“Excuse me,” the girl in pink at the desk cut in. “I couldn’t help but overhear y’all. Maybe I could help.”
Mae had forgot Georgeanne was even in the room, and turned to look at her.
“Where did your parents honeymoon?” Georgeanne asked from her seat behind the desk.
“Italy,” Candace replied.
“Hmm.” Georgeanne placed the tip of the pen on her full bottom lip. “You could start with Pappa col Pomodoro,” she advised, her Italian sounding peculiar with that southern accent of hers drawing out all those vowels. “Then Florentine roast pork served with potatoes, carrots, and a thick slice of bruschetta. Or if you prefer duck, it could be served Arezzo style with pasta and a fresh salad.”
Candace looked at Mae, then back at the other woman. “Mother loves lasagna with basil sauce.”
“Lasagna with a nice radicchio salad would be perfect. Then you could top off the meal with a delicious apricot anniversary cake.”
“Apricot cake?” Candace asked, sounding less than enthusiastic. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s wonderful,” Georgeanne gushed.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She leaned forward and placed her elbows on the desk. “Vivian Hammond, of the San Antonio Hammonds, is positively mad for apricot cake. She loves it so much, she broke a hundred-and-thirty-year tradition and served it to the ladies at the annual Yellow Rose Club meeting.” Her eyes narrowed and she lowered her voice as if she were sharing a tasty piece of gossip. “You see, until Vivian, the club had always served lemon pound cake at their meetings, lemon being the same color as yellow roses and all.” She paused, leaned back in her chair, and tilted her head to one side. “Naturally, her mama was mortified.”
Mae lowered her brows and stared at Georgeanne. There was something a little familiar about her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it and wondered if they’d met before.
“Really?” Candace asked. “Why didn’t she serve both?”
Georgeanne shrugged her bare shoulders. “Who knows. Vivian is a peculiar woman.”
The more Georgeanne talked, the stronger Mae’s feeling of familiarity grew.
Candace looked at her watch, then at Mae. “I like the idea of Italian, and I’ll need a big enough apricot anniversary cake to feed about one hundred people.” By the time Mrs. Sullivan left the building, Mae had a menu plan, a contract written, and a check for the deposit. She leaned her behind against the table and folded her arms beneath her breasts.
“I have a few questions for you,” she said. When Georgeanne looked up from the application she pretended to study, Mae looked at the menu she held in her own hand. “What is Pappa col Pomodoro?”
“Tomato soup.”
“Can you make it?”
“Sure. It’s real easy.”
Mae set the menu on the table by her right hip. “Did you make up that apricot cake story?”
Georgeanne tried to look contrite, but a little smile tilted the corners of her lips. “Well… I did embellish somewhat.”
Now Mae knew why she recognized the other woman. Georgeanne was an unrepentant bullshit artist just as Ray had been. For a brief moment she felt the emptiness of his death recede just a fraction. She pushed herself away from the table and walked over to her desk. “Have you ever worked as a cook’s assistant or done any waitressing?” she asked, and glanced down at the employment application.
Georgeanne quickly covered the paper with her hands, but not before Mae noticed the poor penmanship and that on the job-you’re-applying-for line she’d written
“I was a waitress at Luby’s before I worked at Dillard’s, and I’ve taken just about every cooking class imaginable.”
“Have you ever worked for a caterer?”
“No, but I can cook anything from Greek to Szechwan, baklava to sushi, and I’m real good with people.”
Mae looked Georgeanne over and hoped she wasn’t making a mistake. “I have one more question. Would you like a job?”
Chapter Six
Escaping the chaos in the kitchen, Georgeanne walked the banquet room one last time. With a critical eye, she scrutinized the thirty-seven linen-draped tables carefully placed about the room. In the center of each table, pressed-glass bowls had been artfully piled with a variety of wax-dipped roses, baby’s breath, and fern fronds.
Mae had accused her of being obsessed, possessed, or both. Georgeanne’s fingers still ached from all that hot paraffin, but as she gazed at each centerpiece, she knew the aggravation, pain, and mess had been worth it. She’d created something unique and beautiful. She, Georgeanne Howard, the girl who’d been raised to depend on others to take care of her, had created a wonderful life. She’d done it by herself. She’d learned methods to help her deal with her dyslexia. She no longer hid her problems, yet she didn’t talk about them openly either. She’d concealed her dyslexia too many years to announce it to the world now.
She’d overcome many of her old obstacles, and at the age of twenty-nine, she was a partner in a successful catering business and owned a modest little house in Bellevue. She took tremendous satisfaction from everything the backward little girl from Texas accomplished. She’d walked through fire, been burned to her soul, but she’d survived. She was a stronger person now, perhaps less trusting, and extremely reluctant to ever give her heart to a man again, but she didn’t view those two qualities as impedances to her happiness. She’d learned her lessons the hard way, and although she’d much rather give a vital organ than relive her life before she’d walked into Heron Catering seven years ago, she was the woman she was today because of what had happened to her then. She didn’t like to think of the past. Her life was full now and filled with things she loved.
She’d been born and raised in Texas, but she’d quickly come to love Seattle. She loved the hilly city surrounded by mountains and water. It had taken her a few years to get used to the rain, but like most natives, it didn’t bother her much now. She loved the tactile feel of Pike Place Market and the vibrant colors of the Pacific Northwest.
Georgeanne raised her forearm, pushed back the wrist of her black tuxedo jacket, and peered at her watch. Elsewhere in the old hotel, her waiting staff served sliced cucumber topped with salmon, stuffed mushrooms, and glasses of champagne to three hundred guests. But in a half hour, they would make their way to the banquet room and dine on veal scallopini, new potatoes with lemon butter, and endive and watercress salad.
She reached for a wineglass and plucked the napkin stuffed inside. Her hands trembled as she refolded the white linen to resemble a rose. She was nervous. More so than usual. She and Mae had catered parties of three hundred before. Nothing new. No sweat. But they’d never catered for the Harrison Foundation. They’d never catered a fund-raiser that charged its guests five hundred dollars a plate. Oh, realistically she knew the guests weren’t paying that amount of money for the food. The money raised tonight would go to The Children’s Hospital and Medical Center. Still, just the thought all those people, paying all that money for a piece of veal, gave her palpitations.
A door at the side of the room opened and Mae slipped through. “I thought I’d find you in here,” she said as she walked toward Georgeanne. In her hand she held the green folder that contained work and purchase orders, a running inventory of all supplies, and a cluster of receipts.
Georgeanne smiled at her close friend and business partner and placed the folded napkin back in the glass. “How are things in the kitchen?”
“Oh, the new cook’s assistant drank all that special white wine you bought for the veal.”
Georgeanne felt her stomach drop. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
