Thyme for Love (Cooking Up Trouble Book 1) Page 2

  “Ms. Love. I didn’t realize you were here. Please come in.”

  Chapter 2

  I followed the rotund man into his inner sanctum, certain my face was red as tomato salsa, and feeling more like I Love Lucy than Tom Clancy.

  He paused at a massive oak desk and indicated a visitor’s chair. “Please sit.”

  I lowered myself onto the upholstered seat cushion and clasped my hands in my lap. Pleasant smile, polite command in accented English. Was this a tease before he showed me the door? While he circled his desk and wedged himself into his leather seat, my gaze settled on one of the colorful tapestries that warmed the large wood-paneled office. What had this room been when the Montclaires lived here? A parlor? I reached back in my childhood memories to when I used to play with the daughter of the Montclaire’s housekeeper. We sometimes came into the mansion but usually stayed close to the door that led into the kitchen.

  A loud creak jerked me out of my reverie. On the other side of the desk, Mr. Galvez leaned back at a 45-degree angle, his head inches from the window behind him. I held my breath and prayed the chair didn’t implode.

  He wove his fingers together and rested them across his belly. His body language not that of a man just involved in a hot-tempered phone conversation, or one ready to lower the boom on a would-be chef with big ears, I eased against the chair back. Maybe I misunderstood. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  A smile filled his flushed cheeks. “So you had an opportunity to inspect our kitchen. Were you impressed?”

  I crossed my legs and leaned forward. “Oh, yes. I love the stovetop grill. That’s essential for creating a smoky flavor.”

  “Unless you use a smoking gun like I’ve seen on the cooking shows.” He patted his stomach and flashed a charismatic smile. “You are a woman after my own heart. I’ve tried out the grill a few times since we remodeled the kitchen. Nothing fancy. Steak, a few burgers. I’m looking forward to sampling what a chef can create.”

  I shamelessly grinned. A smoking gun? The man was a foodie for sure. He would be a joy to cook for. But could I develop good low-fat recipes for enchiladas?

  The director sat forward, his chair snapping into position with a thwap. “May I see your credentials?”

  I handed him my portfolio and kept my mouth closed while he extracted my resume from the folder. He gave it a slow skim, the space between his brows creasing as he read.

  I ran my palms over my skirt and pushed down the sensation of sitting in front of my dad’s huge desk while he looked over my latest report card.

  The director turned to the section that detailed my recent culinary history. My shoulders sagged. No one else wanted to hire a perpetual cooking student with a knack for financial reports, so why would he? Through the window just over his shoulder, Canoga Lake glistened in the early spring sun. I’d always wanted to live here. Summers at Kitty’s were never enough. What was to say I couldn’t? Maybe one of the restaurants over in Lake Geneva needed a sous chef.

  “Rescaté’s motto is ‘Rescue the Children and Save the World.’” Mr. Galvez’s face lit up. “We’re already in Central and South America. Now it’s on to Mexico. We’re looking to add corporate sponsors to our individual supporters to accomplish this. The drive begins with presentation dinners of a Spanish influence.” He caught my eye. “Is this something you can handle?”

  I nodded so vigorously I must have looked like a bobble-head doll. “Absolutely. I’ve already researched recipes indigenous to Mexico and have created several that are a notch above the usual Tex-Mex cuisine.” I clasped my clammy hands in my lap, hoping he didn’t notice the tremble.

  He pulled out the photos and sifted through them, his gaze lingering on the paella. “Looks so good I wish I could taste it.”

  I released the breath I’d been holding. “It would be an honor to prepare it for you.”

  He flashed a smile. “Your aunt is a very high-spirited and dear lady. I was more than delighted to interview you as a favor. Never did I expect to find your culinary training to be so impressive. Holding down a full-time position as a CPA while attending culinary school is to be commended. Even so, you’ve had little hands-on experience outside the classroom. Tomorrow, you’ll prepare a Mexican lunch for my brain trust and me. The meal will be served at eleven thirty sharp.”

  An urge to leap out of my chair and do the Mexican hat dance pulled at my heart, but I ignored it and feigned a sudden interest in my lap until I could wipe the grin off my face and offer what I hoped was a more business-like smile. “Of course. Do you want to select the menu?”

