He tossed a couple of dollars to Uli at Frank’s Quality Produce and snagged a basket of strawberries to eat as he headed along.
At Mr. D’s he gave the rest of the strawberries to Demetrios and his family and turned up Post Alley careful not to look in the Sur La Table display windows. He always heard tourists complaining that they, “really didn’t need anything more for the kitchen, but how could they resist” as they staggered out with the overstuffed trademark brown and maroon bags. For a chef, the place was a nightmare. Add on the commercial restaurant and Pike Place Market vendor discounts, and the place was beyond dangerous and often downright lethal.
He was, despite his best efforts, being drawn by the glistening copper Zabaglione pot in the window. His were getting pretty battered with use and some nights having only two caused timing problems.
That’s when he noticed the snarl of people up near his restaurant. At first he hoped it was the Perennial Tea Room across Post Alley, but it wasn’t. He hustled along and almost got clipped by a car as he crossed Stewart Street.
The day, delightful and warm a moment before, slapped him with a latent heat that had him sweating. People were milling around beneath the discreet Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth sign. Another disaster.
He’d apparently dodged the first crisis. No bad reviews had come of the Notorious Thursday Night Fiasco, as Jo had named it. But by the size of this crowd he was too late to recover from whatever was happening this time. They were between services, yet the crowd was massive. Kitchen fire. Or worse.
He resisted the urge to shove his way through the crowd, instead nudging and begging-his-pardon through the claustrophobic horde toward his own door. He’d almost made it inside when he spotted his mother.
She stood with a great smile on her face. Clad in a floppy sunhat, she wore a floaty blue summer dress with a deep cleavage that would have been totally inappropriate on a woman of her age if it didn’t look so good on her. A shawl of nearly transparent floral chiffon graced her shoulders. Daisies, she’d always had a soft spot for daisies. Her dark hair flowed to her shoulders and a tray of bruschetta balanced on one of her hands.
His avocados and artichokes.
He slid up beside her and gauged the crowd. They weren’t upset. They were smiling. Laughing, chatting, bantering with his mother, and enjoying themselves. They formed a line into the restaurant.
That was it. Service had crashed and was far too slow, and his mother was taking care of entertaining the crowd while they waited.
“Oh, there you are honey. Everyone!” She called out to the crowd and conversations hushed. “This here, he is my son. This food, it is his. Isn’t it wonderful?”
A round of applause burst forth that didn’t make any sense for people stuck waiting in line. Why would there be a line at two in the afternoon anyway? There were always some patrons in the restaurant even on Saturday afternoons, but never a line out the door between the two main services.
“I think,” Maria Amelia leaned close to him and spoke softly, “that perhaps Manuel would like it to have you in his kitchen.” She stuffed a bruschetta in his open mouth. “Close your mouth, chew like a good boy, now tu vai!”
He went.
Even as Angelo chewed and went, the flavors began to bloom in his mouth. The lush richness of the avocado, the smooth balance of artichoke heart, a sliver of lemon-cooked swordfish and a chiffonade of fresh basil on toasted, thin-sliced Ciabatta bread was remarkable. It unfolded and unraveled, revealing layer upon layer, leaving him desperate for more.
“Angelo!” Manuel called out as he entered the kitchen. The man practically wept with joy. “Hurry, an apron, three orders of the Cioppino and I will marry you and bear your children.”
Angelo grabbed an apron and three bowls. With a rescue operation underway, you didn’t ask questions. After five orders of the Cinghiale, braised boar meat over pasta, and a half dozen more of the Stuffed Chicken Picatta al modo di Angelo’s, he began being able to see the flow of orders. There were no holdups. In fact, he’d rarely seen the team move food more quickly.
“What’s the problem?” He tossed some more pasta with olive oil as a bed for his Braised Venison in Marmora Red Sauce.
“The problem is your mother,” Manuel gasped out between commands to the grillardin to refire the duck breast and start another three orders of swordfish.
Angelo really didn’t need this. Was his mother going to destroy him?
