by Gina Kincade
“It’s not on the diet,” Kaley said.
“But I bet if he knows you made it, he’ll want to taste it.”
I was already up and wrapping the loaf before Sarah had a chance to change her mind.
“I didn’t really make it,” Kaley said to me quietly as she took the package.
“But you could have,” I said, with a glance toward Sarah who was checking her phone. “And it would have been just as good. So go ahead and claim it. I won’t mind.”
She smiled and I realized I’d never seen her smile all the way. “Okay, bye,” she said and walked over to Sarah. As they walked out together, I noticed that Sarah draped her arm around Kaley in an affectionate way and squeezed her shoulders.
I felt tears come into my own eyes when I saw that. “They’ll be fine,” Carys said. Sarah hates her current job and her mother-in-law is super-critical of her and it’s been hard for her.”
“Sarah and her husband are throwing the party tonight.”
“That’s interesting,” Carys said. “Make sure the mother-in-law has a slice of that baked brie. I have a feeling it might adjust her attitude.”
So Carys had noticed the little dollop of magic I’d spread on the toast along with the butter.
“I do what I can,” I said defensively.
“Don’t we all?” she said. She hung out for a while until the rush-hour traffic died down and then left me to do the last last-minute things I needed to do. The party was scheduled to start at seven-thirty, and around seven-fifteen I realized I had somehow dripped a big smear of melted chocolate down the front of my dress. I hadn’t brought a spare with me, so I texted Stella to tell her I had a wardrobe emergency and needed her help. Fortunately, we wear the same dress size so I knew she’d have something that would work, something that was probably a lot more elegant than anything I had in my closet.
She was waiting at the door with a sleek, form-fitting black tank dress and a pair of strappy black sandals with four-inch heels. “I can’t wear those shoes,” I said.
“You can’t borrow the dress if you don’t take the shoes,” she said.
“My feet will be killing me.”
“But your legs will look fabulous.”
I handed her a bag with a selection of appetizers and desserts. “Thanks. Bon Appetit.”
“Have a good time,” she said, and closed the door.
I changed in the little bathroom off the kitchen, and after spending five minutes I didn’t have buckling up those torture-device shoes, I didn’t have time to do anything with my hair. Sighing, I just pulled it back in a ponytail and slicked on some burgundy lipstick and hoped that would do.
Chapter Four: There’s a Party Going On
The condo’s event room was already crowded with guests when I arrived, but uniformed wait staff were circulating with drinks, so everyone seemed pretty mellow. I had been surprised that the event wasn’t being held in one of the hotels downtown, but I’d underestimated Sarah’s decorating skills. She—or someone under her supervisions—had transformed an already elegant space into something truly special. Everything was silver and red and clear, from the fairy lights wound around every surface to the red tablecloths covered with white lace overlays. Arrangements of dark red roses in white milk glass vases sat on every table, low enough that no one would have to scoot up on their seats to see across the table.
The room ran the whole length of the seventh floor, and the tall windows were uncovered, with the street lights below adding to the fairytale ambience. Kaley rushed up to me when she saw me come in. “Isn’t my dress pretty?” she asked, twirling around so I could see how the full skirt of her red dress sparkled with silver beads.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “And I like your hair.” Whoever Mirielle was had done a fantastic job. Kaley’s straight brown hair had been transformed into masses of curls held back with a silvery headband dotted with red crystals. My grandmother would have approved.
“Everything looks beautiful,” I told Sarah as she joined Kaley. “This place looks like the inside of a Fabergé egg.”
Sarah looked pleased. “I’ll have the appetizers out in a few minutes,” I said. “Does your mother-in-law like brie?”
“She loves it,” Sarah said.
“Make sure she has some of the baked brie then,” I said. “It’s artisanal.” That wasn’t a lie—I source my cheeses from a dairy up in Bellingham, near the Canadian border—but I’d taken Carys’ advice and baked in some extra love.
Sarah was wearing a slim sheath of silver satin with clear crystal beads around the neckline. The only jewelry she wore was her platinum wedding band and a pair of discreet diamond stud earrings. I liked that she wasn’t completely blinged out. She looked nervous but not tense. She looked…happy.
***
I dished out the food and people descended. The guests of honor arrived and greeted their guests warmly, totally ignoring Sarah but making a fuss over Kaley.
A big piece of baked brie coming up, I thought, for both of you.
Brian Galbraith passed by with a plate laden with food, none of which looked particularly healthy. “Your food must be really good if you can tempt Brian away from the roots and nuts,” Thomas Eakins said as he came up to me with his own plate of food. He’d bypassed the small plates in favor of the larger ones meant for the second course.
“I see you’re a carnivore,” I observed, noting the multiple sausage rolls on his plate.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m kind of a meat and potatoes guy.” He held up one of the rumaki skewers. “The bacon is great but there’s something wrong with the liver.”
