by Amy Lane
It was like a lightbulb clicked on, and Channing looked at him with something like worship. “Really? I mean… dinner? You brought dinner?”
Tino looked at the bag in his hand, the steamy weight of the dinner box weighting it down. They were hardly the cause for joy that Channing was making them out to be.
“Uh, yeah. Hence ‘dinner box,’ right? It’s really basic.”
Channing looked over his shoulder as he led his way through the house and bared his teeth in what was probably supposed to be a smile. “I throw the lasagna in the oven?”
Well if he wanted to lose out on some of the best parts of Nica’s lasagna, that’s how he’d do it! Tino suppressed a grumble of irritation and tried not to look at the house he was wandering deeper into. He wanted to hate it—the hardwood was dark and Tino liked light. The padded tapestry on the stairs was olive green and pink, and Tino would rather beige and blue. The dark-framed prints on the white walls were brightly colored French Impressionists and Tino preferred the realists. Name a thing about the house’s aesthetic, and Tino would have said, not five minutes before, that he’d hate it.
But he couldn’t. The proportion, the fineness of everything—even the occasional ding on the walls and the battered appearance of the old wood table in the kitchen—showed Tino that this place was the real deal. The floors were real wood, the prints were high quality, and the furniture was built to last.
This was real wealth in a way Tino had never been face-to-face with, and it was much like Mr. Imma God himself—beautiful and imposing, and it smelled better than Tino had ever dreamed.
Oh—he spotted little wax melters plugged into the wall at intervals. That probably explained the smell. Of the house, anyway.
“No, you don’t just dump it in the oven,” Tino argued, brought back to reality when Channing started rummaging through the drawer under the stove. “Here,” he muttered. Irritated at himself for being sucked in, he hip-checked Channing out of the way and pulled out two cookie sheets to replace the casserole dish the guy had pulled out. “Look. I’ll show you how to do it, and that way, if you ever have a chance to eat my sister’s Italian dinners again, you won’t screw it up.”
Channing stood back for a moment and let him work. Tino set the lasagna pan on the counter and then, undeterred by the unfamiliar kitchen, started rooting through the pantry shelves for some… yes! Olive oil, parmesan, parsley, bay leaves, and basil—all things that would improve the dinner at hand. Tino let himself feel bad for a moment—this family, even the housekeeper, made his sister’s business a part of their life, and now that Mom was gone, he must be an exquisite reminder of a comfortable, established routine.
“Is there… uh, is there anything I can do?” Channing’s deep and pleasant voice called Tino from his plunder of a stranger’s kitchen.
Tino looked at the assembled ingredients and promptly delegated. “Uh, yeah, actually. You can mix up the topping mix—here, the cheese, the basil and bay leaves, and the olive oil. It’s got to spread over the top of the lasagna to brown.”
Channing’s smile was somewhat relieved—apparently even rich people didn’t like feeling useless. “That I can do!”
They worked in companionable silence. Tino took the foil pan of lasagna out and set it on top of the oven, which he preheated. He washed his hands, put the pan on a cookie sheet to catch runoff, made sure the foil cover was still on, and put it in the oven, then set the two halves of the bread loaf up on the other cookie sheet and set the timer.
“Okay, so here’s what you do,” he said. “When the timer goes off, take the foil off the lasagna and spread that mixture evenly over the top. Put it back in for another fifteen minutes without the foil. When you take it out, put the bread in for five minutes—and not a second longer. While the bread is working, mix the salad in a bowl, and you’re set.”
Channing blinked slowly and then nodded with confidence. “I can do that.”
Oh. Okay. Time to wrap it up. “The housekeeper should have Nica’s number if she wants to keep up the order, and thanks for using my sister’s business.”
Channing put the tinfoil back in the higher cupboard. “My pleasure. Your sister wouldn’t want to babysit over the summer, would she?”
Tino grunted. “No. She’s taking college courses over the summer—that girl’s got plans.”
Channing jerked his head back in surprise. “College courses—wait. How old is your sister?” he asked, frowning. “How old are you?”
