The Angel Tasted Temptation (7 page)

"What's wrong with your clothes?" Maria glanced down at Meredith's outfit. "You look nice."

"That's the problem." She lifted the long paisley skirt that hung past her knees. "I look like a quilt."

"You've come to the right women to fix that," Maria said. "If there's anything we love to do, it's shop."

Candace nodded. "Shopping is the city girl's therapy. Probably a lot more expensive than a session with Dr. Phil, but it sure looks better than some bald guy in a suit."

Larry Herman was holding court in the conference room again. He stood at the head of the faux cherry table, palms down on either side, and stared down his two-member team, assembled on either side of the oval table.

Travis had no idea why Larry bothered to hold these theatrical meetings every morning. No one in the office took him seriously. He was their boss, yes, but beyond that, Travis and Kenny had little use for their department manager. As the cousin of the owner, Larry had a secure position as vice president of Belly-Licious Beverages and a superiority complex that added a fashion
faux pas
touch to his middle-age paunch and balding head.

Everyone knew he was bald, though he tried really hard to disguise it. A lifetime member of the Toupee of the Month Club, Larry had a collection of hairpieces even Cher would envy. Unfortunately, despite sixty months of "real" fake hair, Larry had yet to hit on a set of strands that matched his own strawberry blond, or what was left of it.

"I need a miracle, men," Larry said, nodding as he spoke. October's ash blond hair fluttered with the movement, as if it were waving agreement. "A miracle with No-Moo Milk."

"It's Monday, Larry," Kenny said. "We're flat out of miracles until Friday."

"Ha ha. Very funny. We don't have until Friday. We need an ad campaign for No-Moo Milk by Thursday at five."

"We? Or you? Last I checked,
you
took the meeting with your cousin, leaving us sitting outside his office like a bunch of truant kids," Travis said. "You weren't thinking of stealing our ideas and passing them off as your own again, were you?"

Larry let out a short, dry, nervous laugh. "Why would I do that? We're a team here. There's no I in team."

"There's no recognition either. At least not in your idea of a 'team.'" Travis leaned back in his chair. The faux black leather crinkled with the movement and the base squeaked in protest.

"Listen, you guys go to bat with me on this and I'll be sure to put in a good word for you with the boss."

As the head of both marketing and research and development, Larry's motto was that it was "everybody's ass" on the line. When it came to taking care of asses, though, his was the only one he ever worried about.

Travis had woken up Monday morning determined to turn over a new leaf of his personal life. While he was in the woods of change, he figured he might as well rake up a few new things at work, too.

Like Larry's hair, which could use a comb and a can of Ronco spray-on color.

"We busted our butts on Choco-Carrot Juice," Travis reminded him. "And you were the one who ended up with a company car and your own parking space."

Larry's laugh was almost a choke. "I tried to get something for you guys—"

"You call a subscription to
Dog Fancy
a bonus?" Kenny asked. "Larry, I don't even own a dog."

Larry shrugged and put up his hands. "You might someday. I'm only thinking of your future."

Travis muttered a few choice words under his breath.

"Anyway, we need to make No-Moo Milk the leader in the beverage industry. If we can get people to buy that instead of real milk, we'll corner the market."

"And put a lot of farmers out of business," Travis said.

Larry waved his hand. "They'll still have cheese. Now, give me something on No-Moo Milk that will convince those mustached lunatics to buy it, and I'll take care of you both."

"Mustached lunatics?"

"Yeah, those idiots in the dairy ads who are always talking about how good milk is for you." Larry snorted. "Like a synthetic product that's chemically fortified isn't more nutritious."

"And it's up to us to make them see the error of their ways." Travis shook his head and vowed to crack open the classifieds the minute he got home. He'd had enough of Larry, his hair fetish, and the insane products he worked with. Now that he was sober, Travis Campbell had a hell of a lot less enjoyment for his job.

He'd get the hell out of here, just as he and his brother Brad had vowed long ago. Their jobs were a joke, a way to pay for beer and dates. Now that Travis wasn't funding either for a while, he could afford unemployment. Either way, it was better to be poor and sober than drunk and working for Larry and his hair one more day.

