by Cochran, Peg
“I’m sorry.” Gigi got to her feet, too.
“I was looking forward to going with you.” Mertz’s mouth quirked downward.
“You can still go,” Gigi said although she knew that would be scant consolation.
“Forget it.” Mertz opened the closet by the door and retrieved his coat. He slipped into it briskly. “Thanks for dinner.”
The slam of the door on his way out told Gigi everything she needed to know.
Chapter 3
Gigi woke up on Saturday morning feeling as gray as the skies outside her window. By agreeing to help Declan, she’d upset Mertz—and just when their relationship was starting to take off. Would he forgive her or just move on? She felt a nagging sense of loss as she dressed to go about her day—her usual jeans, comfy sweater with the sleeves that were a little too long because they’d gotten caught on the agitator in the washer, and a pair of warm, thick-soled shoes. She thought briefly of the pretty dress waiting in her closet . . . would she ever have the chance to wear it now?
Reg watched intently as Gigi cracked eggs for scrambling. She would top them with some salsa and a dash of grated low-fat cheese and roll them in a low-fat tortilla. Her clients’ dinner had simmered overnight in her slow cooker—delicious, warm and hearty chili that she would serve over half a cup of brown rice. The scent of cumin and chipotle peppers had wound its way into her senses during the night, prompting a dream of backpacking through some foreign, exotic country where the landscape was richly colored in brilliant jewel tones. It had been a disappointment to wake up to such a gloomy day.
Gigi was spooning scrambled eggs into the tortillas when the back door opened. She jumped.
“It’s just me,” Pia said, unwinding her scarf and hanging it over the hook next to the door.
“I thought . . . I assumed you were . . .”
“I spent the night at the studio.”
Gigi noticed the dark stains under her sister’s eyes.
“I was really on a roll. This new piece is going fantastically. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt you and your detective.” She gave a wicked grin and opened one of the cupboards, pulling out a ceramic mug. “Is there any coffee?”
Gigi jerked her head in the direction of the coffeemaker and turned toward her sister. “I feel badly. You didn’t need to stay out overnight on my account. Bill left early.”
“Oh?” Pia paused with the coffeepot poised over her cup. “What happened?”
Gigi hesitated. She wasn’t totally comfortable confiding in her sister. Pia had never been good at keeping secrets. Gigi remembered telling her about a crush she had had on a boy in sixth grade. Pia had gone to school the next day and told all her friends about her big sister’s infatuation. By lunchtime, half the school had known Gigi’s secret, and the boy in question had taken to avoiding her in the halls.
But that was then. Pia had grown up. Surely she knew how to keep a confidence now? Besides, Gigi really did need to tell her about helping Declan out. She didn’t want Pia to find out from someone else and assume that there was a reason Gigi had kept it hidden. Because there wasn’t. Gigi had made up her mind. Declan was one of those dazzling, fascinating objects that it was best to look at but not touch.
Gigi closed the last of her containers and added it to the stack on the counter. She rinsed out her coffee mug and poured herself another cup. She was stalling, and she knew it. She sighed and eased onto one of the stools in front of the island.
“We had a disagreement,” she began, “about our plans for tonight.” She took a sip of her coffee. It was hotter than she’d expected, and tears came to her eyes.
“But I thought you were going to that party. You showed me your dress and everything.” Pia opened the freezer and pulled out a box of raspberry toaster pastries.
Gigi shuddered as Pia slid one of the frosted cakes into the toaster.
“I was. But Declan asked me to help him in the kitchen. His chef quit, and he’s short-handed.” The words came out in a mumbled rush.
“Declan? I don’t understand. Why you? I mean . . .”
“I’m the only person he knows who can find her way around the kitchen. Not that I’ll be doing much more than peeling and chopping and stirring.”
Pia rounded on Gigi, her eyes glittering. “You fancy him yourself, don’t you?”
“No!” Gigi said with as much conviction as she could muster.
