The Saturday Night Supper Club

by Carla Laureano

  “Am I crazy?” Rachel asked, spoon poised above her bowl.

  “Yes,” Melody said immediately, “but not because of this.”

  Ana jumped in with her take-charge, utterly reasonable tone. “Let’s look at this objectively. He’s good-looking. He works. He’s super nice.” She ticked off each trait on her fingers and looked to Melody for help.

  “Obviously has a conscience considering how hard he’s trying to make things up to you,” Melody said.

  “Conscience, check. Know anything about personal beliefs?”

  “Used to be Russian Orthodox, now just unaffiliated Christian, I guess. Sounds like it was a big deal to his family.”

  “You’ve already had the family and religion talk?” Melody’s eyebrows went up. “That’s usually a third date sort of topic for me.”

  “That’s why you end up with jerks,” Ana said. “No offense.”

  “None taken. But for the record, the religion question does not necessarily screen for jerks. Some of them talk a good game.”

  Rachel looked between the two of them, some of her angst subsiding in the wake of the runaway conversation. “Not to be self-involved here, but we’re talking about whether I’m crazy to be interested in Alex.”

  “Let’s see,” Ana said. “Good-looking, employed, super nice, and Christian? I’d say you’re crazy not to be. If he were interested in me, yeah, I’d give him a second look.”

  “You know, Bryan is interested. And he seems to tick all those boxes.”

  Ana shrugged. “He’s got to make an effort. He seems like the type to get by on his looks and his money, and as you know, I haven’t done so well with those lately.”

  “How do you know he has money?” Was Ana’s radar really that keen?

  Ana gave Rachel a patient look. “Honey, there is not a single person in this city—except for maybe you—who doesn’t know who Bryan Shaw is.”

  “I didn’t,” Melody said.

  “That’s because you’re like Rachel. If he’s not Jacques Pépin, you’re not impressed.”

  “True,” Melody said. “But you spent the entire Fourth of July evening with Bryan. You must have had some interest in him.”

  “When did this turn into a discussion of my love life? This is about Rachel locking lips with a hot writer.” Ana swiveled toward Rachel again. “So what are you going to do?”

  “He’s taking me out on Friday.”

  “On a date?” Melody and Ana asked simultaneously.

  “Yes, on a date. I don’t even know why I said yes.”

  “Because he’s beautiful and kind and obviously you feel safe with him, or you wouldn’t have made it this far. From the look on your face, you’re looking forward to this.”

  She was. No sense in denying it. “I probably need to buy something to wear, don’t I?”

  “Of course,” Ana said. “I think it might require a special trip. And a new dress.”

  “Let’s not go crazy.” Inwardly, though, the prospect didn’t sound half bad. She’d spent most of her life downplaying the fact she was a woman. Now she wanted to feel pretty and feminine, like she had on the Fourth of July.

  For once, she might actually feel safe enough to be herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE WEEK BARRELED toward the weekend, and Rachel had enough to do that she managed not to think about her upcoming date with Alex. Almost. In between trying recipes for the following week’s supper club, she found herself replaying the kiss and trying not to obsess over what would have happened if Dina hadn’t been there. By the time he called on Friday morning, she had a full menu and enough unresolved tension to play her own nerves like a violin.

  “Ready for tonight?” Alex asked as soon as she picked up her cell phone.

  She took the pan she’d been heating off the burner and moved it to a cool spot on the stove. This definitely would require her full attention. She hadn’t forgotten that he’d made her burn her fish the last time they’d talked. “That depends. You still haven’t told me what to wear. You realize that women like to plan ahead for these things, don’t you?”

  A long pause on the other end suggested surprise. “I’m sorry. I only finalized the plans this morning. Something like what you wore for the Fourth of July is fine.”

  “Okay. Still on for seven?”

  “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “We’re not hiking or anything, are we?”

  “No, we’re not hiking. I’m not that clueless. You can wear pretty shoes and everything if you want.”

  Very well then. She was definitely going to need to go shopping. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” His voice dipped low. “This has been a very long week.”

  Rachel bit her lip, unaccountably pleased to know he’d done as much thinking about her as she’d done about him. “I made good use of my time. I have a menu for you to look over.”

  “I would expect nothing less. See you at seven.”

  Rachel hung up the phone and allowed herself a dreamy, stupid sigh. Yeah, she was losing it. Over a guy.

  Worse yet, she was enjoying it.

  This called for reinforcements. She texted Ana and Melody immediately: Help. I’m second-guessing my ability to pick out my own clothes. Are you free? I’ve only got nine hours to figure it out.

  Ana came back immediately: I can’t believe you put it off this long! I’m going into a client meeting, but I could do a quick lunch break. Noon at Cherry Creek mall?

  Done. Meet you at the Starbucks in the middle. Not that her already-stretched nerves needed caffeination, but the landmark was a good jumping-off point for every wing of the upscale shopping mall.

  Testing the last recipe would have to wait. It was ten o’clock now. She had just enough time to get a pedicure—something else she never did—before meeting Ana to pick something appropriately pretty for her first real date with Alex.

