Where Dreams Books 1-3

by M. L. Buchman

  He laughed and squeezed her harder until she’d have laughed if he’d left her enough air.

  He finally let her go and just looked at her. “You look wonderful.” And she did. She’d always been a beautiful woman. He and Russell used to wonder that some man hadn’t hounded her into marriage after Angelo’s father died while Angelo was still in the womb.

  Her black, curling, shoulder-length hair had started to gray, and she’d let it. Her figure was generous, but looked amazing on a woman barely five-foot-four.

  “It’s retired life. It agrees with me.”

  “Una pensionata?!” His thoughts blanked.

  If Graziella hadn’t put a hand on his back at that moment, he’d have fallen to the floor.

  “Hi, Mrs. Parrano, so glad to have you back in town.” Graziella made sure Angelo would remain on his feet, before taking his mother’s hands and kissing both cheeks.

  “Bella bambina,” she patted Graziella’s cheek as if she were a twelve-year old girl and not a twenty-eight-year-old master of the front of house at one of Seattle’s finest restaurants. Graziella hurried back to her job without appearing to hurry, one of the traits that had made her Angelo’s first hire even before he opened the restaurant. The customers always got the impression she was spending ample time with them, even when it was only a moment.

  “Retired?” The word choked on its way out.

  “Is an old woman allowed to come in?”

  That finally got a laugh out of Angelo’s constricted throat. He gathered up the suitcase she’d set in the doorway and led her to the side prep table, not presently in use.

  “Are you hungry, Mama?”

  “Good boy,” she patted his cheek. “Just a little pasta and red sauce to get that airplane food out of my tongue.” Her accent slid about him like home. Thirty years since she’d come to America to cook for Russell’s parents, the Morgans, and she still frequently mangled idioms, which just added to her charm.

  He hurried to the line, glad for a moment to collect himself. A quick glance at the order tickets and then down the line showed that they were running smoothly once again, as if last night’s debacle had never occurred.

  He made two bowls of pasta, sliced a little Biroldo sausage into the sauce, grated some Asiago on top, and carried them back to the table to join her.

  “Retired, Mama?”

  “Yes.” Then, just to make him crazy he was sure, she forked and twirled up some of the linguini and took her time to chew and swallow. She nodded.

  “It is good. A little paprika would bring it to life, but it is good.”

  “But…” Angelo bit his tongue. Paprika wasn’t Italian. It was Hungarian or sometimes smoked for Spanish cuisine, but not Italian. However, he had never won a seasoning argument with Maria Amelia, and he wouldn’t now, so he left it be.

  “Retired. Yes. My Julia and John, they have retired and are going to travel for a while. They will probably sell the big house unless Russell wants it. They say they will travel until they find where they want to live.”

  Angelo couldn’t imagine the Morgans selling the sprawling mansion from which four generations of the family had run a global shipping empire.

  “Wait, they fired you?” Angelo felt it bind in his gut. They may have helped raise him, and Russell might be Angelo’s best friend, but they couldn’t fire his mother. She’d been their cook for over thirty years. She’d—

  “I quit.”

  Angelo dropped back on his stool and did his best not to look shocked.

  “You…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

  “Angelo, sweetheart.” She patted his cheek with almost a slap. “You know like I know, there is the point where three becomes the crowd. They were horrified when I give my notice but they were also relieved. It was perfetto solution. To make up for relief, they give me part of company, enough that I can do what I want for many, many years. I also make good savings.”

  Angelo had to look away for a moment and inspect the line. He could see the smooth flow, the pattern of two dozen lunches moving simultaneously through different stages in the kitchen. Manuel had it well under control.

  And he could see Julia and John Morgan making sure his mother was taken care of no matter how long she lived. He’d bet they personally drove their cook to the airport for this visit with her son. He brushed at his eyes. They had taken in a single, pregnant Italian country girl with little English, sent her son to college, and treated her like family. He would find some way to repay them. He couldn’t imagine how, but he would. He turned back.

  “That’s good, Mama. That’s good.” He took a deep breath to regain his composure. “So, now that you can afford to do anything, what are your plans?”

  She merely smiled as they each twirled up a forkful of pasta. He bit down on his, agreeing that perhaps his mother was right about the paprika, the sweet, not the hot. Just enough to accent the Biroldo—

  “I’m going to live with you,” her eyes twinkled as she paused. Then her smile turned ever so slightly wicked. “And help you cook in your ristorante.”

  Chapter 4

  Jo had blown off the rest of the afternoon, what was left of it after a three-hour lunch, and gone to the Eastlake Gym.

  When Renée Linden did a full-on opening argument, Jo had found herself at some loss to offer a clean and cogent rebuttal. And she still didn’t know what her plan or intent was, making it all the more confusing. If there were a pending lawsuit on which the Market needed her assistance, why hadn’t she simply laid out the bones of the case. Not that Jo would have time to tackle it, but she’d be glad to give them a little advice and hook them up with someone sharp enough to take down whoever was messing with them.