“She saw the lunch rush fading,” Manuel talked between plating orders and yelling for Graziella to put some hustle on it even though she already was. “It was a good one for June, especially on a day when most people want to stay outside in the fine weather instead of sitting in a gourmet restaurant. Next thing I know, she takes a tureen of that chowder we were making for dinner, and a couple dozen spoons out the door. Before I can breathe, the restaurant, she is packed solid. When that ran out, she makes this bruschetta. You tasted it? Estupendo, eh? And she is gone out on the street again giving that away too. We’ve never had a Saturday like this one.”
Chowder gone. He needed to start a soup base for dinner service to replace that. He yelled for Marko. The boy came running, wiping the soap suds from his hands. Angelo dug into his wallet and pulled out whatever cash he had.
“Go. Buy green beans, baby ones, none bigger around than a chopstick, more artichokes, fresh parsley, and another thirty pounds of swordfish. Go, don’t gawk at me, tu vai.” It felt good to order someone else to jump on it.
Marko went at a dead run.
“If they’re out of swordfish,” Angelo yelled after him, “tell Henry you need twice that in fresh tuna.”
“Hope he heard you,” Manuel muttered. “Now I need at least a dozen more batches of fresh pasta dough. Go.” Angelo knew better than to mess with the flow sliding through and around Manuel’s station.
He went.
Chapter 7
Jo answered the pounding on her door. Only one person ever pounded on her door, and never like this. She found herself near to running across the charcoal deep-pile carpet of her condo and yanking the door open.
Perrin practically collapsed into her arms. She looked as if she’d been in a battle and lost badly.
“What happened? Are you okay? Should I call the police?”
“Oh,” Perrin leaned on her and allowed herself to be led into the apartment. “Thank all the gods and goddesses you’re home. Take off your clothes.”
From anyone other than Perrin, Jo would have been offended and made a sharp riposte. But with Perrin things always made sense, eventually.
“You look awful. Can I get you some food or something?” Her slender frame was actually weaving with the effort to remain standing. Her hair was a frantic mess and she wore no makeup, revealing an abnormally sallow complexion. Both were so unusual for Perrin that Jo again checked her friend for cuts and bruises. Perrin was always immaculate in how she presented herself to the world. Outrageous, often, but always perfectly presented and attired.
Perrin braced herself against Jo’s cherrywood coat rack almost taking herself and Jo’s coats to the floor. “I’ll be fine once you try this on.” She wiggled a white dress bag she held slung over one shoulder that Jo hadn’t noticed.
“When was the last time you slept?”
Perrin waved one of her fine-fingered hands. “I dunno. Cassie’s wedding? Maybe a couple nights ago? What day is this? Never mind, don’t care.” She shoved Jo toward her bedroom. “Now go get naked and try this on. And if you look in the mirror before I tell you, you’re dead.”
Jo started down the hall toward her bedroom. Perrin followed close behind leaving palm prints in the middle of the glass of more than one of the framed pictures as she stumbled into walls. When Jo reached out to steady her, Perrin simply slapped her hands aside and nudged her along.
Once in the bedroom, Perrin hung the dress bag on the back of the door and collapsed onto the quilted white bedspread. But in seconds she was back on her feet and vibrating with e
nergy as she opened the bag.
“Turn around and get undressed.”
Jo moved to close the curtains.
“Forget the stupid curtains. You’re like a gazillion stories up in the air. No one can see you unless they have a monster telescope like on top of one of those mountains, and if they do, all they’re going to see is how gorgeous you are.”
Jo closed the curtains anyway, she had her standards, no matter how much Perrin enjoyed pushing them. Once they were closed, she shed the sweatshirt and pants.
Perrin rolled her eyes. “The woman is home alone and she wears a bra. You’re crazy, you know that? Lose it.”
Normally Jo would have argued at least for form’s sake, but Perrin looked so wound up and simultaneously so fragile, that Jo simply obeyed.
“It sucks that we’re both straight.”
Jo refused to blush at Perrin’s catty remark.
“Okay, close your eyes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Jo-o!” Perrin stamped her foot.
