by Claire Adams
“You’re Zoe?”
“Yes, and I really want to thank you for coming. This means the world to me. Would you like something to eat? On the house.”
“No, that’s fine.” He looked around. “Is that real?” He pointed to a camera above the register.
“Yes, do you want to see the feed?”
“Yeah, I need to know what this prick looks like.”
“Come on back.” I walked him around the counter into the office so he could go through the camera images. He stopped on a picture of Mr. Beetle walking in. “That’s got to be him.”
“It is.”
“Disgusting creature. Why would you even let him in the store?”
“I told you,” Chloe called out from the kitchen.
“He seemed harmless, at first. And when he got weirder, I didn’t want to make a scene. I didn’t want people to think the bakery was unsafe. In fact, while you’re here, I can’t have you attacking him or bringing the police. Just make it clear that he’s not allowed. If he comes back after that, we’ll figure things out from there.”
“You’re not handling this properly.” He stood up. “He’s going to come back, and I might not be here when that happens.”
I sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “Do what you have to do. Just don’t hurt him or disturb the customers.”
“I don’t get to hurt him?” He looked disappointed.
“People aren’t going to want to come here if they see some guy getting attacked in the parking lot. It’s bad for business.”
Jo shrugged. “I could make it quiet. Nothing too extreme. Maybe a broken arm—or two.”
“I’m standing firm on this one,” I said.
“Suit yourself.” He ducked past me and walked out so he could post up in front of the store.
“He seems nice,” Chloe said as she poured sugar into the mixer. “How many people do you think he’s killed?”
“I don’t care how many people he’s killed, so long as he keeps Beetle away.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered what his real name is?” She cocked her head, stroking her chin. “Menard.”
“Menard?” I laughed.
“He looks like a Menard, doesn’t he?”
“He does, doesn’t he?” I went back to zesting my oranges.
“Or maybe Orlando.”
“No, for that he’d have to have a fake gold necklace and a chest full of hair.”
“Eeew,” she screeched and pretended to retch.
“I’m more focused on Archer.”
“Are you going to see him tonight?”
“Yeah, he’s making dinner.”
“Is he any good?”
“He’s decent. He flipped a pancake in the air this morning.”
“Then tonight you’re going to have to wake up at three in the morning so he can put the twins back to bed.”
“I’d gladly do it—just so long as I get a few hours with him.”
“That good?”
“I refuse to answer that.” I set one orange down and started working on another. “You know, I’ve been thinking of candying these. We go through so many. It’s a waste.”
“You want to use them as garnish?”
“I think it would be good, don’t you?”
“Maybe. I think it’d be better if we used them for juice for the morning crowd.”
“That’s exactly what we are going to do. Get out the juicer. A buck-fifty a cup.”
“You’re going to make me do it?”
“As punishment for the zesting.”
“Oh, all right.”
We spent the rest of the day dancing around the subject that was always on my mind. Chloe didn’t like Archer, but she didn’t see what I saw. Her stomach wasn’t fluttering. She didn’t space out halfway through a batch of cookies. She didn’t understand. She thought that I was some blind, love-sick puppy.
I wanted to talk to her and tell her about all of the things I was feeling, but I couldn’t. That bothered me. We were always so close. I wasn’t sure why she didn’t like Archer. Maybe she was jealous because she didn’t have somebody. Maybe she was worried about me. By the end of the day, I’d decided that it was a little of both.
The day went by without incident. It was almost closing time. I was hunched over the mop sink, filling up the bucket, when Chloe ran into the kitchen. “I thought you were joking when you said he was rich.”
“No, he’s rich. Why?” I pulled the bucket out of the sink and dragged it past her so I could mop the kitchen.
“Somebody just pulled up in a limousine, and now some guy is in the lobby saying that he’s Archer’s driver. How rich is he?”
“That’s none of my business, much less yours.”
“What have you gotten yourself into? People like that are dirty as sin. They have all sorts of trouble. They’re not safe. People are always going after them, and that’s not to mention the effect that money has on a person’s personality.”
“Archer is so far from that it’s not even funny. Do you really think I’d date some pompous rich guy?”
“That world isn’t pretty. Where did he get that kind of money?”
“He’s a defense contractor.”
“He makes weapons of mass destruction!?”
“Shut up. His driver’s outside.”
“Fine.” She threw up her hands in the air and started wiping down the table. “But if something happens…”
“Nothing is going to happen, all right?”
She shut her mouth and went back to cleaning. I left her my keys so she could close up and drive my car back to my place, where she’d left her car this morning. Then I got into the limousine.
The drive to Archer’s house was surreal. Chloe could say what she wanted about his money, but I was enjoying myself. I got to watch the people stare as we drove through downtown, and I had the luxury of a shot of whatever liquor I wanted—should I choose to drink.
There was even a TV embedded in the divider. I didn’t use any of the amenities, but it was wonderful to know that I had them. When I got to the house, the driver pulled in front and walked around to open my door. “Do you do that for everyone?” I asked.
