by Patti Larsen
Talk tomorrow? And then, a moment later: You were so beautiful tonight, Fee. Breathlessly.
Gulp and gosh golly gee shucks, shiver. You need to wear a suit more often.
I sank to the bed, Petunia panting her way up the steps to sit beside me, as Crew responded.
Tried that, he sent. Prefer the khaki. Keeps me closer to the woman I love.
In other words, Reading over the FBI? Oh, Crew.
Good night, beautiful, he sent. Love you.
As if there was any doubt whatsoever. Get a grip, Fleming. Good night, handsome. Love you, too.
And, with that, all was right in my world after all.
***
The next morning, car loaded with supplies, I drove while Mom chattered at my side, our short jaunt to the lodge just long enough for her to fill me in on her cooking plans while I could barely fit in nods and grunts of agreement. At least it seemed Alicia had given her permission to use the kitchen at the lodge, so maybe my young friend knew losing Carol as her chef wasn’t in her best interest. None of my business, but I still wondered, though Mom didn’t mention anything further as she snapped orders at the two kitchen workers who helped carry her goodies in the back doors.
It was pretty clear from the disarray in the kitchen the loss of their chef was making things difficult. I didn’t recognize the man who seemed to have taken over and though the food I’d eaten last night was delicious, if he was the new chef, his organizational skills left a lot to be desired. I could see a head butting session forming between him and Mom almost immediately.
“I’ve been told I have a space to work in.” Mom started out nice enough. The tall, skinny man with the mustache and arrogant attitude wasn’t having any.
“This is my kitchen,” he snapped. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Lucy Fleming.” She tried for firm, hand extended. He had no idea the olive branch she was offering. Instead, he sniffed at her like she offended him just by being there and turned his back.
“Chef Paul Entrant,” he said like we should know who he was and if we didn’t we were utter luddites who didn’t deserve to breathe his air. “And now, you will leave my kitchen and not return.”
I could have argued. I could have snapped and fought and snarled. Instead, I went in search of Alicia.
Yes, I left my mother to fend for herself. Thing was, I didn’t need the lodge’s manager to save Mom. If she valued the chef she had, Alicia would come to the kitchen right now and keep my mother from murdering Chef Paul before his untimely demise put a kink in Mom’s prep time.
I’d had enough dead bodies on my hands the last few years, thanks. Besides, arrogant asshats deserved to be pulled down a few pegs by those who employed them. This was Alicia’s job, not mine. Crew would be proud of me, wouldn’t he? I know I was pretty freaking smugly proud of myself, thank you very much. So much, in fact, I almost missed the hissing argument going on between three familiar women at the end of the service corridor outside the kitchen door.
I knew this corridor well, had found myself pushed out the doors at the far end and into a snowstorm two Valentine’s Days ago, almost dying of exposure in the process. This time, though, it wasn’t physical threat I faced, but the dagger stares of the three who I’d either met or had been pointed out to me the night before. Kami and Faith seemed about the same, though much less put together than at dinner. But their matching skinny bodies and almost identical casual yoga pants and tanks under overlarge sweater outfits could have been a uniform. As for Libby, Grace’s assistant, she was too far on the Goth side this morning to look like she fit in. Wait, why were they conversing if Faith worked for Mateo? Was she switching sides? Before I could ponder further or even walk past and out of the drama all together, the tall, handsome form of Henry Ostler brushed past me and joined them.
Oh, really? Libby’s eyes met mine as I arched one brow at her. So, she was talking to Grace’s ex behind her boss’s back? Classy. Libby looked away, Faith and Kami both ignoring me before going their separate ways while Henry bent his head and began to whisper to Libby.
I could have poked my nose in, wanted to more than anything. And, instead, walked away in search of Alicia. Because the new and improved in love Fiona Fleming minded her own business when it wasn’t required otherwise. Let them conspire and do their little betrayal dance. You betcha I’d be warning Grace about her assistant, though. At least mentioning her clandestine meeting with Henry would put my mind at ease. But that was the extent of my involvement, sure was.