“That’s because it’s not liver,” I said.
He looked horrified. “Is it some of that fake meat made out of chickpea flour and pecans?”
“It’s a date,” I said.
“Why would you want to ruin a perfectly good piece of bacon by wrapping it around a date?”
“Hand me the rumaki and no one will get hurt,” I said, taking the skewer from him.
“Now my plate’s unbalanced,” he said, and moved an egg roll into its place.
“Are you just messing with me?” I said.
He grinned. “Kind of.” He popped the egg roll in his mouth and swallowed without even chewing. At least he doesn’t chew with his mouth open, I thought. As he stood there grazing, I let my eyes wander over the room. The guests of honor seemed to be enjoying themselves. I noticed that Kaley’s grandfather had on a silver tie with red diagonal stripes. I wonder if he’d matched it to the décor.
I saw Brian take Sarah’s hand as they listened to something Kaley was saying. A waiter came by and topped off their glasses with champagne. Thomas noticed too.
“Yeah, it definitely looks like that DEATH diet is a thing of the past,” he said. “Good. Going out to eat with him was getting to be a pain in the ass.” He lowered his voice in a good imitation of Brian’s. “I want that romaine leaf without any oil or vinegar and precisely three grapes. If they’re organic. Otherwise, I’ll just have the salad.”
I laughed. “My roommate in college was like that. She hated mayonnaise and always asked for it to be deleted from her orders. Then she would dissect her food to make sure no molecule of mayonnaise had touched it.”
“I figured he was going through a phase,” he said. “Only reason he was on it was that after Jen died, her doctor told Brian it was probably her diet that killed her.”
“That’s awful.”
Thomas shrugged. “Way most of us eat, it’s probably true in the end, but Jennifer watched what she put in her mouth. She ate tofu. She drank kombucha tea.” He shuddered a little at that. “She did yoga.” He watched his friend for a moment or two more. “Sarah’s been a good sport for putting up with it. I felt so sorry for the kid, I used to sneak her cheeseburgers.”
“No wonder she likes you,” I said.
“Everybody likes me,” he said, and ate another egg roll. “Did you get these at Trader Joe’s? he said, “because they’r
e pretty good.”
“I don’t think Trader Joe’s sells egg rolls,” I said, not rising to his bait. “Although their frozen biryani is good.”
‘You like Indian food? We should have lunch some time. My favorite place is Taste of—”
“—India,” I finished for him. “I know. I’ve seen you there.”
“Why didn’t you come over and say hello?” I wondered why I never had. He was almost always alone, reading on his phone and I was usually alone too.
“I think it’s rude to interrupt people when they’re eating.” That wasn’t the real reason, I knew. I was a little intimidated by his celebrity. I’m not self-assured enough to approach men I don’t know and invite myself to sit down.
“So it’s your favorite place too? Great. I’ll have the Jal Frazee and you’ll have…” He paused as if trying to divine what my favorite meal might be. “Chicken Jaipuri Masala.”
“That’s right,” I said, surprised.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve seen you in there too. You always get extra naan.”
I felt bold. “Why didn’t you ever come over to say hello?” I asked.
“I didn’t want to annoy you. Beautiful woman like you must get hit on a zillion times a day and want to eat your lunch in peace.”
Wow.
He ate the last sausage roll on the plate and looked around for a place to discard it. An attentive waitress swooped in and took it from him. “Thanks, honey,” he said.
“And you were doing so well,” I said.
“Was I?” he said.
“Honey?” I said.
“Least I didn’t say ‘doll.’”
“Mickey Spillane is dead,” I said. “Nobody still says ‘doll.’”
“Precisely why I don’t say it,” he said.
I saw the supply of cornbread ham muffins was getting low. “Excuse me,” I said.
“So, Tuesday’s good for you?”
“Tuesday?” I repeated, distracted by the sight of a woman putting a half-eaten rumaki skewer back on the platter. Note to self: rumaki is out of the rotation.
“I’ll pencil you in for lunch. I’m not in court that day.”
Before I could say no, Tuesday did not work for me, he headed off in the direction of the Galbraith seniors’ table, greeting Sarah’s mother and father-in-law with some kind of comment that made them both laugh. Everybody does likes him, I thought.
***
I removed the offending half rumaki, then refilled platters and tidied up the tables where people had slopped sauces and dropped crumbs. People were hitting the roast beef hard, but the roast chicken was hardly touched. I made the executive decision to remove it from the table so I could offer the leftovers to Sarah without worrying about the family catching some food-borne illness.
You never knew what people were going to go for. I once catered a party where I served chicken salad made out of canned chicken with lemon-pepper seasoning as a last-minute substitute for a lobster salad that had experienced an unfortunate kitchen mishap. The chicken concoction was so successful, everyone asked me for the recipe. I was embarrassed to tell them how basic it was.
