“Everything’s clicking,” she says. She’s looking at me, but at the same time, her eyes keep drifting back to the food before her. I know the feeling well—she wants to get back to work. Yes, this was definitely a good investment on my part.
“It’ll be ready for you and…your guest,” she goes on.
Yes, my guest. I can’t be the rude host. I’ll have to get back to the dining room and pick back up the thread of our non-conversation.
“Good,” I say. I put off the chore for a bit longer, surveying the exotic-looking ingredients with interest, especially the gold leaf. That’s something I hadn’t been expecting.
When I can’t delay anymore, I leave. Almost before my back is turned, the rapid click of chopping begins again.
Back at the table, Jamie hasn’t moved. She might as well be a willowy statue sitting there.
The minutes crawl by. I’m wondering if we’re going to be reduced to talking about the weather when the food arrives. It’s a welcome diversion, plus it looks great. I say so, then look to see if Jamie appreciates the elaborate look of the dish. If she does, she isn’t giving it away. She must play a mean game of poker.
I’m fishing for something to say when the shrill beeping starts.
I’ve never heard it in the five years I’ve lived at this address, but most humans seem to be hardwired to recognize the sound of a smoke alarm. On the heels of that, a single-word thought—fire. Then, a selfish but undeniably relieved realization: I guess I don’t have to soldier on through this evening after all.
Jamie stares at me, looking anything but relieved.
“Trent,” she manages. “What—”
“Stay here,” I tell her, rising from the table and tossing my napkin aside.
A thin layer of smoke is creeping across the ceiling out in the hallway and there’s a loud commotion coming from the kitchen. I burst into the room to find White, the chef, slapping frantically with a towel at what looks like a blazing jacket beside the stove. She succeeds only in knocking it to the floor. The rest of the counter is already in flames.
“Look out,” I shout, brushing past her to the open door of the walk-in pantry. There’s a fire extinguisher just inside, and I yank it free from its wall clips. I’ve never used one before, but thankfully they’re mainly idiot-proof, and in a moment, I’m blasting the flames that are incinerating the ingredients of the interrupted meal on the counter.
“Sir!” calls Curtis from across the room. “I called the fire department…they’ll be here any moment! We should go!”
I spare a look at the puny extinguisher in my hands and then at the size of the still-growing inferno. He’s right. I turn to White.
“You,” I tell her. “Get out. Go with Curtis.”
“But—” she starts. I’m already gone, back up the hallway to the dining room.
Jamie is no longer in her chair but appears to be rooted to the spot where she stands. You hear the phrase “deer-in-the-headlights” a lot when it comes to situations like this, and I have to say it definitely applies.
“Come on!” I yell, grabbing her arm and hauling her with me up the smoky hallway to the front door.
We’re greeted by the sight of not one but two fire engines coming to a screaming stop at the curb and letting loose a whole troupe of firemen. They thunder past us up the steps and into the smoke, which is now billowing out the open front door.
We are guided a safe distance away from the action and given a quick examination to make sure we’re okay. We make quite a picture, standing in a row on the curb across the street and watching the firemen do their job—the chef, the assistant, the supermodel, and myself. I take off my tie, roll it up, and stick it in my pocket. The occasion doesn’t seem to call for formalities anymore.
White breaks out of our little formation and approaches me.
“Mr. Stone,” she says in a trembling voice, “I am so sorry. I had no idea—”
“When I said the menu was up to you,” I tell her, “I didn’t know that would mean smoked ‘sorry’ with a side of flame-broiled regret.”
“I’m…sorry,” she stammers. “So very, very sorry.”
“Sorry won’t de-waterlog what’s left of my kitchen,” I say.
“And the hall leading to the dining room,” a passing fireman puts in helpfully.
My internal pissed off-ometer climbs another ten degrees. I’d had some good pictures hanging in that hallway.
Beside us, Jamie speaks up. “I guess this pretty much brings our evening to a close,” she says.
“I suppose so,” I reply. “Curtis will drive you home.”
“Call me later,” she says. “Let me know how things shape up.”
I tell her that I will, because it’s the correct reply to make, not because I mean it. I could tell well before the smoke alarm went off that I wouldn’t be seeing any more of Jamie after tonight. I may be rusty when it comes to dating, but not so much so that I can’t tell when a meeting has the chemistry of a mud puddle.
“Sir?” Curtis interjects quietly.
“What?”
He glances at White, who is watching the fire crew again. She looks oddly defenseless, standing there in her T-shirt, cook’s pants, and running shoes.
“Shall I—” he begins.
“Call Ms. White a cab?” I finish for him. “Yes, please do. Preferably one that can be here quickly.”
White looks at me, obviously stung, but it’s hard to care about things like that when your entire home smells like wet ashes and soot.
“Yes, sir,” Curtis replies, taking out his phone and making