  “You choose the entrée and make enough for four men. Before you leave, stop in the kitchen and make out a supply list, then drop it with Kim, my administrative assistant.”

  My heart rate running double-time, I mentally counted backward from 11:30. For the paella I needed more than a couple hours. “I’d like to come in early tomorrow morning to familiarize myself with the kitchen. Is someone here by seven?”

  Mr. Galvez ran a hand over his gelled black hair. “Not usually, but perhaps I can arrange it.” He picked up his phone and pressed a button. “Marc, I have the chef candidate with me. She needs access to the building tomorrow morning at seven to prepare us an audition lunch. Can you plan to be here?”

  Mr. Galvez nodded and said uh-huh, then nodded again. My euphoric heart crash-landed in my stomach. Was Marc telling Mr. Galvez that he’d known me from the past, and I wasn’t worth considering? Wasn’t it enough that he’d dumped me in favor of a parchment on his ego wall?

  Mr. Galvez switched to Spanish and continued to speak. The only word I recognized was my name, which he said like “Ahb-reel.” I should have felt insulted, but concern over losing my dream job before it even began was stronger. What was he saying? Why hadn’t I taken Marc up on his offer years ago to teach me Spanish? On second thought maybe this wasn’t my dream job. I reached for my purse. As soon as he hung up I was out of there.

  “I see.” Mr. Galvez switched to English. “Small world. If you vouch for her, I guess that’s okay. Have Taryn bring me the card.”

  Card? Vouch for me? Great. Marc must have told him I was his ex-fiancée.

  Mr. Galvez hung up. “My assistant director informs me you two knew each other in college. You should have said so.”

  Play it cool, Love. “I didn’t want that to influence your decision. Until he came to the kitchen a few minutes ago, I didn’t know Marc worked here.”

  “Good. I like that.” He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned on them. “Marc has a breakfast appointment in the morning so I’m assigning you a key card. Something I wouldn’t do without your connections through your aunt and Marc.” He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and blotted his forehead. “I suppose you’re quite familiar with Canoga Lake since your aunt lives here.”

  “Yes. I spent my summers here up through college. I’ve been thinking, and I need to tell—”

  A knock came at the door, and Mr. Galvez gave a verbal beckon.

  I turned.

  Marc’s gaze immediately went to me. As much as I wanted to look away, I couldn’t. Not with his piercing stare wrapping itself around my heart and giving my deadened emotions CPR.

  “I brought the security pass myself since Taryn is in the copy room. Wave it over the pad by the front door. It’s good for tomorrow only.” He handed me a plastic card along with a form. “You need to sign this.”

  Without removing my focus from his penetrating gaze, I grasped the keycard. Our fingertips brushed, and a warm tingle filled my stomach.

  “Thanks, Marc.” Mr. Galvez’s voice broke our trance, and Marc looked away.

  I glanced at the items in my hand. Now was the time to say I’d changed my mind. Why couldn’t I get my mouth to move?

  “If that’s it . . .” Marc jammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I’ll be on my way.”

  The men’s voices faded into the background while I pretended interest in the form. Reason told me
to flee, but the remaining flutters in my stomach screamed “stay.” Marc left, and sensing Ramón Galvez’s impatient eyes on me, I scrawled my signature.

  Mr. Galvez gripped his chair arms, paused, then pushed to his feet. He grimaced and pressed his palm to his chest.

  Was he going to have a heart attack right there in front of me? I hadn’t been trained for CPR since my college days. Was it something you never forget like riding a bike?

  He stepped around his desk. “The alarm automatically shuts off at 6:30 a.m. so you shouldn’t worry about that. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Love. I have another appointment or I’d escort you back to the kitchen.” His tone gave no hint of distress but the tenseness in his face said otherwise.

