of potatoes. “Admit it.”
“There’s a big difference. I don’t set out to get into trouble. It finds me.”
“Which is another reason why I’m glad Joe ordered surveillance.” Gav circled his fork in the air to encompass our building. “This time, we hope to take down that trouble before it sets its sights on you.”
Back to the subject of the kitchen, I told Gav about thesecond candidate we’d interviewed. “Another miss,” I said. “She’s worked at some of the most prestigious restaurants in the world, but hasn’t stayed in any one position for longer than six months.”
“Did you ask her about that?”
“Of course,” I said. “She admitted that she has a small problem.”
Gav cocked an eyebrow.
“When the pressure gets to be too much, she starts singing.”
Gav nearly coughed out his food.
“She claims she can’t help it, and oftentimes doesn’t even know she’s doing it. But when things get tense—like the last hour before a big dinner, for instance—she bursts into song.”
“Like a human teakettle?”
I laughed. “Precisely. Seems she has a predilection for Gilbert and Sullivan and Elton John.”
Having put down his utensils, Gav sat back and laughed. “And considering the kind of pressure you face in that kitchen on a daily basis—”
“We’d be serenaded nonstop, yes,” I said. “I liked her, though. Her personality seemed like a good fit for us. But, I don’t know. That singing thing could get old fast.”
“At least she has good taste in music.”
I pushed a few green beans to the middle of my plate and frowned at them. “Which is more than can be said for my taste in dinner tonight. I wish I would have planned something better for your first night home.”
“Right about now, nothing could possibly be better,” he said. “I’m back after being away and we’re together. This, to me, is a perfectly wonderful meal. But”—he leaned forward—“what would you say to going out tomorrow night?”
“You know I never refuse dinner out.”
“Good. You’ve had a crazy week. So have I. Let’s let someone else take care of feeding us.”
“Love it,” I said. “Do you have anywhere in mind?”
“We haven’t been to Suzette’s in a long time.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Do you think Jason’s completely forgotten us by now? How long has it been? At least two months. More than that, I’ll bet.” I picked up the kitchen phone. “Let’s make reservations. You know how busy it can get, even on a weeknight.”
Gav watched me, grinning. “I’m sure Jason hasn’t forgotten us. At least not completely.”
Suzette’s warm and witty owner answered the phone himself. “Ollie,” Jason gushed when he came on the line. “Wonderful to hear from you. How’s married life treating you?”
“Fabulous, as always,” I said, picturing the gregarious restaurateur. Jason had a deep voice and rumbling laugh. If I’d never met him I would have pictured a Santa-size fifty-year-old. Jason, however, was just shy of forty with a slim build and shaved head. He resembled a skinny cue ball with glasses. “But it’s been too long since we’ve seen you,” I said. “Would you have room for us tomorrow night?”
Shortly after Gav and I had begun seeing one another, we’d stumbled upon Jason’s establishment not far from the apartment. Suzette’s quickly became our go-to restaurant. We’d gotten to know Jason from his stopping by our table on our weekly, sometimes twice-weekly, visits. The food was delicious and comforting, the former apartment space cozy and warm, with its chic blue linens and creaking wood floors. Thick-painted radiators dotted the perimeter. They served as steamy reminders of another time, another life, when the refurbished two-story had originally been built.
“Of course,” Jason said. Then, as though he’d read my mind, added, “I assume you’d prefer the table in the window?”
We had a favorite table. It sat by itself up a
“There’s a big difference. I don’t set out to get into trouble. It finds me.”
“Which is another reason why I’m glad Joe ordered surveillance.” Gav circled his fork in the air to encompass our building. “This time, we hope to take down that trouble before it sets its sights on you.”
Back to the subject of the kitchen, I told Gav about thesecond candidate we’d interviewed. “Another miss,” I said. “She’s worked at some of the most prestigious restaurants in the world, but hasn’t stayed in any one position for longer than six months.”
“Did you ask her about that?”
“Of course,” I said. “She admitted that she has a small problem.”
Gav cocked an eyebrow.
“When the pressure gets to be too much, she starts singing.”
Gav nearly coughed out his food.
“She claims she can’t help it, and oftentimes doesn’t even know she’s doing it. But when things get tense—like the last hour before a big dinner, for instance—she bursts into song.”
“Like a human teakettle?”
I laughed. “Precisely. Seems she has a predilection for Gilbert and Sullivan and Elton John.”
Having put down his utensils, Gav sat back and laughed. “And considering the kind of pressure you face in that kitchen on a daily basis—”
“We’d be serenaded nonstop, yes,” I said. “I liked her, though. Her personality seemed like a good fit for us. But, I don’t know. That singing thing could get old fast.”
“At least she has good taste in music.”
I pushed a few green beans to the middle of my plate and frowned at them. “Which is more than can be said for my taste in dinner tonight. I wish I would have planned something better for your first night home.”
“Right about now, nothing could possibly be better,” he said. “I’m back after being away and we’re together. This, to me, is a perfectly wonderful meal. But”—he leaned forward—“what would you say to going out tomorrow night?”
“You know I never refuse dinner out.”
“Good. You’ve had a crazy week. So have I. Let’s let someone else take care of feeding us.”
“Love it,” I said. “Do you have anywhere in mind?”
“We haven’t been to Suzette’s in a long time.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Do you think Jason’s completely forgotten us by now? How long has it been? At least two months. More than that, I’ll bet.” I picked up the kitchen phone. “Let’s make reservations. You know how busy it can get, even on a weeknight.”
Gav watched me, grinning. “I’m sure Jason hasn’t forgotten us. At least not completely.”
Suzette’s warm and witty owner answered the phone himself. “Ollie,” Jason gushed when he came on the line. “Wonderful to hear from you. How’s married life treating you?”
“Fabulous, as always,” I said, picturing the gregarious restaurateur. Jason had a deep voice and rumbling laugh. If I’d never met him I would have pictured a Santa-size fifty-year-old. Jason, however, was just shy of forty with a slim build and shaved head. He resembled a skinny cue ball with glasses. “But it’s been too long since we’ve seen you,” I said. “Would you have room for us tomorrow night?”
Shortly after Gav and I had begun seeing one another, we’d stumbled upon Jason’s establishment not far from the apartment. Suzette’s quickly became our go-to restaurant. We’d gotten to know Jason from his stopping by our table on our weekly, sometimes twice-weekly, visits. The food was delicious and comforting, the former apartment space cozy and warm, with its chic blue linens and creaking wood floors. Thick-painted radiators dotted the perimeter. They served as steamy reminders of another time, another life, when the refurbished two-story had originally been built.
“Of course,” Jason said. Then, as though he’d read my mind, added, “I assume you’d prefer the table in the window?”
We had a favorite table. It sat by itself up a
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