Rosemary's Gravy (7 page)

I sighed and pushed my plate away, suddenly not hungry. “You think I’m judgmental. Is that what all that hippy-dippy lingo is getting at?”

“You have a finely developed sense of right and wrong,” she answered, the consummate diplomat.

Something about the phrasing made me laugh. When I caught my breath, I smiled across the table. “Okay, Sage. I don’t want to fight with you. We don’t get to spend much time together. Let’s not waste it picking open old scabs.”

She smiled back. “So … Felix. Are you two a thing?”

“I don’t know. We may be heading that way.” I shrugged but my stomach flip-flopped with excitement at the prospect.

“He’s really hot,” she squealed.

I nodded. He really was.

“But …” she hesitated and swirled yogurt around with her spoon, “his family life is a little screwed up. Are you sure he’s stable?”

I almost snorted and dismissed the question with a jab about our own family, but something about the concern in her voice stopped me. I thought for a long moment about his angry outburst toward Amber and the way he turned his back on his father when the police showed up. “Not really. He’s pretty young—and spoiled. And he’s had a couple of pretty nasty shocks in the past couple days. He’s probably a little emotional. But, at his core, he’s a decent guy.”

“Do you really believe that?”

I nodded. He had a pretty short fuse—especially where Amber was concerned—and it did have some irritating rich boy habits. But the fact remained he came to get me from the police station. He showed up when it counted. “Yeah, I do,” I assured her.

“And you don’t think it’s kind of icky that he’s been hitting on his family’s employee?” she probed.

I sighed. “It’s not like my job has a human resources department and all sorts of sexual harassment policies or anything. I’m sure he thinks his flirting is harmless. And if it had really bothered me, I’d have said something. He’d have respected that. I know he would have.”

“In that case, you might as well have some fun. You’ve earned it.” She checked her watch and dabbed her mouth with the linen napkin. “I should get back and start packing up the kids’ stuff for the flight back home.” Then she locked eyes with me. “Unless you need me to stay until this Amber thing gets wrapped up. I will, you know. Muffy will understand.”

“Nah,” I said, putting down my credit card to pick up the check. “Everything’s under control. I don’t expect I’ll have any more visits from your good friend Detective Dave.”

Famous last words.

A
fter a round
of tearful goodbye hugs, I dropped Sage off at the Wilshire Hotel and made my way through the cross-town traffic to my apartment. I squeezed into my assigned parking spot between two hulking SUVs and crossed the lot. I was lost in thought, obsessing over whether I was being too hard on my deadbeat parents, when someone whistled. It wasn’t a ‘hey sexy mama’ whistle so much as a ‘yo, cabbie’ call. Loud, shrill, and all business.

I started and swiveled my head in the direction of the sound. Some white guy was leaning over the fence that separated my depressing, uninspired building from the depressing, uninspired building next door. I tossed him a quizzical, slightly annoyed look and was about to make a smart remark when I realized the whistler wasn’t just a random guy. It was Detective Drummond. He looked so normal in street clothes that it took me a few seconds to place him.

“Oh, Detective Drummond. I didn’t recognize you,” I said as I walked over to the fence.

He leaned over the fence, laughing, and I was struck by the warmth in his brown eyes—like melted chocolate or hot cocoa or …
Wait, what? Where did that come from?
I gave myself a little mental shake and tried to focus on what he was saying.

“I’m off duty. Call me Dave.”

“Okay, Dave. Do you usually spend your free time skulking around in alleys?”

“No. Why? Are trying to see if we have hobbies in common?”

I wrinkled my brow in confusion and then remembered the way he’d found me and Felix the night before.

“Oh, ha. Uh, no.” I smiled a little sheepishly.

“Hmm.” His smile faded and his eyes got all intense and serious. “You need to be careful.”

I stared at him blankly. “Oh-kay.”

“I’m serious, Rosemary. Watch yourself around Felix.” His gaze was intense.

I blinked. “Why?”

He coughed. “I’m not convinced his dad’s good for Amber’s murder.”

I stared at him and tried to tease out the subtext that I was obviously missing. “Wait? Now you don’t think Pat killed her? You think it was
Felix?
”

“I didn’t say that. Maybe. I don’t know. Sullivan’s satisfied that it was Roland Patrick. The district attorney’s satisfied. He’s going to charge him in the morning.”

“But?”

“But Antonio Santos swears up and down that Roland Patrick isn’t a killer.”

“That’s it? He’s in love, Detective … Dave. Of course he can’t admit his lover murdered his wife. For what it’s worth, Felix thinks he did it.”