  I offered my thanks for his time and made my way out of his office on legs so rubbery I thought I’d end up face down on the floor. An attractive brunette looked up from her desk. The Kim Mr. Galvez had mentioned I presumed. I nodded her way without stopping and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  The next morning, I grabbed my leather jacket from a hook by Aunt Kitty’s back door, then checked my belongings a final time. My purse, chef jacket on a hanger, and duffle containing an iPhone speaker doc for my tunes, recipes, and the knife set Aunt Kitty had given me for culinary school graduation. All I needed for a successful audition, if I didn’t count a heavy dose of assurance and a guard around my heart regarding one Marc Thorne. It was only 6:30, but Kitty’s rambling house was lonely without her. As it was, I’d hardly slept with the mantra, Remember what Marc did to you running through my head most of the night.

  Outside, icy pellets peppered my face on a wind strong enough to straighten my usually stubborn curls, yesterday’s warm temperatures fast becoming a distant memory. Such was springtime in Wisconsin.

  I ducked my head and set across my aunt’s lawn, taking the path through the copse of pines that separated her estate from the old mansion. A minute later, I emerged onto Rescaté’s sprawling property. About a hundred yards ahead, the large building stood like a fortress.

  Taking a moment, I soaked in the surroundings. Other than the parking lot where an English garden once stood, little had changed. The wooded area that acted as a shield between the main building and Shore Drive remained intact. To my left, the lawn sloped to the lake. Through the early morning twilight the vintage boathouse’s outline stood out against the calm waters. I unmoored my thoughts and pushed off. Too many memories associated with that place, especially the boathouse’s rooftop screened-in gazebo where Marc had proposed.

  At the main walk to Rescaté’s entrance, I peeked at the darkened second floor windows where I’d been told Mr. Galvez kept an apartment. Was he still asleep? Suited me fine if he were. I intended to enjoy coffee from the espresso machine I saw in the kitchen and begin the meal prep without interruption. I could almost smell the fresh ground beans.

  As I stuck my hand in my pocket for the keycard, a loud click came from the lock.

  The door flew open.

  A hard body crashed into me.

  I stumbled backwards and landed on my bottom. Never before had I been so glad for extra padding. Who needed coffee to wake up when someone plows into you with the force of a Mac truck?

  Shaking off my confusion, I caught sight of a guy hoofing it across the parking lot, a half-zipped backpack hanging from his shoulder. Or was it her shoulder? Hard to tell with the orange baseball cap. Something white popped out of the pack and rolled across the pavement. “You dropped something,” I called.

  He trotted to where the object had come to a stop and scooped the thing up in his fist before sprinting toward the road.

  “You’re welcome.” I brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and pushed to my feet. If I got the job I’d have to ask for accident insurance.

  I lifted the ceramic tureen of tortilla soup and settled it on the stainless steel serving cart next to the paella, then checked my watch. Eleven-twenty and still no sign of Marc or Mr. Galvez. Did I dream about the audition? Had plans changed and no one told me? Surely someone would have. Having spent the morning chopping, sautéing, and baking without interruption, I managed to forget about the strange encounter with the orange-capped person. A sure sign cooking was what God had called me to do. If the audition didn’t work out, I’d find a kitchen somewhere else.

  I’d already laid out a yellow tablecloth and colorful Fiestaware across the conference room meeting table, giving the austere space the ambiance of a Mexican café. Now all that was needed was the food and four hungry men. After a quick check in the pantry mirror to be sure my unruly curls remained in the claw clip I’d inserted hours ago, I pushed the cart into the reception area, the mansion’s former entrance hall. Rosemary, the grandmotherly receptionist who had been my guinea pig throughout the morning, greeted me with her ever-present twinkling eyes.

  “Last trip. Are the men in the room yet?”

  “All but Marc and Mr. Galvez. Marc just went upstairs.” She indicated the staircase to her left and sniffed the air. “It smells divine. If you’re not hired, I’ll be mighty—”

  “Get to Rescaté ASAP, Doc!”

  Footfalls pounded above our heads. I turned toward the staircase.

  Marc slid his cell phone into his pocket and thundered down the steps. He came to a stop several feet away, a zoned-out stare plastered on his face. The expression I remembered so well from the day he learned his dad had died in a car crash.

  Back then I’d comforted him with hugs and kisses. This time, I reached out and touched his arm. Not wanting to ask, but knowing I had no choice, I forced the words through my mouth. “Marc? What is it?”

