Another thud.
She slipped out of bed, the cheap laminate flooring cool under her bare feet. She hugged herself against the night’s chill, the ratty, old, extra-large t-shirt she wore brushing her thighs as she opened her bedroom door. A chink of light falling across the hallway from the bathroom was blotted out by a moving shadow.
She found Miriam on her hands and knees, scrubbing the tile floor.
“Gramma?” Jemma pushed the door open as far as it would go. It bumped a plastic pail filled with soapy water. Lemon scent filled the air. “Gramma, what are you doing?”
“I have to get ready.” Pools of water glistened on the floor, and her thin cotton nightdress was soaked.
“Ready for what?”
Her movements were frantic. “It’s so dirty. Everything is so dirty.”
Jemma crouched and reached for the scrub brush. “It’s late. We’ll clean in the morning.”
“No!” Miriam slapped Jemma’s hand away. “I have to do it now.”
Sorrow slashed through Jemma’s heart. “It’s okay, Gramma. It’s okay.” She reached out again, cautiously patting Miriam’s thin shoulder. “We’ll clean in the morning. I’ll help you.”
Miriam’s hectic actions slowed, stilled. She sat on her heels. “I have to get ready,” she repeated. Her voice climbed at the end, asking a question.
“You should be in bed.” Jemma wrapped her arm around Miriam’s waist and helped her to her feet. The damp material of her nightdress clung to Jemma’s bare legs, raising goosebumps.
Miriam sat docilely on the side of her bed as Jemma rifled through a drawer and found another gown. She made no protest as Jemma removed her sodden sleepwear and slipped on the new one. Jemma did her best to preserve her grandmother’s modesty, but Miriam was unaware of what was going on, even during the brief moments when her slack, aged breasts were exposed.
“Let me tuck you in.” Jemma pressed gently on Miriam’s shoulder, and she lay down, crossing her arms on her stomach. Jemma smoothed the comforter under her chin. “Go to sleep, now, okay?” Miriam stared at the ceiling.
Jemma dumped the pail of water and wiped up the puddles. Afterwards, she huddled under her covers, trying to warm her chilled fingers and feet. But the cold wouldn’t go away. Instead it crept through her marrow, clutched at her heart.
The red readout on her bedside clock displayed 4:33 a.m..
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Reservations for Two was a month into production, with eight weeks left. The contestants were being winnowed away and the crew had developed an efficient rhythm. Benedict continued to yell, Lawrence Larrey and Fenella were cheating, but despite everything, Jemma was enjoying herself. She might even miss it when it was over. She would certainly miss the money. The future wasn’t so scary now—she was rebuilding her savings, and production assistant would look great on her resumé.
“Here you go.” Naomi, the other PA, handed her a take-out cup of coffee and tossed a box of Timbits on the desk.
“Thanks.” Jemma carefully tore the tab on the plastic lid and sipped the hot liquid, then helped herself to two of the sugary treats.
Naomi’s dark blonde hair swung forward as she leaned over, debating which goody to take. Choosing one coated in icing, she bit into it, closing her eyes in appreciation.
Jemma popped a third morsel into her mouth and turned to her computer. Mondays were less frenzied than other days, due to the fact no taping was involved. It was an organizational day—prepping for the Kitchen Challenge, finalizing Date Day, clarifying the thousand and one last minute details.
Naomi looked longingly at the box. “Do you know how many calories are in one of those? About sixty.” She tightened her lips and turned resolutely away. “That’s a long time on a treadmill.”
Jemma smiled. Naomi had well-rounded curves and creamy skin, and was perpetually worried about her weight while eating whatever she wanted. As long as Benedict wasn’t anywhere near, she was cheerful, competent and clever. The minute he started snarling at her, she turned into a quivering mess. Because of that, they had settled into a pattern that suited them both. Jemma assisted Benedict. Naomi did anything but.
Various production staff trickled in, bleary-eyed after a weekend off. Jemma and Naomi’s desk squatted in a corner of the large room, holding an ancient computer and a phone, and within shouting distance of whoever needed them.
Jemma called up the schedule for the next few days. She and Naomi divvied their duties. The noise in the room rose to such a level neither of them heard Benedict approach.
