Summer's Freedom (32 page)

She smiled ruefully, gesturing to her wet hair. “I’m here.”

“We’ll eat first.”

“Wonderful.” She settled in the chair he indicated, aware of a slight nervousness again. “How was business tonight?”

“It was good.” He reached for the wine. “But, please, drink some wine and eat with me before we plunge into all the where’s and why’s. I have found the wine cellars here to be finer than most, and it would be a shame to waste such a vintage on business conversation.”

She lifted her glass, instinctively inhaling the aroma. “Mmm. I didn’t see the label. What is this?”

“Pouilly-Fumé.” He held his glass loosely in long, graceful fingers, admiring the glow of the liquid against the candle. “I’ve not found it in restaurants here always.”

Lila tasted it—a clear, crisp white. “It’s wonderful.”

He smiled. “Marie Antoinette’s favorite wine, this.”

“Really? How did you know that?”

“There is little about wine I’ve not learned.” He lifted his glass, swirling the liquid gently, then tasted. Apparently satisfied, he shifted, inclining his head. “The grapes that make this wine give off a mist at harvest time. It is a beautiful thing to see.”

“Are you French?”

“My mother is a Frenchwoman. I spent some time there as a youth.” He leaned forward to lift the dome of a covered dish, revealing casserole of cod, tomatoes and herbs, topped with tiny fried triangles of French bread. It was a country dish, a favorite with the customers and one of Lila’s preferred meals.

She smiled. “Gerald must have told you I ate this five nights out of seven while I worked here.”

He inclined his head, a very small smile showing the long lines around his mouth.

“Allow me,” she said, picking up the serving spoon.

As they began to eat, he asked, “Where are you from, Miss Waters?”

“Oh, call me Lila, please,” she protested. Settling a heavy linen napkin in her lap, she continued, “I’m originally from Oklahoma, but I left when I was seventeen.”

“And your family?”

“All still there.” For a moment she savored the bite of the herbed sauce, a flavor that mingled exquisitely with the light, crisp Fumè on her tongue, just as the candle, the music and the rainy night blended well. She found herself letting go of a long-held breath. “They would never appreciate Washington.”

“No?”

She smiled. “No. This is a subtle climate. Nothing subtle about Oklahoma. Rains in torrents with lots of thunder and lightning or the sun shines like there’s a contest on. You ever been there?”

He, too, seemed relaxed. He shook his head with an outsplaying of hands. “Please. Go on.”

“Nothing subtle about the people, either. Ranchers and Indians and a lot of stubborn Irishmen. A handful of Italians thrown in for drama.” She grinned. “I tell you, I think God laughs when he sees Oklahoma.”

She won an honest smile—a little off-center and not nearly as intimidating as the rest of him. “And which are you?”

Lila laughed. “Every last one of them.”

Samuel laughed with her as she ruefully lifted a stand of curly hair as if to illustrate her words. In the candlelight her light green eyes held almost no color against sweeping dark lashes. Not a hint of makeup marred the fresh, clear features, and he found he didn’t mind. Even her lips, washed clean by her motorcycle ride, needed no assistance, for they were watermelon ripe and pouty and full. A mouth a man would not want a woman to paint, for even unadorned, it was impossible to avoid imagining the taste of it.

He glanced away, lifting his wineglass to distract himself. He tasted the pale gold liquid, then looked again at Lila. “One day I shall have to see for myself.”

The teenage dishwasher loped out of the kitchen toward them. “Got it all done, I think,” he said, shaking too-long hair from his eyes. “You need anything else?”

“No, thank you, Jesse,” Samuel answered. “You did well tonight. I hope to have a second dishwasher here for you tomorrow.”

The boy grinned. “Whatever you think, Mr. Bashir. Thanks for your help.”

Samuel inclined his head. “Good night.”

Lila watched the exchange with interest. When the boy left, she asked, “Did you wash dishes tonight?”

“Yes.” He smiled, leaning back comfortably in his chair to light an after-dinner cigarette. “I also cooked, bused tables and seated customers. As you may have heard, we are a trifle shorthanded.”