“I hope not.” Pia clutched her coffee cup to her chest. “Because I fancy him.” She poked her own chest with her index finger. “A lot. He’s absolutely dreamy, and I just know we were meant for each other.” She sniffled and wiped at her nose with her sleeve. “You have your fellow; why can’t you let me have mine?”
And she flounced from the room.
Her exit was punctuated by the ping of the toaster as it shot the finished pastry into the air.
• • •
Gigi made her deliveries with a heavy heart. She’d agreed to help Declan because it seemed like the right thing to do, but now she’d upset two very important people in her life. She would have to figure out a way to make it right.
Meanwhile, she had to drop Reg off at Alice Slocum’s. Alice had offered to take him for the day since he wouldn’t be allowed at the restaurant, and Gigi hated to think of him home alone since she had no idea what Pia’s schedule for the day was. Alice had been one of Gigi’s first clients. She’d wanted to lose weight for her daughter Stacy’s wedding, and she’d been very successful. She and Gigi had become friends, and she sometimes helped Gigi out. The fact that she worked part time as a secretary in the police department made her an invaluable source of information.
Alice was waiting at the door with a dog treat when Gigi got there.
“So, you’re spending the afternoon with Declan,” she said, with what could only be described as a wicked smile.
Gigi frowned. “It’s not what you think.”
“I’m sure. I just wonder what Bill Mertz will think about it.”
“Wonder no more. He made it quite clear he doesn’t like the idea.”
“Maybe it will spur him on.” Alice ran her hand through her tumble of gray curls.
“To what?” Gigi unclipped Reg’s leash and placed it on Alice’s hall table.
“You know. Pop the question.”
Gigi’s mouth hung open. “But we’ve only been dating a few months. It’s not even serious yet.”
Alice shrugged. “You’ve never heard of a whirlwind romance?”
Gigi laughed. “Somehow it feels like Bill Mertz and whirlwind romance don’t quite go together.”
“You never know.” Alice smiled enigmatically and bent down to scratch Reg behind the ears. She looked up. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.” She gestured at the dog.
Gigi knew he would, but he looked so forlorn peering out the glass panes beside Alice’s door as Gigi drove away. Once again, she cursed herself for saying yes to Declan.
Gigi drove down High Street and turned into the parking lot between Gibson’s Hardware and Declan’s restaurant. She parked toward the back, leaving the other spaces for the guests who would be arriving later that evening. Gigi glanced at her watch. She was right on schedule.
“You are a lifesaver,” Declan said as he answered the door immediately after Gigi’s knock. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his chin was covered in fine stubble. Gigi wondered how late he’d been working the night before. He was wearing jeans, an apron and a T-shirt that said Declan’s Grille and showed off his strong biceps. Gigi knew most chefs earned their muscles in the kitchen, not the gym. Lifting heavy pots and pans all day long was a strenuous workout.
The restaurant itself was in shadowed darkness. An expectant hush hung over the room and the tables were bare, awaiting the napery and silverware that would magically transform them. The scent of garlic simmering in olive oil hung in the air.
Gigi followed Declan to the galley kitchen, where pots were already steaming on the stove and a cutting board was
piled high with chopped onions. She looked around but there was no one else in sight.
Declan ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. “Armand is taking a break. He should be back soon,” he said as if reading Gigi’s mind.
Gigi hoped Armand would hurry back. Being alone with Declan was making her nervous. Her glance kept straying toward his strong back and arms and the way his jeans fit—tight but not too tight.
“What’s on the menu?” she asked to distract herself.
“For starters, I’m doing pea and mint soup,” Declan lifted the lid on one of the pots and invited Gigi to have a sniff.
It smelled heavenly. She shuddered to think of how much butter and cream must have gone into creating such a delicious mixture.
“Then there’s sirloin steak with green peppercorn sauce, fried potatoes and a gratin of marrow.”
“Marrow?”
Declan frowned and bit his lip. “Don’t know what you Yanks call it.” He reached for the handle of the refrigerator, pulled it open, rummaged briefly, then turned around and held out a green vegetable toward Gigi.
“Oh, we call that zucchini.”