“You!” he barked. Naomi jerked, her shoulder bumping Jemma’s. “You’re wanted.”
All colour leached from Naomi’s already-pale cheeks. “Me?” she squeaked.
Benedict pointed at Jemma. “You. Lawrence wants to see you. Now.”
“Naomi and I are almost finished the schedule. I’ll be there in ten.” Jemma had learned a lot in the last few weeks, including the fact Benedict respected those who stood up to him, and trampled anyone else.
Naomi hadn’t figured that out yet. She pushed Jemma off the chair. “Go.” She made shooing motions with her hands. “I’ll finish this. Go.”
Benedict strode from the room, bright red hair bobbing through the maze of desks and dividers. Jemma shuffled after him, shoulders slumped, thumbs in her pockets. The last time she’d been unexpectedly called into an office she’d been fired, and she was in no hurry to repeat the experience.
Also, she hadn’t spoken with Larrey since she’d discovered he and Fenella were in cahoots, and wasn’t anxious to do so now. She coached herself to act naturally.
Lainie greeted her with a grin when she trailed into Larrey’s office a few steps behind Benedict. Jemma swallowed away the faint taste of fear, comforted by the look.
Lawrence Larrey swiveled heavily in the dark leather executive chair behind his desk. His jowls rolled over the tight collar of his starched dress shirt, almost covering the knot of his neon green tie. “Have a seat.” He motioned her to a chrome and vinyl chair.
Jemma quirked an eyebrow at Lainie as she sat and received an encouraging nod.
“You started with us a few days before taping began, didn’t you, ah, Jemma?” Larrey referred to a sheaf of papers lying on his desk.
“Yes.”
“Benedict tells me you are fairly competent.”
A flush of pride heated Jemma’s chest. Coming from Benedict the low-key compliment was an earth-shattering accolade. She shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s nice.” She thought she heard a snort from behind her left shoulder where Benedict had parked his skinny ass on the edge of a narrow credenza.
“The VP of Programming for NationWide called today.”
She curbed the impulse to tell Larrey to get on with it. He was sneaking up on something, and she hoped it wouldn’t take much longer. She had work to do.
“Ratings have been excellent. We started strong, and they are growing each week.” The corners of his mouth disappeared into his fat cheeks. Jemma assumed he was smiling. “They are so excellent NationWide has decided on funding two more seasons of Reservations for Two, with an option to extend.”
Jemma nodded, waiting for the point.
Lainie leaned toward her. “What Lawrence is trying to say is, we are building our team for the next seasons. And we want you to be on it.” Her eyes glowed with exhilaration.
“What exactly does that mean?” Jemma asked, caution warring with a burgeoning excitement.
“We start planning the next seasons as soon as this run is over. Benedict wants you on hand from the beginning. We can promise you at least a year of employment. Possibly longer, if NationWide picks up additional seasons.”
Jemma gulped, her mouth suddenly dry. “At the same salary?”
“What, we’re not paying you enough?” Benedict growled and swung around to stand behind Larrey. Before she could explain she hadn’t been negotiating, simply asking, he added, “Let me see what I can do.”
A ra
ise, better hours than serving, a job she enjoyed, not simply endured. Safety and security for Miriam for at least a year.
“Where do I sign?”
Paul cut the engine of his Murano and contemplated the entrance of Jemma’s apartment building. He hadn’t planned on coming here. He’d spent the day at the restaurant, doing paperwork, ordering supplies. It was Monday, so he wasn’t required on set, but he knew Jemma was. Coming here was an impulse, an urge he couldn’t suppress.
Jemma was private, secretive, and she would not be pleased to see him at her home. Yet he had to talk to her, and he couldn’t do it on set. He hadn’t missed the speculative look Lainie gave him last week, when he’d followed Jemma out of the art gallery’s storage room.
Tenant names were spelled out in white letters on narrow pegs shoved into slots behind a dirty glass framed in bruised brass. Several letters had fallen to the bottom of the case. Apartment 409 appeared to be the home of “M He_ge”. Paul pressed the bell.
He should be at the restaurant. Daniel was more than capable of handling the front of house, but there was always something Paul could be doing. Besides, he missed it. The days he didn’t spend at Paulo’s felt empty, as well as exhausting. He didn’t get nearly as tired working at his restaurant as he did wired up tight while shooting.