Jo closed her eyes and heard the zipper on the bag open the rest of the way. It was hard to resist peeking but she managed by thinking instead of the map of the North Slope continental shelf and the implications of melting ice access to oil and mineral resources.
“Arms out.”
She held them out and cool fabric slid over them, the sensual slickness of silk.
“Okay, now up.”
She raised her arms and the fabric slid down over her face and shoulders. She’d worn a lot of Perrin’s creations over the years. Back in college the results could only occasionally be conferred with a label better than “interesting.” But a decade later, “good” was a low standard and “exceptional” had almost become the norm with the occasional “sensational” like Cassidy’s wedding dress and the two bridesmaid dresses.
Jo did her best to ignore the way the fabric wrapped around her like a full-body kiss. She hadn’t been made so aware of every inch of her skin in a long time.
Perrin began tugging and adjusting, settling the dress into place.
“Can I look yet?”
“Don’t you dare!” Perrin’s voice was half shout, half mumble as though her mouth was full. Jo would bet it was, at least partly. She’d seen Perrin dozens of times, radiating near-mad intensity during a fitting, with her fingers flying deftly over the fabric, and a bunch of pins clamped in the corner of her mouth.
“Okay,” more of a mumble. Then her voice cleared as she stuck the spare pins back into a cushion, or perhaps into Jo’s bedspread. She’d best check before lying down tonight. “I’m almost there. I got the idea when I saw that celery green on you last weekend.”
Jo typically wore black powersuits, but it had been nice to wear such a pretty dress for the wedding. It had been so pretty that it had made her feel almost confident as a woman.
“There, okay,” Perrin turned her slightly and pulled her half a step sideways. “You really should be wearing heels, but you hate them so I designed it so that I can make it work without. I’ll do that later, though your legs in heels would be amazing. Open your eyes.”
Jo did. Perrin had placed her directly in front of the full-length, beveled mirror that covered her closet door. But she didn’t recognize the woman reflected there.
Perrin came up beside her, scooped up a handful of Jo’s hair and held it up before turning to inspect the result in the mirror.
“I thought your hair should be up, but now I’m not sure.” She let it down again and brushed it back off Jo’s bare shoulders.
“What’s this?” the far away voice was all Jo could manage. The floor-length dress started at her feet like the palest blue sea foam, with a thousand tiny overlaps of fabric. The pattern built and strengthened as it flowed around her hips, somehow accenting their womanly curves while making them appear trim. From there it bloomed upward, wrapping her breasts in the palest-blue waves, as gentle as they were bountiful. A slit did indeed reveal some leg, but ended just above the knee allowing the dress to cling, but allowing the wearer to move about freely and look dazzling as well.
Perrin was rummaging through the jewelry on Jo’s dressing table, probably turning it into a hopeless tangle. She returned with the strand of Jo’s mother’s pearls, the only thing she had from the woman she couldn’t remember. Her dad claimed that she’d left them behind by accident, but she doubted that once she learned it had been his wedding gift to her mother. Perrin scoffed after a moment and tossed them carelessly onto the bedspread.
Next the gold chain and dangling orca she’d worn for the date with Yuri.
“Almost.” Perrin tossed that on the bed as well.
She finally held a silver chain bearing a sparkling silver filigree medallion with an amethyst-colored backing that Jo had loved and bought, but never found anything to wear it with.
“Oh....!” Jo was finally able to see the breathtaking woman in the mirror. “You made…my wedding dress?”
Perrin’s reflection finished fastening the chain then peeked over Jo’s shoulder. Her face was pixie bright.
“Am I good, or am I good?”
Jo could only gaze in amazement. “No, you’re way better than good.”
“Wait until you see the back.”
Perrin spun her around and grabbed a hand mirror from the table scattering a couple of necklaces and an earring to the carpet.
It felt as if nothing were there and Jo was worried about having to let Perrin down gently. She wasn’t the sort to wear a risqué dress, especially not to a wedding, most certainly not to her own, and Perrin should know that by now.