  Two hours later, her toes were ready to see the light of day, primped and softened and sporting a neutral pink polish—the pedicurist’s suggestion, given that she hadn’t yet picked an outfit.

  When she arrived, her friend was already waiting with a cup of coffee in hand, dressed in a stylish black business suit with sky-high patent leather heels. She rose when she saw Rachel.

  “Melody couldn’t come?”

  “No, I’m here. I just needed to get tea.” Melody appeared behind Rachel, holding a paper cup. “Commence Operation Date Night.”

  “Look. My toes are pretty.” Rachel wiggled her feet in her flip-flops, earning a grin from Melody and an arm around the shoulder from Ana.

  “I’m so proud. All of our teaching has paid off, Mel.” Ana hiked her handbag over her shoulder, back to no-nonsense field marshal. “Now. I have exactly an hour before I have to get back to the office, but we’re going to find you something to wear if we have to look at every last store in the mall.”

  It wasn’t far off. Rachel stopped counting stores at eight, and it was several more after that when they found something appropriately mystery-date-night-ish. She really needed to overhaul her wardrobe if she was going to stay on the “outside” much longer. Having to drag her friends shopping every time there was an event was going to get old quickly. She would let them dress her and buy everything they suggested—if Rachel picked it off the rack, it looked awful on her. If Melody or Ana picked it, it looked great. Thank goodness she hadn’t decided to go it alone.

  “All right, hon,” Ana said, giving her a tight squeeze. “I have to run. I want all the details when you get home tonight.”

  “Promise.” Rachel looked at Melody. “You have to go too?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a job interview. This place is killing me. They really need two bakers, but it’s cheaper for them to demand overtime from me.”

  A pang of guilt struck Rachel. She’d been so focused on Alex that she’d forgotten why she was doing the supper club in the first place. “Melody, you know the minute I ha
ve my own place again and can hire you back—”

  “I know.” Melody gave her a quick hug. “But I also know that takes time and I have to pay rent. So I need to find a place that pays well without these crushing hours.”

  “Good luck. Call me if they need a reference.”

  “I will.” But they both knew she wouldn’t. Before, possibly. But an Instagram success didn’t erase Rachel’s bad press.

  “Don’t start feeling guilty now,” Ana murmured. “She knows what she’s doing. She’ll be fine.”

  Ana was right, but it still didn’t erase Rachel’s feeling of guilt as she drove home. It had been so easy to forget why she was doing this whole thing. Not only for herself, but for all the people depending on her. Yes, most of them still had a job, but she had brought them to Paisley from secure positions at established restaurants, promising them good pay, long-term stability, a different environment than the punishing kitchens in which they’d been working. It never occurred to her that she might not be able to offer what she didn’t have herself.

  To be honest, she hadn’t thought about Paisley in a while. The menu development had staved off the anxiety she often felt outside of work. It no longer hurt to drive by her colleagues’ restaurants during the supper rush.

  What did that mean, exactly?

  Rachel puttered around her house, putting things in order while she waited for the clock’s hands to crawl around its face toward date time. Finally, at four thirty, she drew herself a bath, sprinkled in some fragrant salts that had been a Christmas gift from Melody, and let herself enjoy the luxury of free time. She lingered until the water got cold and then climbed out and began the process of hair and makeup that she usually abhorred. For someone who had gone nearly a decade without ever dressing up for a guy, it hadn’t taken her long to abandon those ideals.

  She primped and painted and curled until she looked suitably ready for anything he might have prepared. The dress had ended up being Melody’s choice, a pretty blue chiffon that gathered at the neck, then tied at the waist before flowing to her sandaled feet. Not too dressy, not too casual. She’d left her hair loose and curled in big waves over her bare shoulders and put a couple of metallic bangles on her right wrist. At the last minute, she changed her mind about the coral lipstick and instead put on a nude color dabbed with lip gloss. Perfect. She didn’t look like she was trying too hard. She still felt like herself, but this was the Rachel who went out on romantic dates with handsome men, a Rachel with whom she was not yet acquainted.

  The doorbell rang promptly at seven, and Rachel took a deep breath to calm herself before she opened the door. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Alex stood there, as impeccably put together as usual in the casual Colorado date uniform she’d seen over and over in the restaurant: jeans, dark T-shirt, dark sport coat. Somehow on him, it looked natural and handsome. He leaned forward, making her heart jump into her throat, but his lips just lightly brushed her cheek. She inhaled his scent, amazed that it had so quickly become familiar, oddly comforting. Then he straightened and looked at her for a long moment.

  She shifted under the gaze. “What?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “You don’t look half bad yourself.” Which was understating it by at least half. “Ready to go?”

  He moved toward her again, but this time he simply reached for her hand and entwined his fingers through hers, which jolted her heart as abruptly as a kiss would have. “Yes. But first, do you trust me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  FOR A SPLIT SECOND, a flicker of dismay shot through Rachel when she recognized Alex’s neighborhood and he pulled into his parking lot. “Are we stopping here first?”

  “No, this is our final destination. You said you trusted me. Does that still count? I can take you home if not. Or we can go do something else.”

  Alex looked so uncertain that her doubts of moments before vanished. “No. I’m curious what you have planned.”