No one answered. He pressed the button, setting off the mechanical buzzing one more time. While the building wasn’t seedy, it could use some TLC. He wouldn’t be surprised if the intercom didn’t work reliably.
The ringing stopped, followed by silence. Paul leaned into the microphone’s grill. “Hello?” Nothing. “Jemma? It’s Paul.” Feeling foolish, he added, “From the show. May I come up?”
A light, thin voice scratched through the speaker. “Jemma?”
“No, I’m looking for Jemma. Is she there?”
“Jemma’s gone.” The voice quavered and broke. “Jemma’s gone.”
Paul heard a thud. “Ma’am? Are you okay? Ma’am?”
Only an unrelenting hum.
He scanned the listings, searching for the building manager’s suite. He found it and stabbed that button, which did nothing, as the connection was still linked to Jemma’s suite. Grabbing the door handle, he rattled it as hard as he could with one hand, while banging on the glass with the other.
“What are you doing?”
He sprang away from the door. “I need to get in. Something’s wrong. Can you let me in?”
The man before him was short and slight, with dark eyes and straight black hair liberally streaked with grey. He frowned. “What has happened?”
“I came to visit Jemma. Jemma Hedge. Someone answered the intercom, but all she said was ‘Jemma’s gone.’ Then I think she dropped the receiver. She won’t talk to me.”
The man unlocked the door and gestured him in. “That will be Miriam. I’ll get Herb, the manager. Do you know the way?”
“I’ll find it.” Unwilling to wait for the elevator, Paul slammed through the fire door and pounded up the stairs two at a time. His breath seared his throat by the time he reached the fourth floor. Apartment 409 was at the far end.
He raced down the hall, following the familiar but frightening scent of burning food.
He pressed his palms against the door, relieved to find it cool. He rapped with his knuckles. “Miriam?” Nothing but silence from the other side. He tried the handle. Locked. “Miriam? I’m Paul. I’m a...a friend of Jemma’s.” Close enough. “Can you let me in?”
The elevator opened and two men hustled out, the man who had let Paul in and a heavy-set one flipping through a huge circle of keys. The first man joined Paul at the door. “Miriam? It’s Gerald Chan. Are you okay, Miriam?”
The man with the keys unlocked the door and opened it. No security chain stopped it, and Paul had an unimpeded view of the front hall.
Jemma lowered her canvas shopping bags to the sidewalk and flexed her fingers. The grocery store was a couple of blocks from home, but not close enough to avoid cramped hands.
Evening light glowed golden between the buildings on her right, falling onto the row of parked cars in front of her building. She hefted the bags one last time.
Her nose twitched as the elevator creaked open when it reached her floor, the scent of burning stinging the air. She stepped into the hallway. The door of her apartment stood agape, and the acrid stench grew. She abandoned the bags and ran.
Skidding through the doorway, she passed the empty kitchen and rushed into the living room to be brought up short by the sight of Miriam huddled in her chair, Mr. Chan and Herb hovering over her.
And Paul crouched at her feet, patting her hands.
Tracks of tears streaked Miriam’s powdery cheeks, but she smiled brilliantly at Jemma. “Look. Look who’s here!” Her giggle rang out clear and sweet. “It’s Paul. You know, the Chef d’Amour from your show.”
Paul rose to face Jemma. He watched her, head tilted to one side.
Her mouth opened and closed. “What are you doing here?” she managed.
“I came to see you. Miriam answered, but something wasn’t right. She wouldn’t talk, didn’t buzz me in. Mr. Chan showed up, and we thought we’d better find out what was going on.”
Jemma sank to her knees beside Miriam’s chair. “Are you okay, Gramma? What happened?”
“I’m fine, sweetie.” Her brow wrinkled. “The phone rang, and you weren’t home. Why weren’t you home, Jemma? Where did you go?” she asked plaintively.
“I had to run to the grocery store. I told you I’d be back right away.”
“I was hungry, so I starting cooking...” Her voice faded and fear flickered in her eyes. “I made a mess.”
“That’s okay, Gramma. We’ll clean it up. It’s no big deal.”
Miriam pursed her lips. “I’m hungry.”
