“Just what kind of past do you have?” he asked once, when we’d both come up for air.
“I’m a divorcée,” I said. “Three times over. Does that shock you?”
He laughed. “Divorcée! Nobody uses that word anymore. But really? Three times?”
“Technically. But really, I’ve only ever been married to two men. And I was only nineteen when I married Sandy Thayer, the man you met earlier tonight? He was my older brother’s best friend. We ran off to Myrtle Beach and got married over spring break my freshman year at St. Mary’s. My parents were horrified. They had it annulled right away. They told St. Mary’s I was home sick with mononucleosis, and I went back and finished school like nothing had ever happened.”
Reddy held up one finger. “Okay, technically, that marriage was annulled, so it never really happened. What about husband number two?”
“Richard Hodges.” I shuddered as I said it. “What a nightmare. My last blind date. Ever. I was twenty-eight, running my first little restaurant, so busy I didn’t have time to meet anybody, let alone date. Richard seemed like such a great guy. Very successful stockbroker, from a nice family. We dated for a year, and I was absolutely smitten with the guy. Even my mother loved him. Which should have been some kind of signal.”
“Why do you say that?” Reddy asked.
“Richard,” I said succinctly, “turned out to be a perv. A world-class pervert. We’d been married two months before I found the phone bills. He’d managed to spend $12,000 from our joint checking account. For phone sex. I didn’t find out about the computer porn until after I kicked him out.” I made a face. “When I found it, I took his laptop outside and ran it over with my car, then tossed it in a Dumpster. Which was a mistake, because my lawyer said we could have used it in court. But I didn’t care. I just wanted him out of my life. And he is. Way out. He’s doing ten to twelve in a minimum-security prison.”
Reddy winced. “You poor kid.” He kissed me again. “Darlin’, your past is in the past. I’m only interested in your future.”
I kissed him back. “I’m almost done now. Husband number three was Sandy.”
“Again?”
“Yup. I was on the rebound from Richard. My sister-in-law had a surprise fortieth birthday party for my brother Arch, and Sandy was there. It was the first time I’d seen him in ten years. He was so sweet, so thoughtful. So un-Richard. I fell for him all over again.”
“We only talked for a few minutes, but he seems like a decent guy.”
“He is,” I agreed. “Sandy is a total sweetheart. But he took a job in Chicago months after we got married. It was January. Have you ever been in Chicago in January?”
“No.”
“Good for you,” I said. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault, what happened between us. Sandy was on the road all the time for his job, and I was stuck out in this snooty Chicago suburb, miserable as mud. All I did was eat and cry and watch daytime television. I gained thirty pounds in eighteen months. And when that first snowstorm hit, that second year, I made up my mind. Packed my bags and caught a cab. I called Sandy from O’Hare. He was a good sport about it, but that’s Sandy. And he’s never held a grudge. He’d do anything for me, and I’d do the same for him.”
I sighed. “So that’s it. That’s my big, bad past. But what about you? What makes you so bad, Ryan Edward Millbanks?”
“You’re cold,” he said suddenly. And he stood up, cradling me in his arms like a big fur-wrapped baby. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside the cabin before you catch pneumonia out here.”
I twisted the face of his watch until I could see the luminous dial. It was late. Nearly two A.M. “What’s in that cabin of yours?” I asked.
“The usual. There’s a nifty little galley. Are you hungry, sugar? I feel bad that I made you skip out of your party without any supper. I could cook us something. Warm up some chili, something like that?”
I shook my head. “Not hungry. Just a little sleepy.”
There was that grin again. “Well, why didn’t you say so? The owner’s quarters are pretty special, if I do say so myself. And I’d be delighted to show them to you.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s late. I’ve had a long day, and I’ve got to be at work in the morning.” I kissed him lightly. “It’s been a lovely night, Reddy. But I think you’d better take me home.”
