“Why did your mother want you to change your plans?”
“She wants to see that picture. Really wants to see that picture.”
“Why? Just to see ol’ Jake?”
“I guess,” she said.
“So maybe she doesn’t really hate him after all.”
“It’s hard to say. It is my mother, and she is a walking enigma.”
“So it sounds.” An enigma who might not be telling the whole story. All the more reason to find that damn freaking will. So, while Libby was gone, he’d move in, run things, and look high and low.
“Are you sure you can manage the restaurant for two days?” she asked.
Manage the restaurant, move in upstairs, search for the missing will, shop for a new menu, and serve the best dinners the Pelican’s patrons had ever had. “Yes,” he said simply.
“I like your confidence.”
“I like your trust, especially because I know it doesn’t come easy.”
Another call beeped into Law’s phone, and he looked at the caller ID, recognizing the main number of the management offices at the Ritz-Carlton. Honestly? On a Sunday night they had to call and tell him to get the hell out of that apartment? No worries, he’d be out by tomorrow.
“So I’m not making a mistake, right?” she asked.
“By trusting me to make a meatloaf that will make the angels sing? No mistake, I promise.”
“Okay, I’ll be there Tuesday, and I’ll bring Jasmine and her boyfriend. Oh, and I’ll leave the keys in the back on my way out tomorrow morning,” she said. “There’s a brick next to the back door that—”
“Slides out and hides the key,” he finished.
“Oh, right, I’m not the first person to let you crash at the Pelican.”
“And I’m just as grateful now as I was then.”
He heard her sigh. “Happy to help.”
After he hung up, he looked around at the boxes filled with the remnants of Jake Peterson’s life.
“What the hell would you have to say about this?” he mused out loud.
But Jake wasn’t there, and all Law got was silence. And the sound of Libby’s sweet voice in his ear, which made him feel like he’d done something wrong. Or was about to.
Chapter Eleven
Law moved around his kitchen with nothing but purpose.
His kitchen. That didn’t take long.
Essentially, it had taken less than two days. That’s how long it had been since Libby left him the keys to the Toasted Pelican and gave him carte blanche.
Well, maybe she hadn’t exactly said carte blanche…but he’d taken plenty of liberties. It had taken ten minutes to drag a double mattress up to the empty space above the restaurant, throw it on the floor, and dump his bags. Move-in was a breeze.
Law went straight to the dining room, paring it down, cleaning it out, making some small changes to the aging décor that he’d longed to do but Jake refused to let him.
Damn, that old guy had been stubborn about a few things. Like that sixty-year-old faded Budweiser mirror and the mismatched Formica tables. There was “vintage chic” and “ancient fugly,” and poor Jake had not known the difference.
But Law did. And when this place was his, he’d work on it with the same gusto he used on the 1965 Triumph Bonneville he’d bought when he was in his twenties, refurbed to perfection, and named, somewhat uncreatively, Bonnie.
Jake, on the other hand, had refused to change, renovate, or redecorate a thing in the Toasted Pelican. As the years had slipped by, the restaurant and bar slipped from quaint, to dated, to old and dingy.
But Law saw the bones of a great gastropub, and if he got his way, it would take a little time and money to make a statement that appealed to locals and tourists.
Libby only called him three times and texted five to check on “things,” which made him smile and spend every spare brain cell wondering what she’d think when she got back. He also ignored two more calls from the Ritz management offices, because they obviously hadn’t gotten the message that he moved out already.
But the whole time he worked, he searched for that will, his brain going over every word he could remember from that rainy night when he had his final conversation with Jake.
Find the will.
Jake had been clear about that. But hadn’t he said he couldn’t find it, either? So he’d forgotten where he’d put it? Foggy about a lot of other things, but he had quite distinctly said there was a will and that Law needed to find it. And that it wouldn’t be easy, but he wanted Law to have the Pelican and “no one else.”
That was what had motivated Law for the past year.
