by Ruth Wind
Samuel inclined his head. "Good night."
Lila watched the exchange with interest. When the boy left, she asked, "Did you wash dishes tonight?"
"Yes." He smiled, leaning back comfortably in his chair to light an after-dinner cigarette. "I also cooked, bused tables and seated customers. As you may have heard, we are a trifle shorthanded."
"I heard." She ate another bite of her cod, then glanced at him. "Wouldn't it be easier to cut the dead weight a little at a time?"
"I don't think so. Each time a customer receives bad service or an improperly prepared meal or is dissatisfied with his experience, business falls. Better to sweep away all the trouble and begin anew."
Lila finished her meal and, with a sigh, blotted her lips neatly. "I suppose it's all a matter of philosophy."
"Your chocolate-cherry cake sold out tonight, by the way."
"Did it?" Lila smiled. "It's a new recipe. I wasn't sure how well it would do." She paused. "I tried various methods—upside-down cake was the first step—but wasn't satisfied with the way the cherries lost color. Did you try it?"
"Unfortunately I had no opportunity." He exhaled and shifted. "We'll need several new desserts tomorrow to see us through the weekend. Can you manage?"
Lila nodded. "I have deliveries to make at several places in the morning. I'll come by here and let you make your selections first."
"Do you make deliveries on your motorcycle?"
"No, although it's possible. I prefer to borrow my friend's car. The trays I use fit well in his back seat."
Samuel nodded, stubbed out his cigarette and took up a sheaf of papers, signaling the start of their business conversation. For well over an hour, Lila made explanations of her choices in liquor and food distributors, gave overviews of customer preferences in menu specialties and price ceilings. Samuel asked pertinent questions in his liltingly accented voice, listening carefully to her answers, making notes on her recommendations. He asked about the dynamics between the kitchen and the floor, probed the needs of the employees and their expectations, as well as those of the customers.
"The management firm will establish health and life-insurance programs," he said at one point. "And I will offer long-term employees a chance to invest in the company. Do you suppose there will be interest in such a program?"
"Definitely." Lila nodded, impressed in spite of herself. Health insurance? Profit sharing? Despite changes in the restaurant business the past few years, such programs for employees were still rare. It surprised her that a man who seemed to be such a rigorous and ruthless businessman should also show consideration for employees. Perhaps, she decided, it was nothing more than good business sense, a quality she thought he had in abundance. If the employees were well satisfied with their positions, after all, day-to-day operations would likely proceed with greater harmony..
"There is one more thing," Samuel said. "I fired the gentleman who ordinarily manages the catering, and we have a rather large event scheduled for next Saturday evening." He folded his hands on the table in front of him, and his voice dropped a notch. "Would you be kind enough to consider overseeing it?"
There it was again, Lila thought, that persuasively sexy intonation in his words. "What will you need to have done?"
"I need someone to organize the staff and make certain all the dishes will be available and properly served." He lifted a sheet of paper with a typed menu. "It is a reception for a visiting professor. I'd like it to run smoothly."
Lila laid her fork and knife across the dinner plate, then folded her hands as she looked at him. "Mr. Bashir, I didn't leave the restaurant because I no longer enjoyed it. I had some struggles with the old owner, but—" She paused. "I have health problems that will prevent me from assisting you in any but the most cursory ways."
"What can you do?"
"I can make sure the buffet is beautifully arranged, that the food is up to its proper quality and see that the guests are satisfied. In essence, I can perform hostess duties, circulate among the guests to see that they are happy and supervise the employees who serve and clean."
He measured her for a moment. "That would be excellent." With the side of his right thumb, he brushed his chin meditatively. "Have you, er, the proper clothing?"
Lila grinned, more amused than offended. No doubt about it, this was the child of a wealthy father. "Yes, Mr. Bashir, I have the proper clothing."
He responded with the curiously unthreatening smile and gestured with both hands, as if throwing the uncomfortable breach over his shoulders. "Forgive me."