He kissed me back. “Home? But I thought we were getting along so well. You’re a lady with a past, and I’m a bad boy. We were meant to be.”
It was tempting. I was so sleepy. And his arms felt so right, wrapped around me that way. I felt safe. And happy. And yes, I’ll admit it, more than a little horny.
“Stay,” he whispered in my ear.
But then it occurred to me. This was a man I’d met only a few hours earlier. And here I was, ready to jump into bed without another thought.
What Would Mama Say?
3
“About time,” Daniel said when I strolled into the kitchen at Guale at four o’clock Sunday afternoon. I yawned and stretched and made a point of ignoring my chef. It was true that I’d slept through brunch and was now perilously close to missing our busy dinner trade too, but damnit, what’s the point of owning your own restaurant if you can’t sleep late once in a while?
I flipped the pages of the reservation book to see what kind of night to expect. Not too shabby. I recognized the names of some of our regulars, and was glad to see that the new concierge at the Westin had booked four different parties in for the evening.
“How was brunch?” I asked.
“A little slow,” he admitted. “But up from last week.”
“The dogwood in my front yard is loaded with buds,” I said. “Pretty soon the azaleas in Forsyth Park will be in full bloom. Before you know it, we’ll be packed with tourists. Enjoy the quiet while you can, my friend.”
He nodded agreement. We were both native Savannahians, which meant we were both old enough to remember the days when the town was just another beautiful, if sleepy, Southern port. For as long as we could remember, shipping and paper mills were the industries that paid the bills in Savannah. When I grew up, in the seventies, there had been just one good hotel in town, the DeSoto Hilton, and only a handful of what anybody would call fine restaurants. But all that had changed in the nineties, with the publication of a book, and a movie by the same title, that had portrayed Savannah as a steamy hotbed of voodoo, sex, drag queens, and scandal.
These days, tourism pumps millions every year into our economy. Whole blocks of formerly squalid businesses and houses in the historic district have been restored to pristine condition, and new luxury hotels line the riverfront. Tour buses and trolleys clog the moss-draped old squares, and if you take a seat in any of the dozens of new restaurants that have opened downtown, you’re as likely to hear Japanese or German being spoken at the next table as you are a Southen drawl.
But some things hadn’t changed. High season—and spring—in Savannah starts officially on St. Patrick’s Day, which is when the city throws a celebration they claim is second only to New York’s for bluster and blarney. As usual, we were already booked solid with private dinners and parties for the entire week before St. Patrick’s Day, and barring any unforeseen natural disasters, our business would stay strong right through till Christmas.
Daniel lifted the lid from a pot of simmering veal stock, dipped in a spoon, and tasted. He tossed his head in the direction of the tiny closet I call my office. “Guy came by earlier today and left something for you,” he said, adding a couple of grinds of pepper to the pot.
“Hmm. Did he leave a name?”
“I didn’t ask,” Daniel said. “I was busy trying to keep us in business, you know?”
I flipped him the bird and hurried across the kitchen to my office.
A huge arrangement of pale pink roses in a cut-glass vase was centered on top of a pile of junk mail on my desk. A business card was Scotch-taped to the vase. The card was made of thick vellu
m. “Ryan Edward Millbanks III,” it said. “Asset Management.” There was no address, just a telephone number. I flipped it over. There were only two words on the back. “Dinner, tonight?”
I smiled to myself. “Definitely dinner tonight.”
“New boyfriend?”
I whirled around, my face scarlet with embarrassment at being caught all moony-faced. Daniel leaned on the door frame.
“New friend,” I said. With my foot I kicked the door shut, and sat down and dialed the number on the card.
The phone rang four times before a recording advised me to leave a message. “Steady, girl,” I told myself. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. I hung up without leaving a message. Time to get to work. I plucked Reddy’s card from the vase and tucked it into the pocket of my slacks. And I took the flowers and placed them on the pine console table at the front of the house.
