“It fell off the dresser.”
“How’d that happen?”
“I fell against the dresser first, then the bowl fell second.” That was the problem with being trained as an engineer. He had to explain everything in sequence. Why couldn’t he have cut his head like Marco? Then he’d be getting some sympathy over his wound instead of a strange look.
Kate handed him the plate. “There’s a broom in the closet at the end of the hall. I’ll go get it.” She was gone before he could explain further. Which was a good thing. If asked why he’d fallen against the dresser, he didn’t want to admit he was slugging the air.
Kate reemerged with a broom and dustpan. With more clattering and clanging than when he’d broken the bowl, she seemed to fight the broken pieces rather than sweep them up. After some muttered curses, a few of which he found quite inventive, she finally swept up the mess and scooped it into a small trash can.
Kate, her face flushed, walked back to the door with an air of triumph. “I swept it all up,” she announced, her voice infused with pride.
Not only did she have a thing for blowing up things, she seemed to have a thing for sweeping up things, too. “Yes,” he agreed, keeping his voice purposefully even. “Yes, you did, indeed.”
Kate blinked. “I never learned to tat or whatever like Melanie, but when I put my mind to it, I can clean—” Kate gestured awkwardly toward the plate “—and cook.”
Maybe Kate was saying she could do these things, but her hesitant tone told Toby otherwise. “Well, thanks…I’m going to call it a day. Hit the sack.” He forced a smile and started to close the door.
“Aren’t you going to eat first?” she asked, looking anxiously at the plate.
“Eat?” He looked down. “What is it?”
“It’s a sandwich.”
“Did you drop it?”
“No,” she said tightly, “I didn’t drop it. I made it.” When he continued to stare at the plate’s contents, Kate said defensively, “It’s a turkey and cheese sandwich.”
The description helped. “Thanks,” he said, studying her downcast expression. He’d never seen someone take a mistaken sandwich so personally. “Sorry I disturbed your mother,” he added, swerving the sandwich conversation to another topic. “She came down here to check on me. I think the, uh, bowl-breaking incident was a little loud.”
An annoyed look flickered across Kate’s face. “Did she check the room’s tassels, as well?” Before Toby could assimilate whatever that was supposed to mean, Kate sighed heavily and said, “She’s run away from home, too. Except she brought her entire wardrobe with her.”
“Maybe I could borrow one of her housedresses,” Toby said, almost meaning it.
One corner of Kate’s mouth quirked upward, giving her an impish look. “The pink-flowered one or the yellow-flowered one?”
“Yellow. Pink isn’t my color.”
Kate laughed softly, a warm, bubbling sound that lightened the moment. And his perception of her. “Good choice,” she said, her gaze darting down, then back up. “Yellow goes nicely with red.”
Before he had the wherewithal to answer, Kate had disappeared down the shadowed hall, leaving Toby holding a plate of mishmashed feelings.
2
KATE STUMBLED INTO THE KITCHEN and squinted at the wall clock, a Captain Hook clock with the captain as the big hand being chased by the crocodile, the little hand. Together the hands showed six forty-five. “Show me the coffee,” she mumbled groggily, rubbing her eyes.
“My daughter hasn’t changed a bit,” Melanie told Verna, energetically stirring something in a bowl. “Rolls outta bed at the last minute ’cause she’s stayed up till the wee hours, watching those old movies on video.” In a surprised undertone, she murmured, “Or usually she’s bleary-eyed from watching those videos.” Raising her voice, Melanie continued, “Verna, darlin’, I hope you make my child eat a decent breakfast. Otherwise, she’d blast through the rest of the day, fueled only by large quantities of caffeine.”
Strands of Verna’s ash-blond hair glinted in morning light that streamed through the kitchen window. Busily spooning strawberry preserves from a kitchen jar into serving dishes, Verna started to respond when Kate interrupted.
“Child?” She swiped her finger along the edge of the jar. “I’m thirty-three, Melanie. A grown woman.” She sucked the jam off her finger, leaving a smudge of it on the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, I’ve noticed all right,” Melanie said softly, stopping her bowl-beating duties long enough to dab at the corner of Kate’s mouth with her apron before returning to her culinary task. “I also noticed you have a hankerin’ for cavorting in the midnight hours with naked men.”
