Melanie forced her attention back to Raquel—a striking and buxom redhead, an exemplar of the tradition of that name. With an admirable efficiency, she laid out the orders. Already there was a two-week wait for dresses and business suits that weren’t in stock in a particular size. Wedding dresses were booked for two months out.
Melanie glanced at the store’s racks, they’d been sufficiently ravaged that Perrin’s Glorious Garb was in danger of becoming a custom-to-order shop with nothing to satisfy the impulse or tourist buyer. When a customer strolled in, they needed to be greeted with an abundance of options. A glory of them. Not the almost painfully thin displays she now had.
“Deux,” Melanie informed Perrin.
“But that’s two salaries.”
“You need two.”
Raquel nodded agreement then set out a sales chart representing the last four quarters.
Melanie inspected it for several long moments. She’d rarely seen such a growth curve. She shared a look with Raquel and they both laughed.
“I know! I’ve been telling her.”
Melanie turned to Perrin, “You had need of two seamstresses two months ago. How have you been doing this by yourself? You’ll need another in a month. They’ll pay for themselves twice over based on these orders. Restocking the racks and working on the new designs... Assurément! Deux. Let us go and see how it is they do.”
Neither was done, Perrin’s designs weren’t simple. But based on the work so far, and with Melanie’s confirming nod, Perrin hired them both on the spot with instructions to return tomorrow and finish the dresses.
When the buoyantly giddy pair had been turned over to Raquel for paperwork and the studio was once again quiet, they dropped onto stools to catch their breath.
Melanie was thrilled. The depression that had skirted close beside her for the last two days, as it always did whenever she contemplated her past, had been driven back down into the depths where it belonged.
As they chatted back and forth, oddly about the coat design for Figaro, Perrin’s opera-named Cairn terrier presently asleep in a small doggie bed under the table, Melanie had mentioned her need to get out of the hotel room she’d shared with Carlo.
“Oh, you must stay in town until your next contract. Please Melanie? We’ll have so much fun.” Perrin had grabbed her phone without awaiting a reply and called Mama Maria.
In an eyeblink, Melanie was a bit befuddled to find herself heading off to check out of the hotel. Maria would meet her in half an hour in Pioneer Square. Angelo had a condo there, at the south end of downtown, that he had lived in before marrying Jo. Maria had, in turn, lived there before marrying and moving in with Hogan.
“See,” Perrin had insisted, “maybe it will bring you good luck as well.”
Why it was that married people always thought their unmarried friends couldn’t help but want what they had? Melanie would like to be married someday. But though her career had stumbled, it was far from over and she had no intention of slowing down anytime soon.
That wasn’t the issue. She liked the idea enough to let Perrin sweep her along. Besides, the woman was an unstoppable force anyway so resistance really was pointless. The problem was that she didn’t know what was now expected in return. Help with a few interviews didn’t balance a pleasant and free accommodation in the heart of Seattle’s old town district.
Despite her misgivings, between Perrin, a very helpful concierge, and Maria, Melanie soon found herself ensconced in a charming condominium just off Seattle’s Pioneer Square. On the seventh floor, it peeked over the present Alaskan Way Viaduct elevated roadway, offering a stunning view of Elliott Bay and the Olympics.
“Imagine the view when they finish the tunnel,” Maria had said, “and they take down the Viaduct.”
It would be stunning. It would offer a premier view in a premier location. Pioneer Square was the founding site of Seattle. And while it was small and quaint, it felt more like New York than much of the city. The area burst forth with more tiny shops and galleries than Soho. Restaurants and bars were tucked in out-of-the-way corners.
Maria told her the best bookstore in the city was just two blocks away and had a coffee shop; Melanie would have to be very careful there—bookstores were a major hazard to her careful budget. The International District offered a small Chinatown that guaranteed good eating. If she had to be somewhere in Seattle, this would do nicely.
That the condo sat empty most of the time was apparent by the emptiness of the refrigerator, but Melanie preferred to eat out anyway. She only cooked on rare occasion and then very simply. Fruit and yogurt would cover most of her at-home needs; she could practically live on fresh-made smoothies.
It had rich, oak-wood flooring, a heavy-beamed ceiling—high enough to feel open rather than oppressive, and sunny yellow walls sporting pretty framed pictures of Italy: Tuscany, Liguria, and the Piedmont. The living room furnishing could have been her own, an IKEA selection. She’d never felt the need for more in her own personal space.
The masterpiece of the décor was the kitchen. Everything else was comfortable yet little more. But the corridor kitchen clearly belonged to a chef with its generous space, built-in cutting boards, and fierce-looking stove. It had a large walk-in pantry with northern light that stood mostly empty. The two bedrooms were done prettily. She found them to be cozy and took the one that had clearly been Maria’s based on the feminine touches in bedspread and art.
Maria fussed and pampered her, which was very kind and did indeed make Melanie feel welcome. If only she didn’t have the constant kneejerk reaction against every possible form of mothering. But she did, and she had to suppress it hard and often. Maria is not your mother, don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react. And she didn’t; at least not on the outside.
