Taste for Trouble (Blake Brothers Trilogy)

by Sey, Susan

  He pressed his lips lightly to hers, a sweet, uncomplicated touch that had the tears spilling over. “I believe you.”

  She gawked at him in wonder, because he did. He absolutely believed her. It radiated from him like heat from her ovens on baking day, and it touched something inside her, thawed some distant corner of her heart that had been frozen so long she’d forgotten what it was like to feel anything there.

  She smiled at him. It was a little off-center but not bad for a girl who really wanted to bury her face in his shirt and weep for the next hour or so. But she didn’t have time for that. Thanksgiving was only three days away and she had a miracle to perform.

  “Now,” he said, eyeing her mouth with a purposeful light in his eye, “tell me about complicated. Before I forget to be interested and try to talk you into other things.”

  Bel felt the corner of her mouth quirk up in spite of the press of sorrow on her heart. “Other things?”

  “Like the pleasures of making love indoors, on clean sheets. Hell, on a mattress rather than a foot wide strip of marble.”

  “You have a problem with al fresco?” Bel asked, willing to be distracted.

  “Hell, no. But I do like my variety and I’ve been making a list.”

  “A list.” Bel eyed him, intrigued.

  James shook his head and climbed to his feet. “Nope. First, we talk about complicated. Then you can see the list.” He held out a hand for her and she sighed but allowed him to pull her up. God, she didn’t want to do this.

  “Sit,” she said and pointed her chin at a kitchen stool. She ran her eyes over his frame with a weird combination of worry and lust. “You haven’t been eating right while I’ve been away. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

  He scooped her into his arms and regarded her with delighted eyes. “Bel. Darling. Light of my life. I hesitate to ask because it seems presumptuous and rude, and your answer in no way affects my desire to love you for the rest of your life, but...are you offering to feed me?”

  She frowned up at him. “No, I thought we could ride bikes. Of course I’m offering to feed you.”

  He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “I love you.”

  She blinked away the spinny after-effects of that kiss. “You’re just saying that because I have groceries.”

  He grinned at her. “Honey. Groceries are part of who you are. I couldn’t love you if I didn’t love your sixteen teeny-tiny bottles of mustard, too.”

  “Mustard that’s going to make you one kick-ass club sandwich on rustic sourdough with a side of baby field greens dressed with a balsamic-walnut oil vinaigrette.”

  “Did I complain? I did not. I love your mustard.” He released her and plunked himself on the stool. “Get to work, woman. And tell me about complicated while you’re at it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The next morning Bel walked into Hunt House through the open French doors in the rear just as she had nearly every morning of the past three years. Used to be that she’d scurry along the garden path from the Dower House without even seeing it, her head stuffed with to-do lists, her hands full of recipes, her heart a deliberate numbness inside her. But today was different.

  Today, she walked slowly, her head clear, her heart alive with worry and grief and joy, and her hand tucked safely into James’.

  A green light blinked in the hallway outside the kitchen and Bel said, “They’re not taping. I should go in.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “No.” But nerves had her rubbing a palm down the seam of her jeans. “I think I should do this alone.”

  He nodded, then tipped up her chin with a thumb. He pressed his lips to hers, warm and solid and certain. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll be sitting right here.” He eyed the concerningly frail antique bench beside them, sighed deeply and put his shoulder blades to the wall. “I’ll be standing right here.”

  “Right. Okay. Good.” She kissed him back, put all her love and gratitude into it. “Here I go, then.”

  He gave her bottom a companionable pat, then she turned and marched grimly toward the kitchen.

  She checked the light to make sure the cameras hadn’t started rolling—nope, still green—then slipped through the door. Habit had her stepping carefully over the thick cables that snaked across the floor, then she squinted toward the enormous island counter broiling under the glare of a dozen or more canister lights.

