With a Twist

by Martin, Deirdre

  “It’ll be lovely to meet them. Now what shall I bring?”

  “Please, you needn’t bring anything.”

  “No, I’d like to. What if I bring dessert?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  Mrs. O’Brien looked excited. “We’ll chat a wee bit more about it as the week wears on, shall we?”

  “Yes. Finalize plans.”

  “Lovely.” Natalie was stunned when Quinn’s mother gave her a tiny peck on the cheek. “Run along with you, now, and enjoy your day. We’ll be seeing you later tonight.”

  Spirits lifted, Natalie left the pub and hopped on the subway out to Bensonhurst.

  Quinn wished to hell he’d changed out of his suit before heading over to the Sent; he hated the thought that Clement might think he was starting to dress better.

  Bizarre though the event was, he was glad Natalie had turned up for Rudy’s funeral. He knew his mother: seeing Natalie there had softened her a bit; he could see it on her face. To say he was relieved was an understatement. He didn’t think he could handle a cold war between the two most headstrong women he’d ever met in his life. The mere thought gave him the willies.

  He strolled into the newspaper office. As usual, it was buzzing, but there was an underlying tension. Everyone knew what might be coming. Everyone was afraid it would be him or her.

  “Nice suit,” Durham cracked the minute he set eyes on Quinn. “What’d that set you back? Ten bucks at the Salvation Army?”

  “Hey, show some respect—or, as you crossword geeks might say, some reverence. I just came from a memorial service.”

  Durham’s demeanor turned serious. “Shit, I’m sorry. Who died?”

  “Rudy.”

  Durham thrust his head forward. “Rudy the fuckin’ parrot at the pub?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t invite me? Or any of the other guys?” Durham was indignant. “We’ve been going there for years, too, man.”

  “Liam was in charge of the invites. Bitch to him.”

  “Hey!” Durham called out. “Rodriguez! Shep!”

  “Shep’s back?” Quinn asked. As far as he knew, his friend was still MIA.

  “Yeah. Where the hell have you been? Came back after he finished that article about that killer sheep in Jersey.” He cupped hands on either side of his mouth and called out “Guys! Major news here! Rudy bit it!”

  “Whaattt?” Shep hurried over, looking distraught. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” Durham jerked a thumb at Quinn. “That’s why this putz is all purtied up: he just came from his memorial.”

  Rodriguez looked hurt. “Hey, thanks for not inviting us, dude. I mean really.”

  “You can pay your respects if we head down there tonight, okay?” Quinn replied with mild exasperation. “His urn is behind the bar.”

  “Fitting,” said Durham, nodding approvingly. “Good thing Clement doesn’t know. He would have sent Shep to cover it.”

  “Where’s Rogan?” Quinn asked.

  “Rogan’s in the meeting.”

  Quinn pulled his tie off completely and tossed it on his desk. “I’m gonna burn all my ties when I retire; I swear to God.”

  “Who the hell are you kidding?” Durham jeered. “You’re never gonna retire. You’re gonna be eighty, sneaking into buildings and hospitals trying to get that one, final juicy quote.”

  “Probably right—if I don’t die first from lack of exercise and donut consumption.”

  “Hey, you’ve an image to uphold: Mr. Reporter on the Go.”

  Quinn glanced toward the conference room. He had a pretty good idea what was going on in there—and when his editor Cindy emerged, her skin as pale as chalk, he knew his hunch was right.

  “So,” said Quinn, “how many of us is he canning?”

  Cindy pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. “Quinn.”

  “Has he even got the balls to do it himself? Or is he gonna make his editors do it?” Quinn leaned back against the lip of his desk, his feet crossed at the ankles. “Let me guess. They’ve got to trim the budget. Never mind the fact that the Hewitt Corporation is a multinational, multimilliondollar publishing juggernaut.”

  “Quinn.”

  “Come on, Cin; admit it.”

  She ignored him and turned to Shep. “Clement wants to see you. He wants to see you, too, Durham. And you, Quinn. Rodriquez, you need to talk to your own editor.”

