by Elaine Fox
Her eyes didn’t waver, but she didn’t say anything. She just continued giving him that stony look.
He didn’t know what else he’d expected. It wasn’t as if he’d ever talked about his feelings or treated their affair as anything other than a fling himself.
It was just…he’d just…he’d felt something, dammit. For her.
And she had felt nothing.
He had no right to be angry. He had no right to think ill of her. But he couldn’t be around her, not for another minute.
Not without something in his chest breaking into a thousand pieces.
He took a last deep breath and said quietly, “Good-bye, Roxanne. And good luck.”
He walked out the front door, wishing, as he did, that she had made it easier on them both and just killed him.
17
Dessert Special of the Day
Deep Freeze—cool and collected, until the room heats up
Champagne sherbet with lemon and orange syrup folded into Italian meringue
Roxanne wasn’t sure why there had been no evidence of a break-in that morning, but it didn’t matter. She knew what she’d seen and she knew what she’d had to do.
So why did she feel so awful about it?
Two days after she’d done it, she got a terse note from Steve saying that he was moving out at the end of the month. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but the feeling of despair it gave her was. How could she be sorry he was moving when he’d been, for all intents and purposes, vandalizing her property?
The following Friday night, Rita was the first to arrive at work—usually she was the last. Roxanne was in the kitchen pulling a genoise cake from the oven when the waitress came in.
Roxanne was startled to see her and her stomach flipped at the thought that Rita might have shown up early because she wanted to talk about Steve.
Roxanne knew they were good friends, and she knew everyone was unhappy he was no longer working there, but she had no desire to tell anyone about Steve’s illicit search of her building. Not just because it was humiliating to her, but because she felt that if he was willing to move out and give up his search, she was willing to let the incidents go. He was just a man blinded by greed, who obviously felt he had to lie to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was that draft of the Declaration of Independence.
Not her.
With Steve gone, George had covered the bar the next evening—making it obvious how skilled Steve was. George could not come close to keeping up, and after that, Roxanne had hired a guy from the Italian restaurant down the street. She’d had to offer him a substantial raise in order to get him fast, which had not endeared her to his former employer, but it was that or let chaos reign.
“Hey, Roxanne,” Rita said.
Roxanne turned the cake out onto a wire rack. It had to cool before she could fill it with butter cream, then layer it, glaze it all with apricot and ice it with glacé royale.
“Hi, Rita. You’re early today.” She wiped her hands on a towel, hoping against hope this had something to do with restaurant business.
“I know. I wanted to be sure to remember to give you this. I found it this morning.” Rita reached into the large leather purse that was looped over her shoulder and pulled out a newspaper. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.”
She unrolled the tabloid, and Roxanne saw that it was D.C. Scene, a small entertainment paper that concentrated on the younger, more night-life-oriented type of subscriber.
“Read this,” Rita said, pointing to a column that was headed WHO NEWS?
Roxanne took the paper from her and looked where she pointed. “In culinary news, Senator Robert Rush was seen canoodling with a very young, very blond, very pretty aide at the hot new restaurant in Alexandria, Chez Soi. In those intimate environs, cheating seems to be the rule, not the exception, as film director Francois LaBoroque was also seen there with a pretty starlet not too long ago.”
Roxanne’s face flushed and her palms went damp. “Is this true?” She looked up at Rita.
Rita shrugged, looking slightly surprised. “I know about that senator guy, I waited on him. And he was playing some serious footsie, if you know what I mean. I don’t know about that French guy. But…don’t you think this is good?”
“Good?” The word came out like a missile.
Rita looked taken aback. “Well, yeah. Uh, I mean, it’s publicity, right? People like their restaurants to be cozy and romantic.”
“But they don’t like to be followed there by the paparazzi.” Roxanne stepped closer and lowered her voice, since a couple of the busboys had just shown up. “Rita, you didn’t talk to this paper, did you?”
“Me? No!” Rita held a fist to her chest and looked so spooked Roxanne wasn’t sure if she was being honest or was just reacting to the look on Roxanne’s face.
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” Roxanne said, collecting herself. Rita was not the type to go talking to a newspaper. “I’m sorry for even asking. I’m just…” She opened the paper again and looked at the column, digesting what this meant. It made the whole place sound like some sort of dirty, clandestine restaurant of ill repute. “I’m surprised, is all. And bothered, I guess.”
“Bothered? I thought you’d be glad. It calls us the ‘hot new restaurant in Alexandria,’” Rita protested, pointing to a spot in the column. “I think that’s good. And you know how people love to see celebrities. I bet more people come here because of this.”
Roxanne put a hand to her forehead. Maybe Rita was right. Maybe she was just primed for disaster because of that awful night when the reviewer was here.
And the awful moment when she realized Steve was the one behind the break-ins.
“Do you think so?” she asked doubtfully.
“Absolutely! I think we owe whoever wrote this a thank you. Especially if that reviewer decides to trash us.”
Roxanne closed her eyes against the words and suppressed a shudder. If that reviewer decides to trash us…She didn’t know what would have to happen for that reviewer not to trash them, but she still dreaded the occurrence.