Verna dropped her spoon. It clattered across the linoleum floor.
Ignoring the commotion, Kate ambled over to the coffeepot and sloshed some of the hot black liquid into her favorite mug—a ceramic cup decorated with fat, yellow cats. Verna, picking up the spoon, flashed Kate a what’s-this-about-naked-men? look. Kate rolled her eyes, which in girlfriend sign language meant, I’ll spill later.
At the tail end of the eye roll, Kate’s gaze landed on her mother. “What’re you making, Mel?”
“It’s bad enough you call me Melanie,” her mother answered peevishly. “But Mel? Please! You make me sound like a bartender at some seedy tavern.” Beat-beat-beat. “I’m making my brownies for this evening’s treats.”
Beaufort’s Best Brownies. A prize Melanie Corrigan had won three years in a row. As Kate stirred cream into her coffee, she took a moment to peruse Beaufort’s Best Brownies’ maker.
Melanie always looked as though she’d just stepped out of 1960, the year she married her high school sweetheart, Max. Kate often thought her mother had gotten trapped in a time warp back then, trapped in some kind of perfect homemaker time capsule.
Everything about her mother was perfect. Her makeup, her cooking, her cleaning, even the way she ironed her husband’s handkerchiefs and folded them into perfect triangles. Kate tugged on a strand of her tousled hair. Even her mother’s hair was perfect. A perennially curly, auburn bouffant with two matching curls at her temples that always reminded Kate of quotation marks, framing some unspoken thought in Melanie’s mind.
It had been hard growing up, competing with perfection. At an early age, Kate stopped competing. Instead of baking cookies, she learned how to tune a carburetor. Instead of polishing furniture, she fixed the plumbing. Skills that came in handy running an inn. Combined with her summers working at hotel resorts, she also knew how to hire a competent staff, manage the books, arrange tours. Her bed-and-breakfast had grown so successful, she was now toying with the idea of expanding by opening a restaurant.
Feeling better about her own successes, Kate grabbed her coffee cup and shuffled to the butcher-block table in the middle of the kitchen. Perching on a wooden stool, Kate asked, “What’re we serving this morning, Verna?”
“Eggs olé. Scrambled eggs with onion and avocado. Salsa on the side. And your mother made whipping-cream biscuits. From scratch!” The admiration in Verna’s voice was unmistakable.
The two of them were kitchen-bonding again. Just as they had during Melanie’s visit two years ago. Whereas Verna was experimental with her cooking, throwing in a sprig of this or a dollop of that, Melanie was steadfastly traditional, adhering to recipes with a ritualistic fervor. Yet despite their different approaches, Verna and Melanie were like a culinary yin and yang. They inspired and balanced each other, oohing and aahing over their cooking coups.
Kate had always wished she could kitchen-bond with her mother. Heck, just bond. “Who’s getting room service?” She always delivered the breakfasts upstairs while Verna served guests who preferred the dining room. In between, they’d eat their own breakfasts at the butcher-block table while swapping stories and gossip.
Verna checked the list tacked on the corkboard next to the fridge. “Let’s see, The Pirate wants to eat in the dining room, nine o’clock. The Wild One wants roo
m service at seven.”
“I bet he does after that wild brawl in his room last night!” Melanie exclaimed, her batter-beating tempo increasing until it sounded like the rapid fwap-fwap-fwap of helicopter blades.
Fearful her mother might fwap out of control, Kate explained calmly, “The Wild One is the room next to Pollyanna, remember?” The room filled with the many dolls Melanie bought me but I never played with. She looked back at Verna. “We had a late check-in last night. He’s in Kismet, and he also wants room service at seven.” Ignoring her mother’s cough, Kate slugged down another sip of coffee. “I’ll get The Wild One’s up to him and then—”
“Dressed like that?” Melanie said, one penciled-in eyebrow arching in a perfect loop. At least she’d stopped fwapping.
Kate looked down at her jeans, navy sandals, sapphire silk blouse, and macramé vest. “What’s wrong? Except for the vest, everything matches.”
“You look like a hippie.”
“Melanie,” Kate said irritably, “no one uses the word ‘hippie’ anymore. This is my very own, comfy Kate Corrigan style.”
Her mother’s nostrils flared slightly. “I told Max we should have waited.”