“Does he? Or is he just content to have his dad take the fall for it?”

“Take the fall? Are you seriously suggesting it was Felix?” My irritation came out of nowhere. Some reasonable part of me realized I was already teed off about Sage and my mom’s email correspondence, but that didn’t stop me from taking it out on the handiest target.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m suggesting you might be getting mixed up in a family feud that doesn’t involve you but sure could hurt you. That’s all. I’m saying be careful—as a friend.”

He spoke in the very measured, careful tone people used with volatile nut jobs. It did nothing to calm me down. In fact, it had the exact opposite effect.

“I can take care of myself, Detective Drummond,” I said, putting heavy emphasis on his title to let him know we weren’t friends. “Besides, I’m not getting mixed up with Felix. I told you before—we’re not involved.”

“Yeah, you said that. But that was before your sleepover,” he said with a great big ‘gotcha’ smirk.

I stiffened. “Seems to me I should be more worried about the fact that I’m apparently being stalked by a member of law enforcement. Stop following me and leave me alone, Detective Drummond. Maybe instead of creeping around like a pervert you should pick a suspect and stick with it—you don’t seem to be very good at the detecting thing.”

He drew back like I’d physically assaulted him. His face turned a mottled red color, and, for a moment, I worried that I’d gone too far. But he got his anger under control impressively quickly and responded softly. “Fine. Have it your way. I’ve tried to warn you; my conscience is clear.”

He turned from the fence without a backward glance. I could hear him whistling some old show tune as he strolled away.

I stomped off toward my apartment muttering under my breath.

I
peeled
off my dry-clean only sundress and hung it back in the closet before it wrinkled, kicked off the cute sandals, and returned to my regularly scheduled program of slouchy tees and gym shorts. Despite the wardrobe upgrade, I was still spoiling for a fight when someone leaned on the buzzer for my unit. I could just picture Detective Drummond outside the building with his knowing smile.

I jabbed the intercom button. “Now what?”

“Uh, delivery for Ms. Field?” a tentative male voice, definitely not Detective Drummond’s, responded.

“Oh. Sorry! Come on up.” I buzzed him in.

I was still trying to remember what I could have ordered online in the past few days when the delivery guy rapped on my apartment door. I pulled it open. And instead of my usual brown-uniformed UPS guy bearing a Prime box, there was a black-suited stranger bearing a vase of colorful tulips. I stared at him.

“Rosemary Field?” he asked with a smile, thrusting the flowers toward me.

“Yes?” I answered uncertainly. “Are you sure you have the right Rosemary Field?”

He nodded and gestured toward the tiny envelope stuck into the middle of the flowers. I plucked it out and read the enclosed card:

F
ondly
?
What twenty-two-year-old guy sends his driver with flowers and signs a card ‘
fondly
’? I desperately wished Sage weren’t jetting back to South Carolina at this precise moment. I could use a sisterly reality check. Catching Thyme up on everything that was going on would take far too long.

The driver gave me a concerned look. “Are you feeling okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah. I’m just surprised. Let me put these down and change. Just give me a minute.”

“Take your time, ma’am. I’m at your disposal.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked at him closely. “Is your name really Jeeves?”

“Nah, it’s Marvin—Marvin Beanie Shooks.” He extended his right hand. “Jeeves is Felix’s idea of a joke, I guess.”

“Where did you come from, Marvin? I happen to know the Patricks don’t have a personal driver,” I pressed him as we shook hands. Come to think of it, I wondered why they didn’t. They had a personal everything else—chef, maid, gardener, stylist, shopping consultant, you name it.

He nodded. “I’m employed by the record label. But when I’m not driving around vocalists and musicians, I’m at Pat’s disposal. And, now, apparently Felix’s.”

His voice was devoid of judgment or emotion, but something about his word choice made me think Marvin wasn’t exactly overjoyed to be spending his Saturday afternoon playing errand boy for Felix.

“Okay, well, I really will just be a minute. Come on in and take a load off.” I gestured toward the sad loveseat and chair that constituted my tiny living room.

“Thanks.”

He followed me into the apartment and sank into the chair while I put the flowers on the kitchen table. Then I hurried into my bedroom to put back on the dress and sandals I’d worn to brunch, swipe a lipstick across my mouth, and drag a brush through my hair. I slapped my sunglasses on my face and hung my purse over my arm.

“All set,” I said brightly as I stepped into the living room.

His head was resting against the back of the small couch and his eyes were closed. At the sound of my voice, he snapped to attention.

