Charming for Mother's Day (A Calendar Girls Novella) Read online

  I sat. Leaning an elbow on the bar, I plucked a maraschino cherry from Maxie’s tray.

  “All you girly-girls are the same,” she remarked as her knife created wedges out of whole limes. “You always go for the cherries.”

  “That’s ‘cuz we’re so sweet,” I replied with an exaggerated smirk.

  “And here I thought it was because you’re always floating in alcohol,” she quipped.

  Our boisterous laughter echoed through the empty restaurant, not because we both found the joke uproarious, but because our nerves had taken control. This was our new boss, sitting with us. Who knew how he’d really decide our fate? Though I held no illusions I’d still be employed here much longer. The sooner I got out of here, the better for my sanity.

  “Okay, ladies,” our subject of concern announced as he took the stool beside mine. “Let’s focus, shall we? What can you tell me about this place?”

  Maxie’s lips tightened into an indefinable line. Loyalty ran rampant at the G & O.

  “Shouldn’t you have this discussion with Chef Sidney?” I asked.

  “I already have. He said I should talk to you. With most of his time spent in the kitchen, he can’t tell me everything I want to know. You two are in the front of the house on the busiest nights. You see things, hear things the rest of the staff probably doesn’t. So…” He leaned toward me, that indulgent smile on his face again—like we were girlfriends at a slumber party. “Tell me. What do you hear?”

  No matter how much charm he oozed, I refused to play confidante with him. “When exactly do you plan to institute any changes?”

  “Depends on how much work I have to do. I’m already revamping the menu. I’d like to hear what you’d change if you could.”

  With a careless shrug, I replied, “Where should we start?”

  “Whatever you think needs the most attention. Don’t worry about cost. That’s my problem. Tell me about any issues with appliances, plumbing or electrical, the ambiance, the furniture. Anything and everything. I want to revamp this place and make it more welcoming. Your advice and help will go a long way to making the Gull and Oar’s grand reopening the talk of the season on Long Island’s East End.”

  Maxie and I exchanged dubious looks.

  “More diners translates to more money in your pockets, too,” he advised.

  My mama would say, “This is how Eve got in trouble with the serpent.”

  Serpent, shmerpent. I had bills to pay. “The pads in the booths are thin and worn out,” I said in some bizarre cloak-and-dagger whisper.

  “Especially for some of the skinny Manhattanites we get in here,” Maxie added.

  I probably should have warned her that Colin’s mother was one of those skinny Manhattanites, but the last hour or so had stacked up the surprises against me.

  As if to emphasize her point, Maxie twirled and patted her ample fanny, which she’d poured into slacks that were probably two sizes too small. “No meat on their rumps.”

  To Colin’s credit, he didn’t react to Maxie’s eighteen-wheeler art of flirtation. Instead, he pulled a spiral memo pad and pen from his chef jacket pocket and flipped to a blank page. “Okay.” He jotted down notes. “New upholstery. What else?”

  “Lighting.” Maxie gestured with a wide arm sweep. “It’s too dark in here. Dark wood, stained glass lamps, shutters instead of blinds on the windows. We’ve added battery-operated candles on each table, but it’s still tough to read the menus.”

  “Lighting. Got it. What else?” He looked up from his memo pad. “Lucie? What are the slowest moving dishes? Start with appetizers and rattle off the list.”

  Yeah, right. Because I was totally prepared for today’s ambush. I barely kept my computer programs for engineering class straight, and he wanted to discuss the least popular meals on Sidney’s menu? I couldn’t even remember what was on the menu. I jerked my head at Maxie. “Got a menu back there?”

  “Sure.” She handed over a burgundy leather and gold-embossed book.

  Placing it flat on the bar, I flipped open the cover.

  “Wow,” Colin said. “I see what you mean about the lighting.” On a screech, he pulled his barstool closer to mine to read over my shoulder.

  Too close. So close, I could smell lemon juice on his skin. And skin on his skin. Warm, male skin. I tried to back up, place a wall of air between us, but he reached down near my thigh and pulled my stool close until his legs touched mine.

  “Do you mind?” he asked with no censure. “You’re blocking the meager sliver of light when you move.”

