Love Around the Corner Page 13

  “So what’s the emergency?” Gemma turned back to her plating again, painstakingly arranging sprigs of fresh chives on a tiny bed of Parmesan shavings with a little spiral of prosciutto. She’d gotten the idea from Top Chef, but hers was better, because her decorative flourish was actually meant to be eaten with the meal, a perfect bite full of salty and savory, with a fragrant, grassy finish.

  “One of the guests is a pescatarian. I have no idea what that is, but you’d think if she was following some weird religious diet she could have let me know when she RSVPed—”

  “Kendra, it’s fine. It just means she eats fish but no meat.”

  “But your entree is beef!”

  “I prepped a few vegetarian entrees just to be on the safe side. One’s in the oven now.”

  “For real? Gem, you’re a genius.”

  “Nah, I just figured someone would have an issue. It’s gluten free, too, in case she decides she’s that.”

  “The servers are clearing the starter plates now. Are you okay on time?”

  Gemma straightened, ignoring the twinge in her lower back. She was going to hurt for a week when this was done. As she surveyed the entree plates, lined up in rows on the counter, prepped and ready, the whipped potatoes, fresh out of the oven in their individual ramekins, their piped swirls artfully bronzed and crisp, the beef, simmering in its sinfully rich wine sauce on the burner, she nodded, slightly amazed at herself.

  “Yes. Incredibly, I’m ready. I’m going to start plating. The servers need to be in here in five minutes, ready to take two plates at a time. We need to have all the entrees on the table in the next ten minutes or the sauce will start cooling.”

  Kendra nodded with a brisk efficiency that surprised her. Kendra was a solid friend, but hadn’t always been the most responsible adult. Gemma had to admit, though, Kendra knew what she was doing on the job, and she ran a tight ship. She’d really hit her stride working for Carlos.

  When she’d gone, Gemma took a deep breath and reached for a fresh serving spoon. Time to get the main event onto the plates and out to the table.

  Ten minutes later, she ran after the server, sprinkling a final dusting of chopped parsley over the last two plates before she let him disappear out into the dining room.

  It was done. Her dinner was out there being cut into and eaten. The guests were tasting what she’d created and deciding what they thought about it. But she had no time for nerves. There was still cream to whip and chocolate curls to arrange before she could plate dessert, and the coffee still needed to be started.

  She was piping whipped cream onto the cups of chocolate mousse with essence of orange when the first servers returned with entree plates. There didn’t seem to be much left on them. That had to be a good sign, right? If they ate it, that must have meant they liked it.

  When the last of the plates were returned to the kitchen, Gemma was just setting the final two dessert plates on a serving tray.

  She passed off to a server. “Here you go. These are the last ones. The coffee’s out there in a carafe already, but offer espresso or cappuccino, if anybody wants one. I can make them in here.”

  The server nodded and disappeared with the last of the desserts. Gemma took what felt like her first full breath all day. It was done. She’d made it. For better or for worse, all three courses had been prepared and served, with no major mishaps or kitchen disasters. All her careful planning, practice runs, and Excel spreadsheet schedules had paid off, at least in that regard. From an execution standpoint, she’d succeeded, and was proud of herself. As for the rest—how it had all been received—well, that remained to be seen.

  She slumped against the counter of Carlos’s beautiful, spacious, spotless kitchen and rolled her stiff shoulders. Just then, Kendra swept into the kitchen. Gemma looked up cautiously, not sure if she was ready to hear. Maybe she should just go home, flush with the success of cooking and plating a three-course meal for twenty without anything catching on fire, and hear the reviews tomorrow.

  “Do I want to know?” she asked wearily.

  Kendra hurried toward her, barely holding in an ecstatic grin. “Girl, you are a hit!”

  “Really?” She felt nearly weak with the flood of relief. “They liked it?”

