Thyme for Love (Cooking Up Trouble Book 1) Page 3

  I called out after them, “Marc, I’ll clean up the kitchen and head back to Kitty’s. There’s coffee brewing if you want some.”

  He turned. “April, please don’t leave. Wait for me in the kitchen?”

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  The tension he’d displayed earlier replaced by a softer demeanor, he continued up the steps. In the past when under pressure, the old Marc usually became more rigid than a fence post and stayed that way for a long while. This was a Marc I could get used to. I chastised myself for thinking such thoughts during a crisis. What did it matter anyway? Without Mr. Galvez I had no future with Rescaté and no opportunity to see if Marc really had changed since I’d probably return to Atlanta soon after my aunt arrived home.

  I stood at the kitchen sink window, sipping a triple-shot espresso and staring out at Doc Fuller’s car. I’d selected one of the classical albums on iTunes that I liked to cook by and set the volume to a moderate level. The soothing tones of Mozart were doing their job at calming my nerves. Since the men had gone upstairs, I’d removed the festive decorations from the conference room, then cleared the untouched food from the cart and stored the perishables in the stainless steel fridge.

  Outside the door, the offices remained eerily silent except for whispered conversations as people passed by in the hall. I yearned to talk to someone, rehash what had happened, and draw comfort by sharing the experience. But except for Marc and Rosemary, no one knew who I was. If I were smart, despite Marc’s asking me to stay, I’d leave. But how could I with the memory of Marc’s pleading eyes asking me to wait? Even if it was only to say good-bye, staying was the least I could do.

  I reached for the phone on the wall and punched in a number. My aunt’s chipper voicemail greeting filled my ear and I disconnected. I’d forgotten. She wouldn’t be home until at least mid afternoon. I considered calling her cell but decided against it since she might be driving.

  Voices filtered in from outside, and I stepped over to the window. A black van sat next to Doc’s car. A pair of men wearing serious expressions and plain suits stood at the vehicle’s rear, hauling out a wheeled contraption. As they bumped the gurney across the grass toward the building, I startled. Although I hadn’t seen the son of Canoga Lake’s only funeral director since college days when we’d waited tables together, I’d have known Tom Armbruster anywhere.

  I refrained from waving hello and made another espresso. I didn’t know Mr. Galvez that well, but no matter how he died, he met his end tragically early. He couldn’t have been older than 40. Tears formed at the memory of his twinkling dark eyes when he talked about expanding Rescaté’s outreach into Mexico.

  Show me, oh Lord, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.

  Psalm 39’s words ran through my mind. Marc hadn’t mentioned the man’s faith. Was Ramón a believer? I said a prayer for his family, assuming he had one somewhere.

  Voices sounded again from outside, and I hesitantly returned to the window, my coffee in hand. Tom slammed the van’s rear door shut and both men climbed into the cab. A moment later the van disappeared up the drive toward the road.

  “Well, that part’s over at least.”

  I set my mug on the counter and turned. Somewhere along the way Marc had discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He came toward me, bringing to mind more the guy I’d known in college and less the non-profit administrator he’d become. The same warm feeling came over me as earlier, and this time I held my arms open. To not hug a friend in his time of need seemed wrong, and sympathy trumped guarding one’s heart.

  Tucked into his embrace, my face pressed to his chest, the scent of citrus aftershave and soap teased my nose. I snuggled closer. I’d come home.

  A home that no longer existed.

  I wriggled out of his arms, and tilted my head back to look at him. “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

  He cocked his head toward the iPhone dock. “I didn’t know you liked classical music.”

  “The only time I listen to it is while I’m cooking. A habit I picked up from one of my instructors. It relaxes me. What can I do to help?”

  Low murmurs drifted into the kitchen from the hallway. Marc’s lips pressed into a thin line, pulling the softness from his face. “Do we have any snacks for a break cart? Most people didn’t hear about Ramón until after lunch, but a snack might be good. I can’t let them leave. They may need to help notify people.”