Brad, who worked in R&D for Belly-Licious, had developed No-Moo as a lark, a sort of
ha-ha
back at Larry, who was lactose intolerant but refused to admit it. Everyone in the office suffered after one of Larry's daily "I can still eat ice cream" trips to Dairy Queen.

Brad and Travis had had a big laugh about the test product, thinking there'd be no way anyone would take Brad's chemical version of nature's finest beverage seriously.

Clearly, they'd been wrong.

"Travis, I can see that look in your eyes. Don't you even think about letting me down on this one."

"Larry, don't you find it even remotely disturbing that we're trying to encourage people to
not
drink milk, one of the healthiest natural beverages around?"

"Uh, no." Larry lowered himself into the claw-footed chair at the head of the table and crossed his hands over his notepad. "Now, who's got an idea?"

Kenny looked at Travis. Travis looked at Kenny.

"This is what I pay you two for, in case you forgot."

"No offense, Larry, but that No-Moo Milk tastes like my grandmother's toilet water." Kenny shook his head. "How the hell do we sell that to people?"

"Old ladies can be very convincing salespeople. That Clara dame worked wonders for Wendy's." Larry said. "I can see it now." Larry spread a hand across an imaginary billboard. "Where's the No-Moo?!"

Travis groaned.

"What, you guys have something better? Something
before
payday?"

Kenny glanced at Travis, then back at Larry, then did a damned good job of avoiding Travis's gaze. "Well... we do have one ace."

"An ace?" Larry's eyes brightened behind his tortoiseshell rims. "What kind of ace?"

Travis suddenly knew what Kenny was talking about. He remembered the conversation in the bar, his brilliant idea last night that no longer seemed so brilliant, not in the light of day. "Kenny—"

"A woman from Indiana," Kenny went on. "A
farmer's
daughter."

Larry's grin spread from sideburn to sideburn. "That's not a woman, that's a focus group."

"Larry, she's a nice woman." Travis shook his head and gave Kenny a glare. "We shouldn't use her."

"Travis, might I remind you that she's using you?" Kenny said. "
Quid pro quo
, as I always say."

"Since when do you speak Latin?"

"Since my ex got her alimony upped. Remember?" Kenny leaned in close to Travis and lowered his voice. "I’m asking you this as a friend in debt and in need. I need this job and whatever raise I can squeeze out of Larry if No-Moo Milk is a success."

"Come on, Kenny, this is wrong."

"And since when did you grow a conscience, pocket-book boy?"

Since he'd met a woman who seemed damned determined to make sure he didn't think with anything remotely conscientious. But he kept that to himself.

As Kenny had said, all she wanted from him was a little
quo
. And he'd be a fool if he didn't exact some
quid
while he was at it.

Maria's Time-for-a-Change Seafood Lasagna

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 small onion, diced

1 clove garlic, minced

1/2 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced

2 14-1/2 ounce cans stewed tomatoes, cut up

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

1 tablespoon tomato paste

Dash salt and pepper

1/2 cup peeled, cooked shrimp

8 ounces crabmeat

1/2 pound scallops, sliced

3 tablespoons butter

3 tablespoons flour

1-3/4 cups milk

1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

1/4 cup dry white wine

8 ounces lasagna noodles, cooked and drained

1/4 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

I know, it looks lot of ingredients, but trust me, the results are worth it. Besides, when did you ever meet a lasagna you didn't like? Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and get ready to cook.

The dish, not the man. Not yet. Save him for later.

Sauté the onion and garlic in the olive oil, then add the mushrooms. Cook until everything is as weak as your resolve to be a good girl. Add the tomatoes, spices and paste. Simmer for twenty minutes, then stir in the seafood and remove from the heat.

Mmm ... bet you can taste the blend of flavors already. That's pretty much what you're doing with your life and new look, isn't it? Blending something new with something old, hoping for a result he'll find irresistible?

In another saucepan (don't worry, that's what a good-looking man is for, to get sudsy with you and help with the dishes), melt the butter, then add the flour. Stir in the milk a little at a time with a whisk, cooking until it's as thick and bubbly as your desire for more. Add the mozzarella and stir until it's melted. Finally, add the wine.

