by Amy Garvey
Except that when he did, shaking his head and shutting the walk-in door before trying again, the six fresh turkeys he’d bought yesterday morning were still missing.
They’d been right there, on the bottom shelf. He’d put them there himself when the market had delivered the order. Where the hell had six turkeys got off to?
He was scrambling, pulling apart the walk-in, making a hash of the vegetable bins and the other perishables, when Olivia walked in.
“Hey,” she said softly, poking her head inside. “You were already gone when I woke up, and I—what are you doing?”
“Trying to find the sodding turkeys,” he muttered, waving a handful of fresh parsley at her. “They’ve gone missing somehow.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What do you mean, missing?”
“Exactly what I said,” be barked. Guilt stabbed at him when he saw how she winced, and he straightened up to take her hand. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t know what the hell happened. I didn’t notice them missing last night when I put the pies away, but I was a bit distracted, yeah?”
She looked up, brow furrowed in thought. “The only time I was in here was to get the basil, but then the phone rang. If they were gone then, I certainly didn’t notice.”
“Who would steal turkeys?” He smacked the cold walk-in door furiously. “And what the hell are we supposed to feed fifty people expecting the sodding birds in all their glory?”
“The stores should be open, at least for a little while,” Olivia said. “We’ll just have to buy some more.”
It sounded simple. It sounded logical, in fact. Crikey, he did need more sleep. It was New York. The shops wouldn’t be shut, even today. Hell, he could get a shot of espresso while he was out.
He left Olivia preparing stuffing—with explicit, written instructions—and headed out into the gray, windy morning, determined to think of nothing but the sodding turkeys and the day ahead.
Anything but his mother. Even if she would insist on joining them for the meal.
And an hour later, Olivia was right where he’d left her, a fresh cup of coffee by her elbow, her hair piled on top of her head and cornbread crumbs dusting the front of her shirt. He was so frustrated and angry, he felt like whisking her upstairs for a long, lazy day in bed and calling off the whole meal.
“Success?” she said with a hopeful smile.
He held up three plastic carrier bags and shrugged. “Tofurkey.”
“Is…interesting,” Yelena pronounced at dinner. “Different.” She gave him a brilliant smile from beneath a silk turban fastened with a peacock brooch.
“It’s utter shite,” he leaned over to whisper, and she patted his hand.
“Stuffing is good.” She shrugged. “And potatoes very good. Is just one meal, my love.”
He couldn’t help grinning at the way she pronounced the word—luff. He’d grown quite fond of the old bird.
And she was right, it was just one meal. Of course, it was meant to be a feast, a callback to a holiday tradition centuries old, and he was quite certain that tofu had no place at the Pilgrims’ original meal. But oddly enough, no one seemed to mind.
Willie and Helen and Angel had rearranged the dining room to create five tables of ten, in a rough semicircle. By 1:30, everyone had gathered to sample the crudités and warm gougeres he’d set out, mingling around the piano and laughing as Olivia opened wine. Everyone had come, even eagle-beaked Mr. Mortimer, in a dour black suit and a red bow tie.
Frank and Delancey were there, Gus and Josie, of course, Louise Gilchrist and the sweet old Tartollas, a retired couple who had lived in the building since before Olivia was born. Angel had brought Theresa and the baby, who was still so pink and new, she looked a bit like a wax doll when she was sleeping, and Roseanne and Maribel and much of the staff. Everyone had dressed for the occasion, and Olivia had lit candles and graced the piano with great pots of fall mums and baby pumpkins.
It was quite nice, really, he reflected, sipping his wine as he sat back in his chair. Except for the utter horror of the tofurkey.
And his mother.
She’d latched onto Stanley Whitehead, Roseanne’s assistant, and the poor man looked absolutely baffled. She’d worn one of her Indian caftans, and the big bell sleeves flapped at him every time she gestured.
Beside him, Olivia leaned forward to catch his eye. She’d put on a soft brown dress that clung to her curves, and a pair of amber earrings that caught the candlelight. “It’s delicious, you know. Really.”