Tino blinked. “Uh, eighteen. She’s eighteen. I’m, uh, gonna be twenty-three in October.”
Channing blinked like he was trying to put something together in his head. “So your high-school-aged sister started a business? That’s pretty impressive.”
“You’re telling me,” Tino muttered, trying not to be bitter. “She was fourteen when I started college, and I’d come home and tell her about business and about starting with something you believe in, and suddenly she was selling Italian dinners to her teachers and then to the neighbors, and then I had to drive her around once a week, and then she bought a car!”
“Damn,” Channing muttered. “That’s….”
“Demoralizing,” Tino muttered. “Here I am about to get my business degree, and she’s planning how she’s going to go to Europe after she graduates with a double master’s.”
Channing’s laugh was all sympathy. “Yeah—my sister was like that,” he said, his voice dropping nostalgically. “Sheryl was older than me, though, and she was in med school by the time she was twenty. And then she had her residency and then….” He shook himself. “I’m sorry—I was about to rant about her, and you know—not exactly fair.”
“No!” Tino said, suddenly wanting to hear what he was going to say. “I mean, you know—I cooked you dinner. Don’t you owe me a story?”
Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Tino was not going to get sucked into this little family, he wasn’t he wasn’t he wasn’t! But it was too late—he’d opened the door and set down the tuna fish, and Channing was already clearing his throat like a great big predatory kitty.
“All that time to be a doctor,” Channing said with a shrug. “And she stayed at it, after she had Sammy. But then she got the divorce, and it got messy, and he worked at the hospital too, and she just… walked away. I don’t get how she did it, you know? Walked away from the career she’d spent her whole life building? Why would she do that?”
Tino blinked at him. “To raise her son?” he said, not seeing the problem.
“Well, yeah,” Channing conceded, leaning back against the counter. “But… our mom didn’t quit her job. Why would she—”
Tino rolled his eyes. “Your older sister?” he asked, to make sure.
“Yeah, why?” That voice—low and sweet. Tino wanted him to tell an actual story now, because his voice was just so mesmerizing.
“God, you are spoiled,” Tino said snidely. “At first I didn’t see it—I thought, oh yeah, I had it all wrong, and no spoiled little rich boys lived here, but I would lay down money—”
“I have been nothing but civil to you!” Channing protested, and Tino could hear the ring of hurt in his voice.
“Yeah, I know—I’m very grateful. But that doesn’t mean you’re not spoiled. Both your parents worked?”
“Yes.”
“Big important jobs, right?”
“My father was foreign liaison for his company and my mother was head of Marketing.”
“So you and your sister—lots of housekeepers, lessons, and nannies?” Tino’s mother’s business provided home management services for a number of the families in Stanford Ranch—which, come to think about it, was why he was so surprised his sister had branched out to Granite Bay.
“Yeah, so?”
Tino snorted and turned away, ready to leave. “Your sister raised you, moron. She wasn’t going to leave her son to be raised by himself—not if she could stay and take care of him. Jesus!”
Swearing to himself, Tino stalked out of the k
itchen, Channing hard on his heels.
“Wait a minute!” he demanded. “Wait—Tino! C’mon, why are you so ticked off?”
Tino whirled and shrugged. “What’s it to you, Mr. Big Shot? My sister can’t watch your kid, but your housekeeper can buy her dinner boxes—why’s my opinion matter?”
Channing made a sound of frustration—a pure alpha-male grumble at odds with the sweetness of his smile and the mellowness of his voice. “Because—you’re the first person to come here and treat me like a person in a month. I’ve had bill collectors and insurance people and the housekeeper who hates me—”
“You don’t know that for certain,” Tino muttered.
“I’m pretty sure she speaks fluent English,” Channing said back, irritated. “In fact I heard her talking about the stupid asshole who took over for that nice Mrs. Easton to someone on the phone. So there you go. I’ve got Sammy who hates me because I’m not Sheryl, I’ve got the housekeeper who hates me because I can’t speak Spanish or French, and I’ve got the neighborhood who hates me because my stupid car is too small or some such bullshit. You’re the first person in a month who’s actually helped me when there hasn’t been anything in it for him!”