Alicia was easy to find and, after telling her what was going on—probably devolving as we spoke—in her kitchen, the young blonde huffed a furious sigh and stomped her way into the chef’s domain. She didn’t berate him publically, but when he spluttered his attempt to shut her down, she grasped his arm in a hand of steel—I’d been on the other side of her hand in self-defense class so I was aware of her strength—and jerked him into the small office at the far end of the room before firmly closing the door. Mom smiled at me, though her face was tight with suppressed anger as the remainder of the staff avoided both of us like we had an illness they didn’t want to contract. Five minutes later, after a brief outburst of Alicia shrieking behind the door she emerged like nothing had happened, smile plastered firmly in place, one hand taking Mom’s as she patted her other with a professional and apologetic smile.
“He gives you an ounce of trouble,” she hissed around her pleasant expression, “and I’m firing his ass. Okies?”
Mom nodded, equally collected. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “I’d love to get to work now.”
If it was me? I would have just held a grudge and stayed out of his way. My mother didn’t operate like that. After about a half hour cooling off period in which Chef Paul snapped continually at his people, my mother proceeded to court him in a way that made my jaw ache from trying not to laugh out loud.
“Chef Paul, you’re so talented, could you…?”
“Chef Paul, I know you’re far more skilled than I, would you…?”
“Chef Paul, I just know you have a wonderful idea…”
Thing was? It worked. Within another half hour my mother and the arrogant chef were besties while he softened his attitude, his staff breathed a sigh of relief and my mother—my clever, brilliant and kind-hearted mother—did her best Lucy Fleming and made him her friend.
I was about to suggest she didn’t need me anymore when Vivian swept into the kitchen. The chef’s instant unhappiness stirred my worry, but Mom’s instant happy greeting cooled his jets and sent him off to finish the task she assigned him while making him think it was his idea.
I really had to take Lucy lessons. And hey, wait a second. Did she use these tactics on me…?
Libby followed Vivian in, catching my eyes with a frown on her face. She was probably going to ask me to keep my mouth shut, right? That what I’d seen wasn’t what I thought it was? Whatever. I purposely looked away while Vivian spoke to Mom. Let Grace’s traitor assistant be uncomfortable. I already loved the designer and refused to let the girl who was supposed to have her back catch even a hint of relief.
“How are we coming with lunch preparations?” Vivian seemed slightly off, almost nervous while Mom patted her hand in reassurance.
“Splendidly,” she said. I kept my mouth shut, hoping she wasn’t just saying that to make Vivian feel better. “We’re on time and will be setting up shortly. I’ve personally prepared Grace’s menu as requested, Vivian. Was there anything else?”
“Grace can’t have seafood.” Libby stepped forward, frowning. “It makes her ill.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Vivian snapped, not even looking at her, clearly unhappy with the girl. Huh. Did she know Libby wasn’t faithful to her boss, had been talking privately with Henry? Possibly. Well, we were on the same side there, at least. Maybe there was hope for us yet.
“I’m trying to make sure my employer doesn’t get sick,” Libby shot back.
“And I’m trying to make sure Gra
ce has the kind of support she needs and deserves.” Okay then, that would be a yes on the knowing Libby was a traitor thing.
The young assistant grumbled something but instead of fighting with Vivian turned and stomped out, not a scrap of graceful femininity to her despite her heels and elaborate Goth styling I realized was a fashion show of its own.
“Everything all right, dear?” Mom paused to show Vivian compassion, Olivia sweeping past the departing Libby and striding toward us while Chef Paul snarled something about his kitchen turning into a common area.
Vivian almost said something, but Olivia was already interrupting.
“I don’t like it, Vivian,” the mayor snapped, loud enough everyone heard her, like she didn’t care if we knew she and the Queen of Wheat were on the outs. “This whole conflict situation means trouble. You said your designer friend would bring attention to Reading. I’m not looking for the sort of negative press her disaster of a love life can mean for us.”