  Oh, I minded. But he had me trapped. At least, for now.

  Chapter 2

  Ariana

  Chef Colin was going to run our restaurant! And he was even nicer and funnier in person than on TV. If I squinted my eyes almost shut, he really did look like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid, with spikier hair. Before Mom came in, he answered all my questions about being on “All Star Chef.” Like, what was his favorite challenge (the unusual ingredients one where he made alligator steak pizzaiola), who—besides him—was the nicest chef (Chef Margaret), and who was his favorite celebrity judge (the man from that alien movie—I forget his name).

  Whenever we watched the show, Mom would say Chef Colin wasn’t a nice man, but I liked him. On the show and in person. While it was just me, him, and Grandpa in the restaurant, he taught me how to make s’mores in puff pastry. A mean chef wouldn’t do that. So Mom must be wrong.

  I finished the blackboard and propped it on the stand, then went back into the kitchen to help Grandpa.

  “There’s my snickerdoodle,” he shouted over the clanging pots and shouts of the kitchen staff. “Ready to get cookin’?”

  I tucked my hair under my chef’s hat. “Uh-huh. What are we making tonight?”

  “You tell me, doodle. What were the specials?”

  I remembered all of them except that avocado/mango one, but Grandpa let me slide since he knew my Spanish wasn’t very good.

  “Close enough,” he announced and picked me up to plop me on the stool by his side.

  He told me to start pitting strawberries. I worked quick and careful, like he taught me, so when Chef Colin came back into the kitchen, he would see what a hard worker I was. I mean, cooking in the kitchen with Grandpa was fun, but if I got to learn from Chef Colin? That would be so cool! So I had to show him I was good enough, or he wouldn’t keep me.

  Lucinda

  At the end of my shift, I switched from my dressy heels into my cushioned boots for the walk to the bus stop. My mother had shown up around nine to take Ariana home, thank God. I hated keeping her in the restaurant until two a.m., even with the cot Sidney had set up for her. Too much noise in the kitchen didn’t allow for restful sleep. And Ari was still a little girl. Not that she ever complained. She loved being here. But I couldn’t continue that tradition with my new boss.

  Colin popped into the cloak room before I could grab my jacket and slip out, unnoticed. “Lucinda Rosado.”

  I stiffened.

  He grinned, all full of himself for finally remembering me. “That’s who you are, right? Or I guess—were—before you married Rob Soto. I can’t believe it. Sidney and I sat right at that bar and went over the employee roster, and I didn’t blink when he mentioned the maître d’s name. I didn’t even think twice when I met Ariana. But then, you waltzed into the kitchen, and...” He flicked a finger at his temple. “Tink! The lightbulb went on. How lucky is that?”

  My lips twisted into my usual “Yeah, it figures” expression. “Right. Lucky. I wouldn’t expect anything else for you.”

  Some people were born under a lucky star. Colin was born under a lucky star while leprechauns farted four-leaf clovers and rabbits tossed their amputated feet into his gold-encrusted cradle. I, on the other hand, was born on Friday the thirteenth. No lie.

  When I used to complain about my unfortunate birth date as a child, my mother would say that days don’t create luck. People make their own luck. I would add
that the Murriere bank account tempted luck to their side a lot more often than my hard work and determination did. If anyone were to ask me, I’d say Lady Luck was a gold-digging floozy. Not that anyone asked.

  I slipped my jacket on and zipped up.

  “Long night, huh?”

  Looking up from the tabs of my fake fur collar, I grimaced. “You have no idea.”

  “Listen, Lucie, can I buy you a cup of coffee? An iced tea? A grilled cheese sandwich?”

  I hadn’t indulged in grilled cheese and coffee in the middle of the night since my club-hopping days—something I gave up around the same time Colin gave me up.

  “Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’ve been up for sixteen hours already. I’ll be lucky if I don’t fall asleep before I get home.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not driving.”

  His brows rose in questioning arcs. “You’re not? Then how are you getting home?”

  “I’ll take my broomstick.” I slid into my jacket and zipped up, then pulled my gloves from my pockets as I strode past him. “Goodnight, Chef.”

