Naya’s dark eyes were troubled.
Sasha touched her arm as a muttering dog walker swerved to avoid them, his dogs getting tangled in a crisscross of leashes.
“Hey, let’s keep walking.”
Naya nodded and started to move. Sasha considered her response.
“Listen, I’m thrilled for you. I mean, if you want to go to law school. Do you? I thought you hated lawyers.”
Naya gave her a long look. “That hasn’t stopped you.”
“I don’t hate lawyers. I did hate working at Prescott.”
Even as she said it, Sasha knew it wasn’t exactly true—what she’d hated was the person she been turning into at Prescott, an automaton with no personal life, no joy, nothing but billable hours.
“I know what it’s like there.”
Sasha bit back her first response. Naya may have worked at Prescott & Talbott for a long time, it would be different, very different, if she returned as a lawyer.
“I’ll be sorry to see you go, but I can’t afford to do what they can do for you.”
“I know.”
They crossed the short bridge connecting Shadyside to East Liberty and clattered down the metal stairs that led to the alley behind the grocery story.
“It’s an incredible opportunity, Naya. You should go for it.”
Sasha’s encouragement was sincere. She’d hate to lose Naya’s talents, but Naya was a friend first, an employee second.
Naya cleared her throat. “I already did.”
“You already did what?”
“I sat for the LSAT last weekend. Will thought we should wait until we find out if I’ve been accepted to talk to you. But I feel like a jagoff every time I see you, so I’m telling you now.”
“Thanks for that. But don’t feel guilty—this is your life, your future. I’m happy for you, just surprised.”
“I figured. Anyway, who knows if I’ll even get in,” Naya said in a breezy voice. Her relief at unburdening herself with her secret was palpable.
Sasha pulled a face. “Oh, come on. You’ll get in.” She wrestled a shopping cart from the corral at the entrance to the store.
“You sound like Will. Uh—speaking of Will, he has an offer for you, too.”
Naya’s words barely registered as Sasha dug out her shopping list and guided the cart through the wall of shoppers who stood contemplating the cut flower display just inside the door.
“Okay, produce and herbs first,” Sasha muttered to herself.
“Mac? There’s a job for you at Prescott.”
Sasha maneuvered the cart through the throng gathered in front of the organic strawberries and passion fruits cutely arranged in heart shapes and checked her list.
“You’re not serious,” she said.
“Will wants to offer you a position as Director of Community Relations,” Naya said. She watched Sasha’s face for a reaction.
Sasha picked up a bunch of tarragon, smelled it, realized she didn’t know what it was supposed to smell like in the first place, and threw it in the cart. Then she turned to face Naya.
“First, Prescott doesn’t have a Director of Community Relations. Second, that sounds exactly like a pencil-pushing, meeting-attending hell on Earth. Third, since when do you carry Will Volmer’s water?”
Naya’s hands flew to her hips.
Uh-oh.
“I don’t carry water for anybody, thank you very much. He’s going to call you, but I thought I’d plant a seed for him, because you can be so dang stubborn, Mac.”
Sasha almost dropped the blood orange in her hand.
“You’re calling me stubborn? Pot, meet kettle.”
Naya raked a hand through her hair.
“Point taken. Just … just, listen to him when he calls you, okay?”
The idea of working for Prescott & Talbott again stirred up a host of emotions Sasha didn’t even know she had. But at the moment, she needed to navigate the jam-packed store and gather her groceries, not engage in an introspective review of her feelings.
“Sure. I’ll hear him out. So, I’m making a gourmand dinner for my Valentine—are you doing anything for Carl?” Sasha asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I’m making something, too,” Naya said.
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Reservations.”
CHAPTER 7
After surviving the grocery shopping experience, Sasha and Naya agreed they’d earned lunch—complete with margaritas—at Mad Mex, the Tex-Mex restaurant just down the street from the office.
Naya headed to the restaurant to get a table while Sasha lugged her bags through the back entrance leading into Jake’s kitchen. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the dumpster as she passed it. Kathryn’s damaged face flashed in her mind.
She pushed it aside and poked her head into the kitchen. She spied Jake at the station by the wall trying to teach a new face how to mince onions.
“Jake, can I use your fridge?” she called, raising the bags in her hands.
He nodded yes and returned to the lesson he was giving.
She pulled open the heavy stainless steel doors and shoved her bags inside.
“Are those your groceries for the big dinner?” Jake asked.
“Sure are. Thanks for letting me stash them here.” She pointed her chin toward the man wielding the knife. “He should use a rocking motion.”
Jake gave her a bemused grin. “Sasha McCandless giving cooking tips. I never thought I’d see the day.” Then the grin faded. “How’s Kathryn?”
Sasha checked the time on the big aluminum clock that hung over the sink.
“She should be in the air by now. I’ll have to call Connelly and make sure her flight took off. I’m glad she’s leaving town. If she stuck around, I think she’d have ended up back with Nick. She was already making excuses for him this morning.”
Jake spoke in a hushed, grim tone. “I’m not surprised. Ocean told me she texted with Kathryn last night. Kathryn told her Nick had been sending her a bunch of lovesick apology texts. He even had flowers delivered here today.”