Permission to stay at the condo also added another checkmark on the ledger sheet of life; she now clearly owed Maria as surely as she owed Perrin. She had no concept of how she’d ever repay either of them.
“As long as you like, Melanie. We have no plan to sell it. It is so convenient, we just haven’t found a use for it at the moment. It’s free-and-clear and costs us almost nothing, so it is yours to use. No guilt,” she’d waggled a finger before Melanie could protest, forcing her to keep her guilt to herself. “It’s obvious, young girl, that you need somewhere to stop and breathe for a moment. This is where.”
She did turn down an invitation to dinner with Maria and her husband, but carefully accepted the hug Maria offered. Such kindness was so rare and precious. And she simply couldn’t bring herself to trust it.
Melanie unpacked into one corner of the generous master closet and the built-in dresser designed properly to accommodate a woman. Men always thought four drawers covered all needs—which was all she needed for her current suitcase-sized wardrobe—but she appreciated the design. She liked this room very much and settled in for a quiet evening. She actually didn’t need much dinner, and for some reason she was so exhausted that an energy bar with a cup of tea was all she could really stomach. A luxurious rose-scented bath and she was in bed with a book by eight and asleep by nine.
Josh parked his Beemer in the garage. He grabbed his computer and a pack with some clothes, figured everything else could just wait for tomorrow. At this point he simply needed somewhere to collapse.
This morning he’d woken up six hours and a speeding ticket away in Spokane, after crossing the country in five remarkably long days behind the wheel—the Great Plains went on for flat-ever—without any tickets. Welcome to Washington. Some greeting.
He hadn’t driven across the whole country since a college road trip when he and two buddies had punched straight through from New York to San Francisco in just fourteen minutes under two days. It was Spring Break so they’d spent five days freezing their asses off on the fog-bound coast and then turned around and hammered back. Clancy had gotten the speeding ticket on that trip.
Angelo had dragged Josh into the restaurant kitchen for dinner. He’d served a
venison and baby squash skewer drowned in a morel mushroom sauce with a slow, spicy heat that built and warmed without burning. It almost made Josh wish he was still working as a food writer so that he could dedicate a whole article to this one dish. Russell had called his wife Cassidy to join them. The three of them had spent a merry evening harassing Angelo and his crew from a side prep table while they made dinner service look like an art form rather than a duty.
Angelo’s kitchen was a magazine photo-worthy creation; Josh knew because he’d done a feature article on just that kitchen. At the far end was the patissier station that Angelo’s mother Maria ruled over. It was now occupied by the night service chef, but all the prep had been done hours before by Maria.
The friturier hovered over his fryers and the grill master and soup potager hovered to Angelo’s other side. He anchored the center of the line passing prepared plates to the aboyeur Louisa, who cajoled, pleaded, demanded, and absolutely controlled the final dressing of each plate. She also made sure the timing would have the product hit the tables at its very peak moment of perfection.
Josh had avoided most of the unwanted questions by sticking close to Russell so that Graziella couldn’t get him aside. And he kept his left hand out of Cassidy’s sight as much as possible. When she finally rolled her eyes at him, he caught on that she’d noticed right away: both the missing ring, and his lack of interest in discussing it. After that he relaxed a little.
He’d stayed through closing and cleanup because of the company, but now he just needed to sleep. Angelo had insisted that he could stay in the condo for as long as he wanted. It was just sitting empty. Angelo said he’d sell it once the old Alaskan Viaduct roadway had finished coming down which would shoot up the property value.
So tired he could barely stay upright, he let himself in, dumped his computer on the first chair he spotted, and headed for the bedroom, not bothering with a light—there was enough light coming in through the uncovered living room window to steer around large objects. He opened the door to pitch darkness. As he reached for a light switch, a small suitcase slammed him square in the chest.
More due to surprise than the force of impact, he crashed backward to the hardwood floor, good thing he’d already dumped his computer on the chair, and had a brief impression of long legs sprinting by as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Who’re you?” A woman. Angry woman. From New Jersey by the accent. Wasn’t he in Seattle?
Josh rolled up on one elbow as the light flicked on, temporarily blinding his weary, night-adapted eyes. In between cautious eye blinks and narrow squints, he was offered a sideways view of the legs that had flashed by a moment before. They were even longer than his first impression. Atop them was a faded t-shirt with “Versace” across it in large, scripted letters. He was on the verge of admiring the great stream of tousled blond hair that covered the woman’s face when he focused on her hands.
They were clasped directly in front of her and were aiming a…Taser.
“Whoa!” Josh held his hands palm out.
“Answer the question, you Benny!”
He sat up very slowly, keeping his hands in view. A shake of her head flipped most of the bounty of hair back over her shoulder. He recognized her immediately. You couldn’t be anywhere near the print magazine industry and not know Melanie, perhaps not anywhere on the planet. He’d only met her the once, while having lunch with Perrin on his last trip to Seattle a couple months before. He’d been unable to speak a word to the breathtaking beauty.
Normally it was the truly amazing chefs he had trouble speaking with even though interviewing chefs had been part of his job. His first meeting with Eric Ripert had nearly killed him and he was sure that it was only because the man was so old-world civilized that he hadn’t declared Josh a complete idiot. It had been a total “fan moment.”
