“Both thumbs, all the rest of my fingers, and I’ll throw in some toes. This woman knows how to cook. These are homemade tortillas, Florence. Homemade. Did she bring them or make them here?”
“She made them here.”
Tony shook his head and cut another bite. “I’m telling you, I’m in love. She’ll be at the hotel tomorrow?”
“At eleven, yes. Serving lunch around noon.”
“Well, I’m going to invite myself there too. My grandmother always told me that if I ever found a woman who could make tortillas like she could, I should hang on to her.” He paused. “You don’t think she’s already married, do you?”
“Her application didn’t mention anything, and I didn’t see a ring. Of course, not a lot of chefs wear rings, so that’s not foolproof.”
“I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself. Those are the employment contracts you asked me for, by the way. I added the clauses you asked about, and I reworded that confusing paragraph to be more clear.”
“Thank you. I could just see someone trying to claim it as a loophole because it wasn’t spelled out.”
“It was a good catch—I’m having Beverly change all the contracts that contain that wording from now on.” Tony came to the last bite on his plate and paused. He shouldn’t rush this one—he should pause and savor it. He slowly brought it to his mouth and closed his eyes while he chewed. It was possible that it only tasted so good because he hadn’t eaten all day, but more likely, this Elena Moreno was an angel sent down from heaven to answer the chef problem at the Brody Hotel.
“I’m a little worried about you,” Florence said, sitting down next to him at the bar. “You’re eating like you haven’t seen a meal in days.”
“Just since dinner last night. Working hard—not taking care of myself. You know how that goes.”
“I certainly know how it goes for you. I’ve seen you get into these patterns before—running yourself ragged, pushing toward the higher good without stopping to realize that if you lose your health, you’re not doing anyone good at all. I confess, I feel guilty.”
Tony put down his fork and turned to Florence with surprise. “You feel guilty? Whatever for?”
“Back when I lived at the house and cooked for Andrew, you’d stop by a few times a week and I’d feed you. Now I have no idea what you’re putting in your mouth. I almost feel like I should come over and stock your fridge every so often.”
Tony laughed. “You always hated it when I came over and ate.”
Florence reached out and toyed with a napkin on the counter. “I didn’t hate it, actually. I just pretended to.”
“I knew it. I knew you liked me more than you were letting on.” Tony stood up and pushed his stool back into place. “Let me throw all this into the dishwasher for you, all right? I don’t have to be back at the office for a little bit, and to be honest, I could use a break from paperwork and legalese and everyone wanting to sue each other.”
“I won’t argue with you, but I have to say, I didn’t think you’d ever get tired of the law. You’re such a natural.”
Tony turned the hot water on in the sink, and Florence began carrying dishes over from the counter. “Oh, I’m not really tired of the law. I’m just tired for now, if that makes sense. I’ll wake up fresh as a daisy at some point in the near future, ready to dive back in.”
Florence nodded. “I do understand. Even careers that we love can be exhausting.”
“Exactly. That’s why it’s called ‘work’—because it’s not always easy.”
Tony scraped bits and pieces of food into the trash, then rinsed the dishes and set them in the dishwasher. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d turned on the machine in his apartment. His dishes mainly consisted of coffee cups, and he did those by hand. He wined and dined clients for most of his meals, choosing restaurants that were sure to impress them.
But few clients were impressed by hearty enchiladas.
He started the dishwasher, then grabbed a cloth and wiped down all the counters and the table. “Anything else?”
Florence chuckled. “I do have a few loads of laundry that need to be done, but I don’t think you want to be folding old woman underwear.”
“I think I’ll pass, but thank you for feeding me.”
“I’ll feed you anytime you need it, Tony.” She held his gaze. “I mean that.”
He recognized that she wasn’t just offering him food, but a new level of friendship. “Thank you,” he said, touched more deeply than he knew how to vocalize. Instead of trying, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Let me know if you see anything else in those contracts, all right? I want them to be just right for you.”
“I will.”
She walked him to the door, and he listened on the other side to make sure she locked it. This was a good neighborhood, but he’d lived in enough bad ones to know all the necessary precautions. Once he was sure she was squared away, he got on the elevator and descended, looking forward to the next day’s lunch more than anything he’d anticipated for a very long time.
He'd had fun joking with Florence about how he was going to marry the cook, but now that he was alone, his smile faded, and he was able to recognize what he was really feeling—homesickness. Not for his apartment, but for the home he’d known as a little boy.
Growing up with a strong sense of heritage, he’d never wondered who he was or where he came from. Now, as an adult and having to navigate in a world comprised of many shades of gray, sometimes that solidity was harder to find. Biting into those enchiladas had placed his feet back on the ground. It had been a blessing. He hadn’t realized how out of step he’d felt, how far removed from his roots.
He definitely wanted to meet this new chef—not so he could marry her, but so he could thank her for helping him feel like himself again. He had no intention whatsoever of marrying her. He imagined it would be a long, long time before he was willing to risk investing his heart again. It was easier to be single.