  Jo shoved the pin in ten pounds heavier than normal and began working her triceps on the machine. This wasn’t her normal workout time. She and Cassidy typically came in with the other early corporates. Hard workouts to get fired up for a guilt-free day because your workout was already under your belt. Perrin never joined them. A true night owl, if she ever went to the gym it would be at midnight.

  The afternoon crowd was an odd mix. A lot of mothers getting in a quick half-hour while the kid was at ballet or wherever. There were also a fair number of guys who looked bruiser strong. Like construction workers off work at three who hadn’t gotten enough exercise hefting steel girders and giant laminate beams all day.

  Jo decided to just keep her head down and do her workout. And hope that she could somehow make sense of what happened at lunch.

  “We’re retiring,” Renée had explained over the entremets of strawberry sorbet with a dark chocolate flake. “Nathaniel and I are going cruising for a while, then we thought we’d winter over in New Zealand. This is our home, but we decided it was time to travel for some reason other than business.”

  Renée Linden retiring. That would send shockwaves rippling through the Seattle social firmament. Jo still couldn’t make sense of that, even by the time she’d worked through biceps and moved on to abs and obliques.

  And Nathaniel Linden leaving Boeing management. He was the President of the custom business-jet division, had practically created it. You want your own personal 737 outfitted for entertaining? He was the man. A six-bedroom 747, with an in-flight movie theater that could seat your family and friends each in their own lounge chair before a ten-foot screen with full-surround sound and a garage in the cargo bay to transport your Maserati? He’d make it happen. It was a small, but exceptionally lucrative division.

  That had been enough of a shock for Jo, and she’d wager that neither Pike Place Market nor Boeing were the least bit happy about their pending departures.

  Jo counted out ten more reps trying not to think, but that wasn’t helping.

  Her litigator instincts would bet safe money there was still more up the woman’s sleeve. She was notorious for never stopping once she’d set h
er sights on something.

  But Jo couldn’t quite identify what she’d been after.

  That’s when Jo’s brain had shut down, plain and simple. It was as fatal a mistake in court as it was at a power lunch, but she couldn’t get around it. Researching the woman for a year would not have brought her to that lunch prepared for what was fielded at her with Renée’s pleasant conversation and a one-two punch of kindness and gentility.

  Without actually saying it out loud, Renée had made it clear that they didn’t want Jo on the PDA board, which simplified that decision for her. It had been such a relief that she’d ordered the most decadent Soufflé au Grand Marnier she’d ever eaten.

  No. The board had its twelve members. But, Renée let slip ever so casually, that she hadn’t yet told the board that she’d be resigning as the Executive Director of the Pike Place Market. Because Jo was the first to know other than her husband, she must keep it to herself until she announced it next week.

  Jo let the kick bar for working her quads drop back into position with an ear-ringing clang. Half the people in the weight room turned to see if there’d been an accident. She tried to lift it again so that everything appeared to be normal, but couldn’t gather enough neurons sending the message to her legs to do so.

  Renée had simply wanted “to let Jo be the first to know. As a professional courtesy.” Jo had been so dazzled by the lunch and the conversation that she didn’t even see it coming until this moment sitting at the exercise machine, her foot hooked behind a bar that was impossible for her to lift.

  Renée wasn’t merely retiring, she had already chosen her replacement. And, without once stating it in as many words, she’d informed Jo that she was Renée’s first and only pick to replace her. She’d simply used the basket and the luncheon to plant the idea in Jo’s mind, and then allowed it to have time to build and age like the Royal Oporto Tawny Port they had with the final cheese and pear course.

  Jo blew out a breath as if at the end of a brutal workout and not just her third set of reps. The anointed chosen successor to the great Renée Linden and she’d never seen it coming. Never had a chance to react and refuse or, Jo now identified the heart of Renée’s finesse, say anything she might regret later such as laughing hysterically in the woman’s face. At least not until she’d had time to think about it.

  The woman would have made one heck of an attorney and Jo would hate to argue a case against her in court. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

  # # #

  Angelo had tried exhausting himself on the step machine, but though his legs burned, his mind was still churning. He went for the elliptical next and set the program to maximum cardio with heavy resistance. The gym was high above Eastlake Avenue, high enough to look over the buildings across the street and allow its patrons to enjoy views of Lake Union and steep Queen Anne Hill if they tired of the television screens while they worked out. High enough that maybe he could get some perspective on what had just happened to his life.

  His mama had come to live with him. That was wonderful. Mostly. He had the room. With the success of the restaurant, he’d moved out of the tiny one bedroom and into a two bedroom with a good kitchen right in the heart of Pioneer Square. He’d thought he’d experiment there, but he never did, he always ended up just going to the restaurant at odd hours to test new dishes there. No matter. He could afford it now.

  And the last time he’d had a girl up to his apartment… He looked out the window at Lake Union. A cluster of sailboats were skittering across the surface of the lake that made the north boundary of downtown Seattle. He had to think back a ways to remember. Well, okay, so his mother wouldn’t be cramping his style there either.

  But in his kitchen? No one was as good as his mama in the kitchen. It didn’t matter if they actually were, they still weren’t. Paprika in the Biroldo sausage? Sacrilegio! Then he’d tried it after she left to go to the apartment and take a nap after the flight. It was exactly right, damn it. She’d be fussing with each of his dishes until he didn’t recognize them anymore. And worse, they’d probably be better.