  Kate was there in a pristine white oxford and a pretty bib apron, her hair gleaming, her makeup perfect and camera-ready. She frowned down at a huge raw turkey in front of her while a kitchen tech grabbed the drumsticks and demonstrated how to poke her hand down into the cavity at the best angle for the camera. Bel half smiled at Kate’s expression of mild disgust. The kitchen had never been Kate’s favorite part of the show—she was more of a gardener than a cook—and Bel knew she was weighing whether or not she could get away with using gloves to dig out the bag of giblets.

  A quick pinch of sorrow surprised Bel. She’d spent the past few weeks forcing herself to grieve for this, for the old dream. Forcing herself to let it go so she could build a new dream, a new vision for her life, for success. She thought she’d prepared herself, thought she could walk onto this set without regret, ready to say what she needed to say to Kate and move into that future she’d worked so hard to envision.

  But somehow it still hurt. It still hurt that she would never do this job she’d loved for so long. A new generation of women was at this very moment struggling to find meaning in the work of making a home and feeding their families. Or at the very least, they were struggling with an enormous raw turkey. They needed help, and Bel had been so proud to be the one they turned to.

  Kate looked up, saw Bel there and scowled. Actually scowled. Bel sighed and bid her final farewell to the old dream. She would not be assuming the role of Kate 2.0, not now, not ever. Not while Kate was alive, kicking, and actively against the plan.

  Bel threaded her way through the maze of cameras and staffers until she landed at Kate’s elbow. “Hi, Kate,” she said.

  “Belinda.” Kate betrayed not an ounce of surprise, only inclined her head with her usual frosty good manners.

  Bel nodded at the turkey. “Ambitious,” she said. “That’s got to be a twenty-five pounder. You’ll roast breast-down for the first hour, I hope?”

  Kate lifted her chin. “Please tell me you’re not here to discuss recipes.”

  “No. But I do need to talk with you.”

  “Oh, dear.” She offered a thin smile. “I worried this might happen. Please, Belinda. Let’s avoid an ugly scene. My judgment on the matter of your employment is final.”

  “Your judgment blows,” Bel said. “That’s part of why I quit, if you’ll recall.” She returned the smile in the spirit in which it was intended. “But I’m not here to talk about my employment. I need to talk to you about something else.”

  “What else could we possibly have to talk about?”

  “Bob.”

  Kate’s lids twitched faintly, as if suppressing a flinch. “Bob.” She gave a delicate sniff and turned her attention toward the massive, naked bird in front of her. “What, is he back from vacation? Did retirement not suit him? Is he hoping to reconnect with some old, lucrative clients? Because if that’s why you’re here, you can just—”

  “He’s dying, Kate.”

  She blinked, her face perfectly devoid of emotion. “Excuse me?”

  “Pancreatic cancer,” Bel said. She forced the words out past the gummy lump of rage and grief in her throat. “He’s been in treatment off and on for the past year, everything from chemo to weird dietary stuff. He finally ran out of options.”

  “Ran out of options?” Kate echoed the words, her voice crisp and precise as always. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that he decided to sell his agency and go see the pyramids, the rainforest, the south of France. Machu Pichu. You know.” She circled an encompassing hand. “The stuff you
don’t do until the clock starts winding down.”

  “Machu Pichu.” Kate’s face was utterly blank.

  “Right. I surmised he intended to do those things, see those sights with you. Then you used the Fox Hunt Ball to make very clear that such wasn’t the nature of your relationship going forward. You wiped out my future plans with the same well-placed stroke.” She smiled coldly. “You always were a good multitasker. Inviting Vivi was inspired.”

  Kate canted a single brow. “Your point, Belinda?”

  Bel stared. Didn’t this woman feel anything? Her lover of the past twenty years was dying and the best she could do was mild impatience? Suddenly Bel was glad she’d never be Kate 2.0. No, screw glad. She was delighted and relieved. Nobody should grow up to be...this.