"It's all right."
"Have you a set fee you charge for such things?"
"Not really." She frowned as she mulled over the time and energy involved in the task, then named a figure she thought was fair.
"More than reasonable," he agreed. "Well, then, if you will come with me," he said, rising, "I will find a copy of this list to give you."
Lila rose, too, bending over the table to lift plates and carry them to the kitchen. For an instant Samuel allowed himself to admire a glimpse of the well-rounded figure she had hidden beneath her modest clothing. As he watched, she stiffened and straightened slowly, a flitting expression of pain tightening her mouth. By the time she turned to face him, there was only the slightest flare of her nostrils to betray her. "I will take care of those later," he said. "Come."
As he led the way to the office, he added a certain courage to his mental assessment of her, an assessment that was already rather confusing in its opposites.
Lila tried to control her legs as she trailed him into the small office, taking a chair before he could turn. Even when she was sitting, a series of muscle spasms in her lower back sent an excruciating radius of pain up to her shoulders and down through her legs to her toes. She breathed in slowly, consciously relaxing every atom of her body, then let go of the breath just as slowly. There was no controlling the spasms, but there was a way of living with them.
She glanced up to see Samuel's black eyes on her, not with the impatience she often encountered, but with something very like admiration. "It's your back that prevents your working," he said.
"It's nothing. The cold night made it act up."
He seemed to accept this, and opened a drawer to withdraw a file. "These are the plans for the buffet. I plan to hire enough new people this week to cover both fronts that evening, but I thought Charlene would be our best choice. She seems popular with the customers."
Lila shook her head. "No, she needs to be here to supervise the floor." She paused to let a particularly vicious assault on her spine pass, keeping her face carefully neutral, as if in thought. "Eileen does a wonderful job with catered affairs."
Samuel nodded. "Fine, then."
The consultation was over, Lila thought, accepting a stapled sheaf of papers. Now, the only thing was to stand and go. She steeled herself to rise from the chair gracefully.
Ah, there, she thought. The grip eased, and she stood up. "I hope I've been able to help you," she said, extending her hand.
He took it in his, and Lila noticed his hands were brown and hard and long fingered, his grip cool and professional. "Thank you for coming," he said formally.
She released him. "My pleasure. I'll bring your desserts by in the morning."
As she turned, he saw one hand fly to the small of her back in distress. He pretended not to notice, bending to replace the file in his desk drawer then glancing out the window to the steady rain beyond. As casually as possible, he said, "Lila, will you allow me to drive you home? This weather is not fit for a stray dog."
She paused, her hand on the doorjamb, and flashed him her dazzling, daring grin. "I'm stronger than a stray dog," she said, and left.
That was no doubt true, he thought with a grin. Nonetheless… He took his car keys from a hook by the door and donned a light jacket, overtaking Lila as she gathered her wet clothes. "I insist," he said, smoothly taking her elbow with a smile. "You admired my car, and now you may ride in it." To forestall any
protests, he added, "I need you to be in good health this next week."
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
The car rumbled through the wet night like a sleek, big animal. Inside, in the lap of a comfortable seat, seduced by a Vivaldi violin concerto Samuel played on the stereo, Lila breathed a sigh of relief. She'd not anticipated the ride home on her bike with any joy—it would have meant hours in the bathtub and doing exercises before she could sleep. And Samuel had gracefully given her a way to accept his offer without wounding her pride.
"My father restores old cars," she offered. "His specialty is trucks, but I know he'd admire this."
"Thank you." He adjusted the tone on the stereo. "I've spent nearly two years on this. It was falling apart when I bought it."
"Have you done the work yourself?"
"You sound surprised, I think."
Lila smiled. "I am."
"It's a very satisfying hobby."
"Will you keep it?"
He glanced at her with a quizzical movement of his eyebrows. "Of course."
Lila nodded and turned her head to watch the scenery through the rain-streaked window. Samuel's cologne enveloped her, a musky, spicy scent that made her think of the caressing note his voice could take. "Turn left at the next intersection," she said.