  “Lucie. Wait. Please.”

  Oh, for God’s sake, I had fifteen minutes before my bus came, a ten-minute walk ahead of me, it was probably twenty degrees outside, and my new boss chose now to chit-chat. I stopped in the foyer, my hand on the door. “Yes?”

  He looked at his feet for a minute, and I sighed my impatience.

  “I wanted to say thanks for your insight today. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said and pushed my way outside before he could stop me again.

  The sudden cold air drew a gasp from deep in my lungs. Had I thought it was twenty degrees? Probably closer to minus ten with the wind roaring off the ocean. Hugging myself against the sting of salt and sand, I lowered my head and soldiered on. Three frigid blocks later, I reached the shelter of the bus stop and huddled in the weatherproof cubby. I glanced at my watch—still five minutes to go—so I pulled my latest paperback from my oversized purse and picked up where I’d left off on the ride here hours ago. Forensic accountant, Kathleen Porter, had just figured out where bad guy, Frederic Dalchand, hid his assets when headlights skimmed over the page and into my face. For once, Jack was early.

  Closing the book, I stood and saw, not the bus I expected, but a shiny black luxury sedan. Dread slammed into my chest. Two a.m., dark street, no one around: a tragedy waiting to happen. Carefully, on slow breaths, I slipped my hand into my pocket and found my emergency cell. I couldn’t miss the 911 button, as big as my thumb.

  Before I could make the call, though, a motorized hum sounded as the driver’s tinted window rolled down.

  “Lucie.” Colin Murriere’s head popped out.

  “Chef.” I should have known. “Nice car.”

  “I won it on the show.”

  Did he actually have the nerve to flush? I removed my hand from my pocket and took a step closer to the car. “Yeah, I know. I watched, remember?”

  “Hop in.” He gestured with two fingers—a ritzy customer calling over the waitress. “Let me give you a ride.”

  I took a step back. “No, thanks. I’m fine. My ride will be here any minute.”

  “Don’t be stubborn. Come on. Get in. It’s freezing out.”

  Another step back while I shook my head. “Jack will worry if I’m not here. He knows I work late on Friday nights.”

  “Jack?”

  “The bus driver.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “When’s he due?”

  “A few minutes. Not long at all.”

  “Good. Then I’ll wait with you so you can tell him you’re going home with me. From now on.”

  Oh, now, he was going too far. Of all the arrogant, chauvinistic…

  “I appreciate that, Chef, but it’s really not necessary. This is Snug Harbor, not Crime Central. Go home. Alone. From now on.”

  “Actually, it is necessary. Good maître d’s are hard to come by, and Sidney swears you’re the best.”

  “And you believed him?” I clucked my tongue with exaggerated disappointment. “You know better than that. I’m a nobody.”

  The reminder, sharper and icier than the temperature, came out before I could stop it, and he jerked back as if I’d slapped him. “Did I say that to you?” he asked, his tone a somber hush. “If I did, I’m sorry. I was a selfish jerk in those days.”

  Yeah, right. Next he’d tell me I was a beautiful soul—inside and out. “Wow. An apology. Ten years too late, but good try.”

  “I would have apologized earlier had I known. But I guess you didn’t want to accuse me of rudeness in front of your family or the rest of the staff. I appreciate that.”

  I stared at the poster on the Plexiglass wall, advertising a local realtor. I wondered if the saleswoman’s teeth were real. No one had choppers that straight and pure white. Not naturally, anyway.

  “Lucie, please. Let me take you home.”

  “It’s not a problem. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay then.” He rolled up the window and slowly drove away. I breathed a sigh of relief until he pulled the car closer to the curb in front of the bike shop and killed the engine. Stepping out, he fumbled for the key fob, then closed and locked the door with a beep-beep.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Parking the car away from the bus lane.”

  “Why?”

  He strode into my Plexiglass cage, dwarfing the cramped size with his presence. “I’m trying to talk to you. So if you won’t get in the car with me, I’ll have to ride the bus with you.”