Tino stopped so quickly that Channing ran into him, and Tino had a brief impression of a brick wall running into an armadillo. Bam!
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, all of his mother’s lessons about courtesy and kindness absolutely forcing him to speak. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I grew up with my mother working in a place like this, you understand?”
“Is that where the chip on your shoulder came from?” Channing asked cautiously, and Tino sighed and turned around, pinching the bridge of his nose like he could make his finals and his crappy job at Panera and the whole horrible commute back home disappear.
“It comes from a lot of places,” he admitted, relaxing his shoulders. “But you’re right—it shouldn’t come from here.”
“You’re right too,” Channing said humbly. “My sister did help raise me—it’s why I miss her so badly.”
Tino narrowed his eyes. “Oh dear Lord. You don’t pull any punches, do you?”
Channing laughed—but it was a weary laugh. “Well, I am a master negotiator.”
“Well, great. You’ve negotiated an apology out of me. Is there anything else you want?”
At that moment the door opened and the housekeeper bustled in, muttering to herself in French. Tino listened for a moment and scowled.
“Sorry, rich asshole, there was a line at the mani-pedi place, and that’s why it took me so long to get a gallon of milk,” she said, not looking at Channing as she swept in.
“Yeah, I’m sorry too,” Tino snapped in French. “I’m sorry I’m even involved in this mess. Jesus, woman—the kid is hungry!” Although he didn’t know if Sammy was hungry or not—the kid was still upset that Tino wasn’t going to magically resurrect his mother, but jeez. Children were a priority in Tino’s home—the idea that this woman would have blown off the kid to spite the clueless boss rankled. Everything his mother taught him about working hard and being honest had just been crapped on by one duplicitous woman.
The woman—thirtyish, sharp-nosed, and passably pretty—stopped abruptly and raked Tino over with jaded eyes.
“You might even be his type,” she said slyly. “We could take this one for a lot of money, oui?”
“No!” Tino snarled. “Now speak English, or I’ll have him fire you!”
She glared at him, narrow-eyed, and he glared back. God, this whole situation had gotten away from him. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said flatly. “I’ll go start dinner immediately, Mr. Lowell.”
Channing smiled at her, looking startled but relieved. “Thank you, Mirella, but honestly, Tino here brought a dinner box and fixed it up for us. I tipped him extra for his sister’s college account, even.”
It was Tino’s turn to look startled—he hadn’t actually counted the cash Channing had thrust in his hand before he’d started cooking, which showed what kind of businessman he was!
“Thank you,” he said, thinking this moment would not seem quite so interminable if he didn’t feel quite so much like crap. He’d made assumptions too—just like Mirella.
“Well, then,” Mirella shrugged. “It’s no big deal that I’m late.” She flounced into the kitchen, and Tino got a bug up his ass.
“You’re not too late to set the table,” he called out in French. “And make sure you set three places too!”
Mirella’s low patter of pissed-off bastardized Latin was one of the most rewarding sounds he’d ever heard.
“What did you say to her?” Channing asked, wide-eyed. “It sounds like she’s going to poison us!”
“She just might,” Tino told him, wishing he didn’t find Channing’s blue-gray eyes and high cheekbones quite so appealing. “Because you were right, my man. That woman does not like you. I just invited myself to dinner—I’m going to go keep an eye out to make sure she doesn’t spit in our salad, okay?”
And with that he brushed back by Channing, not nearly prepared enough for the stunning wave of heat and warm worried man smell as he passed. Oh, this was a bad idea—a bad bad bad idea!
But it was an idea that came with dreamy blue-gray eyes and a mellow-sweet voice and a very appealing smile, and Tino was just going to have to deal with his bad life choices, wasn’t he?