Jemma looked at Mr. Chan. “I left the groceries in the hallway.” Before her neighbour could move, Paul disappeared from the edge of her vision.
The choking reek stung the back of her throat. She apologized to Herb. “I was gone half an hour, no more than three-quarters. I thought she’d be all right.”
“No harm done. This time.” Herb hiked his pants over his bulging belly. The waist promptly slipped down. “You might be wanting to keep a closer eye on her.”
Jemma nodded. Miriam appeared oblivious to the conversation going on over her head.
Mr. Chan drifted toward the door. “I will be going home now. If you need anything, please call.”
“Stay here for a minute, Gramma.” Jemma followed the men to the door. “Thank you.” Her smile wobbled at the edges. “Thanks for taking care of her.”
“It wasn’t us.” Paul returned, carrying her bags, and Mr. Chan bobbed his head in his direction. “If it wasn’t for this fellow, we wouldn’t have known anything was wrong.”
Paul brought the groceries into the kitchen as Jemma shut the door. She checked on Miriam, now happily engrossed in another of her favourite reality programs.
The odour of scorched starch hung thickly in the kitchen. A saucepan on the stove held a gluey, maggot-coloured mass of rice, much of which had erupted over the sides of the pot and dripped through the burner coil.
“Is she okay?” Paul opened the fridge and placed a chunk of cheese on the shelf.
“For now.” She pulled out the garbage can and began scraping out the pot. “What happened? Tell me.”
He unloaded a bag of mixed peppers as he explained. “Herb opened the door and we came in. The rice was boiling over, the burner bright red. Miriam was sitting on the floor next to the phone, with the receiver in her lap. Crying.”
Jemma fisted her hands on the counter and closed her eyes. It didn’t block out the vision of Miriam sobbing for her, panicked because she was alone.
The heat of Paul’s body enfolded her as he wrapped her in his arms. He urged her to turn. At first she held herself rigid, then succumbed and allowed him to tuck her head onto his shoulder. His hands stroked her spine, strong and soothin
g. Tense muscles loosened.
“Why were you here?” she asked quietly. Her cheek pressed his chest, his heart thudding in a restful rhythm under the soft, smooth cotton of his shirt. “How come you were here?”
His hands hesitated an instant before he answered. “I came to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“It can wait. We’ll talk later.”
She hadn’t the energy to press harder. She simply stood, breathing slowly and deliberately, refusing to give in to the grief. His scent enveloped her, spicy, warm, and male, and his silent acceptance offered all the support she needed. After a while she sighed and shifted, raising her head off his chest. She cleared her throat, pushed out the unfamiliar words. “Thank you. For helping Gramma.”
“No problem.” He lifted her chin with the knuckle of his thumb, studied her face. “How long have you been dealing with this? When was she diagnosed?”
Her arms were still linked about his waist. She slipped them out from under the light spring jacket he wore and hugged her elbows. “More than a year. She was doing well until a few weeks ago. It’s like a switch was thrown, she’s gone downhill so fast.”
His hands came to her shoulders, rubbing firmly. “Do you have any help?”
“I hired a home care worker. She comes for a few hours each day I’m at work, keeps Gramma company, makes her take her pills.” God, his hands. Agile fingers kneaded the tight tendons on her neck and she swallowed a moan.
“No family?”
She stiffened, despite his massaging hands. “No.” “What about your parents?”
She pressed her hands on his chest and he leaned back a few inches but didn’t let her go. “There’s no one.” She stared at the hollow at the base of his throat. “I never knew my father. My mother died years ago, a few months after my grandfather.”
He pinched her chin gently, forcing her to look at him. A shiver raced through her limbs, into her belly, as she met his dark, hot gaze.
“I’m sorry.”
If he’d pushed she wouldn’t have said anymore. But his quiet, sincere words had the old story tumbling out of her. “My mom was born when Gramma was in her late thirties. From what I can tell, they were pretty strict with her, and she gave them a rough time when she was a teenager. She got pregnant with me when she was in high school. They didn’t kick her out or anything. I had a happy childhood. A good childhood.” Sometimes she had to remind herself of that. Even if her mother hadn’t been there for her all the time, Miriam had been. She told him about Henry’s death, his debt. “Between us, Mom and I could have managed. I know we could have managed.”
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