  “Ramón is dead.”

  Chapter 3

  “Ramón is dead?” I sounded more like Minnie Mouse than me.

  “Yes. I can’t believe it.” He shook his head.

  “Marc. Is it true?” A man double-timed across the Oriental rug. Short, with a rim of fuzzy gray hair circling his shiny dome, his eyes darted from Marc to me, then back to Marc.

  Marc croaked out, “He’s gone, Bob,”

  Bob pushed past us and started up the stairs. “Are you sure? Did you do CPR?”

  Marc peered at Bob with narrowed eyes as the skin around his mouth tightened. “No need.”

  “You didn’t call 9-1-1?” The man’s voice was at a near shriek.

  “Why? He’s gone. Doc Fuller will know what to do. He’s the only doctor Galvez saw.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

  The man reached the top of the steps and turned. “I’ll stay with Ramón. You wait for Fuller.”

  Marc’s hands fisted as he stepped toward the stairs. “He’s already cold, Bob. There’s no need to—”

  I scurried up to Marc. I’d never known him to be violent but then I hadn’t been with him in eight years. I grabbed his arm. “Maybe he’s right. We can sit over there until the doctor gets here.” I gestured toward an upholstered sofa.

  Marc’s gaze went to the top of the empty stairs, his jaw muscle pulsing. He threw up his hands in surrender. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Spicy aromas from my brimming cart wafted toward my nose and my stomach lurched. I stepped back.

  Rosemary held up her phone. “Is there anyone I should call?”

  “Try to keep the news quiet for now. We’ll be in the kitchen.” Marc lasered his intense stare on me. “Let’s go.”

  I grabbed the cart and pushed it along beside him, hating how the lid on the tureen rattled. “Don’t you need to wait for the doctor?”

  “I can watch for him through the window.”

  We arrived at the kitchen, and I shoved the food into the pantry and shut the door.

  Marc leaned against the island counter and loosened his tie. “Why didn’t I go up there sooner?”

  He looked more boy than man. My heart warmed with a desire to soothe, and I took a step toward him, arms opening. What was I doing? I cupped my head in my hands and turned toward the coffee bar “Coffee. That’s what we need. Should I use the Keurig
or make a large supply?”

  “Better make several pots.”

  I stopped in front of the drip machine. How’d you happen to go upstairs when you did?”

  “He didn’t come down at his usual time. Kim called and got no answer.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Kim? His administrative assistant?”

  “Yeah. We tried once more, then I went upstairs.”

  “Did he always start work so late?”

  “It’s not unusual to get e-mails from him written in the middle of the night. Most days he is . . . was at his desk no later than ten.” Marc closed his eyes.

  I found the coffee and began scooping spoonfuls into a filter. Ramón had been so proud of this kitchen and the way he’d tricked it out with all the latest gadgets. I dropped another scoop into the filter, then pulled a tissue from my pocket and dabbed my eyes. I’d known the man no more than fifteen minutes. How could I be so upset? I finished filling the filter and shoved the basket into position on the drip-maker. “I wonder how he died.”

  “His cholesterol had to be through the roof. My guess is heart attack.”

  I settled an empty carafe under the filter then pressed a button to start the coffee brewing. Loud squeals from outside split the air.

  Out the window, a large car zoomed into the parking lot and came to a haphazard stop in front of Rescaté’s entrance.

  Mark spoke from behind me. “It’s Doc. I gotta go.” He strode to the door and disappeared into the hall.

  At least with Doc Fuller on board we’d soon have answers. Curious, I headed for the reception room.

  The men stood at the foot of the staircase. “April Love, this is Doc Fuller.” Marc made the introduction as I approached.

  The stooped man studied me with watery eyes. “What did you say your name is, young lady?”

  “April Love.”

  His eyes brightened. He wasn’t going to start humming that song at a time like this was he? The doctor cast a glance at Marc. “Lead the way.” They turned toward the stairs, Doc’s wisps of snow-white hair standing on end. At least I wasn’t the only one suffering from a bad hair day thanks to the wind.