“No, Mr. Archer’s orders.” He reached into his pocket and produced a crimson, velvet lined box.
“What is it?”
“Open it,” he said.
There was a clasp keeping it closed. I moved it aside, and the box popped open. Inside was an old-fashioned key. I lifted it up to get a look at it, and it caught the orange light coming off the porch. “Did he say what it was for?”
“What do you think?”
“Hmm,” I groaned in mock frustration.
“Go inside. He’s probably worried sick about you.”
“Thank you.” I walked in. The house was empty and completely silent except for the soft sound of what seemed like a music box coming from upstairs. Curious, I walked up to find the source of the sound. It was coming from an open door on the second floor.
When I got to the landing, a plump old lady popped her head out of the room and looked me up and down. “You’re Zoe, aren’t you?” she asked quietly as she walked out into the hallway.
“Yes, I am. Who are you?”
“My name’s Mona.” She darted forward and reached out her hand.
I shook it. “Are you the nanny?”
“Yes, and I’m so glad to finally meet you.” She looked around as if to see if anyone was listening and said, “I’ve been rooting for you this whole time.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded her head. “And if he does anything to hurt you, anything at all, you just let me know. I’ve got a bottle of mace in my purse. You just aim for the crotch.” She bared her teeth and backed up to show me her technique.
“I get the first shot, but I guess you can have sloppy seconds.”
“See, I knew I’d like you. I knew it. He told me that you’re sharp. You’ve been cautious about him, and you’re right to do
so. A real woman knows to stay vigilant and drop a guy at the first sign of serious trouble.”
“I don’t foresee any problems.”
“Neither do I. That’s why I made him cut the crap. He’s been torturing himself, you know, trying to find a way to make things work without having to tell you about the boys. I straightened him right out. You know what I said?”
“No.”
“You get the benefits of having children without the pain.”
“I never thought about it like that.”
“Come on. I’ll bet you’re dying to see them. They’re sleeping, but I’ve got them on notice. They won’t give us any trouble.” I followed her into the nursery.
It was painted blue with little clouds hovering just below the ceiling. The boys were lying in cribs on either side of the room, both with their eyes closed, and their fists clenched. I walked up to the one on the left to get a better look. “Is this Abel?” I whispered.
Mona nodded her head emphatically. “He got sick a few days ago, and Archer lost it. He had the boy airlifted to the hospital over a fever. It was really fun to watch.”
“That’s a new parent thing, isn’t it?”
“It is.” She walked over to the other crib. “This is Andrew. Archer calls him the brute, but I like to think of him as a gentle giant.”
“Kind of like his father. Which one’s older?”
“Abel, but only by a few seconds.”
“Are they identical?”
“Yes, but there’s small differences. They say they’re the same, but it’s never really the case.”
I looked back at the door where a white box was hanging on the outer edge of the frame. “What’s that?”
“A motion sensor. He’s got cameras and microphones in here, too. So he can monitor them at all times.”
“He really loves them, doesn’t he?”
“Before he met you, they were the only thing he cared about. Besides work, that is.” Mona walked back out into the hallway.
I followed her. “Is he good with them?”
“Mmm.” She cocked her head to the side. “He tries, but I think they need a woman’s touch. It’s not that he’s mean to them or anything. He just doesn’t know how to be gentle with them.”
“They hate me.” Archer walked up behind me and kissed me behind the ear. “They think I’m the boogeyman.”
“That’s just because you’re so big and strong,” I said.
“Mona, is she giving you trouble?”
“She’s a terrible person,” Mona said. “Fire her and get a new one.”
“I like her. Can we keep her?” I turned to ask Archer.
“Yes, but only until we have to put her to sleep.”
“No, I will not allow it. I want to die of alcohol poisoning. I decided that a long time ago.” She went back into the nursery to gather her things.
“I really do like her,” I whispered.
“She’s an evil saint,” he said.
“I can hear you.” She walked out.
“We weren’t saying anything mean,” Zoe said. “We were just talking about how wonderful you are.”
“Thank you. Now let me through.” She barged past us. “I need a bath and a glass of whiskey.”
My eyes went wide, and I looked at Archer. He chuckled. “Mona, check your account when you get home.”
“You didn’t.” She stopped halfway down.
“I did, and you earned it.”
“Thank you!” She walked out.
“Did you give her a bonus?”
“I like to surprise my best employees every once in a while. Did he give it to you?”
“The key? What’s it for?”
“I’m not telling you.” He walked back down the stairs, shaking his hips.
I ran after him. “You have to. You know that I don’t like surprises.”
“You’re going to have to wait until after dinner for this one, and don’t say another word about it because I’m not going to tell you.”
I stamped my feet playfully. “I’m going to throw a temper tantrum.”
“Or you could come watch me cook.”
“Nope.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m fine right here.”
“Suit yourself.” He disappeared into the living room.
I ran after him. “What are you making?” I asked when I got to the kitchen. He pulled out a bottle of olive oil from the cupboard above the stove.