  “I saw some chocolate chip cookies in the freezer, and I have the Mexican Wedding Cake Cookies I baked for my audition.” Grateful for something constructive to do, I started to the large freezer then stopped and faced him. “What was the cause of death?”

  “Heart attack.” He stepped over to the espresso machine and stared at it. “I need something stronger than regular coffee. How do you work this thing?”

  I came beside him and turned on the machine to heat it up, then removed the portafilter and opened the canister of coffee beans. I tossed a scoopful in the grinder. “One shot or two?”

  “After a morning like this, two.”

  I measured the coffee I’d just ground into the filter, tamped it down, slid the filter back into the machine, then added water to the reservoir and slid a warmed cup under the spigot. Pressing a button, I started the pump action. As rich dark liquid filled the cup, heaviness settled over me. Was Mr. Galvez in trouble laying on the floor right over my head as I merrily made an espresso and got my audition meal prepped? A meal made just for him that he’d never taste? Could I have prevented his death?

  “Did the doctor say how long he’d been . . . gone?”

  “He guessed about six or seven hours.”

  The machine slowed as golden foam formed on the drink. “He could have died while I was here cooking. If only I’d known.”

  “You didn’t, April. And you had no reason to go up there anyway. None of us did. It doesn’t matter that you were the first to enter the building this morning. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  I faced him. “I wasn’t the first. Someone was here when I arrived.”

  “Who?”

  “A person blasted out of the building as I was about to enter and knocked me down. He took off running across the parking lot and never stopped.”

  The lines between his eyes deepened. “What time was that?”

  “About 6:30.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Dunno. It was still kind of dark. Actually, it could have been a he or a she.”

  “Maybe a staff member got dropped off early and went for a run. What were they wearing?”

  “Dark sweats and a baseball cap.”

  “There ya go.”

  I handed him his coffee and headed for the freezer. “Maybe if you found out who it was, you could ask if they heard anything upstairs. But I guess it’s not important.” I opened the freezer door. Tucked behind a bag of ice were the two bags of cookies. I pulled them out. Not exactly lovin’ from April Love, but with a little thawing in the microwave they, along with my freshly baked Mexican Wedding Cakes, could help soothe some rattled souls.

  I placed the bags on the island, opened one and got the contents thawing in the microwave. Then I went into the pantry and returned with a cardboard box. I pulled out my pocketknife.

  “You still have that old thing?” He quickly blocked the hint of a smile from my view by bringing his mug to his lips.

  I rubbed my thumb over the handle of the red knife, a gift from Marc our first Christmas together. Another more expensive model sat in my dresser drawer back in Atlanta. One my brother had given me. “Don’t think I keep it because of you. It’s got a screwdriver, a flashlight, and scissors.” I pressed a button and the blade popped out. “I’ll have the cart on the floor in a jiffy.”

  A shadow of disappointment crossed his face before it disappeared behind a mask of indifference. He stood. “At least something I gave you has lasting value.”

  A vision of an engagement
ring worn for all of five months glimmered in my thoughts, and I pushed it away. “I presume once I’ve run the cart through the office, I’m dismissed.”

  He furrowed his brow. “You weren’t officially hired, were you?”

  “No.” I fiddled with my apron tie. An hour earlier I’d have given anything to be gone from there, but now that push had come to shove, it was the last thing I wanted. How could I leave? Deaths and funerals always meant the need for food. He needed a cook.

  “Well, as Assistant Director, I’m hiring you right now.”

  I snapped my attention off the bow I’d retied at least three times. “Really?”

  He blew out a breath. “It’ll have to be temporary until I talk to the board president. I’ve got a call in to him in New York. We’re going to need you over the next days and weeks.”

  “But you never tasted the food.”

  His eyes softened. “I’ve sampled plenty of your food, mi caramela. How could I forget the way you made an old chicken taste like Coq au Vin?”

  With his pet name for me rolling off his tongue, memories of tomato soup suppers, snowy midnight walks, and a pair of tiny diamond earrings tucked inside Valentine roses exploded. I shifted my gaze away. “I guess you have eaten my cooking, but if you change your mind and want a taste test, it’s in the fridge ready for nuking.”

