With a Twist

by Martin, Deirdre

  “We’re fucked,” Quinn finished for her with an exasperated sigh. “Have I ever not gotten all the details right? Leave me alone so I can finish this up and get the hell out of here.”

  Cindy backed off. Quinn quickly scanned over what he’d written, knowing it would run on the front page of tomorrow’s Sentinel. As always, persistence and a willingness to go the extra mile paid off. While finishing up his lunch at Vivi’s—a lunch made all the more satisfying, knowing how much he’d irked Natalie, no matter how she’d tried to hide it—he’d gotten a call on his cell from a source in the NYPD that there had been an incident in Queens: some punk had robbed and beat up an old woman on her way home from the grocery store. Thanks to Quinn’s connections, he was the first on the scene. He began sniffing around, knocking on doors, and finally found two witnesses willing to talk. Then he went to stake out the punk’s parents’ house. Unfortunately, by the time they decided to give the media a prepared statement, the competition had shown up. The kid’s parents spouted some crap about their son being framed, even though he’d been positively ID’d as the old woman’s attacker. Every reporter present knew that by tomorrow, the kid and his attorney would be looking to cop a plea.

  Once the parents went back inside, the reporters dispersed, most racing back to file. But not Quinn. He’d found out what hospital the old woman was in and hustled over there as fast as he could to crash her room, something he generally hated doing, but that was necessary if he was going to get that one little nugget of info no one else had. Thankfully, the old woman was awake and lucid. Showing politeness and respect, the two things he’d learned over the years were the magic ingredients in getting people to open up even in the worst circumstances, he’d gotten a few quotes out of granny. He thanked her, jumped in a cab, and raced back to the Sent.

  “Done,” he announced to Cindy, whose eyes were glued to the giant clock mounted high on the wall.

  Her tense little body relaxed. “I hate when you cut it this goddamn close, O’Brien.”

  Quinn grinned. “We’ve got the story, don’t we? You should be kissing my ass, not pawing around in your desk drawer for Xanax.”

  “Shut up,” she replied affectionately. She patted his shoulder as she hustled over to another reporter who was yelling for her. “Good job.”

  “Always.”

  Quinn sat back and took a deep breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. The rush would be slow in abating. It always was. He walked over to the cubicle of his longtime buddy, Jeff Rogan. Twenty years older than Quinn, Rogan was a journalist from the old school: tough, hard-drinking, no bullshit. He’d survived six editors in chief getting the axe as well as multiple staff cuts. He was Metro editor now, so most of his time was spent in the newsroom. Quinn knew he wished he were still out on the street, even though the pressure was a killer.

  “You comin’ to the Wild Hart?” Quinn asked.

  The Wild Hart pub, which Quinn’s parents owned and ran, was only two blocks from the Sent’s offices, making it easy for Quinn and his cronies to pop over after a long day—or night—at work.

  Rogan glanced up from his keyboard. “I take it that’s a rhetorical question.” He scrutinized Quinn’s face. “You look like shit.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m just saying. You don’t have to be in until three tomorrow. So why don’t you try not to show up five or six hours early?”

  “Can’t. You know that.”

  “Won’t, you mean. God forbid you have a fucking life.”

  Quinn flipped Rogan the bird, knowing that by “life,” Rogan meant “a personal life.” The idea did cross Quinn’s mind—twice a week, in fact, when he strolled into Vivi’s and saw Natalie. He adored her, even though she could be a bit of a snob. He liked it that she was so sure of herself. It reminded him . . . of him. But that wasn’t all: she was beautiful, she was witty, and whether she’d cop to it or not, he could tell she was as attracted to him as he was to her. He hadn’t yet asked her out for one reason: he had no idea where to take someone like Natalie on a date.

  Rogan frowned, turning his attention back to his monitor. “Come back for me in twenty minutes, and I’ll head over to your folks’ place with you.”

  “Actually, I think I’m going to head over there now. I’m starving.”