“Are you okay?” Rita asked. “I shouldn’t have shown this to you. I just, I really thought it was good.”
“No, no. I’m fine.” Roxanne turned back to her cake and touched it with a light finger. It sprang back perfectly. She looked at Rita. “And I’m glad you told me. Thank you. I just…well, I guess I have to think about it.”
“Okay.” Rita turned toward the linen closet and opened the door. She grabbed an apron, wound the strings behind her back and turned toward the swinging doors to the restaurant. Just before she pushed through she said, “Don’t forget, Roxanne. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
Roxanne nodded and mustered a smile, one that died on her lips the moment Rita went through the doors. She looked at the door through which Rita had passed, the wheels in her head spinning wildly. Hadn’t Rita said something the other night about an editor calling? Roxanne hadn’t given it a thought at the time, but now she remembered the comment clearly.
In her mind’s eye she pictured Steve’s apartment. It was sparsely furnished and usually quite neat, except for one corner…that paper-strewn corner where his computer sat. What did he write? she wondered suddenly. She never even thought to question it before, just thought it was part of that hypothetical ‘research’ Steve was always talking about. But now she had to wonder. What on earth did Steve have on all those printed pages?
What would Steve be doing with an editor if he wasn’t writing for a newspaper?
And if he was writing for a newspaper, if he were responsible for something like that gossip column, wouldn’t he send his buddy Rita to see how Roxanne took it? Wouldn’t he tell her to put a positive spin on it?
Was he doing it to get back in her good graces? Was he that desperate to stay and continue his search of her property?
But that was stupid. He’d made his search look like break-ins before; so why wouldn’t he just break in again to sear
ch if he wanted to? He didn’t need to work here for that. Didn’t even need to live here. And he certainly didn’t need to be sleeping with her.
Maybe he was doing it to get back at her. Make her restaurant look bad.
She put a hand to her head. She should have talked to Steve. Should have told him what she knew, that she’d seen him, and asked what he had to say about it.
She would do that, she decided, realizing she had to get down to work or the evening’s desserts would not be ready. She would call him up, arrange a meeting, and clear the air.
Or maybe, just maybe, she would go have a look at what was on those pages…
Roxanne looked out her kitchen window the next morning and cursed under her breath. Steve’s truck was still there. Fine time for him to start hanging around, she thought. The one day she’d like to get up there for a quick little look. Just a peek at those pages to see exactly what she was dealing with.
If he really was writing the column, would she take that as a good sign or a bad one? Would it mean he was trying to help her, or hurt her?
She couldn’t stand the thought of him working against her. Couldn’t stand the idea that he might be so angry that he would deliberately try to sabotage her.
On the other hand, if he was trying to help her what would that mean? Would she forgive him for the break-ins? Could she?
She wasn’t sure. All she knew was, she had to get in there and see for herself.
Two hours later, Steve was gone. She spent another twenty minutes watching the back alley to be sure he hadn’t forgotten something and come right back, then she went up the stairs to his apartment.
She took the key out of her pocket and inserted it into the lock. But she didn’t turn it.
She knew she hadn’t a right to go in. She knew that what she was doing was illegal. Snooping. Spying. Breaking into his house to read his private documents.
She took the key out of the lock and stared at the door.
But how private were those documents if they contained gossip about her restaurant for the press?
She put her hand on the knob.
Don’t be ridiculous, part of her scolded. You have absolutely no evidence that he was behind that. None. Not one shred.
She dropped her hand.
Except for that “editor” message.
She put her hand back on the knob.
And then, of course, there were the break-ins. Searching his apartment would just be tit for tat.
The break-ins. If he was capable of that, he was capable of any kind of duplicity. It was perfectly conceivable that he was behind the gossip column.
She took her hand from the knob and lay it on the door, then put her head against it. She wasn’t going to go in. She couldn’t do it. It was an invasion of his privacy, no matter how she looked at it. Even though part of her hated herself for not being able to do what it took to investigate the matter, she could not let herself in.
After a second she pushed off the door and headed back down the steps, her footsteps heavy on the treads.
She needed to talk to him, that was all. She just hoped she didn’t end up falling for any weak argument he offered because she missed him so much. After all she’d been through, surely she was stronger than that.
On Sunday, the review came out.
“It’s not so bad,” Skip said, sitting at her dining-room table with the magazine section in his hands the following Monday. “He says right here, ‘I might give this restaurant another try after it’s been around long enough to improve its service…’” He trailed off.
She turned a wry look to him as she emptied a pot full of water and put it back on the counter. “And the next sentence…?”
“If it’s around long enough,” Skip read dourly.
Roxanne looked up at the dripping ceiling and adjusted the pot under it.
Skip continued reading.
“He said he loved the scallops of foie gras,” he offered, “and the turbot gallettes with black butter sauce would have been ‘divine’ if they hadn’t been cold. So really,” Skip concluded, closing the magazine, “he didn’t say anything bad about the food, except that it was cold and you didn’t have a lot of what was on the menu.”