But Melanie had been worse than that, so stunning and so impossibly real that he’d become totally awkward despite being happily married, or so he’d thought at the time. He could still remember the way she’d smelled from the moment when she had kissed him gently on the cheek in greeting. He’d planned to laugh with his wife over it, except she’d dropped the divorce bomb on him as soon as he walked back into their condo from that trip. Now he’d better get past being tongue-tied if he didn’t want to get zapped.
“Hi, Melanie.”
She didn’t blink or lower her weapon. Well trained by whoever had been her self-defense instructor.
“We met once. Josh Harper. A friend of Perrin and Cassidy’s. Actually Cassidy and Perrin’s; I’ve known Cass years longer. Ever since we both did a review of a gourmet burger place that opened on East Fourteenth.” And he was babbling.
The weapon lowered partway. Now rather than being aimed at his face, it was more in line with… He casually brought his knees together though he didn’t try getting to his feet.
He had to admire the effects of her rapid breathing on the thin t-shirt that ended teasingly high—high enough to indicate if she wore anything underneath, it didn’t include shorts.
“Josh Harper?” It started as a question but ended more as a statement. He also noticed her voice shifting out of New Jersey and into New York. “What are you doing here?”
“Angelo gave me a key. And you?”
“His mother was kind enough to do the same.”
Josh did his best to offer a laugh, but she hadn’t finished lowering the Taser all the way. “I do wish family members would communicate more, don’t you?” After a heartbeat or five had passed and she still hadn’t lowered her weapon, he nodded toward her hands.
She finally lowered her aim, sliding the Taser back into a large designer handbag resting on the dining table. “It would certainly have made my heart happier if they had done so. That was not an agréable way for waking up.”
By the end of the sentence her voice had shifted again, this time to the one he remembered from interviews and their one meeting. A soft, gentle French accent offered not as a coo, but rather as a gentle mask. And now he knew just what it masked. The New York fit her well, the New Jersey made no sense with who she appeared to be, the elite member of the New York social and fashion scene.
He risked climbing to his feet. Whoa, she was tall. With her barefoot, they were the same height. If he shed his sneakers, she’d be… Josh thought about something else as rapidly as his tired brain would allow.
“Sorry for scaring you. I’ll just, uh, go find a hotel. Do you know any around here?” He picked up his pack and did his best not to stare. He’d only ever seen Melanie presented to perfection, both as a model and at that afternoon lunch a few months before. Here, she stood in a t-shirt with no makeup and her hair mussed, and she was even more astonishing, as if by dropping the French accent she was truly revealed. Breathtaking. It was just as difficult to not stare at her delicate, patrician features as it was to not stare at her legs. The power of those intense blue eyes that so defined her public image were no less powerful in private.
She shook her head, “I arrived here just a few hours ago. I only know the hotels uptown.”
They shared a smile. Uptown in Seattle was all of a dozen blocks away, not halfway up Manhattan with clear lines of demarcation for the diverse neighborhoods in between.
“It is late,” she glanced around until she found a clock. Past midnight. “You should stay here. There are two bedrooms.”
“But—” His throat went dry picturing being in the same apartment with Melanie. This wasn’t right. He was…no longer married. Separate bedrooms, separate doors. Get a grip, Josh.
“You sure you don’t mind? It’s been one long day.”
With an elegant wave of her hand she indicated another door. She didn’t have that painful thinness that so many models cultivated, she looked incredibly fit, just lean and perfect.
Melanie returned to her own room, wishing him a neutrally pleasant goodnight. She passed close enough that he could just catch the slight rose-scent that must be her soap, warm on the
gentle breeze of her passage. Not quite close enough to get past that to the woman who had brushed her cheek against his in a French-style greeting back when he’d been a different man, but still it suited her very well.
He couldn’t help but admire her careful knee bend, revealing nothing, to pick up her suitcase from where it had landed after knocking him back. Also the view of her departure. But that woman could walk. And this was flat footed, without really trying. In heels and couture, she was generally acknowledged as the best walker presently working the runways.
Josh stood in the middle of the living room after her door closed, wavering as he did so. Whether that was from the exhaustion, the fall, or seeing her so close, he didn’t know.
He headed to the other bedroom, didn’t bother with the light, and simply collapsed onto the bed. Too exhausted to move, kick off his shoes, or reach for the covers; he lay there. He thought about how Constance would laugh when he told her that he was sleeping one thin wall away from one of his short-list women.
They’d had a merry date once as they’d each discussed the five people in the world that they would want a free pass on if they ever had a chance at an affair. Melanie had always topped his personal list ever since he’d seen the model’s first-ever cover on his high school girlfriend’s Teen Vogue. He’d looked into buying the back issue years later, but it was one of the very first issues and quite the collector’s item, especially when paired with Melanie’s subsequent success; far too expensive for a whim.
Constance had bought it for him for his birthday one year. They’d had a laugh over it, then he’d slipped it back into its archival plastic bag, tossed it in his desk, and forgotten about it. It was now in a box down in his BMW, one of the few gifts he’d kept from her.
The Complete Where Dreams Page 87