  His thick wool coat looked a helluva lot warmer than my synthetic down jacket. Shivers threatened to make my teeth chatter, but I clenched my jaw. “Are you out of your mind?” My facial posture only made me sound exasperated—definitely a benefit.

  “Take the ride with me and find out,” he replied with a sinister grin.

  I sighed my defeat. “Fine.”

  “Excellent.” He clicked the key fob, and the single beep rang out.

  “No,” I said. “Take the bus with me.”

  He turned to stare at me over his shoulder. “You’re kidding.”

  “Hey.” I held up a hand. “Your idea, not mine.”

  He groaned. “Along with that ‘nobody’ comment, I didn’t happen to give you the Ford versus Porsche analogy, did I?”

  And suddenly, he had completely cut me from the herd of other women he’d romanced and dumped. Unless he routinely insulted his girlfriends by comparing them to a Ford Pinto and himself to a Carrera 911.

  Better to go on the attack than admit how much that one insult stung—even now. “Whatsamatter, Chef? Too good to ride public transportation with the unwashed common folk? Afraid you might catch the poverty virus?” I shivered again, partly for emphasis, but also because the wind kept slicing through my thin jacket.

  He said nothing, and while, on the outside, I relished my victory, a secret section of my heart broke apart. I had hoped that, after all these years, he and I had both grown enough to make a working relationship possible. His silence condemned that idea and, disappointed but resolved, I started updating my resume in my head.

  Twin lights appeared on the horizon, and the bus hummed into view. I left the sheltered alcove and, at the last minute, turned to glance once more at Colin over my shoulder. “Goodnight, Chef. See you tomorrow night.”

  “Hold up.” In two long-legged strides, he stood beside me. “I’m coming.”

  He was? I stifled my surprise beneath a blanket of sarcasm. “Great. Hope you have exact change. Jack doesn’t carry extra cash at this time of night.”

  “Trust me. It won’t be a problem.”

  Trust him. Ha. Never again in this lifetime.

  The bus squealed to a halt, and the accordion doors unfolded. Burly Jack with his round face, white walrus mustache, and disappearing hairline smiled in welcome. “Good morning, Lucie. How was your night?”

  Before I could give my usual reply, C
olin’s hand slid against my back, and I flinched. His soft snicker cut through my surprise, and I realized he enjoyed my reaction. One deep inhale to stabilize myself and I climbed the steps with Colin too close behind me for comfort.

  “Morning, Jack.” The greeting came out a little shaky, but I plowed on. “How’s the new grandson?”

  “Fattening up nicely.”

  “That’s good.” I reached the top step, my crisp dollar in hand, but Colin stopped me before I could insert the bill in the feeder.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  I sidestepped out of the way, and Colin thrust his hand toward the bus driver. “Jack. Hi. I’m Colin Murriere, the new owner of the Gull and Oar.”

  Jack’s moon face clouded with doubt. “And you’re taking the bus?”

  I snorted back a laugh.

  “Not by choice.” He pointed out the bus’s windshield. “That’s my car parked over there, near the bike shop. You see, I offered to give Lucie here a ride home. But she’s holding a ten-year-grudge and won’t even talk to me or allow me to apologize. Seems the only way I can keep trying to win her over is to get on the bus with her and talk to her in public, rather than privately.”

  My blood pressure pounded. Oh, he was devious. And I’d stepped right into his crap.

  Jack swiveled around his steering wheel to stare at me. “Is that true, Lucie? Are you giving your new boss a hard time?”

  I glanced around the bus for reinforcements. Only two other passengers sat in the rows of seats, and I knew them both: Joaquin, a busboy/dishwasher for The Lookout—another five-star restaurant in town, and Nadir, one of the overnight clerks at the local convenience store. Both watched the byplay between us with undisguised interest.

  “It’s a long story, Jack,” I finally confessed.

  Jack shook his head and sighed. “Go on then.” His lips stretched into a wide grin, and he patted the meter at his side. “Pay your fare and take your seat. As for you, Mr. Murriere, you can either pony up a dollar, take the ride, and plead your case in front of all of us, or you can step off the bus right now. Lucie’s my responsibility until she gets to her stop, and if she’s not comfortable with you, she won’t go with you. Simple as that.”