  “Rogan still in there with Clement?”

  Cindy nodded.

  “Asshole,” Quinn said. “Clement, I mean, not Rogan. They better be giving the old-timers a decent retirement incentive package is all I can say.” He pushed off his desk. “Well, time to start boxing up my crap,” he said with a heavy sigh. “That way, I’ll be ready to roll right after my head does.”

  Shep was fired. Rogan was fired. Durham could stay if he made the crossword puzzle a “little less esoteric” and was willing to take a pay cut. He was. Rodriquez was spared the axe.

  Watching his friends and other coworkers box up their things, Quinn couldn’t help but wonder who’d replace them. It wasn’t uncommon for newspapers to fire existing staff when there was a regime change and bring in their own people. By the time he was called in to Clement’s office, he was already calculating in his head which of his contacts to call at the Times and the Standard.

  Clement nodded curtly.

  “Quinn.”

  “Mason.”

  “Have a seat.”

  “No, thanks.” He yawned and stretched. “So, what’s the deal? Two weeks’ severance pay?”

  “We’re not letting you go. In fact, we’d like you to replace Jeff Rogan as Metro editor.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Clement frowned. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I have no interest in being stuck behind a desk all day. Besides, do you really think I’d take a position that you just fired one of my best friends from? Get real.”

  “It would mean a significant pay increase.”

  “I thought you were trimming the budget.”

  “Getting rid of excess fat. You’re not fat.”

  “Well, that’s good to know,” Quinn replied scornfully.

  Clement told him how much more he’d be earning if he took the editorial job. It was a significant amount. Fuck. He made crap money. Then again, it had never been about the money. Hell, a hefty pay raise would be nice, but stuck in the newsroom most of the time? The thought nearly made him bust out in hives.

  “You’d still get to write,” Clement continued.

  “Hard news?”

  “We’d see.”

  Quinn chuckled softly. “No offense, but how much of a moron do you think I am? You just want me off the street so you can keep an eye on me. I’m too much of a cowboy for you.”

  “Your ego astounds me. You really think Hewitt Corporation spends that much time worrying about what you’re up to? The simple fact is that we’d thought you’d make an excellent editor.”

  “Based on?”

  “Your years of experience as a writer.” Clement’s gaze was coolly appraising as he took a sip of tea, which Quinn didn’t appreciate. He didn’t like feeling like he was being sized up, especially by some corporate drone from Down Under.

  “Wasn’t Jeff Rogan a reporter for years before he became an editor?”

  “Yeah, but he wanted off his beat. He was burned out.”

  Quinn paused. “Interesting you know that bit of Sent history. You check out all our backgrounds?”

  Clement just smiled.

  “I know the Sent is where you cut your teeth, O’Brien. I know it’s the only paper you’ve ever worked at, and I know how much you’d like to stay. So here’s our offer: either you take the Metro editor position, or you’re fired.”

  “How’s about we make a deal?”

  “A deal.” Clement’s voice was so condescending it set Quinn’s teeth on edge. “What kind of dea
l?”

  “I finish up the big article I’m working on, and then I take over the Metro desk.”

  “Interesting. When will you be done with the article?”

  “When I’m done.”

  “Don’t be coy. I need a timetable, O’Brien.”

  “I’m not being coy. Does your boss want to own a paper that gets nominated for a Pulitzer in journalism or not? Might give him some legitimacy and respect, which Christ knows he doesn’t have in the news world. If he does, then let me finish my article.”

  “Let me float the idea, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Fine. In the meantime, this conversation is between you and me, got it? It leaks, and I’m outta here.”

  “Certainly,” Clement murmured. His gaze was reptilian. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the Hart tonight.”

  “You know, it might help prove you’re not a totally sadistic bastard if you don’t stop by the Hart tonight, considering the fact that some of the people you fired will be there, and you’re probably the last person on earth they want to see.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not for now.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  Quinn turned and left the office, suppressing a smile.

  What an idiot.

  “This is a nice surprise.”