  “Carlos is annoyed because nobody wanted to talk about his new investment plan. They were too busy talking about the food.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “No way! Cross my heart.” She swept one long glossy red fingernail in an X over her heart. “I heard Bebe Kavanaugh tell Carlos that dinner was divine.” Kendra rolled her eyes, her voice taking on an annoying nasal drawl, which Gemma supposed was what Bebe Kavanaugh sounded like. “Trust me, she’s a judgmental bitch who finds fault with everything.”

  “I can’t believe it. They really liked it?” Her exhaustion was momentarily forgotten in a rush of glee. Sure, she’d heard compliments about her cooking for years, but that was family. They had to tell you it was good. Or Dennis and Frank, who’d eat a chunk of the bar if she poured gravy on it. These people knew what they were talking about and they liked it!

  “Trust me, by tomorrow, they’re going to be telling all their friends about this fabulous new caterer they discovered at a little dinner party. These people love to be first to find stuff. They’re going to be crawling all over themselves to book you.”

  “But Kendra, they can’t book me. I don’t have a business.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about that—”

  The kitchen door swung open, cutting Kendra off, and they both turned to see who’d come in. The woman was in her seventies, although her face was eerily line-free and elegantly made up. Her black hair, which was more dye than hair, was scraped back into a severe French twist. Her whippet-thin body was encased in a sleek black designer dress.

  “Mrs. Simonsen, is there something I can help you with?”

  Gemma suppressed a smile hearing Kendra slip into her work voice.

  “Is this her?” Mrs. Simonsen’s voice was deep and resonant, and she lifted one thin finger, with a glossy burgundy nail, to point at Gemma. The diamond ring she wore looked heavy enough to snap her wrist.

  “Her?”

  Mrs. Simonsen advanced into the kitchen, holding out her hand to Gemma. “Are you the chef?”

  Gemma awkwardly clasped her fingertips, which was the closest she could come to shaking her hand when she was holding it that way. “I cooked dinner tonight, so, um, yes? I guess I’m the chef.”

  “My dear, it was sublime. I must have you.”

  “Have me?”

  “I’m having a little dinner next month. Just a few friends celebrating the ambassador’s birthday—”

  “The ambassador?”

  “—and you simply must say you’ll do it. If I might get your card, I could call on Monday to discuss all the details.”

  “I don’t have a—”

  Kendra swept in, tucking her hand around Mrs. Simonsen’s arm. “I’ll call you with her contact info, Mrs. Simonsen. She’s wonderful, isn’t she? Carlos found her. Isn’t he smart about these things?”

  “A genius! It was superb, my girl. You really must do my little party. I look forward to speaking with you this week!”

  Gemma waved weakly as Kendra ushered Mrs. Simonsen back out of the kitchen. Then Kendra turned, flattening herself against the door and looking at Gemma. “We need to talk about your catering business.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as she’d started the last load of dishes in the dishwasher, Gemma escaped Carlos’s kitchen, leaving Kendra to ride herd on the rest of the evening and deal with the servers. The house was quiet and dark when she got home, which she expected. Dad and Clyde were covering the bar until closing tonight, so she could work her catering gig. The thought of that nice fat check sitting in her wallet, more than enough to cover Clyde’s paycheck and the b
eer distributor invoice, with some left over to put towards Tony Santini’s electrical work, left her glowing with happiness, despite her exhaustion.

  Maybe, she thought, as she hung up her jacket in the entryway, she could figure out how to do a few more of these. Then they’d be able to do some serious renovations to Mr. Mosco’s apartment, and charge more for it. But that was a puzzle for tomorrow. Tonight, all she wanted was a hot shower and a soft bed.

  It took several minutes for her to sense something wasn’t right in the house. Usually a floorboard creaking where it didn’t ordinarily creak was enough to catch her attention, but her tired brain was still buzzing with all of tonight’s new experiences, so her spidey sense didn’t start tingling until she was getting a glass of water at the kitchen tap.

