In Too Deep

by Janelle Taylor

  “Too late.” Jenny grinned, and she called out, “Hey, there,” to the rotund restaurateur as Carolyn threw her hands in the air, then returned to fetch another order.

  “Bella!” Alberto cried, stretching out his arms to Jenny, greeting her as effusively as ever.

  Dodging his flour-dusted arms and apron, thinking of her black sweater and skirt, Jenny waved him off. “Don’t you dare,” she chided. “I can’t afford the cleaning bill.”

  “Then I will kiss you from here,” he declared, smacking the tips of his fingers.

  Jenny chuckled. Alberto was the grandson of the original Riccardo, first proprietor of the popular Houston restaurant. Five years earlier, when Jenny had come in looking for work, Alberto turned his gaze to the heavens and declared that his prayers had been answered. “You are my daughter,” he’d cried joyously, embracing her as if she were indeed some long-lost child who’d finally come home. Bewildered by his unexpected enthusiasm, she had simply stared, wondering what on earth possessed the man.

  “Bella!” he had declared. “You are a gift! A godsend! I was praying just for you!”

  Jenny remembered wondering if that were some strange come-on line. “You were?”

  “Ah, yes. And here you are! God has looked down at his poor Alberto and said, ‘You work hard, and you deserve something beautiful.’ And here you are.”

  She had quickly learned that Alberto was effusive in every way. He was loving and generous—and exacting and tyrannical, at least when it came to Riccardo’s cuisine.

  Now, as Jenny disappeared into her tiny office, she smiled to herself. She felt like his daughter. He’d certainly been more of a loving father to her than her own had ever been. But when she’d broken the news that she planned to move to Santa Fe and start her own restaurant, Geneva’s, Alberto had tried to stop her. Wringing his hands, he’d begged, “Stay with me. Be my partner! We could expand. Don’t leave!”

  “I’m sorry, Alberto,” she’d said gently. “But it’s time for me to leave Houston. Find a new life.”

  “What kind of food? What will you do?”

  “I plan to go southwestern,” she’d replied. Compete with my father…

  Jenny still wasn’t sure her decision had been all that wise. Her combative relationship with Allen Holloway hadn’t improved much over the years. She’d been happy to become Alberto’s protégée, and though she’d been around her father’s Rancho del Sol restaurants all her life, it was Alberto who’d really taught her the business. Accepting him as a mentor was the one good choice she’d made after a series of really bad ones. Her exhusband, Troy Russell, at the top of that particular list.

  But she wasn’t going to think about him now. She’d married Troy mostly to escape living with her father and his silly, anorexia-thin wife, Natalie. But at least that brief and unhappy union had given her one beautiful gift, her son Rawley. Rawley was all that mattered to her now, and she hoped her move to Santa Fe would benefit him as much as her. Alberto might bemoan her decision, but she knew it was the right choice.

  Her overbearing father might not approve of her move from Houston, but she didn’t care. She rarely saw him anyway. As warm and giving as Alberto was, her own father was cold and self-involved. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it, these days Jenny had as little to do with him as possible. Since her mother’s death, and Allen’s remarriage, Jenny was no longer daddy’s little girl. And she was no longer Troy’s obedient wife, either. She was a thirty-five-yearold divorcée and mother who was on the verge of great things.

  Glancing at the produce bill she’d nearly forgotten about, Jenny stuck her head outside her office. Spying her once again, Alberto cried, “Bella!” She laughed aloud. It was a routine that had developed into near farce; the surrounding chefs and waiters alike simply smiled at them.

  “I’ve about got this figured out,” Jenny told him, fingering the bill which she’d marked with questions and underlined in several places. The produce bill was invariably wrong. Not that the members of Gaines Produce had any intention of cheating Alberto; it was just that their company, also privately owned, was in a constant state of flux. Had Jenny been the one to make all the decisions she would have switched suppliers long ago, but Alberto was stubbornly attached to the Gaineses. Their friendship went way back. He put up with the inconveniences of their haphazard delivery and lack of inventory with a dismissive wave of his hand while Jenny was left to sort everything out. It was just one of the things Jenny planned to do better in her own restaurant.

