by Meg Benjamin
“I’m still weak from the flu, you know,” Marty whined after an hour.
“Well then, it’s a good thing sifting doesn’t take much muscle power.” Hank gave him a dark look and Marty returned to his sifter, muttering something about incipient asthma.
By eleven, Hank had begun to think about lunch. He’d been working more or less nonstop since a little before seven, and his stomach was rumbling regularly. He wished he’d made firmer plans with Greta. As it was, he had his usual peanut butter and jelly ready, but he’d be much happier with some female company.
As if she’d been summoned, Greta walked into the clearing just when he’d begun to think he might need to give in and eat his own cooking. “Hey,” he called. “Just who I was hoping to see.”
She turned toward him, her expression thunderous.
“I mean,” he stammered, “I thought maybe you might… Is anything wrong?”
He heard a step behind him, and Marty’s nose appeared above the edge of the excavation, looking a little like a hungry basset hound. “Hi, Ms. Brewster. Did you maybe bring any more of those cookies?”
Hank felt a little like kicking him. In her current mood, he figured Greta might stomp off and leave them both hungry.
She gave them another scowl. Then her expression softened. “Sure, Marty. I brought you a cookie. They’re a little stale by now, though.” She reached into her picnic basket and pulled out a plastic-wrapped cookie.
“Doesn’t matter,” Marty said loyally. “They’ll still be delicious.” He heaved himself up the ladder with more energy than he’d shown all morning.
“Okay, Marty, lunch break.” Hank sighed. “Be back in thirty minutes.”
Marty gave him a mournful look, then headed for the parking lot, already unwrapping Greta’s cookie.
Hank climbed the ladder more carefully. If Greta was mad at him for some reason, he needed to do a quick reconnaissance mission to find out why before he stepped even further into this particular briar patch. “Thanks for bringing lunch.” Surely that wasn’t anything that would get him into trouble.
“No problem.” She sighed, sinking onto one of the camp chairs. “I need to talk to you.”
Oh lordy, words that no man ever wanted to hear. Hank’s internal alarm system immediately swung into full alert mode. “Oh? Problems?”
“You might say that.” She grimaced. “My ex-husband showed up at Casa Dubrovnik this morning.”
Hank flopped into a camp chair of his own. Whatever he’d expected her to say, that wasn’t it. “Why?”
“Well, that’s the fifty-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” She gave him a sour look, then shrugged. “Don’t mind me. I’m still pissed and I can’t take it out on Ryan at the moment.”
“Ryan being the ex?”
She nodded. “He showed up in the general store when I was selling muffins.”
“And said what?”
“And said he was worried about me and wanted to make sure I was all right.” She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. “I told him I was fine and to go back to Boston, but apparently he doesn’t believe me.”
“Meaning?”
She sighed again. “Meaning he rented a room at the hotel. From Alice.”
“A room? On our floor?” In the month he’d been in residence at Casa Dubrovnik, Greta was the only other tenant he’d ever seen. He didn’t think Alice even tried to attract renters.
“On our floor. Which figures, since it’s the only floor with rooms at the hotel.” Apparently this was her day for sighing. “I can’t really blame Alice. She’s charging him a hundred dollars a night, cash.”
Hank whistled softly. “Not bad. Major profit there. Alice must have scented a sucker.”
“Whatever she scented, she’s now got Ryan. And me. And you.” Greta closed her eyes, sliding down to lean her head back. “To tell you the truth, part of the reason I brought you lunch was just to get out of there.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Food’s food. Although yours is way above the average. And I was getting hungry.” He lifted the picnic basket up on the table. “What have we got today?”
“Leftover shrimp salad plus some spring rolls. Hope you like Asian.”
“At this point, I’d eat anything you brought. Although I’m sure this is terrific and Asian food is great,” he added hastily.