  “Me, too. Make sure your mother saves me some stew.”

  “Will do.”

  Quinn grabbed his jacket and backpack, heading outside. The night air was damp, the wide sidewalks still glistening from a downpour ten minutes earlier. Soon his closest buds on the paper would join him at his folks’ pub: Rogan; Pete Rodriguez, the Sent’s sportswriter who covered the Blades and Jets and drove everyone batshit with his habit of quoting sports statistics; Kenny Durham, the crossword puzzle editor, who was always tossing obscure words around; and Shep Moss, who’d been at the paper forever. No one was quite sure how old Shep really was, what he actually did anymore, or how he managed to hold on to his job. All Quinn knew was that Shep was a newspaper legend and funny as hell.

  Quinn couldn’t wait to hang out with them, relaxing over a few beers. Spending time at the Wild Hart allowed him to kill two birds with one stone: kick back with his coworkers, and see his parents and his younger brother, Liam. Sometimes one or both of his sisters were there with their husbands, too. Rogan mockingly called Quinn’s family “the Waltons,” but he loved them as much as anyone else. Hell, everyone loved Quinn’s family.

  Satisfaction didn’t even begin to cover what Quinn was feeling as he strode confidently toward the pub. He let himself indulge in a little self-congratulation on nailing his story and scooping the competition. The city and her stories, always full of surprises, were his life. That was another reason he’d yet to ask Nat out: he wasn’t sure he could fit a woman into his life. Besides, she’d probably turn him down anyway.

  2

  “What is it you want to tell me, cherie?”

  Natalie slid into the chair opposite Vivi, glass of red wine in hand. As was their tradition after Vivi’s closed for the night, they sat down at one of the bistro tables to unwind. Sometimes Vivi’s fiancé, Anthony, walked across the street from his restaurant to join them. Despite a cool, standoffish attitude toward each other when they first met, Natalie and Anthony had warmed to each other. Even so, Natalie sometimes wished Anthony wouldn’t stop by. She so rarely got Vivi to herself these days, what with Vivi spending large chunks of time with Anthony’s family.

  Natalie took a small sip of wine. “This is hard to say.”

  “Since when do you have a hard time saying anything?” Vivi teased.

  Natalie cracked a small smile. “Touché.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m not happy here. In Bensonhurst.”

  Vivi’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “I understand why you chose this locale for Vivi’s, and I understand why you love it here. It has the feel of a small village, like where you grew up in Lyon. But I was raised in Paris, Vivi. I feel more at home in a cosmopolitan atmosphere. I miss living in the city.” Natalie took another sip of wine. “Also, I’m single. There’s nothing for me to do here on my nights off.”

  “But you go into Manhattan sometimes,” Vivi pointed out.

  “During the day. But sometimes I want to go out at night, and there’s nowhere to go here. No clubs, no galleries, no theaters . . . You know what a long subway ride it is between here and the city. If I go into Manhattan at night, then I have to worry about what train to take back, so I won’t be alone on the subway at some ungodly hour.” God, how she missed the days when she was able to take cabs everywhere. The subway . . . she shuddered inwardly. “I’m more social than you. And now that you have Anthony . . .”

  Vivi looked upset. “Do you think I’m neglecting you? You know you can always spend time with us.”

  Natalie reached across the table for her sister’s hand. “I know. But I don’t like being the third wheel. Especially now that you’re engaged.”

  “You
’re being ridiculous!” Vivi scoffed. “You’re my sister! You could never be a third wheel! And I need you to help me plan my wedding!”

  “I will. But you’re a homebody, Vivi. You and Anthony are happy to stay in and cook together on your nights off, and that’s wonderful. But I need to be out doing things. You know that.” She began to tear up. “I miss Manhattan. I miss the energy and all the different things to do there.” She took a fortifying sip of wine. “I’ve decided to move back into the city.”

  “Natalie.” Vivi sounded worried. “You’re living here in Bensonhurst because you can’t afford to live in the city, remember?”

