The Saturday Night Supper Club

by Carla Laureano

  “You came,” Alex said with a hint of surprise. “I’m glad. Come on in.”

  He opened the door wider and stepped aside for her to enter. Clearly, he wasn’t trying to impress her; what man invited a woman over and then answered the door in bare feet, wearing paint-spattered sweatpants and a plain gray T-shirt?

  A man who knows how good he looks in everything, her brain answered. Hard to tell whether it was a warning or a note of appreciation.

  “So as you can see, it’s mostly a loft.” He extended a hand and walked forward as if he were a real estate agent giving her a tour. “Completely open floor plan, except for the bedroom, which is of course closed off, so you don’t need to see that. I have the dining area set up for eight right now, but the table has a leaf that we could extend for twelve. You weren’t thinking of more than that, were you?”

  “No,” she murmured, turning in a circle. “Twelve would be fine.”

  It was stunning. Even trying to find a reason this wouldn’t work, her imagination was dazzled by the possibilities. Big, open spaces with gleaming, acid-stained concrete floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one side of the living area, opening up a gorgeous view over the city. Contemporary decor that managed to be at once industrial and inviting, a mix of steel, glass, wood, and acrylic. Either he had an eye for interiors along with his writing talent or he had paid a pretty penny for a designer to fix it up.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, understating the obvious. “You could hold a party three times the size here.”

  “Would you like to check out the kitchen? Make sure it works for you?”

  Rachel turned toward the adjacent kitchen. It was as modern as the rest of the place, with long expanses of counter space and a combination of sleek cabinetry and open shelving. A massive stainless-steel refrigerator was set into the wall on one side, and a semicommercial range took pride of place in the island.

  She trailed a finger along the stainless steel of the wall ovens. “This is very nice. You cook?”

  “No. I renovated it with an eye for resale, for someone who did cook.”

  “You have excellent taste, then.”

  He looked a little embarrassed. “I can’t take the credit. It was my ex who made all the design decisions.”

  “Ex-wife?”

  “Ex-girlfriend.” Amusement sparked in his hazel eyes. “She’s the reason I have this apartment in the first place. It was a pocket listing for her, an investor who had bought up the top floor of this building when it was converted from apartments to condos. He needed out fast, I had the money to invest . . . so I took half the floor. Oversaw the renovations, leased the other unit to pay for this one.” He shrugged. “It’s a little flashy, I admit, but the way real estate is going these days, it’s a good investment.”

  It was more explanation than she needed, and that was telling. “The kitchen is more than adequate for my needs,” she said finally. “Especially considering I once catered a fraternity ball with a two-burner camp stove and a pressure cooker. Don’t ask.”

  He chuckled, lighting his eyes with humor and firing that ridiculously engaging dimple again. “I won’t. But I bet it’s a pretty good story.”

  “It is, actually.” She looked around and threw her hands up in defeat. “I honestly can’t find anything wrong with this place. It’s perfect.”

  “Oh, but you haven’t seen it all yet. Come with me.” He gestured toward a spiral steel staircase at the far end of the room, in a nook beside what she assumed was his bedroom. Just as she reached the stairs, she stumbled into the railing. A fat orange tabby wove between her feet and then jumped up onto the back of the sofa.

  “Sorry. Should have warned you about Sunshine. Didn’t think he’d make a run for it.”

  Rachel looked from the cat to Alex, not sure which ridiculous statement to address first. “You have a male cat named Sunshine?”

  “Technically, my sister has a male cat named Sunshine. One of her roommates turned out to be allergic and she talked me into taking him until she gets her own place.” Alex’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Which was three years ago, so I’m beginning to think we’re stuck with each other. Even if Dina is the only human he actually likes.”

  Rachel cast another look at Sunshine and followed Alex up the spiral staircase. Somehow, the fact he was sharing this modern space with a slothlike feline commended him more than anything he could have said. Not that serial killers couldn’t be animal lovers, but the bemused resignation on his face would be hard to fake.

  He led her through a narrow steel door at the top of the stairs, and she stopped short, a gasp leaving her lips. As spectacular as the condo had been, the rooftop deck was even more beautiful. Brick half-walls enclosed it and gave it some privacy from the other patios; potted plants and trees around the outside edges made it a garden wonderland. A long metal table dominated the center of the wood-decked space, with smaller conversation areas set up among the plants. He had even strung lights up above.

  And the view: she could see all the way south to the edge of the city. At night, there would be no better place to be.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said. “I love your garden. Your ex’s doing as well?”

  He smiled. “Now that, I can take credit for. My mother always kept a garden and I was cheap labor. Came in handy up here.” He moved to a potted lemon, twisted a bright-yellow fruit off a stem, and handed it to her. “It’s nice to be able to grab fruit right off the tree. Of course I bring the citrus inside during the winter.”

  Rachel stood at the railing, the sun beating down on her skin and a refreshing breeze ruffling her hair. It really was beautiful. Romantic, even. How many women had he brought up here?

  And why did it matter to her in the first place?

  “So what do you think?” he asked. “Is it okay?”