“It’s a surprise.”
“More surprises? No, you can’t do this to me.”
“Do you have any food allergies?”
“Wheat, citrus, shellfish, water…”
“Water, hmm?” He raised one eyebrow. “How do you survive?” He took out a can of diced tomatoes from the cupboard and grabbed a bunch of basil, along with a clove of garlic from the fridge.
“Vodka.” I hopped onto a stool. “Lots and lots of vodka, but none of that grain liquor crap. It has to be good—straight from Russia.”
“This okay?” He took a bottle out from a cupboard next to the stove.
“Vodka sauce?”
“Nope.” He shook his head and pulled out a suspicious package wrapped in butcher paper from the fridge. “Try again.”
“I don’t know.” He unwrapped it and pulled out three thick Italian sausages. Then he drizzled some olive oil in a pan and turned the heat on.
“Gravy.” He washed his hands and started chopping garlic.
“Gravy? What’s that?”
“You’ve never heard of tomato gravy?”
“No.”
“Good.” He added some garlic to the pan and started chopping up the basil. He held the knife just like a chef, by the blade, and his chopping movements were quick and refined. He knew what he was doing.
“What’s gravy?”
“Every Sunday before we went to mass, my dad would wake up and put on a pot of gravy. It’s Italian sausage, sometimes bracciole and meatballs, all cooked in a pot of vodka sauce. They call it gravy because the flavor from the meat mixes with the sauce.”
“Ooh, that sounds amazing. Are you Italian?”
“On my father’s side. I never really knew my mother, but he told me that she was Irish.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”
“She died giving birth to me.” He turned his back to me and added the tomatoes into the pan, along with a can of San Marzano tomato sauce. Then he sprinkled the basil on top and added the vodka.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“It doesn’t really bother me.” He turned around to grab the pepper grinder sitting on the counter, keeping his eyes averted.
I knew that he was lying, but Archer didn’t seem to be comfortable with showing weakness, so I gave him the dignity of not saying anything. I wondered, though, what happened to the boys’ mother. Did she die, too? He never mentioned her. Maybe she wasn’t around. She must not have been if she wasn’t taking care of the boys, but I couldn’t imagine a mother abandoning her children, or Archer for that matter.
I watched, taking mental notes as he seasoned the sauce, carefully tasting it to make sure that it was perfect. Then he pulled a clean spoon out of the drawer and lifted a steaming spoonful for me to try. “It’s hot,” he said as he held it out for me.
I lunged forward and snapped it up. It tasted dark, savory, and it had a way of making my mouth tingle, making me want to beg for more. “It’s addictive.”
“I know. I have to get my fix every once in a while.” He opened a cupboard to show me a stack of tomato sauce cans.
“I want this every single night.”
“See, it’s like heroin.” He put a pot of water on to boil and drizzled some olive oil and salt over the top.
I waited anxiously for the water to boil and watched as steam started rising from the pot. When the food was finally finished, I let him fret over me. He poured me out a glass of wine and made a show of pulling out my chair. At that point, I just wanted to eat.
I didn’t hesitate. I wolfed the whole thing down and got up to get more as soon as I was done. Once we’d eaten the whole pan, and I’d gotten over my withdrawals, he got up out of his chair, gave me his hand, and led me into the living room.
“I’ll bet you’d forgotten all about the surprise, didn’t you?”
“I was distracted by that ambrosia you cooked up.”
“I like that—ambrosia.” He motioned for me to sit down on one of his stiff, antique couches.
There was a wooden table sitting under the window to my right. It looked tiny when compared to the sky blue ruffled curtains towering above it. Archer reached under the top of the table and pressed a button. Something unclasped, and the top opened, revealing a secret compartment inside.
He pulled out a heavy looking black box. When he handed it to me, the light moved over the surface. There were thin, decorative lines etched into the surface, forming a paisley pattern. I turned it over. The black paint was fading, and the metal was warped in places, as if it had been thrown around. “How old is this?”
“I think it dates back to the eighteenth century—late colonial era.”
“Really?” I pulled out my key to get a better look at it.
“I had the lock replaced. It was worn away. But the real gift is inside.”
I pushed the key into the keyhole and turned it. The top opened up. Inside was a yellow manuscript with a hand-stitched binding. On the front cover were the words, ‘L’art de la Cuisine de La Nouvelle-Orleans.’
“The Art of New Orleans Cooking,” he said.
“Oh, I know what this is.” I placed it back in the box. “I just can’t believe I’m holding it. Is this a first edition?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry. I know it’s in French, but it’s not hard to translate the ingredients and measurements.”
“It could be in Martian for all I care. I can’t believe you got this for me. I don’t even know how you found it.”
“I have an old military buddy who collects things like this. I hope it’s not too much.”
“Dear Jesus, no. This thing is so rare. It’s legendary. It has one of the oldest marinara recipes in the world. It’s absolute crap, most of the recipes are, but who cares? It’s an artifact.”
“I thought you might like it.”
