by Elaine Fox
“So you came by to tell her you have nothing on the break-in.” Several people at the bar were looking restless but Steve couldn’t let this go. “That’s full-service police work.”
P.B. frowned at him. “What bee got up your butt? No, I came by to see her, talk about our next date. We’re going to the symphony and I just got tickets. Bach, thanks to you.”
Steve felt his blood go cold. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d gone out with P.B. first. The thing between himself and her had been a spontaneous moment that had gotten out of hand, and that was all. Clearly, that was all. Still, he felt a little sick.
What had all those protestations of hers meant about only liking P.B. as a friend? About how P.B. wasn’t her type? Had she felt guilty about Steve and been giving him lip service? Come to think of it, her assertions on that score could conceivably be construed as coming on to him, couldn’t they?
This was stupid. Maybe he should just tell P.B. about him and Roxanne. Didn’t P.B. have a right to know that his best friend was making tracks with the woman he was dating?
Then again, wasn’t it Roxanne’s place to tell P.B. what she was doing, seeing as how she had a date lined up with him and all?
Confused, Steve shook his head and moved down the bar to a man waving a twenty at him.
“Hey, get me a beer, will you?” P.B. said as he moved off.
Steve nodded.
This was about as uncomfortable as Steve had ever been with his friend, or anybody, come to think of it. He felt like a liar and a cheat, and he wasn’t even sure it was worth it.
What was he doing this for? Why had he gone after Roxanne when he wasn’t even certain that he liked her?
Well, that wasn’t true. It was more that he didn’t know what she thought of him. Roxanne’s feelings were a mystery, but he was not naïve enough to believe she’d fallen for him. They had some amazing physical chemistry, but whether it could be more than that remained to be seen.
He just hoped he wasn’t the only one looking…
Roxanne wiped her brow and breathed a sigh of relief. No more tickets. Dinner service was over and the last dessert had been plated and taken to its table.
The night had been incredible, a rush to her system she had never experienced before. Chefs, cooks, waiters, busboys, dishwashers all working excellently in concert for the first time was like piecing together a motor with nothing but an instruction manual and hearing the gratifying roar when you first turn the key.
Knowing that this all boded extremely well for the future of her venture was no small part of the equation either.
The only thing marring the evening was the knowledge that P.B. was sitting at the bar and had been for the last hour, waiting for her. Rita had told her during a hurried pass through for food that he was making “a bunch of dog-in-heat noises” about seeing her and if she wanted her bartender to stay sane she ought to get out there and say hi, “or whatever.”
Roxanne had thanked her as if she couldn’t have cared less, then wished she could park her head in the sand and leave it there.
Now, though, she guessed she had to go out there and face the music. She wished she had someone to talk to about it. Rita, of everyone present, would probably give her the most unvarnished assessment of the situation, but she was too tight with Steve to be trusted. Not to mention that Roxanne wasn’t eager to hear Rita’s honest opinion of her and the awkward problem of having varying degrees of entanglement with two guys.
In the past, she’d spoken some to M. Girmond about Martin, but she didn’t want him thinking she expected him to be her psychologist as well as her chef, so she wouldn’t talk to him about this. Besides, he was out back with his sous-chef, both of them smoking well-deserved cigars she’d provided for them.
Roxanne pulled off her toque and pushed her hair back from her temples. She probably looked a mess, what with sweating it out in a hot kitchen at full throttle for six hours, but maybe that was best. She didn’t want either one of these guys thinking she looked good. Except—
She stopped herself. She wasn’t going to spend one more minute thinking about that look in Steve’s eyes, or the moment when their hands had touched on the water pitcher and she’d felt as if her insides had melted all over again.
She brushed her palms down the sides of her chef’s jacket, took a fortifying breath and pushed through the swinging doors to the bar.
P.B. spotted her immediately and beamed, turning on his stool with arms outstretched as if she might walk into them for a hug.
Her eyes shot immediately to Steve, who, thankfully, was serving a white-haired gentleman farther down the bar and didn’t see her.
Instead of going toward P.B. she moved toward the service bar and ducked under it to put the main bar between him and herself. To cover for this move, she grabbed a glass and filled it with ice, then water from the soda gun.
“Hey, babe. I thought you were never gonna come out of there.” P.B. smiled but she sensed an edge. “Didn’t anyone tell you I was here?”
She leaned back against the liquor shelf and sipped her water. “Rita told me, but I’ve been in the weeds for the last hour and a half. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah, I had a tough day, too. Not too tough to want to see you, though.” He laughed jovially as if this wasn’t the accusation she knew it was. “I’ll always have that energy, believe me.”
He winked at her and leaned forward on his elbows, as if trying to get closer.
She stayed back, leaning against the cabinets, her stomach contracting at the carnal appetite in his expression.
“We had an amazing night,” she said, clinging to the wonderful part of the evening. “It took all of us completely by surprise, but wow. It worked! Everything worked. It was so great.”
“Yeah, hey, I wasn’t expecting to see a crowd here either, that’s for sure.” P.B. laughed again and Roxanne struggled with feeling insulted. Had he meant that the way it sounded? Because it sounded as if he was blown away that the restaurant wasn’t an immediate failure.