  “He hired me on as a personal assistant,” she went on with careful precision. “To take care of his travel arrangements, keep track of his meds, cook when he wanted to eat in, accompany him when he wanted to eat out. Nothing demanding, just general Girl Friday stuff. He didn’t need me. Just wanted the company, I think. He hadn’t planned to travel alone, you understand.”

  Kate did flinch at that, and Bel felt only a savage sort of joy. Finally. Bob deserved at least that. He deserved a hell of a lot more, actually. Kate’s flinch was just the start of what she owed him. “We didn’t even get through the first stop—an African safari, if you were wondering—before his kidneys went.”

  “Kidneys?” Kate’s lips were white, pinched.

  “Yeah. Then the liver. It’s all of a piece when it comes to pancreatic cancer. I told him we should have started with the south of France.” She shook her head. “He thought it would be his favorite, though, and I guess he didn’t want to peak too soon.” She lifted a shoulder. “I offered to make it happen anyway—there are excellent end of life facilities there—but he wanted to die at home. So I brought him home.”

  Kate’s eyes flared with panic. “Here?” A hand crept to the pearls at her throat and she glanced at the ceiling, as if Bel had managed to stash Bob in the attic while she wasn’t looking. “He’s here?”

  “What, in Hunt House? Hell, no. This isn’t his home. You’re not his family. He offered you that job and you turned it down, remember? In favor of—” She cast a scornful gaze around the kitchen that produced for the cameras and nobody else. “—this ridiculous sham of a life. Crappy choice, you ask me, but that’s as may be. No, Bob’s my family now. I brought him home with me.”

  “Oh, dear. This is awkward.” Kate smiled politely but something furious and malicious flickered in her eyes. “I’m afraid your home is no longer yours, Belinda. You see, Vivi needed a place to stay and the Dower House was standing empty—”

  Bel gave a short bark of laughter. “My God, you’re amazing. I have to assume you think that’s some kind of blow to me?” She tipped her head and gave Kate a searching look. “You do. Lord have mercy.” She shook her head. “Oh, Kate. The Dower House is beautiful and I loved it there. But it’s not my home. It never was. It belongs to you and you’re free to do whatever the hell you want with it.” She smiled fiercely. “My home is the other direction. I live at the Annex now, with James and his insane brothers and his housekeeper—”

  Kate’s lip curled. “The stripper?”

  “—and that precious little girl who came with her.” She folded her arms and gave Kate some good, solid eye contact. “And Bob. Make no mistake about it, Kate. I’m Bob’s family now. He believed in me when I had nothing. Thanks to him, I have plenty now. A decent savings, a nice résumé and a whole boat-load of love and gratitude for the guy who saw something in me that nobody else ever did. I owe him for that. More than I can ever repay, and that’s the only reason I’m here.”

  “How is being radically unpleasant to me a favor to Bob?”

  “Oh, the unpleasantries aren’t from Bob. They’re from me. The invitation is from Bob.”

  “What invitation?”

  “Didn’t I mention? Bob’s proceeding with his death a little non-traditionally. He wants his will read while he’s still around to hear it. And he wants you to hear it, too.” She smiled coldly. “Ford will be doing the honors tonight at the Annex.”

  Kate stared. “Pardon me?”

  “Tonight. Will reading. Six o’clock. And you’ll want to be punctual. Bob doesn’t have time to waste these days.” Bel turned her back on her old boss, her old job, her old dream and walked out the door.

  Bob’s room in the Annex was right across the hall from Bel’s. If she left her door open, she could see his bed from her own. She hadn’t gone so far as to set up a formal sitting schedule but somehow Bob was rarely alone. And by six that night, he’d packed in a crowd.

  Bel sat in the recliner James and Drew had hauled from their common room to Bob’s bedside, pie recipes spread across her lap, James sprawled at her feet. Drew had dragged in some folding chairs for himself and Audrey, and a bean bag chair for Jillian. The girl curled up in it like a cat and read while Ford opened his attaché case at the foot of Bob’s bed.

