wielding a sponge mop wasn’t one of them.
The dining room adjoined this space, and sparkled with groupings of mirrors, splashes of sea foam green in joint venture with the soft lemon of the great room, and furnishings in carved oak whitewash. The double pedestal dining table was covered in sea foam linen, with a square overlay of white on the diagonal. Place settings in platinum-rimmed Noritake and Swarovski crystal sparkled for two dozen guests. Yep, just a little Memorial Day get together.
The room was vacant, so she proceeded along the expanse of caramel-ribboned white marble underscoring the main foyer. A beveled mirror stopped her here, where none of the others managed. Pausing under a brushed nickel chandelier dropping light from the vaulted ceiling, Ridelle gazed anew at the stranger in the glass. Her expression was smooth and determined, all traces of earlier hesitation gone. Smoothing a wayward curl, she turned and allowed her eyes to land between a sweeping staircase and a pair of heavy oak front doors inset with huge ovals of leaded glass. Nestled there was the six-paneled door to Bruce’s office, which stood open.
This room maintained a strict Bruce feel, with mahogany wall panels and a desk to match. A sofa and a pair of burgundy club chairs sat on the near side of his desk. Underlit bookshelves spanned behind Bruce, who sat at the oversized desk, which was adorned with late-model Sharper Image gadgets. His pinstriped white-and-gray business shirt lay open at the collar, and his charcoal slacks were hitched half-mast where he crossed his legs at the knee. A pair of Ben Frank spectacles perched on the end of his tapered nose as he peered down at a manila folder on his lap.
Her heart skipped a beat as she crossed the threshold, and she cleared her throat in a small gesture of pardon.
Bronze eyes glanced up over wire rims, aging himself into the next decade. “Ridelle.” Crow’s feet cranked up a notch as he tossed her a questioning smile. “Trouble in the world of gourmet cuisine?”
All traces of moisture in her mouth vanished, as if she’d stuck a shop vac hose in her mouth and turned it to full power. She licked her lips, wondering whether he’d view it as some kind of overture. She hoped not. It was too soon to be that obvious.
“ Not at all,” she managed an even tone. “I was wondering if we know whether the vegetarian couple is ovo-lacto or vegan.”
A wiry eyebrow arched with interest. “Ah, I see someone around here actually knows what they’re talking about.” He flipped the folder shut and dropped it on the desk. “Matter of fact, I’ve wined and dined them a couple of times, and they do eat eggs and cheese.”
Ridelle offered a relieved smile. “Wonderful. I think we’ve got an answer to stave off disaster, then. Quiche?”
The smile churned up two marks on the volume dial. “Perfect. Though I doubt ‘we’ came up with that. I don’t think Fran knows the difference between vegetarian and libertarian. So permit me to thank you for saving my ass tonight.”
She willed her smile to stay plastered in place despite the barbed retort her mouth begged to throw. From the corner of her eye, she saw a black digital frame on his desk morph a photo of Bruce clutching a monster trout into one of him and Fran in happier times. Fran’s beaming virtual presence stabbed through Ridelle’s chest, and she silently hoped the woman would forgive her for playing out this angle.
She shook her head with a playful laugh. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I appreciate you noticing. Working with her learning curve has been, uh, interesting.”
He rose with a snort that was lost in part to the squeak of black leather releasing him. “You too, huh?”
She cocked her head and shrugged. “Not to worry. I know tonight is important, and Twyla and I will help make sure everything’s as sweet and clear as HDTV.”
His eyes lit up like greedy little beacons. “Oh man, have you seen
The dining room adjoined this space, and sparkled with groupings of mirrors, splashes of sea foam green in joint venture with the soft lemon of the great room, and furnishings in carved oak whitewash. The double pedestal dining table was covered in sea foam linen, with a square overlay of white on the diagonal. Place settings in platinum-rimmed Noritake and Swarovski crystal sparkled for two dozen guests. Yep, just a little Memorial Day get together.
The room was vacant, so she proceeded along the expanse of caramel-ribboned white marble underscoring the main foyer. A beveled mirror stopped her here, where none of the others managed. Pausing under a brushed nickel chandelier dropping light from the vaulted ceiling, Ridelle gazed anew at the stranger in the glass. Her expression was smooth and determined, all traces of earlier hesitation gone. Smoothing a wayward curl, she turned and allowed her eyes to land between a sweeping staircase and a pair of heavy oak front doors inset with huge ovals of leaded glass. Nestled there was the six-paneled door to Bruce’s office, which stood open.
This room maintained a strict Bruce feel, with mahogany wall panels and a desk to match. A sofa and a pair of burgundy club chairs sat on the near side of his desk. Underlit bookshelves spanned behind Bruce, who sat at the oversized desk, which was adorned with late-model Sharper Image gadgets. His pinstriped white-and-gray business shirt lay open at the collar, and his charcoal slacks were hitched half-mast where he crossed his legs at the knee. A pair of Ben Frank spectacles perched on the end of his tapered nose as he peered down at a manila folder on his lap.
Her heart skipped a beat as she crossed the threshold, and she cleared her throat in a small gesture of pardon.
Bronze eyes glanced up over wire rims, aging himself into the next decade. “Ridelle.” Crow’s feet cranked up a notch as he tossed her a questioning smile. “Trouble in the world of gourmet cuisine?”
All traces of moisture in her mouth vanished, as if she’d stuck a shop vac hose in her mouth and turned it to full power. She licked her lips, wondering whether he’d view it as some kind of overture. She hoped not. It was too soon to be that obvious.
“ Not at all,” she managed an even tone. “I was wondering if we know whether the vegetarian couple is ovo-lacto or vegan.”
A wiry eyebrow arched with interest. “Ah, I see someone around here actually knows what they’re talking about.” He flipped the folder shut and dropped it on the desk. “Matter of fact, I’ve wined and dined them a couple of times, and they do eat eggs and cheese.”
Ridelle offered a relieved smile. “Wonderful. I think we’ve got an answer to stave off disaster, then. Quiche?”
The smile churned up two marks on the volume dial. “Perfect. Though I doubt ‘we’ came up with that. I don’t think Fran knows the difference between vegetarian and libertarian. So permit me to thank you for saving my ass tonight.”
She willed her smile to stay plastered in place despite the barbed retort her mouth begged to throw. From the corner of her eye, she saw a black digital frame on his desk morph a photo of Bruce clutching a monster trout into one of him and Fran in happier times. Fran’s beaming virtual presence stabbed through Ridelle’s chest, and she silently hoped the woman would forgive her for playing out this angle.
She shook her head with a playful laugh. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I appreciate you noticing. Working with her learning curve has been, uh, interesting.”
He rose with a snort that was lost in part to the squeak of black leather releasing him. “You too, huh?”
She cocked her head and shrugged. “Not to worry. I know tonight is important, and Twyla and I will help make sure everything’s as sweet and clear as HDTV.”
His eyes lit up like greedy little beacons. “Oh man, have you seen
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