But when she had the hand mirror aligned with the one behind her, Jo could only shake her head in amazement. The line of the dress followed the line of her hair. With her hair down, there would be constant flashes of bare shoulder and glimpses of skin, but it was somehow, impossibly, demure as well. The conservative shape of the rest of the back balanced the piece perfectly and made her look impossibly enticing.
In profile, well, her chest was too big, but it didn’t look like it in this dress. The dress design accented without embellishing.
She turned to hug Perrin, “It’s incredible!”
With their arms around each other, they turned to look back in the mirror.
“It’s just incredible. I’ve never looked so beautiful.” She rose up on her toes and considered. Maybe she’d wear heels on this one occasion.
Perrin looked simply radiant. “I’ve also got ideas for Cassie’s and my dress to go with it.”
That brought Jo back to reality, which was an almost crushing blow. She’d felt giddy, as if she were flying. And had now crash-landed in a dark swamp.
“Uh, Perrin. There’s just one problem.”
“What? What is it?” she began inspecting the perfect dress for some hidden flaw.
“Perrin,” she had to take her friend by her shoulders to stop her and make her to focus on Jo’s face.
“What?”
“I’m not getting married.”
“Oh,” Perrin shrugged that away as being of no consequence. “Is that all? That’s not a problem.”
Jo stared at her. “Not a problem? You give me the absolutely perfect wedding dress and now I have no reason to wear it? That’s a big problem in my book.”
“Phft,” Perrin waved a hand again and turned them both back to admire the dazzling woman in the mirror. “With a dress like this in your closet? No worries. You’ll find someone to fall madly in love with you, just so you get to wear it.”
“Years, Perrin. I’ve still got years of my career before I’m ready. I’m going to be commuting to northern Alaska for at least two years on my next case for goodness sake.”
“Never underestimate the power of a really good dress,” her friend insisted cheerfully.
As always, it was pointless to argue with Perrin. Jo looked in the mirror again. One thing Perrin had right, it was a really, really good dress.
Perrin slept through breakfast and lunc
h. Jo had stuffed her into the shower and then tucked her into bed in the guest room. She’d only allowed herself to sneak in twice to make sure her friend was actually still breathing.
It felt like being back in college, back when Perrin was so wild that she and Cassidy had often taken shifts making sure she’d be okay after her latest escapade. This time, thankfully, it was just exhaustion. Perrin had stayed straight and sober since she and Cassidy did an intervention during junior year, except for the occasional gal’s night out, but that was nothing compared to the bouts with alcohol poisoning Perrin had been habitually pursuing.
By late afternoon Jo sat in the living room doing her best to pretend she was interested in the latest Grisham novel. Normally his legal thrillers kept her riveted, she had every one in hardback, a few of them even signed, but not now.
The problem was that everything was in churn. And the dress was not the least of her problems. Last night, after she’d made sure Perrin was finally settled, she had returned to her bedroom and locked the door. She’d carefully brushed out her hair, knowing it was her best feature, and slipped back into the dress. This time she selected a pair of dark-blue Kate Spade heels making her several inches taller.
She’d studied the woman in the mirror carefully. She remained a mystery. Jo could still smell the stench of fish that had permeated the home of her youth. It had seemed to waft down the high school hallways behind her and no matter how she scrubbed in the shower, she’d never been clear of it.
Her early physical development had drawn the boys, but she’d built up a barrier knowing that the smell followed her. She’d heard the whispers of “arrogant” and “stuck up” and each time they had cut out a piece of her soul.
But she simply couldn’t stand what someone would think if they really knew, so she did her best to never let the pain show. She trusted no boys and very few girls and had instead dedicated her every waking minute to getting out of Ketchikan High and Ketchikan, Alaska. Valedictorian, straight four-point-oh student, Native American heritage, a cakewalk for scholarships. She’d left and never looked back. When the call came from Debby Rowe for the tenth year reunion, Jo had asked her as a personal favor to please lose Jo’s contact information somewhere dark and obscure.
Where Dreams Reside Page 6