***
“Want to trip the light fandango?” Thomas Eakins asked me as he materialized at my shoulder.
“You’re a Procol Harum fan?” I asked.
“She’s beautiful and she knows her classic music,” he said to no one in particular, and without further ado swept me out into the little dance floor in the middle of the room where the senior Galbraiths and a couple of other couples were dancing to the music pouring from hidden speakers. It was kind of like a baby boomer prom, lots of slow-dance opportunities like “A Rainy Night in Georgia” and “Wild Horses.”
In Stella’s shoes I stood almost eye to eye with Thomas, which was a nice change from my usual view of men, which is from below the chin. He had nice eyes, a green-hazel the color of moss agates. He smiled when he realized I was looking into his eyes but didn’t say anything to spoil the mood.
He held me close enough I could smell his cologne, but not so close it looked like we were dirty dancing. I appreciated that, especially since he was a good dancer and I would have hated to have to storm off the dance floor because he’s put his hand somewhere he shouldn’t have. I’m a terrible dancer, so I just followed his lead, hanging on as he twirled and dipped me, hoping I wouldn’t trip on the ridiculous heels I was wearing. It surprised me how solid he felt. Despite looking like he’d slept in his suit, I could tell he was fit.
Eventually, he danced me over to a table where a frail old man was sitting with a thirty-ish black woman dressed in a hot pink dress that made her skin glow. His date? I wondered before I recognized Thomas’ father, John. He looked awful.
“Pop, Maya,” Thomas said, “Have you met Lily Ostrander?”
I thought that was a weird thing to say because although I didn’t know the woman, John had championed me during the hiring process and I’d always let him know I appreciated it by delivering a lot of extras when I cooked for him. I was surprised he’d never mentioned that to Thomas.
“Hi,” I said to Maya. The woman nodded her head, but Thomas’ father reached out to capture my right hand in both of his.
“I know Lily,” he said. “She’s my angel in the kitchen.” He turned to his companion. “Lily is the one who makes all those wonderful soups.”
“I love your potato leek soup,” Maya said.
“I’m glad,” I said. “It’s on the menu for next Monday.”
“A girl who’ll cook for you,” Thomas’ father said. “That’s the kind of girl you should be going out with.”
“Lily is immune to my charms,” Thomas said. “She thinks I’m annoying.”
“You are annoying,” Maya said, with a glance at me to see if I agreed.
“The man knows his way around a dance floor,” I said.
“Not as well as I know my way around a bed—”
“Stop while you’re ahead,” Maya said.
“Go get me a drink, Tommy,” John said. “And let me get to know your girl better.”
I started to object and say I wasn’t his girl, but Thomas sent me a look that clearly said, play along, so I did. “I’d love a glass of champagne, Tommy,” I said, emphasizing the nickname.
He smirked and glanced at Maya. “What would you like?”
“The same,” she said.
“I’ll be right back,” he said and turned away without asking his father what he wanted, but that didn’t seem rude for some reason.
“I’m John Eakins,” the old man said, as if we hadn’t just been introduced. “And this is my daughter, Maya.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I said, realizing the cancer had gone to the old man’s brain. The tell-tale signs were there, including his drooping left eye.
“How long have you known Thomas?” John asked.
“Like everyone else in Seattle, I’ve been a fan since he won that case for Mary Ellen Sims,” I told him, “but I’ve only met him in person recently.”
“He’ll grow on you,” John said.
“Like a fungus,” Maya said, but though the words sounded mean, she said them affectionately.
“It’s true,” Thomas said as he set a tray of drinks down on the table—champagne for me and Maya, a beer for himself, and a glass of some chalky blue-white fluid for his father. “There’s your milk punch,” he said to his father. “I had the bartender put in extra cinnamon for you.”
“Thanks, son,” John said and took a large sip.
Maya nodded at Thomas approvingly, an unspoken message passing between them. Some kind of medicine then, I thought, and realized she must be the one who was eating the lunches I prepared. I wondered if John was living on nutrition shakes. No wonder he looked so thin.
Under the pretext of looking at John’s elegant cufflink, I reached out my hand as he raised his glass again. At my touch, the liquid inside shivered slightly as if from the motion. “Those are lovely,” I said. “Art Deco?”
/>
“They belonged to my father,” John said. “He was a sharp-dressed man.”
He raised the glass to eye level. “Cheers,” he said and took another sip.
We sat there a while longer, both Thomas and Maya watching to make sure their father drank all of the concoction in the glass.
John finished it and sat back with a sigh.
“I’m tired,” he announced. Maya stood up. “Let’s go then. We can binge-watch the last season of Homicide Hunter.”