  “Good, good.” Alberto’s eyes had strayed to the ribolita, a Tuscan stew that resembled Thanksgiving Day turkey stuffing more than anything else but tasted like heaven, in Jenny’s opinion. It was being prepared by the newest junior chef. Clucking his tongue, Alberto practically shoved him out of the way, ignoring the other chefs resentment as he yammered on about everything the inexperienced man had done wrong.

  Jenny winked at the others in the kitchen. Their expressions varied from sympathetic to satisfied—but all of them respected Alberto’s manic attention to detail. Either one learned, or one was let go. There was no compromise at Riccardo’s.

  Settling into her office chair once again, Jenny listened to the familiar squeak and groan of the beat-up old thing, her own addition to the cramped quarters. If she had to straighten out these financial messes, she was darn well going to be comfortable. Alberto couldn’t care less. Jenny was thorough and quick, and she knew what she was doing.

  It didn’t hurt that her background was in food service. She’d grown up in the restaurant business and the Rancho del Sol chain was one of the best. Allen Holloway might have been the brains and financial brawn behind its success, but young Jenny had been an apt pupil. He’d always planned to put her in charge or so he’d said. But then circumstances had changed everything and Jenny had stopped adoring her father.

  Carolyn blew into the kitchen again, on her way stopping at Jenny’s office door. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Did you check him out?”

  “Who?” Jenny was preoccupied with the week’s payroll.

  “The hottie! Good grief, my dear. You didn’t even look! Are you completely unaware of the male sex? What does it take to get your attention! If you don’t want him, turn him my way. Now, go. Right now!”

  “I…”

  But Carolyn was yanking on her arm, dragging Jenny from her chair and herding her through the kitchen to the main dining room beyond. “Go,” she urged. “And I can’t be doing this all the time, you know. I have work to do.”

  “What does he look like?” Jenny said. “Maybe I know him.”

  “Tall, dark, and handsome. It doesn’t get any better than this, honey.”

  Tall, dark and handsome. That was how she’d described Troy to her friends when she’d first met him. She’d been giddy with delight that this “older man” had fallen for her. Only later did she learn he’d fallen for her money. Later still that he possessed a sadistic side that bordered on criminal …

  She drew a deep breath. But Troy was out of her life now. Paid off by her father, a plan she’d disapproved of but had secretly been grateful for, especially when she learned that she was pregnant with Rawley. By the terms of her father’s agreement with him, Troy could never enter her life again. And one thing she knew for certain about her ex-husband was that he would never give up cold, hard cash for anything.

  “Jenny,” Carolyn said, looking peeved. “Go now and look. Go, go, go! I swear, if you miss him I’ll have a hysterical fit right here!”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Carolyn gave her a hard look.

  Jenny lifted her hands, in an I-give-up gesture and nodded vigorously. “Okay! Okay!”

  “All right, then.” Carolyn scurried back to her tables. For a moment Jenny simply stood where she was, enjoying the rich aromas of garlic and tomato and basil and onion, and the low hum of conversation, punctuated occasionally by a ripple of laughter. The vot
ives flickered. To her right, one of the waiters poured a deep red chianti into a glass for a white-haired gentleman to savor. Sensing Jenny’s gaze, the man lifted his glass appreciatively in a silent toast to her.

  Walking toward the archway to the smaller dining room, she slowed, apprehensive again. She didn’t want to confront some man who may or may not have been watching her. The whole idea made her uncomfortable. She’d been the object of male interest since she was a teenager. Her blue eyes, the unruly auburn locks now firmly held at her nape in a tortoiseshell clip, and her slim, athletic body had attracted many an admiring glance. But since her divorce, she rarely wore makeup, and her clothes were somber and businesslike. It didn’t take a psychotherapist to figure out the reason why: she didn’t want any man to be interested in her. Not any more.

  Still hesitating, she glanced inside. The stone walls were topped by cream-painted plaster and a ceiling that arched high above the narrow room. Heavy, almost gaudy, chandeliers hung above, their crystal drops refracting light over the gleaming tableware and white damask tablecloths. The room was welcoming, even cozy, but Jenny shivered involuntarily. A male voice spoke from somewhere near her right and she jumped, startled.