“Don’t lie,” he said with a rueful laugh. “Not now.”
A faint smile played around her mouth. “Well, I didn’t say the tofurkey was delicious, precisely. But everything else is. And I can’t wait for pie.”
He slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “I’m in the mood for another dessert entirely,” he whispered, and grinned when she flushed scarlet.
“Oh, look at my naughty son,” Janet said from across the table with a boozy laugh. “Save the snogging for later, lad. You’re embarrassing poor Olivia.”
He didn’t think it was possible for Olivia to turn any pinker, but she did. His mum, meanwhile, was blissfully ignorant of the uncomfortable silence that had settled around the table. As usual.
What the hell was she doing here, anyway? She didn’t know he’d won the competition, no one but Olivia did, so if she was sniffing around for money, she was grabbing at straws. Maternal love didn’t enter into the equation—they’d gone months and months without seeing each other, which was always fine with him, but usually ended when she wanted something from him, like a bit of dosh or the use of his car or, once, an introduction to the owner of a restaurant where he was working, since she thought he was “quite dishy.”
Josie piped up with an offer to pass round the potatoes for second helpings, and the rest of the table gratefully chimed in with thanks, which covered the awkward silence quite well. Olivia had taken his hand beneath the table and squeezed it hard. “It’s okay,” she murmured.
He shook his head. “It’s not. I don’t even know what she’s doing here.”
Drunk or not, his mum still had her hearing. She glanced up from the sweet potato puff she was examining and rolled her eyes with a weary sigh. “I’m here to visit with my only child. A naughty boy who never comes to see his mum anymore, I’ll have you know,” she informed the table at large.
Bloody hell. If the woman ruined this meal for Olivia, he’d have her head. “Why don’t you come with me, Mum,” he said, pushing his chair away from the table. “Let’s go visit in the bar, yeah?”
“What’s wrong with right here, love?” She pushed hair out of her eyes and sat back. “We’re having a lovely meal, there’s no need to scarper off just to chat.”
Sod it all. He’d seen her like this before. She needed to be the center of attention and had long ago decided that since she hadn’t made anything of her miserable life, she would bask in her son’s success. She wanted to be the honored guest today—she’d probably clapped her hands in glee when she realized she’d arrived just in time for a big holiday meal.
And ten to one, she’d come only because she needed money, or one of her wanker boyfriends had roughed her up or caught her cheating.
“Mum, I’ve got something to show you,” he offered, making his tone as pleasant as possible and rounding the table to pull her chair back. “Come on. We’ll be back for pie.”
“Do you see the shabby treatment I get?” Janet said this with a little laugh, playing it for effect, but there was a layer of bitterness beneath her words. “I had to ask the lad to give me a hug last night, yeah? And here I am splashing out for a plane ticket just to see him.”
“One way, I warrant,” Rhys said with a shake of his head. Fury had made a hard, hot knot in his gut. “Counting on me to send you off again, aren’t you? First class, no doubt.”
“Rhys…” Olivia had stood up, despair etched into her face.
“It’s all right, love.” He managed to k
eep his voice even, but when he lowered his head to speak to his mother, he didn’t bother to disguise the venom in it. “You’re making a bloody fool of yourself. If you had a lick of sense, you’d get up and leave the room this minute.”
He straightened up, ignoring the hot flush on Janet’s face and locked eyes with Olivia. “I’m taking a walk.”
Josie was the one to hustle Olivia into the kitchen, but not until after Janet had staggered out after Rhys, her caftan fluttering like a white flag of surrender. “It’s all right, honey,” Josie said, pouring her another glass of wine and thrusting it into her hands. “It’s not a holiday unless there’s family dysfunction, right?”
Olivia couldn’t help a snort of surprise at that. “You’re right. I just hate to see Rhys this way, even if I do understand him a little better.”
“Yeah, well, remind me never to introduce you to my mother,” Josie said with a smile. “You okay? You want some help with the pies?”
“That would be good.” Leaning over, she rested her cheek against Josie’s. “Thanks.”