“Wow. You’re quick. Usually ‘just a minute’ means a solid hour—to a recording diva, at least,” he said apologetically as he stood.

I nodded empathetically. “I get it. That’s what it means to Amber, too.” Then I caught myself. “I mean, that’s what it
used
to mean.”

He cocked his head. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re the chef.”

“Guilty as charged.” Then I realized how close I’d come to being charged with murder and my cheeks burned at the poor choice of words. “Um, I mean, one and the same. Have we met?”

“No, I’ve just heard Felix and his father talking about you. You have an unusual name. It stuck.”

“Oh.” I decided it would be completely inappropriate to ask what the Patrick men had said about me, so I bit down on my lip to prevent the question from bursting out and probably chewed off my lipstick in the process. I headed for the door wondering what kind of date Felix had in mind.

F
elix’s idea
of a proper date turned out to be a picnic spread, complete with a red-and-white checkered blanket and a bottle of chilled wine, at a Hollywood Bowl concert.

When we arrived at the Hollywood Bowl, Felix was waiting with a wicker picnic basket over his arm and a goofy smile pasted on his face. As I drew closer, I realized I recognized his expression—he was nervous, too. My stomach did a little flip.

As I exited the car in a ball of excitement, I awkwardly invited Marvin to join us because it felt weird to think that he’d be sitting in the car just waiting for me, but he declined.

“No, thanks. I don’t care for jazz. Or soft cheese. I’ll be happier in the car listening to my old school punk. You kids have fun,” he said with a wink as he held the car door.

I smiled at Felix as I joined him at the curb. “Hi. Thanks for the flowers,” I said.

He leaned in and kissed me right at my hairline above my ear. “You look great.”

I flushed.

Marvin coughed discreetly. “I’ll wait at the usual spot, Felix.”

“Nah, go ahead and take off. I’ll take Rosemary home,” Felix said.

Oh.
The little flip-flop morphed into a full-blown stomach roller coaster.

Marvin grinned and flashed him a thumbs up sign before getting back into the car. I pretended not to see it and tried to will myself not to blush. Turns out, that’s not how physiological reactions work, and I could feel the heat rising on my face. Felix just laughed and grabbed my hand.

As we walked and talked, my awkwardness and discomfort sort of melted away. I know we ate and drank and was vaguely aware that music of some sort (jazz, if Marvin was to be trusted) was being played. But all that really registered was our conversation. He told me how he loved music—not just the popular hits that his dad’s studio churned out—but all music, stretching back to baroque, classical, you name it. He’d been accepted at both Juilliard and Berklee College of Music as a piano student. But when he told his father his plans, Pat had exploded.

“He wouldn’t even discuss it,” Felix recounted. “He told me if I went to music school that was it. He’d disown me and cut me off. He told me I was going to UCLA to study business administration. So that’s what I did.” He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with a wistful smile.

I thought my heart would crack right there in the middle of the crowd of people as his sadness washed over me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I took his hand and laced my fingers through his. My pale freckled skin contrasted with his tanned, strong fingers.

“Don’t be. One day, I’ll take over the company, and, when I do, I’ll change the direction completely. Instead of hip-hop crap, I’ll produce serious music.” He said it with all the conviction of a twenty-two-year old who’s never had to consider the realities of the market.

His idealism made me feel ancient. The long months of reviewing the resort’s balance sheets and coming up with increasingly desperate promotions to keep that sinking ship afloat had left me cynical.

“I hope your family business works out better than mine,” I blurted without stopping to think about what I was saying.

Curiosity sparked in his eyes. “You have a family business?”

After months of keeping a lid on my disastrous, dysfunctional family, the whole pathetic story came pouring out. When I finished, my cheeks were wet with tears I hadn’t even realized I’d shed.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” he soothed as he scooched across the blanket and snugged me into the crook of his arm. He pulled me tight and hugged me hard against his warm arm and side. Then he tipped my chin back and very, very gently, with a feather’s touch, wiped away my tears. I took a deep, ragged breath and twisted my mouth into an approximation of a smile.

And then he covered my mouth with his.

I inhaled in surprise and tasted wine and salt. Part of my mind was racing, processing the fact that after all his flirting and innuendo, Felix Patrick was
kissing
me. But most of my mind was spinning with desire and pleasure. I wrapped my fingers around the dark curls at the base of his head and kissed him back with an urgency that surprised me. Time must have passed but it didn’t feel that way. I felt suspended in that moment.

My arms slid down around his neck. He rested a hand on the small of my back and tipped me back so that I was reclining on the blanket and knelt over me. My heart thudded in my chest and electricity raced up my spine. He paused to take a breath and I opened my eyes to find his green eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my skin hot.