A vase holding roses and a spray of baby’s breath was shoved to the side of the wall next to a tower of dirty bus pans.
“He contacted her last night?”
“That’s what Ocean said.”
“Did she say if Kathryn told him she was leaving town?” Sasha asked, suddenly worried that Nick might have shown up at the airport.
“Kathryn told Ocean no.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Who knows?” Jake shrugged. “Hey, she left a jacket here. Can you make sure she gets it?”
“Sure.”
Jake walked to the closet where the staff stored their belongings and pulled a quilted, hooded jacket down from the shelf. Sasha draped it over her arm.
“Thanks. I guess I’ll mail her final check to her folks’ place.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Connelly called while she was on her way to the restaurant. She jammed her phone to her ear and kept walking. She passed the same dog walker she and Naya had seen earlier and nodded a greeting.
“Hey,” she said into the phone.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Did Kathryn get off okay?”
“Yes,” Connelly answered. “I called in some favors so I could go with her to the gate. I’m glad I did—for a minute there, she looked like she wasn’t going to get on the plane.”
In the background on Connelly’s end, Sasha could hear the sounds of traffic—horns, the rumble of tires over potholes, and car engines.
“Are you in the car?”
“Yes. I have some errands to run this afternoon. We’re still eating at eight, right?”
“Right. What errands?”
“She made arrangements with some lady in Murrysville to foster the kitten. I need to go get it and drop it off at her house.”
The kitten. Sasha had forgotten about the kitten.
“Who’s this lady? How’d Kathryn find her?”
/>
Connelly’s voice was amused. “I don’t know—through some volunteer group. I’m sure she’s reputable. Why—did you want to keep it?”
“I guess not.”
“Okay. Oh, I almost forgot. Keep an eye out for Costopolous,” Connelly said, the humor gone from his voice.
Sasha stopped and stood just inside the doorway to Mad Mex. Naya waved to her from a table in the window.
“Why?” she asked.
“He texted Kathryn while we were on our way to the airport. Said he had a surprise for her. She said she was scheduled to work the dinner shift tonight, so he may turn up at Jake’s.”
“It was probably the roses.”
“Roses?”
“He had roses delivered to Jake’s today.”
“Oh.”
Something about the emphasis in his voice tipped his hand.
“You forgot today’s Valentine’s Day, didn’t you?” she said, trying not to laugh.
“I did not.”
“You don’t sound even remotely convincing,” she told him.
“Every day is Valentine’s Day with you, Sasha,” he said.
She groaned.
“Goodbye, Connelly.”
“Goodbye, Valentine.”
CHAPTER 8
Sasha spent the afternoon handling administrative matters—paying vendor invoices, ordering office supplies, and doing other routine tasks—until her tequila buzz wore off.
Somehow lunch had turned into a margarita-fueled celebration. They’d toasted to Naya’s having taken the law school entrance exam; to Sasha’s completion of her French cooking lessons; to Carl and Connelly’s general awesomeness; and then to some things Sasha couldn’t quite remember.
She’d poured Naya into a cab and sent her home for a pre-dinner nap, determined to handle the office tasks that would once again be on her plate when Naya left to go back to P&T. She lost herself in the mundane details of running a small business and was surprised to look up and see that the sun was setting. Pale pink streaks lit the gray clouds outside her window. The church bells chimed faintly.
She drained her glass of water and stood, girding herself for battle with her fistful of French recipes.
“You can do this,” she said aloud, pumping herself up as if she were about to spar.
She packed up her bag, put on her coat, and grabbed Kathryn’s jacket off the guest chair where she’d tossed it earlier.
She hurried into the quiet dining area. Jake’s served soup, salads, and sandwiches—not exactly romantic dinner fare. She imagined his traffic would pick back up later in the evening, when couples were out walking off their meals arm-in-arm. They’d stop in for coffee and dessert.
Jake apparently had the same idea. His employees were placing bud vases and candles on the tables and rearranging the seating to heavily favor two-tops.
“I’m heading out,” she said to no one in particular. She went behind the counter and pushed open the swinging door that led to the kitchen.
The room was dark and empty. Her footsteps echoed as she crossed the tile.
Even with Jake’s crew just one room away, it felt gloomy and isolated. Sasha wasn’t afraid, exactly, but ever since the night last spring that an FBI agent named Jared Stock had ambushed her in the then-abandoned deli, Sasha didn’t like being on the first floor of the building after dark.
You’re being silly, she told herself, as she grabbed her groceries from the refrigerator and hurried out into the parking lot.
The security light was still out, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dusk. She immediately regretted her decision to go out the back way. She, of all people, should have known better. This route shaved a minute or two off her walk home, but she left herself vulnerable traipsing across the dark lot with her arms full of packages.
Her heart sounded in her ears. She walked as fast as her stilettos would permit, turning and checking over her shoulder to make sure no one was behind her.
She raced past Kathryn’s dirty Civic and into the narrow alley that connected with the street. Just twenty more steps and the alley would dump her out in front of the vintage clothing store.
Behind her, a sound like metal screeching against metal rang out and echoed off the walls. She gripped the bags and whipped around, ready to drop the groceries and raise her fists, but she saw no one.
