Chapter 6 #2
“You’ve got to visit my place,” Jason said, veering the conversation away from maudlin subjects.
“Seeing it should help you fashion the perfect soiree. I want champagne flowing and a chocolate fountain and the constant delivery of appetizers. The whole affair should be artistic and passionate.” He painted a picture with his left hand.
“There’s a beautiful terrace overlooking the grounds and the swimming pool.
I’d like six or seven food stations out there. Pasta. Stir-fry.”
“A seafood bar. A cheese and accoutrement table.”
“Yes, you’ve got the idea.”
I thought of the lavish parties Jay Gatsby threw. Was Jason channeling the man because of the upcoming Feast for the Eyes event? Or had he come to town hoping a big bash might make news in California and alert Delilah as to his whereabouts and, despite Patrick’s taunts, lure her here?
“How about I give you a tour tomorrow?” he continued. “In the morning a decorator is swapping out a number of furniture and art pieces. You shouldn’t see the place until that’s completed. Say, four o’clock?”
“Sure.”
“Answer me this.” He slung an arm casually over the back of his chair, which made him look decidedly rakish. “How many men’s houses have you toured in your lifetime?”
“Plenty,” I joked. “I am a caterer, after all.” It dawned on me I’d never seen the inside of Zach’s house. Why not? He’d promised to barbecue for me sometime. I guess he’d changed his mind.
As if I’d summoned Zach with my musings, he took a seat at the bar, along with his partner, Detective Brendan Bates, who was taller than Zach and meticulous about his appearance.
I couldn’t remember ever seeing the man without his Afro and goatee neatly trimmed.
Both men were in jeans and polo shirts, suggesting they were enjoying a well-deserved night off.
Zach caught me looking his way, and I averted my eyes, but not before I saw his gaze narrow.
With what? Jealousy? Confusion? I considered waving in greeting, but I kept my hands on the base of the beer glass and made a mental note to talk to him tomorrow.
We had to clear up whatever was coursing through his mind.
We were friends. We owed each other an honest chat.
Our dinners came. Jason bit into his “everything” burger and hummed his approval. “It’s better than the menu claimed it would be.” He put his burger on the plate, propped his elbows on the table, and tented his hands above his plate. “What kind of events have you thrown so far?”
“You name it. Themed parties. Kids or adult birthday parties. Recently I served eighty people for a couple’s fortieth anniversary. And I cater events at law offices, fire stations, and the like.”
“Fire stations?”
“Yep. Last year they threw a party for residents who lived near the station. After all, fire trucks create a lot of noise. There’s no better goodwill gesture than free food.
I offered a buffet with all the best finger foods you could imagine.
The biggest draw was the three-alarm-fire chicken wings. ”
“Three-alarm fire. Clever.” He chuckled. “My soiree should be about five hundred people. Can you handle something that size?”
I tempered the urge to let my mouth fall open. “I’m sure I can.” I’d have to hire every server in town, as well as a few from catering outfits in Asheville and possibly beyond. “What date are you thinking of?”
“Next Sunday. The day after the bookshop’s Gatsby event.”
Whoa! So soon?
“Can you handle it?” he asked and once again attacked his burger.
“Of course.”
I spotted Iggie Luckenbill following the hostess to one of the six tables by the window.
He was with another developer, the one who’d done the update on the rec center and the library.
Iggie glanced our way, and his mouth curved down in a frown.
He wasn’t a reader, so he wasn’t upset with me for messing up a book order.
Was he still ticked at Jason for putting a bid on the historic properties?
Couldn’t he let bygones be bygones? I studied him, wondering again whether he had had feelings for Finette Fineworthy at one time and was upset Jason was getting buddy-buddy with her.
Sure, he was married, but many men had affairs or previous lovers.
Women too. Before taking his seat, Iggie straightened his tie, fussed with the cuffs of his shirt so a perfect half inch of cuff would show beneath the sleeves of his jacket, and smoothed his thinning hair.
“Who are you staring at?” Jason swiveled in his seat. “Oh, him. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of New Jersey.”
“He said you …” I hesitated.
“Go on.” Jason tilted his head, those dreamy eyes of his pleading for honesty.
“He mentioned you started a project in California but abandoned it. Was that the one Patrick was referring to?”
Jason considered the question for a long moment. “Yes. It wasn’t the right one to complete.”
“Did you give up because you lost interest?”
“Sort of. It lacked style and substance. I returned the investor’s money plus interest.”