“Wow,” I whispered, my lips brushing his as I spoke.

“You can say that again,” he said as he trailed a finger along the hollow where my throat met my clavicle.

I shivered. “Wow,” I repeated with a grin as his lips pressed against mine.

S
omehow Felix didn’t wreck
his Porsche driving me home. I’m honestly not sure how he managed that feat—between the kisses he stole at every stop sign, red light, and pause in traffic and the fact that he had one hand on the steering wheel and the other firmly clasping my left hand, his thumb tracing circles on mine. Now, to be clear, I didn’t exactly discourage this behavior. In my defense, though, I was giddy, grinning like a little kid and bouncing in my seat.

We didn’t talk much during the long drive from the Hollywood Bowl to my apartment. I didn’t mind the silence. Intelligent conversation was pretty much out of my grasp at the moment. I kept stealing sidelong glances at him as we inched along in Los Angeles’ ever-present, excruciating traffic. Every time I looked over at him, he was already looking at me.

“Hey, there,” he said as he caught me peeking at him when we were stopped at the traffic light at the end of my block.

Suddenly, I felt inexplicably shy. “Hey.” I lowered my gaze.

He leaned over and cupped my face in his hands. He kissed me, hard and fast. My back arched and I strained against the seatbelt, my body yearning for his.

The driver behind us gave a short, polite honk. I opened one eye.

“The light’s green,” I said against his lips.

“I don’t care.” He pressed his mouth against mine.

The driver behind us laid on the horn like he meant it. I jumped back and pulled away while Felix laughed. He shook his head at me and slowly rolled through the intersection.

“You’re terrible,” I told him.

“Why do you care so much what other people think?” He asked like he was genuinely curious.

“What do you mean?” I stalled.

“This dude behind us, for instance. You’re never going to see him again. What do you care if he’s pissed that I made him wait thirty seconds so I could kiss the irresistible woman next to me?”

I considered the question. “I guess it’s because I grew up as one of those weird, homeschooled sisters named after the herbs. I was always hyperconscious of what people in town thought of us,” I said.

“You’re not a little girl anymore, Rosemary. Don’t worry about what people think of you. It’s none of your business.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was that it was easy enough to be so cavalier when you were the only son of a Hollywood power broker. Instead, I “hmmed” noncommittally.

He pulled into the fifteen-minute loading zone spot in front of my building, turned on his hazards, and killed the engine. “I’ll walk you up.”

I let myself out slowly, trying to think of a way to invite him in that didn’t sound slutty.

Don’t worry so much about what people think of you,
I chided myself.

I waited on the sidewalk until he joined me beside the car. He immediately reached for my hand. “I had a great time,” he said.

“Me, too.” I swallowed and tried to work up some saliva in my suddenly dry throat. “Do you want to come up for a drink?” I said in what was supposed to be a casual tone. It sounded strained to me.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned against the wall beside the intercom. He pulled me toward him. “I would love to come up—and not for a drink.”

He kissed me hungrily, and my lips parted. His tongue darted into my mouth, exploring and probing. I pressed against him and made a noise that sounded embarrassingly like a kitten being strangled. When I could breathe, I rested my palms on his chest and looked up at him, about to reiterate the invitation was for a drink only.

“Then I think you’d better not come up.”

Disappointment warred with longing in his eyes. I started to step away.

Felix grabbed my waist and held me still. “Don’t do that. I like you, Rosemary. I like you a lot.”

“And?” I breathed.

“And right now, I want you.” His voice was a growl.

I felt my heart beating in my throat. “But?” I whispered.

“But I’m going to want you tomorrow and the day after that. And the day after that. So I’m going to kiss you good night like a gentleman and ask you to see me again.” His eyes grew dark and heavy-lidded.

“You’ll see me at your house. I work there, remember?”

“I mean after work.”

“Another proper date?” I said, my mouth curving into a smile.

“Exactly.”

“Okay.”

“Great. Think about what you want to do for our next date. Now about that good night kiss …” He trailed off and tangled his fingers in my hair, kissing my lips, my neck, the base of my throat.

“Very gentlemanly,” I managed.

His tongue danced across the skin of my bare shoulder and I shivered. He lifted my hand and kissed it then bowed in an exaggerated gesture. He left me laughing on the front stairs to my apartment building. I sagged against the wall, grinning like an absolute idiot, and watched him walk back to his car. Then I pressed a hand to my tender, bruised lips and floated into the building and up the stairs to call Sage and squeal at her about my date.