  In a bad Italian accent, she heard, “Madam, this insalata Caprese lacks spirit even though the balsamic vinegar is speaking with joy. I suggest a different olive oil, possibly something with deeper flavor and emotion.”

  Lips parting, Jenny blinked, then gave the speaker a hard look. Hidden behind Riccardo’s burgundy leather menu was a dark-haired male with a very familiar tenor voice. Reaching over with one finger, she pulled the menu away from the handsome face of her son Rawley.

  So, this was her male “watcher”! Relief and delight flooded her. “And just what are you doing here?” she asked, surprised that he would deign to come see her at all. At fifteen Rawley had become a handful.

  His blue eyes, so like her own, flashed with humor. But he also resembled his father, something that occasionally squeezed her heart with fear. Troy had been—and undoubtedly still was—an unrepentant bully. In the few short months they’d actually lived together as man and wife, Jenny had learned to fear him and it had taken all the courage she possessed to leave him.

  Her father’s unspoken “I told you so” had been the final blow to her pride. Knowing that he had essentially bought her freedom was so humiliating that she had trouble even allowing herself to remember the details.

  But it was all over now. Troy was history, and though it sometimes weighed on her conscience that Rawley had never met his father, she knew it was better that way. Her son didn’t need to know Troy.

  “I was just remarking on the salad,” said Rawley, as if he were a connoisseur of Italian cuisine.

  “Sounded like Alberto’s complaining to me,” she teased gently. She had to be careful with Rawley these days. His moods were mercurial, loving one moment and surly the next.

  Now, he flashed her his devastating smile, so full of dash and vigor and fun that the girls were already ringing the phone off the hook. Unfortunately, that smile, too, reminded her of Troy. She’d fallen for Troy’s good looks and ignored his immaturity and half-hidden viciousness.

  And, of course, her father had been against her relationship with Troy from the get-go. A fact that had turned her toward him like a vane spinning in the wind.

  “First of all, that is not insalata Caprese. There’s not a teaspoonful of balsamic vinegar or olive oil to be seen. You’ve got your basic American garden salad there, buddy. The only greens you’ll eat, as far as I know. For your information, insalata Caprese consists of tomato slices, fresh mozzarella cheese, and fresh basil leaves. The last time I served it you made gagging sounds and thoroughly disgusted me and our guest, Benjamin.”

  Rawley grinned wider. “Benjamin couldn’t care less.”

  Jenny smothered an answering smile. Benny was the neighbor’s big, scruffy mutt with a tail that cleared the top of a coffee table in mere seconds. Jenny shooed him out every time, while Rawley sneaked the happy hound in whenever her back was turned.

  “I thought you were going to be at Janice and Rick’s tonight.”

  “I had soccer practice at 3:00 P.M. Rick came to watch, but afterwards I just wanted to leave.” He shrugged.

  Rawley seemed to think of their neighbor, Rick Ferguson, as a substitute father these days. He’d wanted to be someone’s son—anyone’s son—for a long time. She understood completely, but Jenny was still loathe to talk to her son about his real father. A few months earlier, she’d found a picture of Troy in Rawley’s old baseball cards and personal junk. Though he never asked about his father, he was obviously thinking about him, and Jenny suspected it was just a matter of time before she’d have to explain more.

  Jenny often wondered what Rawley was thinking. He knew Troy had never contacted him. A tough situation for a boy whose friends’ fathers almost always attended their soccer games and other sports and school events. She had the feeling that Rawley’s hidden emotions on this issue were about to explode. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  “I told Janice that you wanted me down at the restaurant,” he said. “And Alberto said I could order anything I wanted.”

  “Alberto would,” Jenny murmured. “Was Janice picking you up, or do you need a ride?”

  “I can walk.”