Roxanne turned back to him, leaning on the counter. “If you had read that review about any other restaurant, you would never plan to go there. You probably wouldn’t even have noticed it said anything nice about the food. Just cold, late and not available. Not to mention the place was packed and everyone had to wait for their food.”
Skip held out his hands, imploringly. “Hey, if the place was packed it says to me it’s popular.”
She smiled at her friend. “Thank you, Skip. But let’s be realistic. The first line says it all.”
She had memorized it. Or rather, it had emblazoned itself on her mind the first time she read it. Going to a restaurant owned by a former Sports Illustrated swimsuit model should have been my first clue that the food would be scarce.
“Yeah, he kind of blew your cover there, didn’t he?” Skip acknowledged. “But you had to know it would come out sooner or later.”
“I guess. I just didn’t anticipate that when it did, it would be so public, or used so meanly.” She sighed. “There goes my credibility.”
“Roxanne, don’t be ridiculous. If anything, that will help you. Look, you know the food is good, and if people want to come because of the celebrity factor, let them come. They’ll find out what a great restaurant it is and come back for that. Whatever works.”
“I know. That’s not…well, okay.” She hadn’t meant her credibility with the public; she was thinking of Steve. Steve, to whom she had actually lied about being a model.
Well, she thought resignedly, maybe that made them even. He’d lied about vandalizing her building.
She felt a drop on the back of her hand and turned, looking up. Was the water coming from yet another crack? She leaned across the counter and flipped on the overhead light, but the bulb blew immediately.
“Dammit,” she muttered, bending over to get another pot out from under the stove.
“What’s going on over there?” Skip got up from the table and joined her in the kitchen.
She shook her head, positioning the new pot. “It’s a leak. I don’t know what to do about it. I guess I’m going to have to go up there and fix the stupid thing. It’s probably the trap. The same problem I had with mine when I first moved in.”
Though part of her was glad she now had a legitimate reason to let herself into Steve’s apartment, another part, the moral part, didn’t trust herself to do it without doing something she might later regret—like snooping around.
Skip looked at the water oozing through the overhead sheetrock. Then he looked at her. “When does he move out?”
Roxanne shrugged and didn’t look at him. If she did, the sympathy on his face would make her cry, she was sure. “Two weeks or so.”
“Have you seen him?”
She shook her head. “He’s been pretty careful about going up and down the stairs, I think. I haven’t even heard him except once. And that night…” She had to take a deep breath to keep the emotion from showing in her voice. “It was so late, he wasn’t likely to run into me.”
Where had he been? she wondered anew. Back with that girl he’d been seeing before her? Out with someone new? Had he gotten another job? Maybe there was some other woman at some new bar with whom he hit it off. She had no doubt, in fact, that would be the case. Steve hit it off with everybody.
“Look at you,” Skip said, with such kindness Roxanne felt the tears well in her eyes. “You’re devastated by this. Have you even asked him about that night?”
Roxanne pushed off the counter and wiped a couple tears away impatiently. “I’m not ‘devastated,’ Skip. My God, he’s just a man. One I’ve only known a few months. I feel hurt, sure, but I’ll get over it. I’ve gotten over worse.”
But had she? She’d asked herself this a lot over the past week, as she strug
gled to get out of bed and wrestled with herself to be productive. She even had to talk herself out of going upstairs and trying to start things up again—thefts be damned—because she just missed him so much.
But what kind of idiot would she have to be to go out with a guy she knew was dishonest?
In some ways this was different from the pain she’d felt after Martin, because this time she’d hoped she’d finally found a guy with some character. Not just someone to love, but someone who really deserved to be loved, someone who would never let her down. This was worse.
With Martin, she’d always thought he needed love for his character to blossom. He had so much weakness to be babied, so many mistakes to be excused.
Steve, however…she swallowed over the lump in her throat. Steve had been strong and sexy, and his confidence had been infectious. How could he be a liar, too? she wondered for the millionth time.
But she was kidding herself. Excusing his flaws just as she’d tried to excuse Martin’s, time and again. Martin was a cheater, Steve was a liar…What was the difference?
“No, I haven’t talked to him about that night,” Roxanne added then, in a stronger voice. “I don’t need to be talked into believing another con artist’s excuses. You know that better than anyone.”
Skip shrugged his shoulders, nodding. He couldn’t argue with that, she could tell; he knew how she was. And besides, she’d shown him the area where Steve had been looking. He’d seen the damage to the plaster. So it hadn’t been Roxanne’s imagination.
“Thanks for coming by, Skip, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m upset, but I’ll get through it. That’s one thing the last couple of years has taught me.”
“All right. You call me if you need anything.” He patted her on the back and they walked toward the front door. “So what are you doing with the rest of your day off?”
She pulled a hairband from her pocket and finger-combed her hair into a ponytail. “Day off? What’s that? I’ve already been up, baking bread, for your information. And now, since Steve’s not home, I guess I’ve got to go upstairs and see what’s leaking.”
