that way, but ya know...
"What's up?” I took my seat in the overstuffed chair. I decided whatever it was I was going to take it with quiet grace and dignity.
Armand drew a breath. “Fred called."
So much for quiet grace and dignity. “Fred? Fred the freaking charlatan who's been trying to buy me out for how long? The one who's tried to sucker me into working for him? How dare he call you? I hope you told him to go take a bath in a tubful of razor blades."
No response. None. Nada. Armand looked at his lap and Lyla wrung her hands around his. I felt the knife sinking into my back, and the thing felt like it had a serrated blade. “Tell me,” I said, but was so quiet I wondered if Armand had heard me.
It soon became evident that he had, but had to search for words. “He offered me a position as head chef.” He still couldn't meet my eyes. “I didn't want to take it, Mags. You know how I feel about Fred. But the thing is, I have a kid—"
He stopped like he'd hit a brick wall. “And I don't?"
"We know what you're facing, Maggie.” Lyla put her hand on my knee. “Trust me, we didn't want to do this, but we have a house and a mortgage."
"We talked it over and we just couldn't refuse.” At last, Armand looked at me. “Maggie, we've been struggling for a long time, you and me. It hasn't been easy. We put our hearts and souls into the Dish, and we both love it. You, especially. It was your dream. I understand that. But don't you think it's time we all stopped struggling?"
"What are you talking about? Wasn't the struggle worth it?"
"Yes and no,” Lyla said. “We all had our dreams for the place, but in the end, what do we have to show for it?"
A couple of goddamned traitors, I thought, but, for once, kept my mouth shut.
"You know, don't you feel like this fire and everything that happened is a sign?"
I stared at Armand, not believing what was coming out of his mouth. “Yeah. A sign it's time I found a new partner."
Lyla bit her lip, and somewhere deep inside where I wasn't totally ticked off, I knew how much restraint she was showing. The hotter side of my brain, however, found the gesture irritating as hell.
"No,” Armand said before the sparks started to fly. “A sign that you don't have to go through this anymore. I know you could find a job as a head chef in the city. You're an amazing chef, Maggie. Why put yourself through it all?"
"Screw the baked ziti and gumdrops, I'm going home.” I felt the wrench of irony that I didn't have a home to go to. “And screw you, Armand. Go work for Fred. I don't care. I'll reopen Let's Dish on my own. Without you two."
"That's not what we want,” Lyla said.
"I don't care what you want.” I grabbed my grape juice off the counter and, for good measure, turned back for the Merlot. “Thanks for dinner,” I shot back over my shoulder right before I slammed the door behind me.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seventeen
So let's examine this. I had no husband, no friends, no business, no income, a baby on the way, and a mother who wanted to set me up with a multitude of schmucks and put me on a diet involving cookies and Slim-Fast. So as I sat in my car in front of Best Dishes, it didn't surprise me much that I was about to surrender my pride, as well.
"Boy, when things go to hell,” I said to myself and wrestled the rusted door open. I decided not to take its screeching protest as a sign I should plant my ever-expanding ass right back in it and go home.
It was five thirty on a Tuesday night. The competition was Sunday afternoon at the Civic Center. Within a week, I would know whether my life was over, or if I actually had the talent and dumb luck to beat some of Upstate New York's best chefs. I was putting my money on dumb luck.
I hauled the box of bread, cans, jars and other sundries out of the back seat, trying to fortify myself against the cold front I'd encounter when I walked in the door. That one didn't take a PhD to predict.
As I expected, Angela was at the counter when I walked in, looking as dour as ever. “Hi, Angela.” I was determined not to let her get to me. Never mind my stomach felt like I'd swallowed a cactus whole. “Kevin here?"
"He's in back. He's been waiting for you.” Her nose actually turned up at me. I swear. Never before had I seen such a clichéd gesture.
"Thanks.” I scurried out of Miss Ice Cube's way as swiftly as I could.
I scuffled with my box of groceries, trying to get them around the tight corner of the counter and into Kevin's gigantic, gleaming kitchen. To say I felt out of place is like saying Julia Robert's character in Pretty Woman looked a little awkward in the elevator at the Plaza. I felt like Queen Frump on display in the Louvre.
"Let me help you with that.” The voice came from somewhere over the mound of bread that was threatening to tumble onto my head. Hands reached around the box and unwedged it from between the counter and the wall. “Sage? You shouldn't have brought that, Maggie. I have sage."
"I didn't want to impose,” I told Kevin as he emerged from beneath the loaves of cornbread. “Are you sure this is okay?"
"Of course it's okay. I wouldn't have offered if it weren't."
No, I still wasn't comfortable with this whole idea. Kevin wanted something, I was almost certain
of it. Still, I had promised myself to be civil, at least. This was my last chance. For some reason, Kevin had taken a lot of heat from me and was willing to take more.
"I just don't want to step on any toes.” I glanced over my shoulder, making it perfectly clear whose toes I meant.
"Who? Angela?” He made a little “puff” noise as he rolled his eyes. “Never mind her. She's pissy about it, but I think somewhere along the way she sat on an ice cube."
I didn't know whether to laugh or be scared that we were thinking the same thing. When in doubt, be afraid. Be very afraid.
Kevin dug in to unpack my box. “I've carved out some space for you in the larder, and you can have the fridge in the back room. We never use that anymore. Angela says it gets too cold in the back, but it's fine."
The thought of my Gouda becoming a cheese-sicle made me uneasy. “Are you sure?"
His eyes shot back toward the kitchen door again. “Yeah, it works fine, but it's white, not chrome. Angela loves chrome."
"I can tell."
"I'm so damned sick of having to polish all this chrome I could just puke.” He seemed to rebuke himself, then smiled. “So is Armand coming with more?"
I averted my eyes, not wanting Kevin to realize just how much it hurt to hear that name. “No. Armand and I ... well, we parted ways, I'm afraid."
"You're kidding.” His expression registered what appeared to be legitimate surprise and sympathy, but I just didn't trust it. “Wow, I never thought anything could come ... I'm sorry to hear that, Mags. Really."
"Thanks."
"You're going it alone?"
The thought sent me into palpitations. “I guess so.” Not like I had a lot of choice.
He leaned toward me. “Between you and me, there are times I think Angela can take her chrome and shove it where the sun don't shine."
All of a sudden, I realized I might just have stepped smack dab in the middle of a battlefield where balloon whisks were weapons dripping with the blood of marinara sauce.
"I needed her at first,” he continued, as I stood frozen to my spot. “But if we win this contest, I might buy her out with my half of the prize money."
Let's Dish Page 17