  Jenny nearly choked. Their apartment was miles and miles away and the multilane highway that led to their neighborhood wasn’t exactly the best place for a kid to be walking, especially after dark. But Rawley didn’t want to be babied. He was teetering on the verge of manhood, and it was a knife’s edge. The wrong word from Jenny would end up cutting them both.

  And so far he hadn’t put up too much of a fuss about moving to Santa Fe. If she could keep him happy on that score, everything else would fall into place.

  “I wish you’d ride. It’s safer,” she said, holding up a hand to forestall his protests

  “But I’d be fine.”

  “I know—”

  “I’d be fine! You don’t trust me at all’

  “It’s not you,” she declared in exasperation “It’s everybody else! Good grief, you know the way they drive in Texas! I just wouldn’t be able to stand it if I thought you were walking home alone. It has more to do with me than you.”

  Rawley rolled his eyes. “I’m not five years old.”

  “I know.” She glanced around, not wanting this battle. “I’ve got to get back to work. If Janice can’t come, I’ll take you home.”

  Rawley retreated behind the menu, stiff with anger. Jenny sighed inwardly. Until last year she and Rawley had been fast friends. Other mothers had warned her about adolescent obnoxiousness, but she’d blithely believed that Rawley, whose good manners were remarked on and envied by others, would not succumb to teen-itis. She’d been astonished by the change in him.

  Returning to her office, Jenny placed a call to Janice, her neighbor and friend. Janice and Rick lived around the corner from Jenny’s ground-floor apartment in a comfortable, two-story house. Since they were Benny’s rightful owners, Jenny was more tolerant of the dog than she might normally have been and consequently Benny crossed the Holloway welcome mat as often as his own.

  “Hello?” Janice sounded harried. A distant cacophony reached Jenny’s ears.

  “Bad timing?” she suggested.

  “Oh, hi, Jenny. It’s the twins. They can’t play a board game together. Becky cheats, and Tommy throws the game pieces and dice at her.”

  “Ahhh …” Janice’s seven-year-olds were going through a tough phase, according to their parents. They were exhibiting just the kind of behavior that Jenny had congratulated herself on never seeing in Rawley. My, my, how things could change.

  “Is something wrong?” Janice asked suddenly. “Aren’t you at work?”

  “Yes, yes. Rawley’s here. I was just kind of checking up.”

  “He said you wouldn’t mind having him there.” In the background, Becky commenced a keening
wail. “Jenny? Can you call back? I’ve just got to take care of this and I’ll be able to talk.”

  “Never mind. Everything’s cool. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for keeping tabs on Rawley.”

  She exhaled a deep breath as she hung up. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Jenny to ask much of the Fergusons. Their twins were a handful, and their older son, Brandon, was Rawley’s age and not exactly a choirboy. The arrangement that had once worked so well was falling apart fast. But what could she do? Rawley was too old to have a babysitter and a little too headstrong to be left by himself.

  And what will you do in Santa Fe?

  “Start over,” she said aloud, as if someone had actually asked her a question.

  Well, maybe their upcoming holiday together would help ease the transition. Friends had asked her and her son to join them at their rented villa in Puerto Vallarta. It was an incredible hillside manor, only accessible via a winding stony road, with a full staff including a cook, maids and gardeners. The villa had eight bedrooms with as many baths, a kidney-shaped pool, a view to die for, and a rented Jeep for the week.

  A time for family bonding. A time for fun. A time to set things straight again.

  Retracing her footsteps, she found her son tucking in to a plate of ravioli and Italian sausages. He gave her a sidelong look.

  “I called Janice and she was playing referee with the twins.” Rawley grunted acknowledgment which encouraged Jenny. “I’ll take you home. I’m about ready to leave.” Since this was a blatant lie, Jenny mentally crossed her fingers.

  “I can walk. I’ve got two legs.”

  “Let’s not argue.”

  “When are you going to let me be me?”

  She wanted to laugh out loud. “When haven’t I let you be you?”

  “Now!”

  “Shhhh,” she said gently, but firmly. “Alberto gave you a free meal because he likes you. Behave yourself in his restaurant”

  “I’m behaving myself. Besides, Romeo said he didn’t want me to starve. He insisted I order two sausages.”