“I heard.” She ate another bite of her cod, then glanced at him. “Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the dead weight a little at a time?”

“I don’t think so. Each time a customer receives bad service or an improperly prepared meal or is dissatisfied with his experience, business falls. Better to sweep away all the trouble and begin anew.”

Lila finished her meal and, with a sigh, blotted her lips neatly. “I suppose it’s all a matter of philosophy.”

“Your chocolate-cherry cake sold out tonight, by the way.”

“Did it?” Lila smiled. “It’s a new recipe. I wasn’t sure how well it would do.” She paused. “I tried various methods—upside-down cake was the first step—but wasn’t satisfied with the way the cherries lost color. Did you try it?”

“Unfortunately I had no opportunity.” He exhaled and shifted. “We’ll need several new desserts tomorrow to see us through the weekend. Can you manage?”

Lila nodded. “I have deliveries to make at several places in the morning. I’ll come by here and let you make your selections first.”

“Do you make deliveries on your motorcycle?”

“No, although it’s possible. I prefer to borrow my friend’s car. The trays I use fit well in his back seat.”

Samuel nodded, stubbed out his cigarette and took up a sheaf of papers, signaling the start of their business conversation. For well over an hour, Lila made explanations of her choices in liquor and food distributors, gave overviews of customer preferences in menu specialties and price ceilings. Samuel asked pertinent questions in his liltingly accented voice, listening carefully to her answers, making notes on her recommendations. He asked about the dynamics between the kitchen and the floor, probed the needs of the employees and their expectations, as well as those of the customers.

“The management firm will establish health- and life-insurance programs,” he said at one point. “And I will offer long-term employees a chance to invest in the company. Do you suppose there will be interest in such a program?”

“Definitely.” Lila nodded, impressed in spite of herself. Health insurance? Profit sharing? Despite changes in the restaurant business the past few years, such programs for employees were still rare. It surprised her that a man who seemed to be such a rigorous and ruthless businessman should also show consideration for employees. Perhaps, she decided, it was nothing more than good business sense, a quality she thought he had in abundance. If the employees were well satisfied with their positions, after all, day-to-day operations would likely proceed with greater harmony..

“There is one more thing,” Samuel said. “I fired the gentleman who ordinarily manages the catering, and we have a rather large event scheduled for next Saturday evening.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him, and his voice dropped a notch. “Would you be kind enough to consider overseeing it?”

There it was again, Lila thought, that persuasively sexy intonation in his words. “What will you need to have done?”

“I need someone to organize the staff and make certain all the dishes will be available and properly served.” He lifted a sheet of paper with a typed menu. “It is a reception for a visiting professor. I’d like it to run smoothly.”

Lila laid her fork and knife across the dinner plate, then folded her hands as she looked at him. “Mr. Bashir, I didn’t leave the restaurant because I no longer enjoyed it. I had some struggles with the old owner, but—” She paused. “I have health problems that will prevent me from assisting you in any but the most cursory ways.”

“What can you do?”

“I can make sure the buffet is beautifully arranged, that the food is up to its proper quality and see that the guests are satisfied. In essence, I can perform hostess duties, circulate among the guests to see that they are happy and supervise the employees who serve and clean.”

He measured her for a moment. “That would be excellent.” With the side of his right thumb, he brushed his chin meditatively. “Have you, er, the proper clothing?”

Lila grinned, more amused than offended. No doubt about it, this was the child of a wealthy father. “Yes, Mr. Bashir, I have the proper clothing.”

He responded with the curiously unthreatening smile and gestured with both hands, as if throwing the uncomfortable breach over his shoulders. “Forgive me.”

“It’s all right.”

“Have you a set fee you charge for such things?”

“Not really.” She frowned as she mulled over the time and energy involved in the task, then named a figure she thought was fair.

“More than reasonable,” he agreed. “Well, then, if you will come with me,” he said, rising, “I will find a copy of this list to give you.”