  At least she’d never know what happened last night. Just last night? He cast his eyes skyward in prayer that she’d never hear how he’d had a total meltdown less than twenty-four hours before.

  Sweat poured off him as the elliptical sent him on another hill climb.

  Of course, he knew why he’d made such a mess. Too bad there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. It was too late. Jo Thompson would take that meal as a personal affront and never speak to him again. He certainly would in her position. He truly hadn’t intended to ruin her date with awful food.

  God, he hated working out in the afternoon. He should be worrying about dinner prep, instead he was worrying about his mama. When he worked out in the mornings after he’d done the shopping for the restaurant and before lunch prep began, he used to run into Cassidy and Jo on occasion. Casual waves, polite greetings. But the heat that had coursed through his body each time he saw Jo had become too uncomfortable and he’d shifted his workouts to between lunch and dinner service.

  Another hill? The machine had it in for him today. He grabbed his towel and wiped off his face and eyes. They stung with the salt from his sweat.

  Another mile the machine warned him. And one last high resistance climb. He was dying here. The only way this could possibly be worse…

  He focused on a machine two over from him. The woman climbing onto her elliptical was one he’d recognize in a white-out blizzard even if she were wearing a parka and hood. Though that sure wasn’t what she was wearing now. A dark maroon sports bra left her shoulders and midriff gloriously bare. It left so little to the imagination that his blood pressure was threatening to pop. Matching running shorts that exposed one of the nicest lengths of leg he’d ever seen. And lemon yellow sneakers like the laugh line on a great joke.

  Jo Thompson looked incredible. And she wasn’t looking at him. Either hadn’t noticed him or, far more likely, was studiously ignoring his existence.

  A hundred percent snub.

  There were rules in workout gyms. Everyone was in their own space, doing their own thing. You never messed with that. And it was truly bad form to stare at a woman. His own headphones were spilling out The Boss because who else could help you with your Italian mother better than Springsteen. Born to Run? You betcha!

  Jo was probably listening to opera. She sure wasn’t looking his way. She must have seen him, had purposely left an empty machine between them, and then ignored him to rub in how angry she was about last night’s meal ruining her date.

  He slowed his pace. The machine began blinking the “Pedal Faster” sign at him. He slowed to a stop. She was staring up at the TV screens set above the wide glass window with the view of the lake. CNN or the James Stewart film. He couldn’t tell which she was watching.

  He wiped down the machine and headed for the showers.

  One glance back showed him a view he’d never forget, the beautiful and brilliant Jo Thompson running away from him at high speed.

  Chapter 5

  “Hey, Angelo.”

  Jo noticed that he’d parked his Tuscan-yellow restaurant van with dark blue lettering next to her car’s passenger door. Glancing over at her he dropped his keys. He leaned down to fetch them, then stood up under the van’s mirror. He whacked his head good and hard, then slid nervelessly out of sight.

  She sprinted around her car to see if he was still alive.

  He sat on the ground beside his dropped gym bag and keys, with his back against the van’s door. His head was between his knees and his hands were wrapped around the back of it. A string of Italian that sounded beautiful, but she’d wager was actually some serious invective, streamed out into the air. She’d studied French, which gave her some of the roots, but the sound of the traffic rolling along on Eastlake Ave. muted his words just enough that she couldn’t make them out, which was pr
obably just as well.

  “Are you okay?” she squatted beside him.

  He raised his head enough to inspect his hands.

  “No blood.” He patted his head gingerly and looked at his hands again. “Feels like there should be though.”

  “Here, let me look.”

  Angelo shrugged, winced at the motion, and acquiesced.

  Growing up a fisherman’s daughter she’d seen enough bumps, bruises, and cuts to last a lifetime. Also enough to make a quick and probably accurate diagnosis.

  “No blood. I can’t feel a crack. One hell of a bump rising already though.” His hair was still damp from the shower and smelled lightly of shampoo.

  “Thanks, I knew that.”

  He sat up and lay his head back against the van door right on his restaurant’s logo. “Ow! Merda!” He leaned his head back between his knees and reclasped his hands over his head.

  Jo wanted to laugh. She knew it wasn’t seemly, but it bubbled up inside her anyway. He looked so sad and helpless. She took a deep, pre-jury summation breath, then another and steadied down quickly enough.

  She set her gym bag on the ground beside her own car door and sat on it to wait with him until she was sure he was okay. The brutal hour-long workout had done nothing to clear her head of Renée’s offer. She’d focused her mind and driven her body until every muscle screamed, but she still didn’t know what she was feeling. Even as she waited for Angelo to recover, she could feel her muscles stiffening. She was going to be seriously sore tonight.

  Cassidy really needed to get back from her honeymoon. Jo needed a sounding board at the moment and found herself a bit distressed to realize that she really didn’t have anyone else.

  Angelo sat up more slowly this time, keeping his head well clear of the door.

  “How are you feeling?”

  He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment in a hard wince, then opened them wide as if trying to make them focus once again.