Right, because Olivia’s little fiasco with Willow and that utterly charming jerk of a husband of hers who’d died in my arms wasn’t dramatic negative press that swallowed Reading whole and spit us out the other side.
Vivian didn’t argue with the mayor, though, turning to face off with the cream-suited, dark-bobbed older woman, her own fitted two piece in soft pink making her look like a princess compared to Olivia’s polished and practiced politician persona.
“Whatever your concerns,” Vivian said, voice as cold as I’d ever heard it, “I assure you they are baseless. This is an excellent opportunity for Reading, Olivia, and you know it.”
“We’ll see.” Hmmm. There was more to this, wasn’t there, than the mayor’s worries? And that was when I realized I’d been thick about the whole thing, hadn’t I? Olivia trusted Vivian, included her in our little gathering of powerful women back in November when Olivia feared she’d lose her seat as mayor. Only to find out that Vivian wasn’t exactly playing for our team. I didn’t have confirmation of that, of course. But, did Olivia? And, if so, were they now enemies? I’d had my heart buried in Crew Turner the last four months—had I missed their falling out and was only now catching up?
Olivia seemed like she wanted to say more, but didn’t. Instead, with a huff, she spun and left, Vivian staring after her, while I struggled with my own sense of loyalty toward the woman who kept my B&B rooms full and the pink-clad one my mother assured me I’d misjudged my whole life.
Huh. Wasn’t expecting to feel badly for Vivian French. Go figure.
***
Chapter Nine
I stayed firmly out of the way while my curiosity about the behind the scenes process of running a fashion show got the better of me, though I had to admit as I lurked and watched the models doing their catwalk best while being berated and sometimes belittled by their handlers, I found myself becoming rapidly disillusioned by the whole thing.
Sure, I’d had kind of the same experience last winter when my mother had been purposely sabotaged by a fellow contestant on Bake or Break, the cooking show that ended this season thanks, it was said, to the death of head judge Ron Williams. Even though it came out he was a thief and a fraud, his popularity with the viewing public had obviously been the driving force behind the success of the show, something it couldn’t survive.
Somehow I didn’t think this fashion show was going to suffer the same fate. Yes, the designers were the keys to the brands, but it was the continual evolution of haute couture, from what I could tell, that was the real star. I felt almost dizzy at the cookie cutter appearance of the bone-thin young men and women who sported the same flat, empty expression while moving their bodies in unnatural struts like giraffes attempting to walk straight on stilts.
I ran a few snacks for Mom, lugging bottles of water, trying to stay out of the way. When I accidentally tripped over the hanging strap of a designer purse, the owner was quick to tell me what she thought of my attention to detail.
“That’s a Richon bag!” Faith Leeman’s gorgeous face wasn’t looking so pretty as she practically spit her disdain in my direction. She had no idea how close she was to wearing that flat of water bottles on her nasty little head.
“How nice for you,” I said, dropping the weight on the table next to her and frowning in return. “I’m sure you’re very happy together.” Snort.
I’d never seen anyone turn so red before. It was fascinating to watch. “How dare you? I’ll have you fired!”
“Oh, please,” I said. “Please. Get me fired. Please.” That would have been awesome. Hey, wait a minute. I could leave any time I wanted. Nope. Wait. Mom. Sigh.
Faith’s painted upper lip turned into a snarl as she spun with her back to me, her hands fishing around in her poor, clearly badly put-upon bag. “I want your name.”
“And I want to go home.” I’d had enough of this little game, ready to stride off and leave her behind. But my attempt at a powerful and collected retreat was almost undone as my sneaker struck something slippery and I shrieked while windmilling my arms to keep from falling.
When I finally caught my balance and looked down, Faith’s scream of rage emerged louder than my own declaration of surprise. She lunged for my foot and jerked the shiny pink notebook out from under my toes, hugging it to her chest while she glanced around like someone might have seen something they weren’t supposed to. When she met my eyes again, she was still furious.