Steve approached from the other end of the bar and Roxanne turned her eyes toward him.
His expression was cool and he was shaking his head. “I don’t get this guy. All night he’s drinking scotch, one after the other, the good stuff, you know. And now suddenly he’s got a hankering for Chambord, if you can believe it.”
“Old coot’s drunk as a skunk, that’s why.” P.B. didn’t bother to lower his voice. “Probably couldn’t taste the difference at this point anyway.”
Steve ignored P.B. and turned to Roxanne, standing before her a second as if awaiting her opinion on the subject.
She looked up into his face, felt that fire start low in her body and stopped breathing. His expression was grave. What had P.B. said to him?
“Excuse me, darlin’,” he said in a tone similar to the one he used with Rita—though not as friendly—and stepped closer. Putting his hands lightly on her hips, he pressed her to the left.
It took her a moment—during which desire sprang onto her skin like raindrops in a thunderstorm—to realize that he was moving her aside to get to the Chambord.
She flushed hot and laughed. “Oh! Sorry.” She stepped left.
But Steve’s left hand lingered on her hip as he grabbed the bottle with his right, leaning so close to her she could smell his clean masculine scent. Stepping back, he let his hand slide slowly off her torso but his eyes met hers with undisguised, and clearly sensual, hunger.
He turned, took a cordial glass from the shelf and poured the Chambord.
“Another beer, P.B.?” he asked, not looking at his friend.
But Roxanne did, and what she saw was a look of calculating displeasure. Whether that was because he didn’t like Steve’s touching her at all, or because he saw something more in the exchange, she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that she had to set P.B. straight. She had to tell him that they—she and P.B.—were not in a relationship and they never would be.
“Yeah.” P.B.
drained his glass in one gulp and pushed the empty toward Steve. Then he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Hey, Rox, look what I’ve got here.” He smiled at Roxanne and held the paper out to her.
“Be right back,” Steve said and went to deliver the cordial to the white-haired man.
Roxanne pushed off the back counter and took the envelope from P.B., setting her water glass on the bar. “What is it?” she asked, not opening it.
“Tickets. To the symphony. Remember I told you?” He had on his most sincere eager-puppy-dog look.
Remember I told you not to come tonight? she wanted to retort. Remember I said I’d be too busy to talk? Remember I told you I wanted to pick the night for the symphony?
She sighed and flipped open the envelope, glancing inside. Sure enough, two tickets.
“It’s a Wednesday but you can get someone to cover for you, right?” P.B. added.
Steve returned with P.B.’s beer and snorted at this last comment.
“What?” P.B. gave him a belligerent look.
Roxanne gave P.B. an appalled one.
“No. I can’t get someone to ‘cover for me.’” She shook her head.
P.B. turned back to her, his expression caught between quarrelsome and confused.
“Peter…” She noticed she used his real name only when she was annoyed with him, like a mother trotting out first and middle names to warn her child that he was in trouble. “I told you I needed to pick the night. I also told you I couldn’t go unless it was a night I had off. Don’t you see? I own this place. I’m the pastry chef. I have a responsibility to be here.”
“Don’t you see?” he countered, leaning forward and taking her hand before she could jerk it away. She hoped to God Steve was doing something that prevented him from seeing it. “You do own this place. Which means you can decide when to come in and when to take a night off. What’re they gonna do, fire you?”
Ire burned in her breast and she tried to pull her hand away gently. But P.B.’s grip was tight, his expression oblivious.
“P.B., it’s not a lark, what I’m doing here,” she said. “I work here. I’ve put everything I have into this place. And I’m the only pastry chef I’ve got, so I have to be here if there are going to be any desserts.”
P.B. looked at the bar, his fingers toying with hers, sulking. “It’s only one night.”
She pulled her hand forcefully from his. “No it’s not. It’s my life. This is my life.”
P.B. looked at her. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”
Steve turned from ringing up the old man’s cordial at the register and directed a slightly smug look at Roxanne, as if to say, See what a moron you’ve attached yourself to?
“You know I’d cover you, Rox,” he said with a lazy grin, “if I could.”
Roxanne shot him a quick mind-your-own-business look, then glared at P.B.
“We need to talk,” she said firmly.
Steve raised his brows and turned back to the register, flipping through the bar checks on its deck.
“Let’s go out front a minute.” Roxanne ducked back under the service bar and approached P.B. “Bring your coat.”
With an exaggerated look of fear directed at Steve, P.B. complied and followed her out the front door.
The frigid air hit her face, delivering equal parts of relief and shock. Her sweat-salted skin contracted in the icy breeze. Mostly it felt good after her hot night in the kitchen, and it cooled her desperation to set P.B. straight just enough so that she could approach it calmly.
She took a deep breath. “Listen, P.B., I am truly sorry if I led you to believe—”
“Oh, no!” he exclaimed, shutting her up with the vehemence of the words.
She looked at him in surprise as he lay one hand on his face and tipped his head back. He laughed contemptuously, presumably at himself, and turned once in a circle.
Lowering his hand, he faced her again. “Don’t tell me. Are you blowing me off?”