The next few hours were a blur. Around five, just as the first early birds were coming through the door, both Kevin, our bartender, and Rikki, one of the waitresses, called in sick. It wasn’t the first time the two of them had bailed on me on the same night, and I had my suspicions about the nature of their sickness, but shorthanded as we were, there was no time to conduct an inquisition.
Most people think the restaurant business is the epitome of hip and happenin’, but the truth of the business is, it’s mostly just dog-hard work. For every hour I spend exchanging air kisses with local celebrities, I spend another three in a sweltering kitchen, up to my elbows in dirty pans, irate chefs, and incompetent help. When the ladies’ room commode backs up, I’m the one mopping the floor and cursing the plumber. When my local supplier sends whipping cream instead of crème fraiche or grouper instead of snapper, I’m the one who has to break the news to Daniel that the catch of the day has suddenly changed. And when the help bails out, I have to pitch in.
It was true that I’d arrived fashionably late at my restaurant in a chic black pantsuit and high-heeled black slingbacks, but I spent the rest of the evening racing from the maître d’ stand to the bar to the kitchen, greeting customers, fixing drinks, and urging Daniel and his assistants to get the food out with a minimum of fuss.
By ten o’clock, when the last of the stragglers, a hard-drinking party of six, were pushing back from their white-clothed table, I was ready to drop dead from exhaustion, and my toes were screaming in pain.
“Great dinner, BeBe,” exclaimed Preston Conover, the florid-faced vice president of Coastal Trust Bank, as he slung an arm around my shoulder and kissed me a little too close to my mouth. “Great little place you got here.” Over his shoulder, his wife rolled her eyes. I managed to shrug his arm away and thanked him with as much sincerity as I could muster. After all, he wasn’t just a banker. He was my banker, and he’d personally approved a half-a-million-dollar loan that had allowed me to expand my lounge into the vacant space next to mine there on Barnard Street.
Preston thrust his check and his platinum American Express card toward me, and I demurely thrust the credit card back at him.
“Aw, BeBe,” he protested weakly. This was a game he liked to play to impress his friends. Big-shot Preston would insist on picking up the dinner check at the fanciest restaurants in town, knowing that owners like me would insist on comping him. In truth, I wouldn’t have minded comping just Preston and Jeanine, but this was a party of six, and they’d all ordered the most expensive appetizers, entrées, and wine from our menu. Their bar bill alone came to $300, which I knew because I’d been the one fetching their drinks all night.
“Run along, Preston,” I said, easing him toward the door. As soon as he was clear of it, I bolted the lock and sank down onto a seat at the bar.
“Owww,” I moaned, sliding my feet out of my shoes. “Eeeww,” I added, catching a glimpse of myself in the back-bar mirror. My hair was limp and drenched with perspiration, what was left of my lipstick was smeared, and I was missing an earring.
Suddenly there was somebody pounding on the door.
“We’re closed,” I hollered, too tired to stand up.
More pounding.
“Try the Marriott,” I hollered. “They don’t close till eleven.”
More pounding.
I got up and hobbled, barefoot, to the door. I snapped the lock and flung the door open wide. “Get the fu—”
I managed to swallow the rest of the obscenity I’d been about to utter. The door pounder was Ryan Edward Millbanks III.
“Hey there,” he said, taking a step back. “Did I catch you at a bad moment?”
I snatched off the apron, and tucked a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
“Long night,” I said.
He gazed past me into the foyer, and I saw him looking at the arrangement of roses on the console table. “The flowers are beautiful,” I said, gesturing toward them. “My favorite color rose. I didn’t get a chance to call and thank you properly because we’ve been slammed all night. My bartender and one of my waitresses are shacked up somewhere, so I had to fill in, plus hostess. And then—”
He put a finger across my lips. “Shh,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. I just stopped by to see if you wanted to go get a bite to eat.”
“Right now?” I said. “I can’t go anywhere like this. Look at me. I’m a wreck.”