  “It’s perfect.” She turned to him, found him watching her a little nervously from by the door. What did he have to be nervous about? “I think I’d do cocktails and dinner downstairs, and then digestifs above afterwards. Because it’s summer, it could be timed for sunset. It would be spectacular.”

  “So we’re on? Partners?”

  Faced with the final decision, the practical, suspicious side of her psyche reared its head. “Alex, tell me the truth. What do you get out of it?”

  He pressed his lips together for a second, as if he were thinking. Her heart beat a little faster. “Honestly?”

  “No, lie to me. Yes, honestly.”

  He cracked a smile. “For one, I get to stop feeling like a world-class jerk for what I did to your career. For another, I get to show off for my friends and family by throwing a couple of really spectacular dinner parties. Most of them think I sit around in my sweatpants and stare at the wall all day.” He looked down at himself and then held up a finger, his dimple surfacing again. “Don’t say it. And third, I get to spend time with you.”

  Her lungs stopped working as she stared at him, all sorts of unhelpful things floating through her head. And then he grinned.

  She let out a sigh of relief. “You almost had me there.”

  “What? I’m being completely serious!”

  “Yeah, sure you are.” She looked around her. “Are you sure you really want to do this? It’s going to be a lot of work, and you barely know me.”

  “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  Rachel took a deep breath, part of her unable to believe she was about to embark on such a huge venture with a complete stranger. But she had no choice. This was her best chance to get her life back.

  “Okay then. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Twelve

  RACHEL PULLED A SHEET PAN from the oven and inhaled deeply. Her Parmesan crisps had come out lacy and golden brown, like cheesy little snowflakes. She set them aside and picked up her knife, turning to the handful of basil that waited on her cutting board. “He’s in.”

  “I know he’s in,” Ana said. “He’s been in since the day he showed up at the restaurant looking f
or you. But the question is, are you?”

  Rachel paused, surprised by the question. “Do I have any choice?”

  “Of course you have a choice,” Melody said from her place beside Ana at the table. “Didn’t you say that Caleb offered you a job?”

  “Floater. It’s a step down. Several, in fact.”

  “But it’s a paycheck,” Melody replied. “You don’t think I’m baking at a tiny little café because it’s good for my ego, do you?”

  A pang of guilt nagged at Rachel. Melody needed the job, and regardless of what she said, she’d only left Paisley as a show of solidarity. Rachel threw a look over her shoulder at her friend. “That’s exactly why I’m doing this. It’s a means to an end. A way to get my own restaurant again, where you will once more be my brilliant pastry chef. You’ll be back to terrifying interns in no time at all.”

  “I do not terrify interns,” Melody said. “I very nicely tell them that if they touch my dough, I will break their fingers.”

  Rachel grinned, knowing that neither scenario was the full truth. Melody was sweet but tough; never said a harsh word to anyone, but she always got the job done. She was practically the perfect kitchen staffer, and her way with pastry bordered on wizardry in Rachel’s eyes.

  “In any case, he seems like he has the connections, and you should see his place. It’s like something out of Architectural Digest.”

  “Sure he’s not the typical rich guy looking for a pretty wife who can cook?” Ana asked darkly.

  “I very much doubt it. Besides, I don’t get the impression that he’s so much rich as he made a good investment. Besides, you guys were the ones who set me up in the first place. Now you’re going to be all suspicious?”

  “I was just giving him the opportunity to apologize,” Melody said. “I figured it would help you move on. I didn’t expect you two to become partners.”

  “I don’t know exactly what we are. But we’re meeting tomorrow to go over some ideas.” Rachel peeled the crisps from the baking sheet onto a plate, piped an artful swirl of mousse atop each, and then garnished them with the basil chiffonade. She placed the plate in front of her friends. “Now. Try this and let me know what you think.”

  Melody lifted a crisp and took a bite. Her eyebrows flew up. “That’s amazing.”

  Rachel waited for Ana, who took a bite and nodded vigorously. “I can taste the asparagus and the leeks in the mousse, but it’s not too strong. I love it.”

  “Good. This can be the amuse-bouche.” Rachel looked at Melody with a sly smile. “I don’t suppose you’d like to invent something for the dessert course, would you?”

  “I don’t know, let me think.” Melody rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

  “Once you get this going, I bet I could convince a couple of my clients that this is the place to be,” Ana said. “Have Alex Instagram a picture with some cryptic caption and my hipster foodie clients will be frothing at the mouth.”

  Rachel was back at the counter, putting finishing touches on her second trial dish, a wild boar ragù which would be served over some sort of shaped pasta. She hadn’t decided on what yet. “If you dislike your job so much, why do you keep doing it?”

  Ana sighed. “It’s not that I dislike it. I’ve been doing this for ten years and it’s begun feeling a little . . .”

  “Fake?” Melody suggested.

  “Contrived,” Ana said. “You know Laura James?”

  Rachel thought for a moment. “The health and fitness guru? The one who’s all about clean eating and vegetarianism?”

  “Yep. She has her staff pick her up barbecue and then smuggle it into her house in a Whole Foods bag.”

  “Are you kidding? What’s so bad about barbecue?”