Chapter Three
Elena cut her engine in the Topeka High School parking lot and pulled a notebook out of her purse. She had about ten minutes before her sister would be finished for the day, and she wanted to get a start on some menu ideas. Her Mexican menu didn’t take much thought at all—she jotted it down in five minutes flat. But other ideas seemed to be slower in coming. For classic American restaurant fare, of course there were gourmet burgers, some salads, some pasta, ribs, and a few chicken dishes. The problem with classic, though, was that it often became boring or predictable, and that’s not what she wanted.
Gabby opened the back door of the car, threw her backpack onto the seat, then climbed in the front. “So? How’d it go?”
Elena closed her notebook and gave her sister a smile. “I think it went well. I go back tomorrow to make lunch for Mr. Brody, and then they’ll decide.”
Gabby grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I knew it! I knew they’d love you!”
“Well, it’s between me and one other person, so it’s not a sure thing.”
“But you still have a fifty-percent chance. That’s pretty outstanding.”
Elena grinned. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it? But I’m going to need your help coming up with some menu ideas.”
Gabby looked at her skeptically. “You need help coming up with menu ideas? You’re a fantastic cook—since when do you need ideas?”
“Since I applied for this job! I feel like my brains have turned to mush.”
Gabby nodded. “Okay, listen. We’ll each get some paper and we’ll sit down and brainstorm. You write down all your favorite things to make, and I’ll write down my favorite things that you’ve had me try. That’ll get your brain going, won’t it?”
“Yeah, it should.” Elena pulled in a deep breath. “I can do this, right?”
“You can do it in your sleep. We need to hit the store first, though—we’re out of food, which is weird because you’re a chef and you’re supposed to have stuff in your house to cook.
”
“Have you ever heard the expression that the shoemaker’s wife goes barefoot?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“Same thing—the chef’s sister goes hungry.” Elena started the car. “Okay, the store—I need to buy some stuff anyway—and then brainstorming. Do you have homework?”
“Nope, not tonight. Mrs. Gomez says she always goes easy on the seniors because they have enough to worry about.”
“That’s nice of her, but she’s only one teacher. What about the rest?”
“They do like to pile on the work, but not today. I’m all yours.”
“All right. Do we have sticky notes?”
Gabby groaned. “Please tell me that we’re not making a wall of sticky notes.”
“Come on. You love my walls of sticky notes, and you know it.”
“I don’t know any such thing. They make our living room look like . . . like . . . a paper factory blew up in there or something.”
“They’re much more organized than that. Cut me some slack—you know I think better when I can see everything laid out in front of me.”
“Yes, I know.” Gabby sighed. “The last I saw, we only had the regular yellow ones, and we’re out of all the other colors.”
“Then we’ll buy the other colors while we’re at the store. And it will be beautiful—a rainbow of ideas all the way around the room.”
“And it will be like living in an LSD trip.”
Elena shot a glance over at her sister. “What do you know about LSD trips?”
Gabby held up both hands. “Just what I’ve been told. I swear—I’ve never done drugs, and I never intend to.”
“Good. You know that when Mom made me your guardian, I took that very seriously.”
“Yes, I do know. And I appreciate it, and I’m not going to do anything to embarrass you.”
“It’s not my embarrassment I’m thinking about.” Elena brought the car to a stop at a red light and looked at Gabby. “I want you to have the very best life you can have.”
Gabby, now serious, nodded. “I know. And I promise, I’m not going to make dumb decisions. And I shouldn’t joke about stuff like drugs—I know it’s not funny.”
“Thank you.” The light turned green, and they continued on their way. No, drugs weren’t funny—they never had been, but they became even less so when their brother, Marco, had died of an overdose two years ago. He was right between Elena and Gabby in age, and his death hit the family hard. Their father had already passed away, so it was just the girls and their mother.
Rosa Moreno had done everything she could to care for her daughters through that difficult time, but the strain was too much, and she had a stroke. She lived long enough to arrange for Elena to take care of Gabby, and then another massive stroke took her life. Three tragedies in one family was more than enough.
They reached the grocery store and climbed out of the car. “Let’s divide and conquer,” Elena said. “You start on the left side of the store, I’ll start on the right, and we’ll meet in the middle.”
“Wait.” Gabby held up a hand. “Is this a big shopping trip, or a medium-sized one?”
“Better go for medium today.”
“All right. So you’ll avoid the case lot aisle?”
Elena laughed. She had a mild addiction to case lot sales, and Gabby teased her about it all the time. She was just too young to understand the allure of getting green beans for only twenty-five cents a can. All too soon, the years would take their toll, and she’d realize that she had to find joy in the little things. “No cases of anything today. We’ll come back and stock up really well in about a week.”
“Gotcha.” Gabby took a cart and headed off, well familiar with the kinds of things they’d want in their house.
Elena moved through her half of the store at a more deliberate pace. She still hadn’t decided what to make for lunch the next day, and she needed to come up with something fast. She didn’t know if Florence would be eating with Mr. Brody and if making the same chicken enchiladas would be a mistake. She discarded the idea immediately—even if Florence was nowhere to be seen, Mr. Brody was bound to tell her what he’d been served, and Elena would come across as only knowing how to make one thing.