Oh, and he’d also said, “You’re only as sick as your secrets,” so…had his secrets been two kids he refused to acknowledge?
Law looked in every nook and cranny, around dusty booze bottles, behind pictures, and he even moved the old jukebox. That thing hadn’t been loaded with new music since Law was a senior in high school, ensuring that every song played was from the seventies or eighties and pissed off the patrons. He’d update that, too, once he owned this place.
He searched the kitchen, the storage and pantry, even the refrigerators in the back.
Nothing.
A little demoralized by that defeat, but psyched for his first day of business, Law spent his second day concentrating on food, starting by spending a few hours on the mainland at a local farmer’s market, where he decided exactly what would be on his first night’s limited, but excellent, menu. While he shopped and planned, he thought about the philosophy that would run his gastropub, the emphasis on great food and a comfortable atmosphere.
The rest of the late afternoon, he’d been in the kitchen hard at work, during which the teenage cook cruised in for his burger-slinging shift, complained when Law gave him grief for chopping the gherkins too big for the remoulade, and promptly took off his apron and quit when told his crab cakes looked like donkey balls.
Like déjà vu all over again, Law mused, checking the button on an older chef’s jacket, the only thing he’d unpacked. Good riddance to bad help, he thought, as he went to work on the crab cakes.
“Whoa, you’re not Brandon.”
Law looked up to see the twentysomething bartender, Dan, a local who’d worked here on and off in the last year. Law had befriended him in the ongoing effort to find out who’d taken over the bar.
“Brandon quit,” Law said, wiping his hands on a towel before reaching out to shake Dan’s hand in greeting. “And I’m hoping you don’t do the same. I’m going to be working the kitchen for a while.”
“Really? Okay, that’s cool, Law.” He shook Law’s hand and glanced around at the spread of prep. “I mean, I know you’re a chef over at the Ritz, but the Pelican management has been sending out the signal that we should all be on the lookout for new jobs. I really didn’t think they were hiring anyone.”
“I’m not exactly hired,” he said. “Got a call from Sam at Liberty Management, and he asked if I’d help out.”
“That’s what Libby Chesterfield did for me on Saturday night,” Dan said. “I actually had a tryout at a bar up on Sanibel, and I think I’m going to take the job. But I didn’t want to just not show tonight, even though it’ll be a morgue in here.”
“I know we have at least one small party,” Law said.
Dan tucked his hands into the pockets of his khakis, leaning his lanky build against one of the prep counters. “But it looks like you have big plans for the menu, anyway. No burgers made from wood chips with a side of soggy fries?”
Law laughed. “And don’t even pour the wine that takes paint off cars. I stocked the bar with a few great bottles that will go well with the limited menu and a selection of craft beers.”
At Dan’s surprised look, Law gestured to the chalkboard easel he’d picked up from an antique vendor at the farmer’s market. “It’s all there.” He’d already filled it out and thought setting it outside the front door would be a nice touch.
“The
Toasted Pelican Gastropub menu?” Dan choked softly. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Just trying to class the place up a little,” Law said, returning his attention to the crab mixture to make the next patty.
“We have appetizers now?” Dan asked, reading the list. “What happened to potato skins?”
“The eighties called and demanded they die.”
“Crab cakes and coconut-crusted chicken?” Dan read, adding a whistle.
“Don’t be impressed,” Law said. “I didn’t have time to slow-cook the duck confit or smoke that pork loin for the bánh mì. Oh, and it’s not on there, but if someone wants a nice brie-and-beer fondue, I know I can whip that up because I’ve got the brie for the burger.”
“Panko-crusted brie,” Dan added, but then he laughed. “An A for effort, Law, but I really think you’re overestimating the average Pelican customer.”
Which was exactly what Jake had always said, even though he knew what Law could do. “We’ll bring in the people with palates eventually.” Law finished the last crab cake and went to work on the fresh pineapple slaw.