  “Exactly.” Ana shook her head. “Do you know how many women would buy her videos and read her books if she came clean? ‘You can eat the things you love and still look like me, as long as you’re not insane about it.’ I’ve been telling her to drop the act and be authentic for years now, but she can’t let go of the image.”

  “And you wonder why I hide in the kitchen,” Rachel said. “You can’t fake food. Either it’s good or it isn’t.”

  “Except everyone fakes something, and you know as well as I do that you didn’t lose your job because of your cooking.”

  “You still think I should have done the interviews?” Rachel asked.

  “Honestly, I don’t think it would’ve made a difference. It would have been damage control, yes, but it would have only delayed the inevitable. The big problem was that you were Paisley and no one knew it. So it wasn’t a big deal to get rid of you.”

  “I thought the same thing,” Rachel admitted, shifting the pan to the back burner as she began to plate their dinner.

  “Then let’s not make the same mistake twice. Sure, Alex is hosting this thing, but it’s your supper club. You need to make sure everyone knows that. Otherwise, it’s no different from any other gathering: Alex gets a pat on the back for finding a great chef and no one has any obligation to you.”

  Rachel hated interpersonal politics. The need to work an angle. Shouldn’t good food be good food and the credit automatically flow to the one responsible?

  Ana laughed when she said as much. “This is why I love you, Rachel. That idealism. I wish I didn’t know how truly egocentric people are.”

  There it was again, that hint of longing and regret in Ana’s voice, buried beneath her self-deprecating humor. But Ana would deny it if pressed, so instead Rachel finished up their food and brought the plates carefully to the table.

  After they oohed and aahed over the boar, Rachel mentally noting what she would change in the seasoning for next time, Melody set her fork down. “Admit it, though, Rachel. This whole experience is more fun considering the eye candy involved.”

  Rachel ignored the words. But the thought had already crossed her mind. And that was exactly what worried her.

  * * *

  Alex was surprised at how easy Rachel had been to convince. True, his condo with its roof-deck views was pretty impressive. But more likely her quick agreement was due to her own desperation rather than any inherent trust of him.

  He knew how she felt. Every day, there was a call or an e-mail from Christine “checking in” on his progress, each message growing more concerned and urgent. The publishing world was fickle. All it would take was a single catastrophe to take the attention off social issues like the ones he’d been writing about and completely divert the direction of nonfiction acquisitions. He needed to get a placeholder into next year’s fall catalog before they decided to give his spot to a newer and trendier author.

  “Okay. Time to do this.” His conscience was light. He was doing what he felt God was telling him to do: make it up to Rachel even though this whole debacle had been a complete accident. He was going to give her access to people who might be interested in investing in her future restaurant, give her an opportunity to show that she wasn’t the heartless cook the media was portraying her to be. In fact, in the short time he’d been in her company, that was the last thing he would call her. Guarded, tough-minded, determined, yes. Heartless, no.

  Or maybe that was just him thinking like a man rather than a writer.

  Enough of that. Alex put on a fresh pot of coffee and booted up his laptop in his bedroom, gazing out on the panoramic views of the sun-drenched city. Seven hundred thousand people, a small population by most standards, all going about their business. All with their unique perspectives, prejudices, habits. Surely there was something out there that could serve as his inspiration. He went back into the kitchen, poured himself a mug of coffee, then meandered back to his desk, where he set it on an electric warmer. Squared the notepads and his pens to one another and to the edge of his desk. Opened up his proposal, sank into his chair, and placed his fingers on the keyboard.

  The cursor blinked at him, a challenge. A dare. An accusation.

  He clicked over to another document and typed across the top: The Saturday Ni
ght Supper Club. Below it, he typed: Guest List.

  Bryan’s father was the ideal investor for Rachel’s restaurant, but Alex would wait to invite him until the kinks were worked out. He’d start with a couple of journalists he knew, one who worked the city desk at the Denver Post, another who wrote features for Westword, a well-regarded if highly alternative weekly. His neighbor Robert, across the hall, who was a political strategist and had connections both across the state and in Washington, DC. His parents’ academic acquaintances, one of whom he knew had an extensive wine collection. A couple of fellow CU alumni with whom he’d kept in touch through the professional mixers that the university occasionally hosted. Different ages, different professions, different religions, but they shared the most important demographic criteria for this experiment: they had moderate amounts of money and very good taste. Most importantly, they held some influence within their wider circles.

  He opened a new message in his e-mail client and began to compose a letter, making it as casual and no-pressure as he could manage. Putting together a supper club at my place with a talented local chef friend. What’s your availability for July? He cut and pasted into individual e-mails so it wouldn’t look like he was mass e-mailing everyone he knew, then flipped back over to his proposal, where, shockingly, no words had magically appeared at the blinking cursor.

  He drummed his fingers on top of the desk. Get started. Just write. It didn’t have to be good. Maybe begin with marketing copy, which everyone knew would never resemble the finished product anyway. It didn’t have to be precise, just appealing.

  A ding alerted him to a response in his e-mail in-box. Already?

  It was Margot Lee, an artist friend he’d met through Bryan. Sounds fantastic. I’m in if I can bring my fiancé. But the only Saturday night I have free is two weeks from now.

  He flagged the message to reply once he’d had a few other responses.