Finally, she decided to go with a roast duck breast, cauliflower puree, and grilled asparagus. That would show the range of her cooking ability, and then if she got the job, she could show them all her sample menus and they could narrow things down from there.
If she got the job.
There was so much weight and so many possibilities there.
She put the things she needed for that meal in the front of her cart so it wouldn’t get mixed up with her other food, and then she grabbed the rest of her groceries on automatic. Gabby’s favorite cereal, the right brand of bagels, some crackers, some herbal tea, granola bars . . . and of course, a package of multi-colored sticky notes.
She met Gabby at the front of the store, and they looked in each other’s baskets to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything.
“Duck?” Gabby raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I want to show my range,” Elena said defensively.
Gabby put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, listen. It’s time for some tough love. You make amazing duck, but I think you need to show them your heart and soul. You can make them duck after you have the job, but it’s your Mexican cooking that’s going to get you the job. That’s where your passion is.”
Elena opened her mouth to argue, but Gabby was right. She could put the duck on the sample menu so they’d know it was a possibility, but she needed to create from the heart to grab Mr. Brody’s attention.
“Okay, no duck. How about pozole for the appetizer, mole poblano for the main dish, and churros with coconut sauce for dessert?”
“Now you’re talking. Go put this duck back—it’s kind of freaking me out.”
Elena chuckled as she pushed her cart back to the butcher block to return the hapless duck. It did look a little freaky, she had to admit.
“So much better,” Gabby said when she came back. “Can’t you just feel the positive vibes in the air? Anyone can make a duck. No one else in the world can make your mole poblano.”
“You’re right. And I was thinking of going Mexican, but I second-guessed myself.”
“You shouldn’t do that.”
“I know.” Elena did know. Her instincts were usually spot-on, but she could never seem to stop worrying about her choices—and it was even worse now that she was in charge of Gabby. Before, she could afford to make mistakes and learn from them. Now, she felt the pressure of doing it right the first time so Gabby wouldn’t suffer from it.
“You’ve got that pinched look on your face again,” Gabby said, elbowing her as they stood in line. “You don’t have to save the whole world—just your own little corner of it.”
“I know you mean that to be comforting, but it’s really not,” Elena replied. “My own corner has you in it, and that makes it pretty important.”
“Just for another year, and then I’ll be eighteen,” Gabby pointed out. “I’ll be in charge of myself.”
“Oh, and that’s not comforting either,” Elena retorted. “I can see it now—you spending your entire paycheck on Pop-Tarts and pink nail polish and forgetting to buy real food.”
Gabby pointed at her cart. “I know how to buy real food.”
“And you also know how to buy Pop-Tarts!” Elena picked up the box and shook it. “These weren’t even on your side of the store!”
“Uh, I think it’s our turn now,” Gabby said, and Elena turned to see that the cashier was watching them with a strange expression on her face.
“Sorry,” Elena said, putting the Pop-Tarts on the conveyor belt.
The cashier rang them up without saying much of anything. Elena tucked the receipt for the sample meal into the back pocket of her purse, along with the change, so she’d know exactly where to find it. Then they loaded up the car.
As soon
as they were on their way back home, Gabby continued on with her previous point. “Once I’m on my own, you’ll have your life back. You can date—well, you can date now, but it’s not like you ever do—and you can turn my bedroom into a . . . I don’t know. A craft room or something.”
“And what crafts do I make that would require a whole room?”
“I don’t know, but you could find one. You’ll have all kinds of spare time when I’m gone.”
“Why are you in such a hurry to move out?” Elena tried to keep her voice light, but it was bothering her to hear Gabby talk like this. “I like having you around.”
“I know you do, but I also know you didn’t ask for this. Who really wants to raise her little sister?”
“I do.” Elena squeezed the steering wheel a little tighter. “I do.”
Gabby was quiet for a minute. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset. I’m just . . .” Elena paused. “Okay, maybe I am upset. You’re not supposed to be thinking that I don’t want you. The day Mom gave you to me was a very important day—a very special day, and I don’t regret it for a second.”
“Neither do I,” Gabby replied.
“Then stop talking like you can’t wait to get away from me.”
Gabby leaned over and rested her head on Elena’s shoulder. “Okay.”
***
The kitchen at the hotel was everything Florence had promised it would be, and Gabby felt like she’d stepped into some kind of fairy tale. Everything was brand-new and gleaming. No one else had cooked with those pots. No one else had used those knives. All of a sudden, she felt an overwhelming sense of possessiveness. This was her kitchen, and she didn’t want anyone else to touch it.
Well, Bart could touch it, but only for a few minutes, and he’d better be nice to it.
Florence came in and greeted them, asking if they had any questions, and then she left again, telling them that Mr. Brody would be ready to eat at twelve thirty.
“Just you and me,” Bart said, turning to Elena with a grin on his face. “Let’s do this thing.”
Revelations (Brody Hotel Book 4) Page 2