“Should have waited?” Verna prodded, stacking squares of butter next to the preserves.
“Waited until ’68,” Kate explained, “rather than having me in ’67—” she dropped her voice dramatically low “—the summer of love.” To Melanie, her child being born in that fateful summer made Kate a renegade, someone who ran off to San Francisco, the summer-of-love city, and did what no Corrigan woman had ever done before—opened her own business.
“Like I said,” Melanie continued, “I’d tell Max again, but I’m not talkin’ to him right now.”
Which was the only explanation Melanie had yet given on why she’d run away from home. Kate seriously doubted Max had been caught with another woman—almost forty years of marriage and he was still crazy about her mother. He’d probably committed the mortal sin of wearing plaid with checks, or a mismatched vest with one of his golf shirts.
Melanie pulled off her apron. “I’ll deliver the breakfast to the wild room,” she said in a tone that left nothing for discussion. “You finish your coffee.”
Kate suppressed a sigh. She never contradicted her mother’s dictums—directly, anyway. She’d learned long ago it was easier simply to let Melanie take control and do what she thought best. Unfortunately, Kate hadn’t learned to confront anything or anybody else, either. That’s where she had her own yin and yang relationship with Verna, who would call or talk to someone Kate didn’t want to face.
Melanie set the prearranged plates—each adorned with a sprig of parsley, a wedge of orange, and two biscuits—on a tray. She added napkins and utensils and one of the dishes of butter and jam.
“Ready, Verna,” Melanie said as though the two of them had been doing this for years. On cue, Verna spooned eggs olé into the center of the plates. With a satisfied smile, Melanie then sailed out of the room, carrying the tray as though it were an offering to the food goddess Betty Crocker herself.
As the kitchen door creaked shut, Kate murmured, “She’s taking over my job.”
Verna chuckled. “Don’t be silly.”
“I know.” Kate stared glumly at one of the fat cats on her coffee mug. It, unlike her, looked blissfully happy. “But around Melanie, carrying the trays upstairs feels like the one thing I can do well.”
“You do that lip-synching act pretty well, too.”
Verna had caught Kate on multiple occasions doing her thing to one of The Supremes’ Motown tunes. “Thanks. But I excel at carrying and serving breakfasts and now, thanks to Melanie’s surprise visit, I’ve lost the opportunity to savor that singularly spectacular accomplishment.”
“Now, now,” Verna chided. “You do this every time your mother visits.”
“Get dramatic?”
“You do that whether she’s here or not.”
“I regress,” Kate admitted. “How old am I this time?”
“About thirteen.”
Kate nodded. Thirteen felt about right. That was the year her mother not only sewed her cousin’s wedding dress, but also hand-stitched hundreds of seed pearls on it. That same year Kate, for her Home Ec class, hand-sewed a pot holder, pricking herself more than the material. Her teacher commented the pot holder had more blood spots than a Civil War battlefield. “I don’t know why I feel I have to compete with the homemaker of the universe,” Kate said dejectedly.
“This isn’t a competition,” Verna said, decorating a plate with parsley and orange. “This is simply a friendly visit from your mother—”
“Who’s mysteriously run away from home,” Kate interrupted. “What if she never leaves? I’ll be condemned to homemaker hell.”
“Even in homemaker hell, I’ll make sure you get to deliver some trays to the rooms,” Verna said in the soothing voice she adopted whenever Kate veered toward the overly dramatic. Verna was only four years older, but she’d experienced things Kate hadn’t—marriage, children and, sadly, widowhood. Verna had just lost her husband when she started working at the inn five years ago. Verna had immediately proved to be hardworking, but had been quiet at first. Eventually she eased out of her shell and the two women shared their love of North Beach, food and stories—the latter provided endlessly by the inn with its constantly changing guest list.
“Being a mother myself,” Verna said, “I have a sixth sense that your mom’s visit isn’t just about leaving Max. I think it’s also about being with you. Maybe, just as she needs to mend things with Max, she needs to do the same with you.”
“She could start by letting me serve the breakfast trays,” Kate said.
Verna smiled indulgently. “You can serve this next tray to Kismet.”
“Better load more olé on that plate then, ’cause it’s Kismet Melanie caught me cavorting naked with.”
Verna, her spatula held midair, turned her gray eyes on Kate. “You?”