Dan inhaled deeply, an appreciative sniff for the aroma coming from the oven. “Come to think of it, you could attract a crowd with that smell. What is that, besides amazing?”
Law gave a satisfied smile. “Angus beef meatloaf wrapped in bacon. And for the vegetarians, the signature eggplant terzetto with three sauces.”
“Holy shit. You don’t even have a server tonight.”
“We’ll wing it,” Law said optimistically.
“Well, I’ll take this chalkboard out front and see what we can drum up.”
“Thanks.” Law picked up his knife, grateful for the backup and already thinking about those three sauces. That pesto had to have the right amount of fresh basil and—
“Um, Law?” Dan was back, still holding the easel.
“Yeah?”
“We just got our first rush.”
“Really?” Law put the chef’s knife down and came around the prep counter, wiping his hands on a towel. “Is it Libby?” He felt a kick of anticipation that surprised him with its intensity.
“She might be one of them, but I counted at least ten other people who all want drinks. Also, they told me there’s another party on the way. Maybe more. Apparently, half the damn Casa Blanca staff is coming.” He had more than a little terror in his voice as he picked up a red apron and started to tie it. “They’re all going to want drinks. I better get to the bar.”
“We can do this,” Law said, walking toward the door to step out into the hall and peer into the dining room. “You handle the bar and food orders, and I’ll…”
He lost his train of thought when his gaze landed on blond hair tumbling over toned shoulders and curves from here to California in a tight white minidress.
Holy sweet hotness.
“Just take that menu out and place it where they can all see it, start the drink orders, and I’ll…greet the guests.”
“You’re the boss,” Dan said.
Law grinned at him. “You got that right, son.”
* * *
From the moment she walked into the Toasted Pelican, Libby was almost speechless. How had he made this dark, sad restaurant look so much better in just an afternoon?
Not exactly different, Libby noted, but sleeker, cleaner, fresher, and the whole restaurant and bar smelled like tangy onions and fresh pineapple, not four-day-old onion rings and stale beer.
And out walked Law Monroe in a white chef’s jacket with his name embroidered on the chest. He looked calm, competent, and in control.
She hadn’t even tasted the damn meatloaf and she wanted more…of the chef.
Unfazed by the size of the group, Law worked his way through the crowd with warm hellos, handshakes, and easy jokes, but she couldn’t help noticing that he managed to find her almost immediately and give her a sneaky, secret smile.
Law’s smile widened as he approached. “You have a lot of friends.”
“I have a daughter who thought half the staff of McBain Security, where her boyfriend works, needed a night out.”
“You’re testing me,” he said.
“Possibly,” she conceded.
“Explains the dress.” His gaze dropped over the V-necked sheath that Jasmine just happened to bring home from the boutique as a little gift for Mom. He angled his head in a silent compliment. “You think I can’t cook and drool at the same time?”
“Not in the food, I hope. Can I introduce you to everyone?”
“If you stay right by my side.” He glanced at the group gathering and talking, all of them looking around as if they already noticed the differences in the dining room. “It’s like a bodyguard convention. Does your daughter think you need to be protected from me?”
“On the contrary, she believes I need a nudge. She picked the dress.”
“Her drinks are on me, then.” He gave her another sneaky once-over. “Come back for an after-dinner drink when all this is over, okay?”
“Only to inspect the kitchen.”
He winked at her. “And the chef.”
Jasmine joined them, holding Noah’s hand. “Hope you don’t mind us crashing your first night in the kitchen,” she said to Law.
“I’m happy for the chance to cook for you,” Law said, extending his hand to Noah in greeting. “Law Monroe.”
“Noah Tippling.” Jasmine’s boyfriend gave one of his rare, but dazzling, smiles, proving that tall, dark, and handsome didn’t ever have to be sullen. Noah was one of the most positive guys Libby had ever met and wonderful with Jasmine. “I’ve never seen this joint look quite so…clean,” Noah added.