  He turned the ignition off and then jumped out so he could open the door for her. He held out his arm and she took it, letting him escort her into the building.

  “I feel a little guilty,” he admitted. “You’re gorgeous. It seems unfair for me to keep you all to myself.”

  She licked her lips and decided to answer honestly. “I dressed for you, not for them.”

  He trailed a finger down her bare arm, once more making her think he was going to kiss her. But at that moment, the elevator arrived at the lobby level with a ding, and the doors slid open to reveal an elderly lady. She scowled at them as if reading their minds.

  Alex cleared his throat. “Good evening, Mrs. Tajikian.”

  “Humph,” she said, looking between the two of them suspiciously. They moved past her onto the elevator and the doors closed before they both started laughing.

  “Let me guess. She doesn’t approve of gentlemen having lady visitors?”

  “She doesn’t approve of anything that I can tell.” Alex punched the button and the elevator moved silently upward, delivering them to the penthouse level. Alex fumbled for his keys and opened the door, then stepped aside for her to enter.

  Rachel inhaled deeply. Enticing aromas wafted through the space, both familiar and foreign. From the stereo in the corner, the soft strains of traditional-sounding European music greeted them. She had to listen for a moment before she realized the lyrics were in Russian.

  “What is this?”

  He turned to her, once more looking uncertain. “I’m making dinner for you. Food I grew up with.”

  Something caught in her chest and held. “Really?”

  “I know it’s not anything fancy, but I thought . . . well, you always cook for everyone else, don’t you? I thought you might like someone to do the same for you.”

  Tears pricked Rachel’s eyes. “It’s perfect. Really. No one ever cooks for me because they think I’ll critique the food.”

  “I’m counting on you not being an expert on Baltic cuisine. And if you are, these are family recipes, so you’re not allowed to criticize.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. This is a treat.” She slid onto one of the barstools and folded her hands while she waited for him to take his place on the other side of the island.

  Alex took off his jacket and tossed it onto one of the dining chairs, then found a plain gray apron and tied it on. “This won’t be a coursed meal or anything. I’m not good enough to time it all, and my mother used to serve everything at once anyway.”

  “You do realize that I don’t eat like I’m at a restaurant when I’m home, right?”

  “I’m surprised you cook for yourself at home at all.”

  “I usually don’t. Unless it’s a huge batch of soup that I can eat all week at two in the morning.”

  Alex lifted a lid on a pot that already sat on the cooktop. She caught a glimpse of bright-red liquid as the steam escaped the pot. “Borscht?”

  “Naturally. Now I need to get the dumplings on and make the sauce for the pork. It won’t take that long. I hope.”

  Rachel watched as he moved about the kitchen. “You look pretty comfortable over there for someone who says he never cooks.”

  “Well, I helped make these things with my mother dozens of times when I was younger. They’d have friends from the university over, and they’d eat and drink vodka until the wee hours of the night. I’ll admit, I had to call my mom for the recipes, but at least I remember what they’re supposed to look and taste like.”

  Rachel leaned forward. “What was it like to grow up Russian in America?”

  “I wouldn’t say that I did. I’d say I grew up American in a Russian household.” Alex paused for a second, wooden spoon poised in his hand while he thought. “My parents are . . . I don’t even know how to classify them. They are all about the opportunities in America and taking part in them, and at the same time, they’re very protective of their own traditions. Yet they were the furthest from traditionalists when they were back in the old country—exactly wh
y they left in the first place.”

  “That must have been some sort of tug of war on you.”

  “I guess so,” Alex said. “More so for Dina. But she was closer to them than I was. They encouraged my independence from the start. With Dina, they were always overprotective, maybe because she was an unexpected late-life baby. I don’t know. We grew up speaking Russian at home, but it was to be English only outside. They talked about how bad things had been in the Soviet days, but everything had to be ‘the Russian way.’”

  “It sounds like they were mourning a way of life there that should have been,” Rachel said.

  Alex looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re probably right. Maybe that’s why they went back when they got the opportunity. They wanted it all, and in the end, they did the best they could to merge both together. I can’t help but think the blend was always lacking to them.”

  “When you miss something that much, all you can think about is how it should have been and how you can get it back. Or something like it.”

  “What was it that you missed?” Alex must have sensed her ambivalence, because he went back to cutting mushrooms so he wasn’t looking her straight in the eye.

  She traced the countertop’s patterned stone with her fingertip. “A real family, I guess. My dad left my mom when I was young and we never had a ton of money. Hartford, Connecticut, isn’t an affluent area to begin with, and my mom had to commute hours to work. I always had this fantasy that one day I would come home and it would all be different, that we would be like one of those TV families that sat down to dinner together every night.”

  “Is that why you started cooking?”

  “Partly.” That was a portion of it, but not nearly the whole story. “But then my mom got remarried and I realized the fantasy of a family I’d always had was just that—fantasy. I regretted that I didn’t appreciate the life my mom made for the two of us, frozen pizza and all. In any case, I moved out when I was fifteen and started working and then the kitchen staff became like my family. They even call the staff dinner ‘family meal.’”