  Vivi’s face lit up as Natalie pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen at Vivi’s. It felt like an eternity since she’d been there. Wiping her hands on her apron, Vivi came and embraced her but quickly pulled away as if suddenly remembering something. “I’m sorry. I reek of fish. Tonight’s special is going to be my grilled tuna with herbs, garlic, oil, and lemon sauce. You know I like to debone all the fish myself.”

  “Funny you should mention tuna.” Natalie told her about Quinn buying her the soggy, prepackaged sandwich. “I tried to gag down as much as I could, Vivi. Truly.”

  “Well, it’s the thought that counts.” Vivi returned to the long steel table to continue working on the fish. “How was the memorial service for the perroquet?”

  “It was like being in a Roddy Doyle novel. Honestly, I wish you and Anthony had come to the pub before the bird died so you could have seen what a bizarre creature it was.”

  “Yes, well, we haven’t had time to do much of anything, have we?” Vivi said tartly.

  “Cherie? What’s wrong?”

  Vivi threw down the knife. “I’m thinking of calling off the wedding! I don’t think I can spend eternity with that obstinate, opinionated, bullheaded man!”

  Natalie hid her amusement. “What happened?”

  “First I agree to marry in his church! Then he tells me he wants to have the reception at Dante’s. Reasonable enough. It’s convenient, and the banquet room is enormous. But then—oh, oh, here is the pièce de résistance—he tells me he thinks we should serve Italian food at the wedding.

  “Well, I put my foot down.” Vivi was so angry her nostrils were flaring like an adorable little bull, not that Natalie would ever tell her sister that. “I want the food to be classy, I tell him. Of course he gets all cold under the sleeve—”

  “Hot under the collar, Vivi—”

  “He gets all hot and cold under the collar and says, ‘Oh, so you think the food of my people isn’t classy, eh? I suppose you want French food.’ And I said, ‘Yes, I do.’ Natalie, I agreed to getting married in a church! I agreed to have the reception at his restaurant! I think I have the right to pick the menu, don’t you?”

  Natalie heartily agreed.

  “We’ve been at each other’s throats like two crazy dogs. I hate it!” Vivi pushed her slipping bandanna farther back on her head. “Oh, I’m not done. I wanted to keep the wedding small. Intimate. Of course, he wants to invite half of Bensonhurst! He has more relatives than the population of my hometown, I swear to you! And every third cousin twice removed has to be invited, or else it’s an insult to the entire clan.”

  Natalie put a consoling arm around her sister’s shoulder. “He’s proud to be marrying you, Vivi. Is that so bad?”

  “But so many people?”

  “He’s lived here his whole life. There are people here who’ve known him since he was a little boy. His family is beloved.”

  Vivi pressed her lips into a thin, angry line. “So you think I should capitulate.”

  “Compromise,” Natalie urged. “Tell him you’ll agree to having a large wedding if he’ll agree to letting you choose the menu and the band.”

  Vivi stamped her foot. “Oh! How could I have forgotten to tell you about the music! An ex-teammate of his brother has a band called the Tarantulas. Anthony and Michael say they’re great. I am not having a band called the Tarantulas play at my wedding reception! I am not!”

  “You know, I’m sure Quinn and his brother know some good bands in the city you can hire for weddings. Shall I ask them?”

  “Yes. I’m open to anything, as long as they’re not named after poisonous spiders.” Vivi picked up her knife, pointing it at Natalie. “Take my advice: don’t get married. It’s not worth the stress of planning the wedding. If we can get through this without killing each other—and God knows we each possess the utensils to do it—it will be a major miracle.”

  “It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

  “I say that all the time to you, don’t I? No wonder you always look so annoyed,” Vivi grumbled. She was in such a bad mood that Natalie wondered if this might be the wrong time to ask for a favor. Then again, focusing on something other than planning the wedding might be a welcome relief for Vivi, and this was something Natalie really couldn’t afford to leave too late. She had to risk it.

  “Vivi, I need your help.”