The car, too, was sexy, inviting Lila to run her hands over its hard, polished lines. If cars reflected their drivers, what did this one say about its owner?
He liked luxury, but an old-world sort, nothing common. It was an assumption backed by the clothes that he wore—a hand-tailored shirt, quietly expensive, well-cut slacks, no jewelry. Only his hair, worn a bit long and brushed back from his forehead, broke his conservative appearance. Like the car, which was elegant and perfect but antique, there was a hint of the unusual about him. Lila couldn't quite get over her first impression of him as dangerous.
She studied him from the corner of her eye. With the night throwing dark shadows over the planes of his face, he seemed even more so. Maybe, she thought with an inner smile, it was just a stereotype her mind had filed away after dozens of newscasts of downed planes in far-away countries. Foolish, at best.
"I'm the next house on the right," she said, unzipping her bag to withdraw her keys.
It was a small house on the crest of a hill. He pulled the car in front of it, leaving the engine running.
"Thank you, Mr. Bashir," she said, her hand on the door.
"You may call me Samuel if you like," he said. His arm stretched along the back of the seat.
"All right. Samuel," she said, trying the word on her tongue. She looked at him, and for one quiet moment, a moment framed with violins and the patter of rain and the rumble of the big engine, Lila allowed herself a small wish—that a man like this might one day see her as a woman. For an instant it seemed he returned that wish, for he steadily returned her gaze without speaking. There was warmth in his face.
Abruptly he shifted, glancing toward the small house, and Lila saw the tiny points of her porch light reflected on the black surface of his irises.
"Good night," she said, and opened the door.
He waited until she was safely inside her house before turning the car around and heading back to his own place, a cold apartment with few personal touches. It was no different from any of the dozens he'd rented the past several years, none for more than a few months. Since he'd left his doctoral thesis unfinished five years before, his life had been filled with restlessness and wandering, a state of mind that was well suited to his position with Gold and Son.
Ordinarily his travels didn't disturb him. Tonight, though, he felt unsettled as he opened the long drapes hiding his view of Seattle.
He lit a cigarette, flipping his old-fashioned lighter closed as he inhaled deeply. A woman, he thought with a wry twist of his lips. No one who knew Samuel Bashir would believe a woman of any caliber could affect him over the course of a year, much less the course of a day.
And yet this one had. He couldn't even have said why, but a lingering sensation of excitement clung to the edges of his lungs, an excitement enlivened with curiosity and anticipation. Both had become rare in his life. Intuitively he knew neither was as rare as the woman. There was, beneath the gypsy, a woman of substance.
And that was rare, indeed.
The weather was no better the next morning as Lila loaded desserts into the car she borrowed from her friend Allen every Saturday and Wednesday. A heavy fog clung to the firs alongside her house and made circles of dewdrops in the curls of her hair. Very quickly those tresses became hopelessly frizzy in the wet air, and she yanked the mass into a ponytail. Cloaked in a heavy raincoat, she set off to make her deliveries.
As she had promised, she drove first to The Shell and Fin. The hour was early, and only Gerald was about in the kitchen. "Hello, sweetness," he called, shaking croutons onto trays before sliding them into the oven. "What's up?"
"Not much," she said, leaning against the stainless-steel counter. "I heard business was good last night."
Gerald poked out a fat lower lip. "Pretty good," he agreed. "Heard it was better afterhours."
"What?" Lila frowned. "I think you'd better clarify."
"I think you—" he tipped her nose with one finger "—oughta lighten up." He grinned. "You gotta fall in love someday, sweetness. He don't seem like such a bad guy."
Lila rolled her eyes and straightened. "Oh, please! You and Charlene are determined to marry me off to some rich fellow with a fancy car. I keep telling you I like cowboys."
Gerald winked and shrugged a little. "Well, anyway, he said to send you into the bar when you came. He's in there now."