  She froze, listening for anything that sounded out of place. After a moment, she heard it—a groan, almost too soft to hear, followed by an eerie, irregular scuffling, like something flailing around.

  That’s when she realized what was missing when she’d come in—Spudge. He wasn’t by the front door to greet her.

  “Spudge?” Her voice sounded sharp and echoey in the empty, silent house.

  There was no response. Frantically, she began searching all his favorite sleeping spots—on the rug by the back door, under the dining room table, in front of the sofa—he wasn’t in any of them.

  “Spudge? Where are you, buddy?”

  There was no answering click of his toenails as he lumbered in to greet her, no thump of his tail against the floor, no happy doggy groan of greeting.

  She raced to the stairs, and had gotten three steps up when she heard that eerie rustling sound again, this time much closer. There was only one room on this floor she hadn’t checked, the half bath under the stairs. When she flipped on the overhead light, she found him. He was sprawled across the white-and-black tiled floor, his eyes closed, his mouth open and tongue lolling as he panted heavily. His ribs heaved with each labored breath. Tremors were racing through him, causing his paws to scrabble ineffectually against the tile floor.

  “Spudge!” She dropped to her knees, ignoring the pain as her knees collided with the tiles. When she touched his head, he made no response. He didn’t even seem aware of her presence. Another seizure racked his big body and panic gripped Gemma’s heart.

  Who could she call? It was Saturday. Dad couldn’t leave the bar. Livie...in Colorado. Jess...out of town with Alex for the weekend. Kendra...still at Carlos’s.

  Spudge let out another groan, but not his usual delighted doggy groan. This sound was just...wrong. It sent chills down her spine. Oh, God, Spudge was dying and she was helpless here on the floor with him.

  Why his name suddenly popped into her head, she had no idea. But in seconds, she was on her feet, scrambling back to the entry hall, digging through her discarded shoulder bag for her phone. With trembling fingers, she scrolled through her contacts and pressed Brendan’s name as she hurried back to Spudge.

  “Hey,” Brendan answered, his voice smooth and full of sexy innuendo. “You know you don’t have to call first. Just come on over and—”

  “Please help me.”

  In an instant, he sobered. “Gem? What is it? Where are you? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Spudge. I don’t know... I think he’s dying.” Her voice broke on the last word and when she spoke again, it was through sobs. “Please come help me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Hang on, I’ll be right there.”

  It felt like forever, as she sat wedged into the tiny half bath, Spudge’s heavy head in her lap, holding onto his body, whispering soothing words every time another one of those horrible seizures ripped through him. She’d never felt so alone in her life.

  When her phone buzzed with Brendan’s text, though, it had been less than five minutes.

  “Pulling up out front.”

  Carefully, she eased Spudge’s head back down on the floor. “I’ll be right back, sweetie. Just hang on, okay? Don’t go yet.”

  She hurried to the front door, flipped the dead bolt and threw it open just as Brendan mounted the front stoop, taking the steps two at a time. He paused just long enough to clasp her hand.

  “It’s going to be okay. Where is he?”

  She led him to the bathroom, where Brendan sidled in next to Spudge’s bulk.

  “Hey, buddy. Let’s get you some help, huh?” His voice was low and soothing as he quickly and efficiently slid his arms under Spudge and hefted him into his arms. With a jerk of his head, he indicated that she should go ahead of him. “I looked it up on the way over. There’s a twenty-four-hour emergency vet near Atlantic Terminal. Just get the doors for me.”

  Gemma hurried to open the front door and stood to the side as Brendan sidled past her with Spudge in his arms.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” he whispered. “You’re going to be okay. Everything’s okay.”

  He was talking to Spudge, but his quiet, reassuring words, the low, steady timbre of his voice, his solid, sure presence, burrowed down into Gemma’s heart, too. For the first time since she’d found Spudge lying on the floor, she could breathe. She wasn’t alone.