  “Maybe later. Thanks.”

  His tender tone jolted me. Had he, too, been caught up in another time?

  With an agreement to reconnect later, we said our good-byes, and I forced my thoughts back to Mr. Galvez. After nuking my cooled coffee, I moved to the island to make notes on the laptop computer, but the phone rang before I could sit.

  Chapter 4

  “April, it’s Marc. I’m glad I caught you. When you meet the staff, don’t say you’re the new chef.”

  The emergence of the old I’m-in-Control Marc begged a quick retort, but I kept the snappy answer to myself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The board and administrators didn’t unanimously agree on hiring a chef. No need to stir the waters since Ramón has, um, passed away.”

  So his hiring me wasn’t a sure thing after all. Thankful Marc couldn’t see the tremble in my hand, I asked, “How do you intend to convince the dissenters that I’m needed?” Another unspoken question begged an answer. Was Marc one of the dissenters before he knew I had applied for the job?

  “I haven’t been able to reach the board president yet. When I do, he’ll hear me out.”

  “How should I introduce myself?” Using my finger, I traced a circle in a sugar spill left on the counter.

  “Just say you’re helping out for a few days. I’m sure I’ll have it cleared up by tomorrow.”

  “So, are you in charge now or not? Or more to the point, am I the new chef or aren’t I?”

  Silence filled the connection.

  “Marc?”

  “It’s only a matter of semantics. By default, as assistant director, I have to go ahead on a few things. There’s no reason for the president to not agree with your hiring. So hang in there.”

  I drew in a breath. “Guess I’d better start praying.” My job wasn’t the only thing I’d be storming heaven about.

  “We can use some prayer about now. Is the cart ready?”

  “Five minutes and I’m on my way.”

  The H-shaped building had two main corridors. Ramón’s office suite sat at the end of the west wing hall, and Marc’s at the opposite end. The kitchen, ballroom, and reception area made up the bridge between the two corridors. I decided to start in the east wing.

  I pushed the snack cart to a stop near a glass door then stepped inside the suite. A woman with bottle-red hair tumbling to her shoulders hunched over her desk, her acrylic fingernails clacking on her numeric computer keyboard.

  I cleared my throat, and she looked up. Hazel eyes ringed with eyeliner flitted between the cart and me. After I offered what I hoped was a warm smile, she stood, revealing the longest legs I’d ever seen. But then with a skirt as short as hers, anyone would look all legs.

  “Man, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes. You must be the in-house chef I had to work into the budget.” She sashayed over and grabbed a paper plate. “I had the most awesome breakfast this morning and skipped lunch. But now I’m like, so hungry.” She stuck out her hand. “Candy Neer. And you are?”

  “April Love. I’m helping out for a few days.”

  We shook hands, then she moved closer to the cart and turned. “Cool name. It sounds familiar. Wait. I know.” Her eyes lit up. In an off-key voice, she crooned the song lyrics about love in April being for the very young.

  I forced a laugh. “I’m surprised you know the words. The song hasn’t been popular since the 50s.”

  A grin took over. “My mom has a collection of old vinyls that she likes to play. So what gives with the name? Is it for real?

  “Afraid so. My mom had a thing for April. She was born, got engaged, married and had me all in the month of April, and with a last name of Love . . . well, you get the picture.”

  She leaned in to select a chocolate chip cookie. The tiny diamond attached to the side of her nose twinkled in the overhead light. “So your birthday is this month. Happy Birthday.” She moved on to the Mexican Wedding Cake cookies and added a couple to her stash.

  “Thanks.”

  My first impression of Candy had been a woman in her early twenties, but on second glance, the lines spidering from her eyes and mouth betrayed her. She had to be pushing forty.

  I pulled my attention away and fixated on a bronze plaque affixed to a closed door. “Robert Cousins, Director of Business Operations.” The same “Bob” who’d caused Marc’s eyebrow to twitch double-time this morning?