“Zucchini it is then.” He smiled and some of the shadows disappeared from his blue eyes. “And for afters, there’ll be cake, of course, with a serving of Eton mess.”
Again, Gigi marveled at how the English and Americans both considered themselves to be speaking English, but so many of the words and expressions were different.
“Eton mess is basically berries layered with whipped cream and meringue.” Declan explained.
“Sounds delicious.”
Declan shrugged. “Let’s hope so.” He glanced at his watch. “I can’t think where Armand has gotten to.” He shrugged. “We’d best get to work without him.”
Gigi’s nervousness around Declan dissipated with each onion she chopped and pot she stirred. He was strictly professional, keeping watch over everything on the stove and in the oven. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she was just a teeny bit disappointed.
The missing Armand finally slunk in an hour later, smelling of cigarette smoke and beer. Declan gave him a stern look, and the sous chef immediately set about chopping a large batch of fresh mint, a sulky set to his mouth.
Gigi was barely aware of the passage of time as she provided Declan with his extra pair of hands. They worked together seamlessly and mostly wordlessly, efficiently putting together the feast for Bradley Simpson’s engagement party for his son and future daughter-in-law.
Gigi had just finished washing and hulling an enormous batch of strawberries when the back door opened and one of Declan’s waitresses bustled in. Several more followed, along with three busboys who immediately got to work setting the tables. The men shouted back and forth about the previous week’s sports scores, drowning out the women’s high-pitched chatter as they readied Declan’s Grille for the party.
An hour later they heard the front door open. Declan wiped his hands on his apron and went out into the main dining room. Gigi heard the murmur of masculine voices combined with the occasional softer tones of a woman’s. She was sweeping the discarded strawberry tops into the garbage can when the door to the kitchen burst open.
“Simpsons are here,” Declan said economically. “The rest of the guests will be arriving shortly.” He gestured toward the stove. “Let’s get the first batch of bacon-wrapped scallops into the oven.”
Although Declan’s expression was bland, Gigi sensed his nervousness. The success of this party meant a lot to him. The Simpsons were very influential in town, and if they were displeased, it wouldn’t be long before there was a For Sale sign on the front door of Declan’s Grille.
Armand slid a tray of the hors d’oeuvres in question into the oven while Declan unwrapped a large piece of pinkish-red fish.
“Salmon?” Gigi asked.
Declan nodded as he carefully removed the layers of plastic wrap. “Gravlax. I made it myself.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I used to date this Danish girl. She was a model,” he threw out offhandedly, “and she taught me how to do it.”
Gigi wasn’t surprised. Declan was definitely the tall, blond, Danish model type, not the average, everyday-girl type. Gigi immediately thought of Pia. Fortunately, her sister was anything but average.
“The name means grave salmon and refers to the medieval practice of curing the raw fish by burying it in the sand above the high-tide level.” Declan smiled and the dimple in his cheek deepened. “Which I most certainly didn’t do. Nowadays, you cure the salmon with salt, sugar, plenty of fresh dill, a bit of lemon peel . . . ” He stopped suddenly. “But then I imagine you already know that. But there is my secret ingredient.” He winked at Gigi. “A dash of the finest Irish whiskey—Kilbeggan—from the oldest distillery in the world.”
Declan took a long, thin-bladed knife and began to cut slivers off the piece of salmon. He placed them on a tray alongside neatly arranged squares of buttered toast.
The noise level from the restaurant had risen considerably. “Sounds like the guests are arriving.” Declan frowned and ran a hand through his hair, leaving his curls standing on end. “I feel terrible.” He touched Gigi’s shoulder. “You should be out there, dressed to the nines, enjoying yourself.”
Gigi looked down at her faded jeans. She was a mess, and she knew it. She’d run her hands through her tangled auburn curls countless times during the course of the day. Even without looking, she could tell that her nose was shining, and her lips were pale since she’d bitten off the bit of colored lip gloss she’d put on long ago that morning.
“Why don’t you go have a wee peek at the crowd. I imagine you’d like that.”