“Nice save.” She gave him a dry smile, pushing herself to her feet. “Wash your hands. I’ll serve you up a plate.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Fortunately, the shrimp salad was indeed great. Even the spring rolls were good, and normally he wasn’t a big fan of rice paper. After he’d managed to calm his inner ravaging beast, Hank leaned back in his chair again. “So why do you think he’s really here?”
She shook her head. “I’ve got no idea. He keeps talking about how concerned he is about me, but hey, if he was that concerned he wouldn’t have slept with his secretary. Or anyway, that’s my point of view.”
“Did he come to your brother’s wedding?”
She shook her head. “He was invited because I didn’t have the cojones to tell my mom we were divorced, but I managed not to tell him about the invitation.”
“So how did he know you were here?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot that part.” She grimaced again. “Apparently, he saw us in Barney’s last night. And somebody told him Alice had a new cook. So he put one and one together and got me.”
Hank rubbed a hand across his jaw, trying to kick back the uneasy feeling in his gut. “Okay, this still doesn’t make sense. He didn’t go to the wedding, but he was in Promise Harbor. You haven’t had any communication lately, but he tracks you down. Why?”
She shrugged. “Got me. He even went to the place I used to live in Boston and talked to my landlady. Which is really annoying since she wouldn’t give me back my damage deposit and I’m pissed at her.”
He took a few more bites of shrimp salad, trying to figure out how to frame his question. But sometimes it was best to just put it out there. “Does he want you back?”
“Back?” Her eyes widened. “You mean as in get back together again?”
He nodded. “I mean, it sounds a little like he’s following you around.”
She shook her head vigorously. “No way. He had lots of time to talk to me back in Boston and he didn’t. He didn’t even ask for mediation before the divorce was final. He doesn’t want me back. Definitely not.”
“Maybe he changed his mind,” Hank said slowly. “Maybe he didn’t realize how much he wanted to be with you until he wasn’t.”
“No.” She shook her head again. “And even if that were true, it wouldn’t matter because I don’t want to get back together with him. Ever.”
Hank stared down at a spring roll he suddenly had little interest in eating. “Are you sure about that?”
She frowned, chewing on her lower lip in a way that made his groin ache. “Yes, I’m sure about that. Absolutely. Breaking up with him was painful, but not nearly as painful as it should have been. I realized then that I really didn’t want or need to be with him. Read my lips. I do not want to be back with Ryan. Ever.”
“I can think of things I’d rather do with your lips.” The groin ache was definitely distracting. “Is this going to put a crimp in our evening?”
“You mean having Ryan down the hall?”
Hank nodded. “Will you feel weird?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “It is weird, no matter how you think about it.”
“Right.” He blew out a breath. “We could go to a motel.”
She frowned. “A motel? When you’re already paying for a room at Casa Dubrovnik?”
“If necessary.” He leaned forward, catching her hand in his. “The thing is, we’ve only got two more nights before you head back to the harbor, or wherever you’ve decided to go. I’m not willing to let your ex-husband screw that up.”
“I like your room,” she said slowly, her fingers brushing his palm. “I don’t
want to go to a motel. I want to do what we did last night. If Ryan doesn’t like it, he can always complain to the management.”
Hank’s lips spread upward in a grin. “Actually, I’d like to see that. Alice’s reaction would probably be classic.”
“I want to make love with you,” Greta said softly. “These last two nights should be our time. Let’s pretend Ryan isn’t there.”
“Okay by me.” He managed to keep his grin in place, but he was pretty sure wishing Ryan away would be a lot easier said than done.
Greta kept Ryan out of the kitchen by the simple expedient of snarling at him whenever he tried to come in. She was fixing a strawberry bombe since it would take most of the afternoon to assemble, thus making it impossible for them to have another of those conversations she was coming to dread.
Does he want you back? She was pretty certain he didn’t, and even more certain that she herself didn’t want to go back to him. But the question made her feel uncomfortable, as if she had another unpleasant conversation looming in the future.
Why couldn’t he just have stayed in Boston? Why had he come to Tompkins Corners, just when things might be getting better for her? Or beginning to, anyway.