They carried the pies out together—pumpkin, apple, and pecan, with a bonus spice cake Rhys had whipped up at the last minute—to a roomful of applause, and Olivia let a warm rush of gratitude spill over her. These were her people, her family, and maybe it was the wine, but she loved them with her whole heart at the moment. This was happiness.
Or it would have been, if Rhys hadn’t been off somewhere brooding.
Still, the show, such as it was, had to go on. She watched the door for him as she opened more wine, and nodded in agreement when Roseanne offered to get coffee and tea going, and finally sat down with a sliver of each pie on her plate. Despite the horror of the tofurkey, she was actually pretty full, but the pies were too perfect to resist.
“Oh my God, so good,” Frank moaned after a bite of the pecan. “The man should…well, he should be a chef!”
“He could definitely go into the pie business,” Angel’s Theresa remarked, forking up an enormous bite of pumpkin.
“Speaking of business,” Olivia said to Delancey, “we need to talk about this shop idea some more. Gus and I discussed it the other day, and I think it’s wonderful.”
“What shop?” Yelena demanded. She’d brought an embossed silver flask of vodka downstairs with her, and added a generous splash to her hot tea.
Frank raised an eyebrow, but Olivia just laughed. “Frank and Delancey have started a soap business, and we’re talking about them opening an exclusive shop here in the building.”
“Soap? What kind of soap?”
Frank gave her the rundown while Olivia ate her pie, and when he was done, Yelena announced, “Is brilliant! I open a shop, too, then!”
Choking on a bite of apple pie, Olivia held a napkin to her mouth and blinked at her. “What do you mean, you open a shop, too?”
“A tea room.” Warming to her idea, Yelena sat up straighter, her turban bobbing as she nodded her head. “Yes, a real Russian tea room. Not like restaurant, no. Just good strong tea and maybe coffee, pastries. Perfect.”
Josie caught Olivia’s eye across the table and lifted her shoulders in question. It was actually kind of a good idea, Olivia thought with surprise. Tea lounges were more popular every day, and they could accommodate a crowd in one of the big rooms on the second floor. In fact, one of them was situated above the kitchen, with the service stairs nearby—renovating the room to add the kind of facilities a tea shop would need would probably be easy.
“Writers love coffee places,” Louise Gilchrist put in with a nod of her head. “And if you decorate with a Russian scheme, it would suit the new look of the lobby.”
She was right, Olivia thought in amazement, even though Yelena had chirped, “Tea! Zavarka, from a samovar!”
“I know a writer who would love a place like that,” Gus said with a quiet smile, and Josie put her arm around him.
“I wrote a novel,” Mr. Mortimer said, surprising them all. He’d barely spoken during the meal, which wasn’t unusual, and Olivia took a surreptitious peek over his shoulder to see if he’d had some wine.
“You did?” Gus asked him with genuine interest.
“It’s an erotic novel about ancient Egypt,” Mr. Mortimer said, and it took Olivia a moment to realize he’d said it with an entirely straight face.
She glowered at Josie, who was hiding behind her napkin in an attempt to keep from laughing. Gus merely looked stunned.
Before Olivia could think of any kind of response to his statement, Mr. Mortimer cleared his throat and added, “I’ve often thought this hotel is the kind of place that would be perfectly suited to a writer’s retreat. Not everyone wants to head off to the mountains with a portable typewriter, you know.”
“No, they don’t,” Olivia agreed, but her mind was racing ahead, picturing a whole floor renovated to accommodate a writers’ colony of sorts, with a common room or a dining room, and Internet access, and…
“There’s quite a history of literary tradition in the hotel, you know.” Mr. Mortimer seemed to be enjoying the conversation—his pale cheeks were warm with color and his eyes were actually sparkling.
“There is?” Josie asked, truly interested this time. She put down her napkin and leaned forward.
“Oh yeah,” Olivia said, with a fond laugh. “Writers of all kinds have stayed here over the years. Gus, and Mr. Mortimer here, are just our latest additions.”