"Thanks." Still shaking her head, she headed through the cavernous kitchen, through a swinging door that led into the lounge. She expected to find Samuel drinking coffee at the teak-and-brass bar, reading the paper or planning schedules. It was what she would have been doing at this hour.
Instead, she found him behind the bar, his sleeves rolled up, his hair untidy over his brow, rearranging bottles in a cooler. As she came through the door, he cursed and sent a half-empty bottle flying into the trash.
Spying Lila, he straightened and said conversationally, "The bartender was the first one I fired. He served me the worst glass of wine I've ever had, right out of this cooler."
His accent struck her again. "Where are you from, Samuel?"
"Good morning to you, too," he answered. But his face folded into a semblance of a smile as he carelessly tossed hair from his forehead. "Where do you think?"
What she thought was that it was ridiculous to get worked up over the way he said his words, as if she were some silly schoolgirl falling in love with a foreign film star. But she said, "I can't decide. I thought it was France at first, but there's more to it than that."
"Good ear." He wiped his hands on a clean bar towel. "The desserts? You have them?"
She looked at him for a moment, then folded her arms. "Yes," she said, turning to lead the way outside.
Samuel chose a peach tart, a plain cheesecake and a filled torte. As the array of sweets was lined up on racks inside the cooler, he smiled at Lila. "Beautiful work you do. Beautiful."
"Thank you," she replied, warmed.
"Perhaps I'll have a chance to sample one of them this evening." He eyed the torte. "Is that hazelnut?"
"Yes. One of my best recipes, if I do say so myself."
"I shall make a point of it, then."
She followed him once again to his small, windowed office. Standing by the door while he wrote a check for the desserts, Lila looked at the continuing gray beyond the glass, a fog so thick it was impossible to see more than ten feet. "Lunch will be slow," she commented, walking over to the window for a wider view.
"Yes," he replied, distracted.
It was cold next to the window. Crossing her arms, she turned restlessly away. On the wall was a picture of Einstein, a black-and-white likeness showing the famous scientist hard at work over
a desk. Lila cocked her head. "Intriguing photo," she commented.
Samuel tore her check from the book and flipped it closed, his eyes flickering up to the picture. "Yes."
"Odd choice for an office wall, isn't it?"
"Is it?" He stood up. Again Lila noted he was not particularly tall, but his carriage gave his average height several inches in the imagination. And again, she thought, he'd sidestepped her question.
"Yes, it is," she replied. "I'll call you later this week about the reception."
He inclined his head in a half nod. "Fine."
Lila shouldered her bag. "Thank you," she said, her voice matching his cool tones.
"Drive carefully," he replied.
As she closed the door behind her, he was already engrossed in paperwork. She tried not to mind, but as she traveled through her day, she found her mind tripping over him now and then.
When her deliveries had been completed, Lila returned the car to Allen and took the bus to the used-car lot he had recommended. In the lot she circled several models that fell into her general needs—something fairly small, fairly new and fairly economical.
A salesman in a raincoat materialized almost immediately. "What can I help you with today?"
"I'm here to buy a car," she said, crouching to look in the windows of a station wagon. Clean, she noted, and not the kind of hasty clean that was given cars when they came on the lot. The grooves in the vinyl showed no build-up of grime, and the acrylic cover of the speedometer was sparkling. "Tell me about this one," she invited.
As the salesman outlined the special points, Lila continued to circle the car, running hands over door panels, bending to examine wheel rims. Finally she lifted the hood and began poking around the engine. She cut the salesman off in midsentence. "I want to drive it," she said.
"What? Oh, great. Climb right in. I'll get the key." He hurried off toward the office.
Behind the wheel Lila settled in the driver seat, checking the angle of her back in the seat, the way her hands fit on the steering wheel. When the car managed as well as it looked and made none of the telltale sounds she'd been taught to recognize, she smiled in satisfaction. "I'll take it," she said, pulling back into the car lot.