“That’s it,” she snarled. “I’m calling security.”
“Don’t bother,” I snapped back. “If you think I’m the one that’s getting kicked out, you’re sadly mistaken.” Okay, so I could have tried to be nicer, more accommodating, patient. Could have.
Argh.
Mom took one look at my face when I returned to the kitchen and sighed. “Just take a break, honey,” she said, not even wanting to ask me what happened. And you know what? I didn’t really want to talk about it anyway. Bad enough I agreed to help and was yet again treated like crap by someone who thought they were better than me. I was actually going to just cut and go home, but instead grumbled my way outside for ten minutes to cool off.
When I came back, it was to a boring stint of doing not much while Mom continued her emotional control over the chef and his kitchen. I wandered off and, though I still didn’t know why I was being a sucker for punishment, I returned to the ballroom to hide in the corner and watch the models being directed down the catwalk. I was surprised to find Vivian also watching, her own expression empty, though the way her knuckles whitened on the forearms of her tailored jacket where she gripped herself like she was some kind of lifeline, she wasn’t enjoying the view. I approached with vague trepidation but more curiosity, thanks to Alicia’s information from the night before, and received another surprise when the Queen of Wheat didn’t immediately walk away from me.
Instead, Vivian nodded to the line of humanity our society deemed the perfect body type and sighed ever so softly. “They’ve just gotten skinnier over the years,” she said, sounding sad, to be honest. “Yes, we were expected to be thin, but I never felt as though I was unhealthy.”
“I had no idea you were in the fashion industry.” I was going to say, “I didn’t know you modeled,” but changed my mind at the last second, hoping my terminology would encourage conversation. Not that I cared what Vivian had done, though, right? Sure, Fee. Not in active busybody mode at the moment or anything.
Vivian shrugged, though her face softened, the tightness she usually wore dissipating and leaving her about as human as I’d ever seen her. “I was scouted in high school,” she said. “By Henry Ostler.” Grunt, no way. “It’s how I met Grace. She was one of his new designers, and I started out modeling for her.”
That filled in a lot of blanks. “Any idea what happened between them?”
Vivian’s faint scowl wasn’t angry, more sorrowful. “I don’t know,” she said, “not officially. They were so in love, more than anyone I’d ever met. I suppose when that depth of emotion turns, it does so quickly and
without remorse. Whatever the case, they haven’t spoken a civil word to each other since she asked for a divorce three years ago.”
“How long did you model for her?” Was I really asking out of mere curiosity and not my own need to dig into Vivian’s life? I wasn’t expecting this much compassion, not for her, despite the softening I’d felt toward her the past year or so. Vivian glanced at me, looking surprised. By my tone? Maybe. But it didn’t trigger her retreat as I expected. Instead, she answered like she wasn’t planning on leaving me hanging.
“Three years,” she said, that longing in her eyes now lurking in her voice, much as we physically lingered in the wings. “Endless fashion shows, from New York to Milan to London and beyond.” Wow, I had no idea. None. “It might not look like it, but doing this job takes more talent and discipline than many people think.”
I had zero doubt of that. One of the models had donned a pair of giant shoes that had no heels, only a gap behind her foot with a silver platform beneath her toes. She wobbled a few times but made the circuit without falling, something I was certain I could never do, no matter how much practice I had.
“This is the new age of fashion, Fee,” Vivian said, voice vibrating with something that sounded like pride but tinted with that same sorrow and longing. “These models, the ones the magazines airbrush to look even thinner than they are? They are on the way out.” I noted then a lineup of models had replaced the first, and found my eyes widening at the comparison. Still tall and slender, but muscular, a bit heavier in the body, without the prominent bone protrusions. Yes, they were still skinny by normal standards—hey, I was a very fit size eight, thanks, and didn’t feel the need to starve myself down to an impossible number that just made me feel bad about myself—but they had a robustness to them the previous lineup didn’t possess. As if someone had sucked the souls out of the initial group but these young men and women held onto theirs.