Oh,
yeah
. It looks good enough to eat as it is, doesn't it? Trust me. Layer one sauce, then the other on the lasagna noodles, repeating one more time. Top with the Parmigiano. Then bake it uncovered (doesn't everything look better naked?) for a half an hour.

It says this recipe serves six to eight. But honestly, I've never been able to stretch it past two. And with a good-looking man sitting across the table to indulge with, why the hell would you want to invite anyone else over anyway?

Meredith sat in the waiting area of an upscale hair salon in Harvard Square during her lunch hour and instead of eating the Subway wrap in the bag beside her, she chewed on a big regret.

That she'd answered her cell phone. Again.

"Are you eating your vegetables, dear?"

Meredith knew no matter how bad her mother got, she was still her mother. And she did this all out of love—a love that sometimes suffocated her like a two-ton comforter, but still, love. "Yes, I am."

"Because if you don't, you'll get constipated and when you get your plumbing backed up—"

"Momma, this is not the time."

"I'm just saying a girl's gotta keep her plumbing in good condition. Don't want those pipes freezing when you're a married woman."

"I'm not getting married."

"That's not what Caleb says," her mother sing-songed over the phone. "A little birdie told me he has plans."

"We
had
plans. We're no longer engaged. It's over."

"Oh, pshaw. Temporarily. When you start eating more fiber, you'll come to your senses again."

"My diet has nothing to do with how I feel about Caleb."

Martha harrumphed. "It's all that smog. I tell you, it isn't good for your brain. Why I can practically hear your brain cells dying from here." On the other end, her mother started the water for the dishes. It was nine-fifteen in the morning. If there was one thing Martha Shordon excelled at, it was sticking to a schedule. Breakfast dishes soaked until nine-thirty, then they were washed, dried and back in the cabinet before ten.

"All my brain cells are intact," Meredith said, then wondered for a moment if they were. Was this idea completely insane? It would be so easy to go back home, to settle back into the complacency of Heavendale that had surrounded her with the thickness of one of her grandmother's wedding-ring pattern quilts. "I'm doing great," she said as much to reassure herself as her mother.

"Your voice sounds a little hoarse. Are you catching a cold?" Her mother didn't wait for an answer. "Chicken soup. That's what you need."

Next it would be an onion poultice. Meredith had some particularly ugly memories of onions and childhood. "I'm fine," she repeated.

"Don't forget to take your vitamins, either. You get too low on your Bs and before you know it—"

"I will. Give Dad a kiss for me. I have to go now."

A pause, then a sigh. "Meredith, what should I tell Caleb?"

Undoubtedly, telling her mother not to say anything would backfire. 'Tell him I've moved on. And I'm happy now."

"You don't sound happy. It must be a cold," Momma insisted. "You're not acting like yourself at all. I'll send you some Campbell's. I'll put that on my list for the Kroger store."

Meredith bit back her first response. As well as her second. "Thanks, Momma. That would be great."

"I knew you'd come around. You always were my good girl." Back in the sunflower-yellow kitchen in Heavendale, her mother turned off the water and let the egg-coated plates soak. "Once you're back home where you belong, everything will be back to normal. You'll see."

Meredith hung up her phone and knew one thing for sure. Soup or not, it was going to be a long while before she went back—if ever—to who she was before.

Across the waiting room of the Hair and Gone Salon, a slim, redheaded guy waved Meredith over to a booth. "Your turn. You're with Elona," he said, gesturing toward a black chair on a rotating pedestal. "I'll warn you. She's a little quirky, but she works a miracle with a pair of shears." Then he was gone, tending to the appointment book and phones.

A miracle. Hopefully she'd find one of those here. And be able to afford it.

Meredith took a seat in the chair and pulled out her ponytail, releasing her long blond hair and letting it swing against her shoulders. Now or never, she told herself. City women didn't run around with straight blond hair that had all the shape of a burlap sack. They styled their hair, used products that cost twelve times the value of the ingredients list and added colors until they forgot what shade they'd been born with.