“You look fine to me. And it doesn’t have to be anyplace fancy,” Reddy said amiably. “I’m mostly just interested in the company.”
“It’s Sunday night, and it’s nearly eleven,” I reminded him. “This is Savannah, not New York. There isn’t anyplace decent open this late.”
“I know a place,” he said, extending a hand to me. “Come on. You’re the boss. You don’t have to clock out, do you?”
I laughed despite my tiredness. “No. Just let me tell Daniel I’m leaving.”
“That’s the chef?”
“Yeah. I guess you met him when you came by earlier.”
“Technically, we didn’t meet,” Reddy said. “I dropped the flowers by and left. I got the impression he doesn’t appreciate having strangers messing around in his kitchen.”
“His bark’s worse than his bite,” I said. “He’s really a sweetie. I’d introduce you properly, but it’s been a long night for all of us.”
“Another time, then,” Reddy said.
Out in the kitchen, Daniel was just putting away his knives, which meant he too was getting ready to leave.
“I’m toast,” I told him.
“How’d it go out front?” he asked. “Anybody bitch about the fact that we ran out of the scallops?”
“They did,” I admitted, “but I was so busy I didn’t pay any attention. That new oyster appetizer of yours was a big hit. But I noticed a couple of people didn’t seem too thrilled with the seared tuna.”
“That’s because they ordered it cooked to death. This is sashimi-grade tuna, BeBe. It’s no good unless you order it rare,” Daniel groused. “We’ve got to educate these people’s palates.”
“No. We’ve got to serve them food they like,” I corrected him. “Let’s think about taking the tuna off the menu for a while. Maybe substitute flounder.”
“Flounder!” Daniel slapped the stainless-steel prep table with the flat of his hand. “Why don’t we just do fried catfish and hush puppies?”
“We’ll talk about it Tuesday,” I said, turning my back to him. “See you then.”
“Hey,” he said, sounding surprised. “Where are you going? It’s Sunday night. Weezie’s expecting us.”
Most Sunday nights for the past couple of years, my best friend, Weezie Foley, and I have had a standing dinner date.
The dinners had started as a girl’s-only affair, when we were both in deepest, darkest, divorce recovery. We’d meet at Weezie’s for drinks and dinner, and usually watch some old chick flick and fantasize about what it would be like to live in the moment of our favorite movies. Daniel had been added to the equation after he and Weezie became an item, and our number had since grown to five, with the addition of Weezie
’s uncle James, and Jonathan McDowell, his significant other.
The men were a great addition to the mix, because Daniel, after all, cooked like a dream, and James and Jonathan were gay men, so they liked everything we liked, plus they were both lawyers, which always comes in handy.
“Damn,” I said, slapping my thigh. “I completely forgot. I’ve kind of got a date.”
“So bring him,” Daniel said.
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s not that kind of date. I mean, well, it’s complicated. Anyway, Weezie’ll understand. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“A date?” Daniel raised one eyebrow. “The guy with the flowers?”
“None of your business,” I said. “See you Tuesday.”
He shook his head, telegraphing his disapproval. “Has Weezie met this Ryan Edward Millbanks the third character?”
“You read the card? My private mail?”
“Sure,” Daniel said. “Some guy busts in my kitchen, wants to know where you are, and how business is, damn straight I read the card. Not that there was much on it. Who ever heard of a business card without an address?”
“Reddy is in asset management,” I said. “He’s from one of the finest old families in Charleston. He doesn’t need a business card to tell people what he does or where he lives. And I don’t need you checking up on my personal business.”
“Right,” Daniel said sourly. “Because you have such good judgment where men are concerned.”
“I hired you,” I reminded him. And I was tempted to add that I could fire him too if the need arose. But I wasn’t that stupid. And anyway, there was a very attractive man waiting out front to take me to dinner.
“Give the gang my regrets,” I said, pushing open the swinging door to the dining room. “And from now on, stay out of my office.”
4
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