  Kate appeared at precisely the stroke of six. She stopped in the door jamb, her face white, her eyes stricken. She stared at Bob. At the hospital bed, the morphine drip, and the small army of beeping machines that tethered him to this world. That fierce joy surged through Bel again. Good. She wanted Kate to hurt. To hurt like Bel was hurting. To hurt more. But that vindictive joy was laced with pity. With empathy. Bel knew how easily selfishness and fear could put love on the ropes. She and James had come perilously close to going down that road themselves.

  James leapt to his feet like the southern gentleman he was and Bel followed suit. She gathered her recipes and silently offered Kate her chair. Kate glided across the room and sank into the battered old recliner. Bob smiled faintly and stretched out a hand. Kate took it between both her own, though her face could have been carved from marble.

  Bob closed his eyes and nodded to Ford, who cleared his throat, and intoned some barely comprehensible lawyer-speak for a few minutes. Finally he said, “It is Bob’s wish that I now read to you the following, which he himself wrote and I witnessed one week ago.”

  He adjusted his reading glasses, cleared his throat again and began reading from a single sheet of paper.

  “I, Robert Daniel Beck, being of sound mind and shitty health do hereby ask that Belinda West be named the executor of my estate, such as it is. As my defacto family—and the daughter of my heart—I hope she won’t mind taking on this one last task of sorting through what I’ve accumulated in my life, giving away what others might need and keeping whatever speaks to her for herself. Aside from those items which I will now detail, I leave her everything, including my love and thanks for her astounding generosity of spirit. I also bequeath James a swift kick in the ass if he doesn’t pony up a ring ASAP. A nice big one, as I know what he gets paid.”

  Bel managed a watery laugh. James twined his fingers through hers and she leaned into his shoulder.

  Ford read on. “I leave my agency, my client list, and all accounts, events, agreements, licenses, etc., attached to it to William Yeats Blake.”

  Audrey leaned around Drew and gave James big eyes. “Yeats?”

  “Mom liked her poets.” James smiled. “Just ask Andrew Shelley Blake beside you.”

  Drew flipped him a lazy middle finger. Even Bob smiled.

  “Like the previously negotiated and now voided sale before it,” Ford continued, “this gift is contingent upon Will’s successful completion of the in-patient rehab program to which Bel sentenced him. The gift also assumes that he will apply his lazy ass for once. Because I swear on all that’s holy that if he drives my life’s work into the ground I’ll haunt him for eternity.”

  Drew grinned. “Fun. I’ll let him know.”

  Ford consulted the paper. “Also, tell him to get a damn good administrative assistant and pay her double what he thinks she deserves. Trust me.”

  Audrey considered that. “I’ll round up a pool of candidates and start in
terviews this week.”

  Drew gave her a startled look. “You want to help Will?”

  She shrugged innocently. “If by help you mean hiring him a schedule Nazi with ideas about healthy eating and an iron-clad five year employment contract before he busts out of rehab, then yes.” She gave a happy sigh. “I want to help Will.”

  “Audrey, that’s terrible.” He grinned brilliantly. “Are you sure you don’t want to marry me?”

  “I’m sure.” She patted his knee. “Please stop asking.”

  “Hell, no. One day you might say yes.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” But her lips twitched.

  Ford waited for Drew and Audrey to refocus, then said, “And last, for my beautiful, stubborn, terrified Kate.”

  Bel turned to look at Kate, but the woman didn’t so much as blink.

  “To Kate, I leave the ragtag bunch of idiots sitting around you right now. They’ll be your family if you’ll let them. Start with Thanksgiving. I told Bel not to serve unless you’re here, so don’t be late.”

  James shot Bel a really? face. She shrugged.

  “Three o’clock,” she told Kate. “You could bring a bottle of wine. Red would be nice.”

  Kate gave one small nod but otherwise stayed still and composed, her eyes fixed on Ford who read on.