“What? You don’t think I occasionally do a naked cavort or two around the inn?”
Verna blinked as though trying to see Kate clearly. “No. You’re the type to maybe jog around the inn, or deliver breakfast around the inn, but cavort naked in the midnight hours with strange men?” She shook her head adamantly. “No way. Nada. Never. What’s the real story?”
Kate pouted. “I feel a little hurt that you don’t believe I have a seedy, tawdry other life.”
“My dear, I hate to disappoint you, but you’re about as seedy as Pollyanna.”
Kate planted the back of her hand against her forehead. “Oh, dredge up the bitter past.” Seven years ago, when Kate was in the midst of decorating the inn, her mother had visited and promptly had a full-blown Southern-mother fit. People would swear the inn was a brothel, she raved, with rooms named “Kismet,” “Gone With the Wind,” and “The Pirate.” Well, one was formerly named Gone With the Wind—now it was The Wild One. But at that time, when Melanie proceeded to faint in the all-red Kismet, Kate gave in and named the fourth room Pollyanna.
Her mother had instantly revived. She’d even made a pecan pie to celebrate.
“The real story,” Kate continued, lowering her hand, “is that Toby Mancini showed up on the doorstep at midnight, wearing nothing but a pair of the sexiest red Calvin Kleins you ever laid your baby grays on.”
“Toby Mancini? The next-door neighbor?” Verna stared out the kitchen window as though envisioning the meeting. “Boxers or briefs?”
“Briefs. Very, very brief.”
Verna squinted, as though visualizing just how brief. In a rush of movement, she suddenly scooped a heaping mound of steaming eggs olé onto a plate. “Take this up there now, while your mother is busy telling biscuit stories to The Wild One. You know,” Verna said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “out the kitchen window this morning, I saw Free—dressed in one of her bead outfits—with a new man. Figured Toby was out of town again.” Verna pointed the spatula at Kate’s blouse
, “Unbutton your top button.”
Kate blinked. “Why?”
“Time to show a little flesh.”
“Verna, I think the heat from the oven is getting to you.”
“Take a flying leap. Go for the gold. Unbutton your button.”
Kate gave her friend a double take. “I’m not sure what worries me more—you spouting clichés or your sudden button fetish.”
Verna fisted her hands on her hips. “I’ve seen you go through several men, all wrong, wrong, wrong for you.”
“Go through several men? You make me sound wanton and depraved.”
“Okay, two men in four years. But both bad choices. It’s time for you to go for the real thing. Make a pass at Toby.”
Kate blinked again. “Pass? You seem conveniently to forget he lives with Free—”
“Whom we all know is too free. That man deserves someone trustworthy, frugal, good with tools.”
“You make me sound like a cross between Scrooge and Ms. Tool Time.”
“Did I forget to add that you’re cute, too?” Verna added, tucking a strand of Kate’s wayward hair behind her ear. “If Meg Ryan had dark hair, you could be her twin.”
It was hard to force a frown while grinning, but Kate gave it her best shot. “Okay, I’m flattered. But since when have you been one to give such effusive compliments—” She stopped short. “Oh, I get it. You’re playing matchmaker. I thought you’d decided to leave that to me after trying to set up the bakery guy with that woman.”
“How was I to know he was gay?”
“Or after setting up that couple who had so much in common—came from the same city, had kids the same age.”
“I didn’t know they’d just gotten divorced,” Verna murmured.
Kate paused. “You’re my best friend, and a dynamite breakfast chef for Beau’s Bed-and-Breakfast. But I don’t think you’re all that suited to be a matchmaker as well.” Kate winked. “That is my role around here.”
“Okay, so maybe I set up a gay man with a woman, and accidentally tried to reunite two recently divorced people. But as your best pal, I am well aware of your thing for pirates. And that Toby Mancini is a pirate in the rough if I ever saw one. Plus, Kate, it’s time someone clued you in that brisk walks to Fisherman’s Wharf and treks to Caffé Trieste for almond-flavored lattes do not constitute a real social life.” Verna handed the breakfast tray to Kate. With both of Kate’s hands clutching the tray, Verna leaned over and popped open the top button of Kate’s blouse.
In Bed with the Wild One & In Bed with the Pirate Page 17