He didn’t appear angry so much as appalled.
“No, not ‘blowing you off,’” she countered, “just, telling you how I feel. I am in no position to start a relationship right now and I should have told you that right up front. It seems we’ve been operating under two different assumptions. I looked at our getting together as developing a friendship. And you…” She trailed off. “Well, I’m not sure you were looking at it the same way.”
“Huh.” It wasn’t quite a laugh but his lips were quirked. “I was thinking you liked me.” He paused a moment, his mouth working as if to control a sneer. Finally he said, “It’s Steve, isn’t it?”
She was taken aback by this—wondered again what Steve might have told him—and could come up with nothing to say other than, “What?”
He laughed harshly. “Dammit. I knew it. I’ve seen how you look at him.”
She was glad for the dark and the cold. It made it easier to keep her expression composed. “Steve and I have nothing to do with this.”
“Shit.” P.B. ran a hand through his hair and looked at the stars. “You and Steve. Shit. I knew it. I knew it.” He shook his head. “That dog. I mean it, he knew how I felt about you.”
“It’s not Steve,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. It felt like a lie, even if it wasn’t. And she suddenly felt worse than ever for coming between these two friends.
“Oh please.” His laugh was so derisive she felt stupid. As if he really did know all about what had happened.
“That bastard.” P.B. shook his head some more. “Well, I’ll tell you.” He pointed a finger at her. “You tell Steve he wins, he can go ahead and keep that hundred bucks, but I don’t like the way he competes.”
“He wins? What do you mean?” She frowned. Was this some kind of masculine game talk? Or was he talking about something completely different now?
“The bet.” He laughed again and smacked his forehead mockingly. “But no, of course he wouldn’t tell you about the bet. You, of all people.”
Roxanne’s stomach clenched. “What bet?”
“About you, babe.” He chucked her softly under the chin with a light fist. “Whoever got you first.”
Roxanne felt as if he’d punched her hard in the stomach.
“That’s a terrible thing to say.” She squeezed the words out of a suddenly airless chest.
“Oh, you don’t believe me.” He nodded knowingly. “That bad, huh? Well you just go in and look in that little cubbyhole by the register. The one in the brick wall there. There’s a hundred dollars in there that’s got Steve’s name on it now. And good luck to you, doll.”
With that, he put his hands in his pockets, turned and sauntered off.
She watched him go, barely breathing, hating the indolent air of his stride. Any ounce of sympathy she had for him before was gone as surely as if it had never existed.
Abet. The two had made a juvenile, disgusting, humiliating bet. About her.
What had been the crowning blow? What line had she crossed that had cemented the win for Steve? When she’d kissed him? Or when she’d let him into her bed, into her body?
She turned on her heel and strode back into the restaurant. George and Rita sat at the bar, sipping beers, while Steve stood behind it drying a glass with a white bar towel.
She stalked the length of the room, ducked under the service bar and went straight for the chink in the brick wall next to the register.
“You guys get everything worked out?” Steve asked. His tone was still mocking, still superior.
She looked straight at him as she put her fingers in the hole, then closed her eyes briefly as they found something.
She pulled the folded sheets of paper out, their edges catching on the rough brick, and looked down at a roll of twenties.
Fearing she might throw up—or worse, cry—she tossed the twenties on the counter in front of Steve and said, “You’re fired.”
Then she walked, on wooden legs, straight through the kitchen and out the back d
oor.
11
Bar Special
Gin & Bitters on the Rox—for the day after
Gin, angostura bitters, with a twist
Steve drummed his fingers on his desk and looked at his notes. He’d gone to the library and hadn’t been able to concentrate. He’d come home, turned on the computer, and still wasn’t able to concentrate.
Last week’s notes lay inert on the desk beside the keyboard, waiting for some brain other than his to piece them together and turn them into something coherent.
He tried going through them again. Notes from Portner’s will. He’d found the will a couple of weeks ago, and it was interesting but hadn’t contained anything new. There was one intriguing line just after the part where he left everything to his sister, in which he said, “includes the contents under the first step as described to my Executor.” But that had been well known by historians for years.
What had been described to the Executor would probably forever remain a mystery, but the “under the first step” part had at one time led to an examination of all the staircases in the house. The search had turned up nothing, furthering the case made by most historians that if the “contents” Portner was talking about had in fact been what Jefferson termed the “fair copy” of the Declaration of Independence that Portner had been suspected of stealing—the one that included edits made by John Adams and Benjamin Franklin—then he’d unloaded it sometime before his death.
The fact that that’s the one draft that did not survive to this day was the only thing keeping alive the idea that it might still be hidden in the house.
The weakness of the evidence was brought home to him last week when even the supremely indifferent P.B. had said, after hearing this story, “And that’s it? That’s all you’ve got to back up that stupid story you tell everyone who happens to walk into the bar? Jeez, Steve, you might as well be telling ghost stories.”
Beyond the will, however, Steve could find no other clues to the document or Portner’s role in it’s having gone missing.
He put his notes down. He couldn’t do this now. He would just get more discouraged about his book. And besides, his brain was fried. It had been fried last night.