  “Ah, but I can. Our guardian angel Bernard Rousseau has come through again.”

  Vivi looked distressed. “You didn’t ask him for a loan so you could afford an apartment, did you?”

  “Of course not,” Natalie replied crossly. “Honestly, how could you think that?”

  “It’s just—your history—”

  “I’m well aware of my history, and as you know, I now have control of that area of my life, thank you very much.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “It’s all right.” Natalie brightened. “Bernard is going back to Paris.”

  “Yes, I know that. His tenure at the UN is done.”

  “But he wants to hold on to his apartment, and he doesn’t want to rent it to strangers. So he’s letting me live in it!” Natalie laughed delightedly. “Isn’t that fantastic?”

  Vivi shook her head, chuckling. “Only you could manage to wind up living rent free in a luxurious apartment on the Upper East Side. That’s very, very generous of him.”

  “Oh, not rent free. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t pay him at least a small amount each month. At first he wouldn’t hear of it. But finally I wore him down, and he agreed.” Natalie was brimming with happiness. “I still can’t quite believe my luck. Papa must be watching out for me from heaven.”

  “Clearly.” Vivi’s expression turned cautious. “What do you plan to do for work?”

  “Well, after working here with you, I’ve decided I’d really like to manage a restaurant—one that’s slightly more upscale.”

  The realization had surprised Natalie more than it had Vivi. After being a civil servant in France, she’d assumed it was a field she’d move back into eventually. But working at the bistro, she found she had a real talent for organization and customer service.

  “If only you’d open a more upscale French restaurant in the city the way I’ve been suggesting,” Natalie lamented with a heavy sigh. “With you cooking and me running the front of the house? You know it would be a smashing success.”

  “Natalie, I’m very happy here. You know that. I’m in the right place with the right clientele.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Vivi took a sip of wine. “All right, so you’ve got your living quarters sorted out, and you know what you want to do. Now comes the important question.”

  “Oui?”

  “What if you can’t find a managing position in a restaurant in the city right away?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I will,” Natalie replied confidently.

  “You don’t know that.”

  Natalie frowned. “Well, I do have a small amount saved, you know. I could live off that for a while.”

  “A small amount? How much?”

  “About a thousand dollars.”

  Vivi’s mouth fell open. “That’s nothing! You know that’s nothing! It’ll run out in no time, and then what?”

  Natalie tensed. “Why don’t you have any faith in me?”

  “It’s not a matter of faith, it’s a matter of reality! I don’t want you to run through your money and get back in a cycle of credit card spending and—”

  Natalie scowled at her. “I only have one credit card to be used only in case of emergency, remember? You cut up all the others.”

  Vivi still looked distressed. “Please, don’t move into the city until you have another job lined up to bring in money while you look for your dream job. I won’t be able to rest otherwise. Please.”

  “Vivi.” Natalie knew her sister was making a good point, but the thought of spending more time in Bensonhurst when there was a gorgeous apartment just waiting for her on the Upper East Side was torture.

  “Please, Natalie.”

  Natalie hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”

  Vivi sighed. “You’re so stubborn. So stubborn.”

  “Ha! Takes one to know one!”

  “We can both thank Papa for that trait.” Vivi looked sad. “I’ll miss you working here. It won’t feel right.”

  “You’re always telling me what a pain in the neck I am.”

  “Only sometimes.” Vivi’s gaze turned sly. “Quinn O’Brien is going to be very upset about this.”

  “I guess he’ll just have to find a new waitress to torment,” Natalie replied huffily.

  “He lives in Manhattan, you know.”

  Natalie raised an eyebrow. “So—?”

  Vivi shrugged. “Nothing. I just thought it was an interesting fact, that’s all.”

  “Millions of people live in the city. My odds of running into him are very small, thank God.”

  “When you get your dream job, I’m going to tell him where you’re working.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “So you promise you’ll keep working here until you find a job to tide you over, at least for now?”

  “Yes.”