Nadia breezed in while Greta was waiting for the gelatin mixture to cool for the mousse. “Well, this is an interesting development. I assume you had no idea your ex-husband was coming here.”
“None at all.” Greta began whipping cream with a whisk. There was actually an electric mixer in one of the drawers, but right now she really needed to beat something.
“Do you have any idea why he chose to find you?”
She shook her head.
“Would you like me to have Hyacinth put frogs in his bed?” Greta did a double take. Nadia smiled. “Just checking. That probably wouldn’t be as effective as some other possibilities.”
Greta put the bowl down, sighing. “Let’s just have dinner. Maybe he’ll explain himself then. Or not. I really don’t care, to tell the truth, as long as he goes away as soon as possible.”
At five, Hank stuck his head in the kitchen door. “Do I need to wear protective gear for dinner?”
She shook her head, chopping mushrooms at Jacques Pepin speed. “Not as far as I’m concerned. And if Ryan tries anything, there’s always Alice’s baseball bat.”
He stepped inside the room, leaning back against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. I made him stay outside all afternoon. Maybe he left. I don’t know.”
Hank glanced back at the garden window. “If he’s a medium-sized guy with black hair, he’s still here. Of course, right now he’s in danger of stepping on Nadia’s lemon verbena, so he may not be long for this world.”
Greta rested her knife on the cutting board, peering out the window. Ryan was wandering along the edge of the garden, looking bored. After a few moments, Hyacinth appeared, watching him dubiously. She said something to him, probably pointing out the lemon verbena. Ryan stepped back. Now he looked annoyed.
“Hell,” Greta muttered, “I probably should let him in here so he doesn’t create problems elsewhere.”
Hank shrugged. “We could always ask Nadia to make dinner. That would probably send him screaming into the night.”
“Nope. As long as I’m here, nobody cooks but me.”
“How about I hold him down and you force-feed him brussels sprouts?”
“Roasted brussels sprouts are actually very good. But they’re out of season right now.”
“Alice rented him a room. Let Alice suffer.”
“Works for me.” She sighed again. She’d spent the day sighing, and she had a feeling this would be an evening of more sighs. And they’d be the result of exasperation rather than passion. “Look, whatever happens tonight, I’m sorry. I really didn’t plan on this.”
“Do you usually apologize for random events?” He shrugged. “If you didn’t plan it, it’s not your problem, sweetheart.”
She looked at him, her shoulders unclenching slightly for the first time since she’d come back from lunch. “You’re a very nice man. Have I mentioned that?”
“Thanks.” His eyes widened slightly, either in surprise or alarm, she wasn’t sure which.
Whoa. Too much. Over the top.
“Now you need to get out of here so that I can finish dinner.” And so that she could regroup.
He pushed himself up. “Okay. I guess a shower is in order anyway. Nadia would give me the evil eye if I showed up at the dinner table like this.”
“Good point.” She dumped the mushrooms into a bowl. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes. Drama is pretty much guaranteed. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” He headed across the kitchen toward the lobby door.
Thirty minutes later, Greta carried the last platter of food to the sideboard in the dining room. Nadia apparently had dressed for dinner. She wore a full-length black skirt of some shiny fabric, along with an embroidered peasant blouse and a paisley pashmina. She’d even put on gold hoop earrings. Apparently Ryan warranted the complete package.
He stood at the side of the room sipping something out of a small glass. Whatever it was must not have measured up to his standards, judging by his expression.
“Aperitif, dear?” Nadia handed her a small glass identical to his.
Greta glanced down at the clear liquid. It smelled a little like cough syrup. “Thanks. I’d better stay in the kitchen to make sure everything gets on the table at the proper temperature.” Even she recognized that as a lame excuse.
Nadia gave her a glittering smile. “Nonsense. These plates look scrumptious. We’ll take our seats as soon as everyone else is here. Drink up.”
