Dinner for Six at the Alibi Club
Prologue
Date Night
No one tells you when you’re young that dating will eventually feel like torture.
Or, that the effortless way you connected with people in your vibrant, naive twenties will devolve into something more akin to forced job interviews involving drinks, banal conversations, and possibly sex at the end of the night.
Or, that those incredible connections, both electric and deep that you so cavalierly threw aside thinking they happen all the time, would dwindle to nothing.
No one tells you how many chances you get at love.
That’s what Jamie Frisco was pondering when a sudden flash lit up the picture window of the small Manhattan Beach restaurant where she was dining, followed by an earth-rumbling boom as a blast went off somewhere farther afield, plunging everything into darkness, sending patrons and plates flying.
Silence hung heavy as the smell of smoke wound its way inside and for a beat, Jamie felt time had frozen, pinning her to the spot. No one moved.
The blast was so close she could feel the shockwaves in her chest. A singular whine rang in her ears.
She blinked and saw stars. Inside the small dining room, panicked diners scrambled for cover under tables or hid behind the bar, anywhere away from the direction of the explosion.
She quickly shrunk down and began blindly crawling to the back of the room when a sinewy arm corralled her to the right.
“I’ve got you. Stay down,” a deep, raspy voice said. He moved his body over hers in a protective but slightly sexual position that wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Drastic measures and all.
She could tell by his cologne, a refreshing mixture of cedar and sandalwood, that it could only be Cliff, single, dashing, mysterious, 43.
Lucky. Could be worse. Could be in the same position, thighs touching, with Rick, single, advertising executive, egomaniac, 45, who would be definitely less protective and more likely to cop a feel.
Though, through his act of heroism, Cliff’s elbow was inadvertently pressing on her hair, trapping the left side of Jamie’s face to the floor.
Chivalry was not dead, although slightly more painful than she imagined.
The rich aroma of roast duck still hung in the air from Chef Pascal’s entrée course. Although most of it was now on the floor in front of Jamie along with broken plates, various cutlery, and a suede bootie she knew belonged to Shannon, single, pharma rep, 40, new transplant from Florida.
Red and blue lights flashed by the front window as police units sped past.
The lights finally came back on, casting the dining room in a warm glow. The small group tentatively looked around at each other.
“Well, I’ll just…” Cliff said as he moved off Jamie and gently helped her up. She began dusting herself off.
“Thanks for…” Jamie motioned back to the floor where they just had been entwined. “Thanks.”
Cliff gave her a slightly embarrassed smile, which showed off a dimple in his left cheek. Jamie felt heat rise to her face. Their flirtation had been building all night long. She smiled back. God, he looked familiar.
Chef Pascal appeared from the kitchen, his massive six-foot-five frame filling the doorway, armed with a fire extinguisher, wild eyes, and a first aid kit in hand.
“Who is hurt?” Chef Pascal asked. “I have all the things to help,” he said in a German accent and accidentally sprayed the fire extinguisher. A gust of white powder spurted out, scaring him.
The other guests emerged from their hiding places, including the other two singles who were part of Jamie’s group blind date, Kyle, single, 38, computer science engineer, nerdy but likable, and Holly Kim, single, blunt, museum curator, 41, who came out dazed, shaken, speechless.
That is, all the guests except one.
Nigel Spokes, notorious food critic who was revered and feared in equal measure by all chefs and restaurateurs in Los Angeles, a fact Jamie had learned just that evening, remained slumped forward in his dining chair, forehead nearly dipping into his Moroccan saffron sauce.
Chef Pascal quickly lumbered over to check for a pulse. He looked back at the crowd and started hyperventilating.
Nigel, it appeared, was dead.
A low moan emanated from his throat as Chef Pascal looked down at his patron, a famous food critic, one not allergic to shellfish (he’d checked). “No, no, NOOOOOOO, not again!”
As sirens wailed, racing in their direction, all Jamie Frisco could think was that finding a date for her mother’s wedding was going to kill her.