  She knew it was the smart thing to do, the sane thing. But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

  “Why the long face?”

  Quinn had been coming to Vivi’s long enough that he could tell when Vivi was upset. Natalie wasn’t there today, which disappointed him; he was looking forward to getting her to glare at him before storming off.

  Vivi smiled sadly. “It’s nothing.”

  “Gimme a break. What’s going on?”

  “Natalie gave notice. She’s moving back into Manhattan and is going to look for a restaurant job there. She says there’s nothing for her here in Bensonhurst.”

  Quinn said nothing as his heart did a slow free fall down to his feet. No more Natalie at Vivi’s. No more teasing.

  “When is she leaving?” he made himself ask, doing his best to hide his disappointment.

  “As soon as she finds a job.” Vivi sighed. “She wants to manage a restaurant.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to see that. Have you noticed that her motto seems to be ‘The customer is always wrong’? She still thinks she’s in Paris, where it’s the waitstaff’s duty to insult the customer.”

  Vivi laughed. “Yet no one seems to mind. It makes them feel like they’re having an authentic French experience.” She paused. “I actually think she’d be a very good manager.”

  “Yeah, with the masochists.”

  “She’s very organized, and she does treat the other members of the staff here with respect. She’s a good waitress. Management is a logical step forward.”

  “So why are you so worried?”

  Vivi tapped the side of her head. “Because sometimes, she just doesn’t think! She thinks a job will magically appear for her.”

  “Does she have any leads?”

  “Anthony’s given her a few. She’s put some calls in.”

  “Hmm.”

  “She’s already got a place to live.”

  “Really.” Quinn was surprised.

  “You know our family friend, Bernard Rousseau?”

  Quinn frowned. “Yes.”

  He couldn’t stand the guy. He was one degree too smooth—and whenever he was at Vivi’s, Natalie fawned over him like he was the king of France. Still, from what Quinn had heard through Anthony, the guy had saved Vivi from some kind of financial disaster, so he couldn’t be all bad.

  “Well,” Vivi continued, “he’s going back to Paris, but he wants to keep his apartment in the city. Guess who’s going to live in it?”

  �
�Natalie.” Figured. She’d always struck him as one of those people who was saved by the bell at the last minute.

  “You should see it!”

  “Don’t need to,” Quinn grumbled. “I can imagine it.”

  Probably some splendid twelve-roomer on the Upper East Side. Quinn himself still lived in Hell’s Kitchen, the neighborhood where he was raised. He saw no point in leaving. He loved it there. It was near his family, and he could walk to work. His apartment was no palace (one bedroom, small bath, kitchen, and living room), but since he was hardly ever home, he didn’t need much more. He tried to imagine Natalie at his place and suppressed a snort. She’d probably clean it first. More likely hire someone to clean it. Then she’d refuse to stay.

  “When’s her last day?” Quinn asked.

  “I don’t know. I begged her please not to move into the city until she finds a job just to bring in money.”

  Quinn paused thoughtfully. “You know, I could help her out on the interim job front.”

  Vivi’s eyes lit up. “How?”

  “I’ve told you my folks own an Irish pub in the city, right?”

  Vivi nodded.

  “Well, my sister Maggie, who’s been waitressing there for a while now, is going to massage school. My folks need a new waitress. I’m sure if I recommended Natalie, they’d hire her.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Vivi nudged him gently in the ribs. “And that way you’d still get to see her, eh?”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Quinn ducked his head sheepishly.

  “Quinn, why don’t you ask her out? I don’t understand.”

  Vivi asked him this at least once a month. He always replied with the same answer: “I’m too busy. Coming in here to flirt with her is about as much as I can handle.” He said it again, except this time, for some inexplicable reason, he found himself adding, “Besides, I’m sure she’d turn me down.” Why the hell had he said that? He wasn’t someone who liked to cop to insecurity, and for all he knew, Vivi would turn around and tell Natalie, and then she’d really lord it over him.