“Has anyone ever written down any of the stories about them, and the other people who have stayed here?” Gus asked, so suddenly that he spilled his water glass as he sat up straight.
Olivia shook her head. “I keep meaning to write things down, and I think my father made notes here or there in some of the records, but that’s it.”
Roseanne glanced up from the end of the nearby table, where she had rocked baby Isabella to sleep against her shoulder. “Tell them about the sword swallowers, honey. Everyone likes that story.”
“No, no, the one about Frank Sinatra in the bar that night with Mia Farrow, before they were married,” Angel argued as he stroked his daughter’s peach fuzz head over Roseanne’s shoulder.
“What about Evelyn Nesbit staying here for a while in 1920?” Maribel offered. She stared into her empty wineglass wistfully. “Or was it 1921? She had such a sad life.”
Gus’s eyes widened and Olivia smiled at him. “Evelyn Nesbit stayed here?” he said.
She shrugged. “She was just one of many. Callender House actually has a fascinating history.”
He nodded, and then got up without warning and walked out of the room, mumbling to himself.
“Is he coming back?” Josie said in confusion.
“You’re asking me?” Olivia laughed. She pushed away from the table and groaned. She was past full, and on her way to the expected post-Thanksgiving drowsiness. “What got into him?”
At the next table, Mr. Mortimer tapped his temple with one long, bony finger. “Ideas.”
“Well, another writer would know, I guess.” Josie stood up and brushed off her skirt. “I think I’m going to check on him, though.”
“And it’s probably time to clean up,” Olivia said with a sigh. The tables were littered with plates and wineglasses, serving bowls and platters, and the thought of leaving it all until tomorrow morning was very tempting.
Willie jumped up, with Helen and Maribel on either side of him. “No cleaning up for you, Olivia,” he said, beaming at her across the table. “We wanted to thank you for having us, so we’re cleaning up. Really. Go relax and enjoy yourself.”
Oh, thank God. She grinned at them, but the truth was that cleaning up would have at least taken her mind off Rhys. Janet had never reappeared, and she didn’t know whether that meant they were arguing somewhere or if Janet had given up and taken herself off to her room.
She wanted to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, but she hated the way she’d ruined dinner for Rhys. He hadn’t gotten to hear any of the new ideas for the hotel. He hadn’t even gott
en any pie.
If she could have, she would have swooped in to rescue him this time. The problem was he needed to be saved from himself. From doubts and fears that had grown up right along with him, with good reason. There was nothing to do about that but make sure he knew he could trust her.
After leaning down to give Yelena a hug good night, she turned to leave the room—and found Rhys in the doorway, holding Uncle Stuart by the elbow like a child dragged off to detention.
“Look what I found lurking about outside,” he said, his mouth set in a tight line. “One of our missing turkeys.”
Chapter 20
O livia’s heart pounded as she stared across the dining room at her uncle, dressed in his usual dull gray suit, which he’d accessorized with a glare of undisguised malice. “What are you doing here?”
“I wasn’t here,” he spat out, wrenching his arm out of Rhys’s grip. He brushed off his lapels and took a step sideways, still glowering. “I was taking a walk. This street is still a public place, I’ll have you know.”
She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “You live on Eighty-Seventh Street,” she pointed out, “and your office is on Thirty-First Street. Either way, that’s some walk on a chilly holiday afternoon.”
“My exercise habits are none of your concern,” Stuart said stiffly, and behind her Roseanne chuckled out loud.
“I don’t give a flying fuck where or when you exercise,” Rhys said in a low, dangerous voice, “but I do care what you do to this hotel, and to Olivia. Or at least what you pay others to do.” He stalked closer to Stuart, and the effect was immediate—Stuart drew himself up to his full height, which was still a good five inches shorter than Rhys’s six feet, and paled considerably.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was still as stiff as his posture, but his gaze bounced around the room, searching for a friendly face, if not an exit.
“I was taking a walk myself when I got a call on my mobile,” Rhys explained, his tone silky but still unmistakably dangerous. “From a bloke by the name of Marty Kinsella, in fact.”