Greta took a very small sip. Not only did it taste like cough syrup, she had a feeling the alcohol content in the glass was probably close to lethal. She managed not to gag.
The kitchen door swished open behind them, and Hyacinth entered, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Why are we eating in here? I like it when we eat in the kitchen.”
“We have too many people for the kitchen table tonight,” Nadia explained. “We have another guest.”
Hyacinth narrowed her eyes at Ryan. Clearly, along with the lemon verbena incident, he’d just gotten another black mark in her book.
Alice followed her through the kitchen door. If Nadia had dressed for dinner, Alice had gone in the opposite direction. She wore the same pair of jeans she’d worn all week, judging by the smudges near the knees. Her green plaid flannel was tucked in at the waist, showing off her battered leather belt. At least she had on tennis shoes rather than flip-flops.
She gave Ryan a faintly derisive smile. “Enjoying the home brew? My sister whips it up in the basement.”
Nadia arched a single eyebrow. “My sister considers herself a comedian. Would you care for some more, Mr. McBain?”
Ryan shook his head quickly. “No, no. That’s fine. I’m good.”
Hank stepped in through the lobby door, glancing quickly around the room. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Not at all.” Nadia gave him one of her glittering smiles. “Let me pour you an aperitif.”
Greta thought about warning him, but he was a big boy. Besides, he’d been in all those jungles digging out ruins. He’d probably tasted worse.
Or not. Hank’s expression after the first sip reminded her of one of the instructors at culinary school who’d accidentally sampled overfermented kimchi.
“Don’t let me hold up dinner,” he said in a strangled voice.
“Not at all. Have you met our new guest, Mr. McBain?” She turned toward Ryan, smiling politely. “Mr. McBain was married to Greta at one time, or so I understand.”
Hank took another swallow of Nadia’s elixir. “Hi,” he gasped.
Nadia turned toward Ryan. “Professor Mitchell is an archaeologist. He’s excavating one of our local sites.”
Ryan narrowed his eyes, then stuck out a stiff hand. “Pleased to meet yo
u.”
“Yeah, me too.” Hank shook his hand limply.
“Let’s sit down, everyone.” Nadia took her seat at one end of the table while Alice moved to the other. “Sit here by me, Mr. McBain.” She gestured toward the chair beside her while Hyacinth dropped into the chair next to Alice, leaving the far side of the table to Greta and Hank.
Greta managed not to grin. She passed the first platter to Alice. “Chicken cutlets with sherry mushroom sauce.”
Alice plopped a piece of chicken on her plate, passing the platter to Hyacinth. Greta supplied the remaining bowls of green beans and fingerling potatoes, along with a plate of crudités, then slid into her chair next to Hank in time to help herself to chicken.
“It looks sublime, dear,” Nadia purred. She turned to Ryan. “How lucky you must have felt to have someone preparing such wonderful food for you every evening.”
Ryan’s face turned slightly pink. “We…ate out a great deal. Boston has some wonderful restaurants.”
“Indeed?” Nadia’s eyebrows elevated again. “And yet I’d wager Greta is the equal of many Boston chefs.”
Ryan glanced up at her and then down at his plate again as he took another bite of chicken. “This is very good.” He sounded slightly surprised.
Alice narrowed her eyes. “Haven’t you tasted her food before?”
All eyes were suddenly on Ryan, who swallowed hard. “Of course. I…must have.”
Greta considered rescuing him and then decided not to. He’d gotten himself into this. He could jolly well dig himself out.
He took another hurried bite. “Delicious,” he mumbled.
Greta started to reply, then pulled up short. “Oh gosh, Hyacinth, I forgot your sauce. I’m sorry. Be right back.”
She sprinted into the kitchen, then returned with another bowl of sherry mushroom sauce.
Hyacinth gave her a radiant smile. “Thank you.”
Ryan glanced at the sauce somewhat suspiciously.
“Hyacinth is a vegetarian,” Greta explained. “That’s her version of the sauce. It hasn’t touched the chicken.”