Jasmine elbowed him. “He’s the one fighting us for the place.”
If Law was surprised Noah was up on the situation, he didn’t show it. He just took Libby’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s not a fight. It’s a battle of wills.”
Libby laughed. “Literally.”
They shared a long look, and all the noise seemed to fade and the people to disappear as Libby got lost for a minute in his deep-green eyes. He exuded confidence tonight, and a bone-deep happiness she hadn’t really seen yet. It was as subtle a change as the décor, but just as powerful and, whoa, attractive.
He needed very little help charming the party of ten, greeting each of them, learning their names, and helping move tables to make one long one in the middle of the dining room.
When they started taking their seats, Law came up behind Libby, reaching around her to pull out her chair.
“So, can you handle this?” she asked.
“Ten or twenty hungry people? Easily.” He gestured for her to sit down, and as she did, he whispered in her ear, “You in a dress I’d like to take off with my teeth? Let’s just say I’d love to handle that.”
She cursed the shiver that ran up her spine.
“Look at that,” he said, grazing the lightest, most casual knuckle over her shoulder. “She has chills instead of the usual…”
“If you say hot flash, I’ll call fifty more people to this restaurant tonight.”
He straightened. “Bring it. I’m ready.” He gave her shoulder a light squeeze and stood to address the group, gesturing to a cutesy wood-trimmed easel with a chalkboard on one of the empty tables. “Let me tell you all about my menu tonight,” he said, bringing a semblance of quiet to the group. “And my philosophy of a gastropub.”
“What the hell is a gastropub?” That came from Nino Rossi, a crusty octogenarian well-known for his amazing cooking at the resort.
“The concept emerged in the 1990s in England,” Law replied without missing a beat.
“The English?” The older man scoffed. “They can’t cook!”
Everyone laughed, including Law.
“You’ll have to forgive my grandfather,” the man sitting next to him said. Libby recognized the easy-on-the-eyes consultant, Gabriel Rossi, and on Gabe’s right, a stunning blonde pointed at the older Rossi with a warning.
/> “Watch it, Gramps,” she said in a distinct British accent.
“But you know Nino,” Gabe said. “If it isn’t Italian, it isn’t food.”
“It isn’t,” Nino insisted, making everyone laugh again. “And I know my way around a kitchen, young man,” he warned Law.
“Good, because my only sous chef quit when we had a disagreement over his kitchen skills.”
“You’re alone back there?” Libby asked. How was he going to manage that?
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “And if you all prefer, I’ll set up a tasting menu for the whole table, then you don’t have to make any decisions.”
Most of them liked that idea, but Nino had an issue with the three sauces in the eggplant dish. “Pesto, béchamel, and red sauce?” His gray eyebrows rose. “What the hell is that about?”
“It’s like the Italian flag,” Law countered without so much as a second’s hesitation. “And I promise you’ll love it.”
Dan came up to her, smiling for the first time in recent memory. “Hey, thanks again for jumping in the other night.”
“I was wondering if you’d make it tonight,” she said.
“I got the job on Sanibel,” Dan told Libby.
“That’s great,” she said.
“But, I don’t know…” He looked at Law, who was talking to one of the men, joking around, telling him about the quality of the beef. “If someone like that could turn the Pelican around, the tips could be a helluva lot better, and it’s closer to home.” His eyes widened. “I wonder if that’s management’s plan. They’re testing this guy.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said, throwing a look at Jasmine, who was sworn to secrecy about the ownership of the bar, but secrecy and Jasmine weren’t always words used in the same sentence.
Still, with the exception of Noah, she’d been quiet.
Jasmine took a sip of water as if filling her mouth with something was the only way to keep it closed.
“Why else would he be in here with a whole new menu?” Dan asked. “I mean, you should see the kitchen. He’s like a maestro back there.”
Barefoot at Midnight (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 3) Page 12