The Power of the Spoiled Brat
THEY ate dinner in what Tino could only think of as “the lesser dining room.” He could see a bigger dining room, one with a long table that would seat at least twelve people, through one of the doors that led to the lesser one. It looked disused—dusty plastic sheets lay on the table and covered the chairs, and big piles of mail sat on top of the dusty plastic sheets. Tino had the feeling Sammy and his mom hadn’t ever sat down to a dinner party for a dozen.
The lesser dining room was much homier—it looked out over a backyard with a pool and flower beds, for one thing, and the walls on either side of the bay window were decked out with Sammy’s art.
Tino wondered if Sammy had drawn much in the past month.
“Hey, Sammy!” He smiled as Channing led him down the hall by the hand. “Good to see you, little man.”
Sammy glared back. “You’re still not your sister,” he sulked.
“For which we’re both grateful,” Tino said dryly. “Now sit down and tell me about yourself. You been a kid long? Know the ropes of the second grade?” Tino leaned forward on his elbows and looked Sammy directly in the eye. “C’mon, Sammy—you can spill the beans. Which teacher has the best snacks—I only want to know for research purposes, I won’t tell a soul.”
Sammy rolled his eyes. “Our snacks have to be apple slices or pretzels,” he said primly. “We’re not allowed to have sugar for snack!”
Tino sat back, genuinely distressed. “Well that’s no good! What’s going to keep you from falling asleep in the last hour of school! That’s deadly right there—you never know when you’re going to wake up in a puddle of drool and your friends will call you ‘drool-baby.’ Someone’s got to give you some cookies!”
Sammy looked at Tino like he had lost his mind. “Cookies are bad for you!” he said, thrusting out his lower lip and lowering his little brow. “Unless they’re made with applesauce and oatmeal, cookies are bad for you!”
Tino crinkled the upper corner of his lip in disbelief. “Somebody must have read that wrong,” he said after a moment. He looked at Channing beseechingly. “C’mon, Uncle Channing—tell me this kid gets cookies in the afternoon. One real cookie. That’s all I ask.”
Channing was looking at Sammy in horror. “No cookies? Seriously? Your mom used to give me cookies every day!”
“She did?” Sammy asked, apparently just happy to hear a story about his mother. “Really?”
“Yeah!”
At that moment Mirella appeared with the heated lasagna, and then the garlic bread, setting them down on the table with little grace. Channing starte
d dishing things up—along with salad and milk—while he talked, and Tino noticed that he was used to being the captain of the table. Tino took his full plate gratefully and waited until Channing had his own plate of food before starting to eat. Nobody said grace here, and since his family was the same way, he was very comfortable with that.
“So,” Channing said after taking a bite of his salad, “let’s say tomorrow, after I get back from work, you and me have some cookies. You think?”
Sammy eyed his own dinner reluctantly. “What kind of cookies?”
And the debate began. Sugar cookies, chocolate-chip cookies, Starbucks toffee chip, Otis Spunkmeyer, Oreos—even the cookies Tino made at Panera came into play. All cookies were debated over the course of the meal, and for the most part, Tino got to sit back and listen to uncle and nephew chat happily. In that moment, he realized that this must have been a good family. Sammy had obviously known Channing before he’d lost his mother—they talked a lot about trips to the wharf and how Sammy loved San Francisco, and didn’t he remember getting cookies there?
“Uncle” Channing relaxed, laughed, and showed a genuine interest in his nephew’s opinion, which is why Tino was really surprised when Sammy went from happy—if subdued—child to spoiled brat again.
“Yeah,” Channing was saying, “my apartment is pretty big. We could set you up with your own room there if you like—you could pick out the furniture and paint the wal—”
“I don’t want to move to your stupid apartment!” Sammy snarled, throwing his spoon down and shoving his plate away. “And I don’t want to eat stupid cookies with you! You just want me to forget all about living here and how Mom’s coming back!”
And with that he jumped up from his chair quickly enough to knock it over and stormed off—presumably to his room.
Channing sighed, stood and picked up the chair, and sat back down again. “Was nice while it lasted,” he murmured.
Tino was still staring after Sammy’s back, wondering how it had all gone wrong. “I don’t understand,” he said. “One minute—”