Again, the sound of metal on metal filled the air. She turned to her right and, over the hedge row, saw a barback from the dive bar next to the clothing store slamming the lid onto a rusty trash can. He raised a hand in salute, and she let out a shaky laugh.
Get a grip, McCandless.
She exhaled and stepped out on to the sidewalk, blinking under the glare of the streetlights and neon signs.
CHAPTER 9
She opened the door, and her condo seemed too still. She realized she was looking for the cat. Funny how she’d lived over thirty years without a pet, and after one night she’d grown accustomed to having an animal around.
She dropped the groceries on the counter with a bang. Turned on the lights. Slipped out of her heels. Washed her hands. Tied her apron around her waist. Scrolled through her playlist looking for music—something soulful, sultry, soft. Adam Cohen, she decided.
Connelly had trapped a note under a coffee mug on the island. She slid the paper out from under the mug.
SMcC
Taking kitty to his/her new home. Back by 8.
Sure you don’t just want to get takeout?
LC
She shook her head. Connelly didn’t even know how ambitious her plans were—just that she had declared she was making dinner—and he didn’t have faith she could do it.
She consulted her timeline then lined up her ingredients with precision and got busy chopping, dicing, and chiffonading. She squeezed orange juice into a cup. Sliced vegetables. Whisked oil and vinegar. Grated lemon zest.
She used quick, economical motions and fell into a rhythm. She felt self-assured. Confident.
Then she confronted the naked, whole chicken.
She exhaled slowly and shook out her hands. She could do this.
She preheated the oven then washed the chicken and seasoned its cavity. She was carefully giving it a butter massage when there was a knock at the door.
She washed her hands and dried them on her apron. She rose on tiptoe to peer through the peephole. The tangle of blonde curls that filled her view could belong to only person—Maisy, her neighbor from across the hall.
She unlatched the door.
“Hi, sugah’,” Maisy breathed. “Can you fasten this for me?” She waved her wrist, shaking a diamond and sapphire bracelet that dangled loosely.
“Sure.”
Sasha guided the small tongue into the groove and pushed the clasp until it clicked shut.
“Thank you.” Maisy turned the bracelet so it sparkled in the dim hall light.
“You’re welcome. It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it?” Maisy sniffed the air, and her blue eyes widened. “Mmmm, something smells good. Is Leo making you a special Valentine’s dinner?”
“Actually, I’m making him dinner.”
The blue eyes grew even bigger.
“Oh. Oh. Well—my momma always said the secret to a successful dinner is to serve lots of cocktails and keep them waiting on the meal. Nothing makes for a more appreciative audience than a few drinks on an empty belly.”
She gave Sasha an encouraging smile.
“So, where are you off to?”
“Charity ball.”
Maisy—a local news personality and minor celebrity—would chair a social event for any worthy cause that asked.
“Have fun.”
“I will. Oh, honey, you should put your flowahs in watah!” Maisy exclaimed, her Southern accent getting thick like syrup, the way it always did when she was excited.
“Flowers?” Sasha echoed.
Maisy bent carefully in her tight fish-tailed evening gown and picked up a bouquet wrappe
d in paper. She handed them to Sasha.
“I must’ve missed these when I came in. Thanks.”
She shut the door on Maisy, distracted by the flowers. She was pretty sure there hadn’t been a bouquet on her doorstep when she’d arrived home. And the security guard in the building shouldn’t have let a delivery person upstairs if she wasn’t there to accept them.
She tore open the paper to reveal a bunch of white lilies tied with a black silk bow. No card. The flowers looked more like a funeral arrangement than a lover’s offering. She filled a glass pitcher with water and stuck the flowers inside. She wasted a minute wondering what had possessed Connelly to have flowers delivered to the condo when he knew she wouldn’t be there.
Then she returned to her chicken, which was waiting patiently to be salted, peppered, and rubbed down with herbs. She trussed its legs and settled it in the roasting pan. She slid the heavy pan into the oven.
Checking the time against her printed schedule, she smiled. Ahead of schedule, even with the interruption.
She left her chicken roasting and hurried upstairs to change for dinner. She traded her fitted sheath and suit jacket for a soft, wine-colored sweater dress. She pulled the dress over her head and perched on the edge of the bed to zipper the thigh-high leather boots that Connelly claimed to think were ridiculous, although his eyes told a different story.
Back downstairs the chicken sizzled, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering scent. She donned her apron, basted the chicken in its juices and added the Brussels sprouts, carrots, and potatoes to the pan. She assembled the salad and the cheese plate.
She referred to the list again.
All she had left was the scallops appetizer, which Rouballion had admonished her not to start until she saw the whites of Connelly’s eyes—it is like rubber, the overcooked scallop, she heard the chef intone in her mind—and the dessert.
She uncorked the wine and decanted it then turned to the recipe for the pots au chocolat, humming along to the music. The entire meal preparation had gone flawlessly. After she whipped up dessert, she’d relax with a glass of hard-earned wine until Connelly showed up.
Lovers and Madmen(Sasha McCandless 4.5) Page 4