Gigi smiled. Declan had guessed correctly—if she couldn’t be part of the party herself, she at least wanted to see who was there and what they were wearing.
“Okay.” She took off her apron, balled it up and tossed it on the counter.
“I expect a full report.” Declan grinned as his sharp-bladed knife slid through the piece of salmon.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Gigi headed for the swinging door to the restaurant. She would hover in the back and spend a few minutes taking it all in.
Most of the gathering had crowded into the bar area or stood, drinks in hand, between the artfully set tables. Waitresses circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and the bartender, a seasoned-looking pro in his fifties, wielded a silver cocktail shaker as if it were a percussion instrument.
Madeline looked radiant in a crimson wrap dress with a deep-V neckline and cap sleeves. Gigi had never met Hunter Simpson, but she picked him out easily enough. He had one arm around Madeline, and in the other, he brandished a glass of what looked like sparkling water. He was slim, with a halo of light brown curls, and bore a slight resemblance to his father.
Bradley had the paunch and the smug, self-satisfied look so common to men of his age and stature. He was wearing a double-breasted navy blazer, gray slacks and a crisp white shirt open far enough to reveal the gray hair on his chest. Gigi recognized his wife Barbara Simpson because she had recently had a consultation with Gigi about becoming a client. Barbara hoped to start the plan as soon as the party was over, with the aim of losing twenty pounds before her son’s wedding. She had dark hair, cut short up over her ears, and she clutched a pashmina wrap that almost hid her stocky middle. Gigi thought she must have been quite attractive at one point in time, but now she looked like the typical middle-aged woman—slightly overweight and a touch masculine.
The woman Madeline had identified earlier as Tiffany Morse, potential Simpson and West partner, stood in front of the bar, surrounded by a cadre of admiring men. Her black dress most decidedly deserved the term little—it had a hem so high and a neckline so low that they threatened to meet in the middle. Someone must have said something funny because she tossed back her head and laughed, exposing a long, white column of a neck that was accented by the sparkling sequins edging her plunging neckline.
Gi
gi noticed Bradley Simpson glancing in her direction more than once. The third time he did it, she saw Barbara Simpson frown and whisper in his ear.
Bradley threw back his shoulders and put his hands to his mouth creating a megaphone.
“Hello, everyone,” he shouted above the din of voices and clinking glasses. “Hello.”
Someone took a fork from one of the tables and began banging it against a water glass. Bradley smiled and waited as the chattering voices slowly came to a halt. He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest.
“As you all know, we’re here tonight to celebrate the engagement of my son”—he nodded curtly toward Hunter, who looked frozen, his eyes wide and his arm tight around Madeline’s waist—“to . . .” Bradley hesitated just long enough that a few people in the back began to murmur softly. “To Madeline Stone!” He finished triumphantly, a satisfied smile on his face. He looked around as if trying to determine which of the women in the restaurant was, indeed, his son’s intended.
Gigi glanced at Madeline. A stiff smile was plastered on her face, and Hunter had tightened his grasp on her waist and was whispering in her ear.
“My son”—Bradley waved his glass of amber-colored whiskey in the air—“has done me proud.” He glanced at his wife, but it was obvious he didn’t really see her or he might have noticed the anxious look on her face. “I chose the noblest profession of all. The law.” He glanced down at his highly polished Gucci loafers. “Like my father before me, and his father before him.” He looked up and his glance swept the assembled crowd.
Everyone was quiet—no ice tinkling in glasses, no whispered conversations or clearing of throats.
“But Hunter,” Bradley gave a nod toward his son, whose face was darkening by the second, “chose medicine.” He annunciated the world carefully as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Surgery.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Do you know who the original surgeons were?” He scanned the crowd as if looking for someone with the answer. He shook his head again, tilting his chin upward. “Barbers. Barbers were the original surgeons. The red-and-white stripes on the barbers’ poles were meant to signify their craft of bloodletting.” He looked down at his shoes again. “My son eschewed the noble profession of the law for . . . bloodletting.”