  “Would your boss like something?”

  Candy rolled her eyes. “He’s in Marc’s office, jousting to see who gets to be king.” She filled a Styrofoam cup with hot water then scrounged through a basket of tea bags. Several packets spilled onto the cart’s miniscule workspace, which she ignored. “Good. You have chai.” She dropped the tea bag in her cup and looked at me. “I probably shouldn’t say this to a total stranger, but I’m like, so sick of the dishonesty around here.”

  “Dishonesty?”

  “Yeah. To the world, Ramón was generous and caring. Truth is, he was a selfish, overweight man with a heart of stone.”

  I put my hand to my mouth to make sure it wasn’t hanging open. “I only met him once. He seemed all right.”

  She whispered. “He could charm anyone when he had to.” She tossed the napkin onto the cart. “Maybe now with him gone, Rescaté can finally be the place it makes itself out to be. If the right man gets to sit on the throne.” She brought her head closer and lowered her voice. “Marc Thorne’s the only decent one around here. The only one with a heart. And what’s better, he’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

  I felt my face heat. She was hardly Marc’s type. Surely he wouldn’t be interested in her. Would he? A sinking feeling filled my stomach. What did I know about his type anymore? And what did I care if he and Candy had a thing?

  “You just move to the area?”

  I snapped out of my contemplation. “My aunt lives next door. I came up two days ago from Atlanta.”

  “Seems you’re unattached.” She nibbled her cookie. “It’s hard getting to know the single crowd around here unless you hang out at the Apple.

  “The Apple?”

  “A restaurant on the outskirts of Lake Geneva. It’s really called the Red Apple. Maybe we could hit the place together after work some night.”

  A nice dinner out away from work would be enjoyable. I heard myself say, “Sounds like a plan.”

  She glanced at her desk. “Cool. I need to get that data entered before Bob returns from his joust. We can talk later.”

  Back in the hall, I shook my head. Candy sure didn’t have much good to say about Ramón. Until then I hadn’t heard unfavorable comments. Kitty spoke well of him, and if Marc had any
negative feelings, he’d kept them to himself. Ramón seemed okay to me, short time that I’d known him.

  A heavily accented female voice drifted into the hall. “It seems funny that Mr. Galvez is dead. I wonder how Ana feels.”

  “What’s Ana got to do with anything, Rosa?”

  “She would still feel sad.”

  Chapter 5

  I pushed the cart toward the direction of the voices and entered what appeared to be a mailroom. A pair of middle-aged ladies looked up from where they sat at a long table.

  The dark-haired woman set down a stack of brochures and approached the cart. She wore a colorful flowered top, navy slacks, and a who-are-you expression while gazing at the goodies. “¿Son éstos para nosotros?”

  Finding the sparkle in her dark eyes irresistible, I smiled. “Espanol. Un poco.” I held up my thumb and index finger a half inch apart.

  She grinned, revealing a silver tooth. “Oh, that’s okay. I speak English good. I say, ‘Are these for us?’”

  Her plumpish coworker offered a gentle smile as she approached the cart. She looped a lock of her medium length salt and pepper hair behind an ear. “You speak English well, Rosa.”

  Rosa bobbed her head. “Si. That’s what I said. I speak English good.” She stifled a giggle. “Sorry. It wrong to laugh when someone just die.”

  “Sometimes laughter helps ease the sorrow. Help yourselves, ladies. I’m April Love. I hope the warm drinks and cookies will help soften your shock.”

  “I’m Helen Lubinski,” the older woman said. “And this is Rosa Maldonado. Such a sad morning for Rescaté.” She eyed the offerings. “Of course not everyone holds the same sentiment.”

  I glanced up from reordering the teabags and caught her eye. “Oh?”

  She let out a sigh as she picked up a napkin. “I shouldn’t have opened my mouth, but since I did.” She nodded in the direction of Candy’s domain. “That girl made one mistake, and Ramón threatened to can her until Marc Thorne stepped in. He saved her job.”