  * * *

  It was nearly one a.m., but the bright overhead fluorescents made all sense of day and night disappear. Gemma sat in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, elbows on her knees, staring at the white linoleum floor. Brendan sat next to her, his knee bouncing slightly as they waited.

  Two vet techs had rushed to greet them as soon as Brendan had shouldered his way through the door with Spudge. They’d swept him away into the back for emergency care, and now there was nothing to do but wait. She’d texted Dad, who was coming over as soon as he closed the bar at one, so he’d be here soon, but for now, it was just her and Brendan.

  “Maybe they’ll let me go back now,” Gemma said, sitting up and gripping the arms of her chair.

  “They said they’d come get you when you can see him.”

  “But what if he’s dying back there? I can’t let him die alone—”

  Brendan’s hand came down over hers and squeezed. “He’s not going to die.”

  “How do you know? He’s old and overweight. Oh, God, I knew we shouldn’t let him keep eating that crappy dry food he loves. It’s terrible for him. And Dad is always sneaking him table scraps—”

  “Gem, stop. You made that dog happy. There’s no crime in that.”

  Abruptly her eyes, already puffy and burning from crying, welled with tears once more. “I don’t know what I’ll do if he dies,” she whispered. “He’s just...” In a flash, she knew why this was hitting her so hard, why she was so scared. “He’s all I have left.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Brendan half turned in his chair to face her. “Spudge is not all you have left.”

  Now that she’d started giving voice to her innermost fears, she couldn’t seem to stop. “Livie and Jess are both gone. Dad’s going to marry Teresa and I’ll lose him, too. And then what? It’s just me and Spudge.”

  “Gem, stop.” He reached across her to take her by the shoulders. “Livie and Jess haven’t gone anywhere. They’re still your sisters, just like John is still your father. You have a huge family who loves you. You have a bar full of customers who think of you as family.”

  It was terrible, succumbing to all her fears now, in front of Brendan, of all people, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She felt ice cold down to her bones. Her hands were even shaking with it. “Then why do I feel so left behind?” she whispered.

  Brendan’s expression softened and he pulled her into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her. His body had become familiar to her over the past couple of weeks, but not like this. There was no heat and lust now, just warmth and solidity. Her arms slipped around him and her hands fisted in his shirt. “Hey,” he murmured into her hair as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to hold b
ack her tears. “Can’t you see it, Gemma? You haven’t been left behind. You’ve been set free.”

  “Free of what?” she muttered into his shoulder. Because she felt the exact opposite of free.

  “You’ve had to be the grown-up who takes care of everyone else since you were a kid. You took care of them and look at your sisters. Look how successful they are. You did that. But now it’s done. Now it’s your turn.”

  She pulled back, swiping at her wet cheeks with her palms. “What are you talking about?”

  He reached up, gently swiping his thumbs under her eyes, drying her cheeks. The gesture was so painfully tender that her heart twisted. She probably should have pulled away, but right now, she couldn’t bear to. “You’ve got the rest of your life in front of you, Gemma. What do you want to do with it?”

  She let out a little huff of laughter, because what kind of question was that? She’d had her life figured out since she was old enough to understand the concept of a future. Her life was Romano’s bar. Her place was there, like her father before her and his father before him, all the way back to her great-grandfather, Angelo Romano, in 1934. That was her past and it would be her future.

  “Brendan, I know what I’m doing. What I want.”

  He looked at her like he’d just stripped her bare and peeked inside to the depths of her soul. “Really? Where were you earlier tonight?”

  “At Carlos’s, cooking dinner. Why?”

  “And how did that go?”

  “Um, it went well, actually. Everybody seemed really pleased.”

  “And how did you feel while you were doing it?”

  There was the question she hadn’t let herself dwell on. Tonight had felt amazing. Stressful, yes, and most of the time, she’d been absolutely terrified, but once it was all done, when she’d seen all her careful planning and skill come to fruition...that was the best feeling in the world.