  “Yes?” Vivi replied, not looking up from her fish.

  “I made peace with Quinn’s mother.”

  Vivi smiled. “See? I told you she didn’t hate you.”

  Natalie’s reply poured out in a torrent. “And I invited the family over to dinner next Sunday and she accepted but she wants me to make the coq au vin I’ve been trying to convince them to put on the menu and I had no choice but to say yes so I need you to help me with it or I’m doomed.”

  Vivi shrugged. “Of course,” she said simply.

  “Oh, God, thank you. She’s looking forward to meeting you. And Anthony.”

  Vivi scowled at her. “Anthony won’t be there. I’ll have murdered him by then.”

  “Vivi.”

  “Fine, all right, I’ll bring the hot-tempered prima donna with me. Just don’t be surprised if he tries to take over the kitchen.”

  “That’s all right with me,” Natalie assured her, perhaps a bit too hastily. Vivi narrowed her eyes at her a moment, then went back to deboning.

  “Can you stay for lunch?”

  “Yes, I would love to. Can you spare a piece of that tuna now?”

  “Oui. How would you like it?”

  “Broiled with a little lemon, merci.”

  “Go sit, then, and I’ll bring it out to you. And don’t fret about having Quinn’s family over. It will be fine. Trust me.”

  23

  “This was a mistake. A très, très large mistake.”

  Natalie looked to Quinn for confirmation as the two of them set the huge table for twelve in Bernard’s dining room. In the background, Vivi and Anthony were arguing loudly in the kitchen. Something about mashing up garlic.

  “I’m sure that once my family arrives, they’ll be on their best behavior.”

  “If they don’t murder each other in the next ten minutes.”

  “Well, it would certainly make for an extra exciting meal, that’s for sure.”

  Natalie wished she could appreciate Quinn’s wit, but she was too nervous. She’d been up since early morning, fretting. What if she put a foot wrong again? What if Anthony did? He was as opinionated as Quinn. What if, when his family saw where she lived, they thought she was a rich girl slumming it by working at their pub? She had t
o remember to tell then this was not really her apartment, that she was subletting it from a friend—very cheaply—while its owner was out of town.

  She and Vivi had arranged things so that by the time Quinn’s family arrived, the meal would be virtually ready to go. All she’d have to do was check it once or twice during the conversation as if she’d made it, and then serve it.

  The whole family would be there save Liam, who’d made previous plans with a friend of his named Tommy, whom Natalie had never met. An odd look—half interest, half concern—flashed across Quinn’s face when Natalie told him the reason for Liam’s absence. When she asked him about it, he said it was nothing.

  Quinn came up behind her as she set the final place, rubbing her shoulders. “You’ve got to relax.”

  Natalie leaned her head back against his chest. “I know. But I want everything to go perfectly.”

  “As long as you steer clear of the subject of religion, you should be okay.”

  The doorbell rang, and Natalie immediately tensed. Please let this go well, she prayed to whomever might rule people’s fates. Please.

  “Out of the kitchen, out of the kitchen,” she urged Anthony and Vivi as she hurried to the front door.

  Vivi shot her an annoyed look, but within seconds, she and Anthony were casually arranged on Bernard’s sumptuous leather couch, looking like they’d been chatting away just waiting for the other guests to arrive.

  Natalie opened the front door, greeting Quinn’s family with a warm smile. “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour,” Quinn’s father replied, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he came in. He gazed around, whistling through his teeth. “This is quite a place you’ve got here.”

  “It’s not mine,” Natalie said quickly. “I’m just subletting it from a friend.”

  “A very rich friend,” noted Quinn’s mother, handing Natalie two foil-wrapped plates.

  “Can’t have too many rich friends,” Quinn’s dad quipped.

  “It would be nice if we had just one,” his mother quipped back. Quinn’s sister Maggie and her husband, Brendan, followed behind Quinn’s parents. More kisses on the cheek. Last in was Sinead.

  “I’ll probably have to leave before dessert,” she apologized. “I’m a little behind on my work.”