“But you began construction. The foundation and framing are still there.”
“I put money in an escrow account to cover the cost of tearing it down and restoring it to the bare parcel of land it was, but it’s taking time due to a lot of red tape.
My lawyer is handling it. Trust me, I’m not a sluggard.
I’m not heartless when it comes to the needs of a community.
” He sipped his beer. “Don’t give Mr. Luckenbill or Mr. Hardwick another moment’s thought.
Now, back to the soiree. What do you think it will cost? ”
I did the math in my head for liquor, dining tables and prep stations, food, and servers’ wages. “I would think a hundred and fifty per person. It depends on the presentation and the variety of dishes you’re hoping to provide, as well as the availability of the ingredients.”
He downed a French fry. “What will you need as a deposit? Will twenty-five thousand cover it?”
I swallowed hard. I’d never received such a large deposit.
“Yes, it’ll do.” I’d have enough to buy all the liquor and provisions and then some.
I wondered if Vanna would help or if she’d still hold a grudge against me because I hadn’t insisted she join this dinner meeting?
I might have to win her over by promising she could make frou-frou appetizers.
“Swell. Glad we’ve agreed. We’ll review a menu tomorrow.” After he polished off his burger, he said, “I hear you work out of a ghost kitchen.”
“I do.”
“Is it nearby?”
“It’s four blocks away.”
“I’d love to see it,” he said. “If you feel comfortable letting me in, just the two of us.”
“I’m fine.” I didn’t get the vibe that, one, he meant me harm, or two, he had any personal interest in seducing me. Perhaps it was because he had spoken freely about Delilah and had revealed, without saying the actual words, he still loved her.
“Do you have any desserts on hand for me to sample?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Lead the way.” He threw a couple of crisp one-hundreddollar bills on the table and rose to his feet.
Wallis closed in on us. “I’ll be right back with your change, sir.”
Jason said, “No need. Whatever is left is for you.”
“Thank you!” she gushed.
I unlocked the door to Dream Cuisine and switched on the lights.
Jason entered, taking it all in while nodding. “Nice. Everything in its place.”
“If I didn’t keep it organized, I wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything.” I switched on one of the double ovens to preheat it before fetching some premade tart shells from the walk-in refrigerator. “Do you like blueberries?” I asked.
Jason was peering at the flowchart hanging above the desk. The chart held the names of the clients I needed to bake for in the coming week, plus all the private meals I had to prepare. I had a duplicate list on my Notes app. “You’re busy.”
“I am. Um, blueberries?”
“Love them.”
“I’ll make blueberry tarts for you to sample.
I think your guests will appreciate them.
” I arranged a few of the tart shells on a baking sheet and popped them into the oven.
While they baked for ten minutes, I mixed blueberries, cornstarch, a dash of salt, and a squeeze of lemon juice in a saucepan on the gas stove.
I switched the burner to high to make a quick syrup.
“I have cookies if you’re hungry right now. ”
“Snickerdoodles?”
“Yes. I also have sugar cookies.”
“Snickerdoodles only, please. They’re my favorite. My mother made them. I love the flavor of cinnamon.”
I opened a tin and arranged a few snickerdoodles on a plate. I always had some on hand because they were Tegan’s favorites, as well.
Jason nabbed a cookie and took a bite as he settled onto one of the stools by the prep counter. “Perfection.”
I tapped the button on my Bluetooth speaker, paired it with my iPhone, and pulled up a jazz playlist on my music app.
I loved to bake to music. The strains of Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” filtered through speakers affixed to two upper corners of the kitchen.
“Coffee?” I indicated the Cuisinart Coffee Center.
“Just cookies. Until the tarts are done.”
“Ready in about fifteen minutes.”
“You said you made mac ’n’ cheese as a girl. That’s cooking, if I’m not mistaken. When did you learn to bake?” Jason rose from the stool and stepped closer to me.
“At the same age. My mother was a mathematician and inept in the kitchen. If I wanted to eat something other than peanut butter and jelly—she made a mean PB and J—I needed to do it myself. I adore fresh baked bread, and I have a sweet tooth.”
“You’re industrious.”
“I’ve been told.”
He drew so near I could feel heat wafting off his body, and I wondered if I’d been wrong in my assessment. Was he making a move? He reached out and brushed a stray hair off my face. The gesture made me shiver.
“Shouldn’t you put on a hairnet?” he asked.