Lila rose, too, bending over the table to lift plates and carry them to the kitchen. For an instant Samuel allowed himself to admire a glimpse of the well-rounded figure she had hidden beneath her modest clothing. As he watched, she stiffened and straightened slowly, a flitting expression of pain tightening her mouth. By the time she turned to face him, there was only the slightest flare of her nostrils to betray her. “I will take care of those later,” he said. “Come.”

As he led the way to the office, he added a certain courage to his mental assessment of her, an assessment that was already rather confusing in its opposites.

Lila tried to control her legs as she trailed him into the small office, taking a chair before he could turn. Even when she was sitting, a series of muscle spasms in her lower back sent an excruciating radius of pain up to her shoulders and down through her legs to her toes. She breathed in slowly, consciously relaxing every atom of her body, then let go of the breath just as slowly. There was no controlling the spasms, but there was a way of living with them.

She glanced up to see Samuel’s black eyes on her, not with the impatience she often encountered, but with something very like admiration. “It’s your back that prevents your working,” he said.

“It’s nothing. The cold night made it act up.”

He seemed to accept this, and opened a drawer to withdraw a file. “These are the plans for the buffet. I plan to hire enough new people this week to cover both fronts that evening, but I thought Charlene would be our best choice. She seems popular with the customers.”

Lila shook her head. “No, she needs to be here to supervise the floor.” She paused to let a particularly vicious assault on her spine pass, keeping her face carefully neutral, as if in thought. “Eileen does a wonderful job with catered affairs.”

Samuel nodded. “Fine, then.”

The consultation was over, Lila thought, accepting a stapled sheaf of papers. Now, the only thing was to stand and go. She steeled herself to rise from the chair gracefully.

Ah, there, she thought. The grip eased, and she stood up. “I hope I’ve been able to help you,” she said, extending her hand.

He took it in his, and Lila noticed his hands were brown and hard and long fingered, his grip cool and professional. “Thank you for coming,” he said formally.

She released him. “My pleasure. I’ll bring your desserts by in the morning.”

As she turned, he saw one hand fly to the small of her back in distress. He pretended not to notice, bending to replace the file in his desk drawer then glancing out the window to the steady rain beyond. As casually as possible, he said, “Lila, will you allow me to drive you home? This weather is not fit for a stray dog.”

She paused, her hand on the doorjamb, and flashed him her dazzling, daring grin. “I’m stronger than a stray dog,” she said, and left.

That was no doubt true, he thought with a grin. Nonetheless… He took his car keys from a hook by the door and donned a light jacket, overtaking Lila as she gathered her wet clothes. “I insist,” he said, smoothly taking her elbow with a smile. “You admired my car, and now you may ride in it.” To forestall any protests, he added, “I need you to be in good health this next week.”

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(Excerpt)

by
Barbara Samuel

One

A
blue jay feather lay on the sidewalk as Luke Bernali climbed from his truck. He almost stepped on it. A flash of iridescent blue caught his eye in time, and he bent over to pick it up.

Jessie.

The feel of her and the sense of warning were so strong, he had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder. Luke twirled the feather in his fingers, admiring the shimmer of color banded with sharp black stripes. Blue jays had been her favorite birds. Luke once made her some earrings from a pair of tail feathers.

He half smiled at the bittersweet memory. With the respect usually reserved for the feathers of eagles and hawks and other such birds of power, he nestled it between the folds of a paperback science fiction novel on the front seat of his truck. Jessie had cared little for traditional explanations of the qualities of feathers. Even if no one else in the world valued blue jays, she’d told him, she did. She liked their colors and their sass.

For just an instant, he felt another small wash of warning. He brushed it away. Silly. She’d been gone more than eight years.

With a quick glance at the dark storm clouds gathering in the November sky, he lifted a pile of Navajo weavings from the back of his truck and flung their solid weight over his shoulder. Mountains towered behind the bank of shops along the street, their deep blue color shadowed beneath the clouds obscuring their summits. Luke breathed deeply and smelled snow.

A young Indian girl danced alone on the sidewalk in front of the store he was about to enter. Against the wintry background of the approaching storm, she looked like a wood sprite or a flower swaying in the wind. Grinning at the unselfconscious beauty she projected, Luke paused to watch her.