Hot Flash (27 page)

I started to answer, but realized it was a rhetorical question when she kept talking. At this rate, I would have to subscribe to a different cell phone calling plan.

As she chatted on, I didn’t pay much attention, thinking I’d be able to get back to my skillet after she ran out of steam. It didn’t take long to amass a pile of toilet paper origami.

Then Mrs. Cullen said something about a fire and I had no clue what she meant. I exclaimed, “What fire?”

Mrs. Cullen stopped her monologue to ask, “Didn’t Meg tell you?”

“No.” Had my skillet been damaged in a fire?

“It was just awful. Losing everything that way is so difficult.”

“Who had a fire?”

“You didn’t see it on the news? An electrical wiring fault. It’s a good thing I spent that day volunteering at the hospital, because if I’d been home …”

“You had a fire?”

“That’s what I was saying, dear, when you interrupted.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your home.”

“Meg has been very kind. She lets me know ahead of time when a new shipment is coming in, so I can replace the things I’ve lost, you see. I’ve furnished my new place with items that are so like my old ones, you almost can’t tell.”

“That’s terrific.”

“I was just thrilled when I saw your skillet in the store. I don’t have any pictures of her anymore, but looking at that skillet made my mother, God rest her soul, come to mind, almost like she was standing right here, teaching me how to cook like she did when I was a girl. Her skillet was exactly like yours.”

What could I say? What could I do? I wouldn’t be able to face myself in the mirror if I asked for her to return it. “I’m glad you were able to give my skillet a good home. Do you need anything else? The fire and all.”

“No, honey. I’m just as happy as a lark.”

Penny Cullen was a much braver woman than me. She’d made a full life for herself, without a husband, without a family, but with friends who truly cared about her.

After hanging up, I realized I had a lot of thinking to do. So what if I had to replace my skillet? I could buy a new one exactly like my old one, and eventually I’d get it seasoned just right. It might take a while, but if Penny Cullen could replace her whole household, I could replace one pan.

Someone began pounding on the restroom door. Big E called out, “Jill, Breck wants you.”

“Go away.”

“He’s timing how long you’ve been gone. Come now!”

“All right. I’ll be right there.” Argh.

I had to get back to Breck purgatory to handle prep for the dinner banquets, but after work I determined I’d go buy myself a new skillet.

Target was crowded when I arrived and there were only a few red carts left in the corral. I snagged one and threaded my way through the aisles to Housewares.

Let me tell ya, Target has a huge selection of pots and pans made up of almost every imaginable material. Calphalon, T-Fal, Teflon, ceramic. Unfortunately, this made it more difficult to find a cast-iron skillet.

Shiny new pots gleamed from the racks where they were hanging. Brightly colored enamel pans glittered in the overhead lighting.

There were hundreds of pans and at first I didn’t think they carried cast iron. I persevered until I found a few on a lower shelf.

The skillet only came as part of a three-piece set, but the price was extremely reasonable. I headed for the checkout.

While I would have much preferred my old skillet, this one would do. I knew exactly how to season it and make it nearly as perfect as the other. All I required was a little time.

My universe was crumbling beneath my feet. Preparing my new skillet was something I
could
control. Heck, if I wanted to, I could really live it up and season all three.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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Face it, men lie. They don’t always need a good reason to lie. They just do it.

Assume the worst when it comes to your man. It’s the added ingredient for making a marriage happy.

It’s up to us women to keep our guys on the straight and narrow. If you tell him you’ll be verifying anything he tells you, then he’ll be on his guard. It’s possible it’ll keep him honest. If it doesn’t, at least his lies will be doozies and good for a few laughs.

Mad Chef Breck didn’t improve with familiarity. Between his hovering and timing my potty breaks, I was forced to find another place to escape. It kept me from carrying out my fantasy about stuffing him in Fang.

By accident, I lucked out in finding the perfect answer.

“Where are you going?” Breck asked as I slunk toward the kitchen exit.

“Oh.” Since my intended destination was Mandy’s office, I pointed upward with my thumb. “Upstairs.”

The look of annoyance on his face disappeared and was replaced by a more studious expression. He nodded, as if he knew what my mission was.

It became my favorite excuse whenever I needed to escape his far too frequent attentions. Like, three times a day.

Since he’d just overseen how I quartered chickens, it was time to go while the getting was good. I quickly made my way to Mandy’s office. When I arrived, she didn’t look too busy to be tempted to stop what she was doing and instead chat with me. “How are you today?”

“Okay. Hiding from the Mad Chef?” She looked up from her computer monitor. She’d been in the process of keying in information from a stack of forms sitting on the desk beside her keyboard. Definitely not too busy to chat and escape boring detail work.

“Sorta.” I slumped into one of the chairs in front of her desk.

Mandy slid a newspaper across the desk toward me. “Your parents are in today’s paper. I saved it for you.”

“Cool! Fiftieth anniversary photos?”

“They turned out very nice.”

I snorted as I lifted the paper. “For prison photos?”

“Actually, the warden’s son-in-law did a very good job.”

I glanced at the photo and had to agree. My folks looked happy, in love, and ready to go at it for another fifty years.

“And speaking of your mother …”

Mandy trailed off and I looked up from the write-up on my parents. Speaking of the she-devil, my mother waltzed into Mandy’s office.

“Hello, dears,” said Mom, blowing air kisses at each of us, as she breezed to the chair beside me.

I shot Mandy a you-should-have-warned-me look, but said, “What a pleasant surprise, Mom. What brings you here?”

“Didn’t Mandy tell you?”

“I was getting ready to.” Mandy grimaced.

As usual, my mother was beautifully dressed and flawlessly made up. I looked her up. I looked her down. This was a woman who could only be up to no good.

I shot Mandy another look. This one said, you-really-should-have-warned-me-because-I-need-more-coffee-or-tequila-would-be-even-better.

Mom brushed an imaginary crumb from her flawless Chanel slacks. “I’m here to plan our anniversary party. What else would bring me here?”

Like matchmaking wasn’t scheduled in her PDA? Since she’d been in frequent contact with Mandy, maybe she’d transferred her matchmaking to her? In my dreams.

My brow furrowed as I realized what she
had
said. “Anniversary party? Dad’s in prison. You can’t have an anniversary party.”

“I don’t see why not. We’re celebrating, even if he’s unable to attend.”

Mandy broke in, probably sensing enough mother/daughter tension that it could be cut with a meat cleaver. “We’ve almost finalized her menu.”

“How nice,” I said to Mandy then turned to my mother. “Are you nuts?”

“What a fine way to speak to your mother,” said my mother, who always referred to herself in the third person when she wanted to make me feel guilty.

It didn’t work.

She asked, “Are you on your period?”

Why is it that if I’m the least bit contentious, someone asks if I’m on my period? Why can’t they just assume that whatever makes you bitchy might not have anything whatsoever to do with hormones and might have something to do with the person asking the question?

Mom always goes on the offensive when her reasoning is on shaky ground. I asked, “Is an anniversary party appropriate, given the circumstances?”

“Circumstances be … damned.” Mom seemed pleased with her choice of words. She doesn’t usually curse in front of her children.

She angled her head and looked at me consideringly. Seconds later she brightened. “I see what’s bothering you. Don’t worry, Jill. You don’t need a date.”

Like a date was on my mind at all? “That’s reassuring.”

“I’ve asked all my friends to bring along their single sons. You’ll have a splendid opportunity to view the available selection.”

“You what?!”

I was all set to spring out of my chair and call the men in white coats to drag Mom off, but that was the moment when Mr. Nagasaki’s assistant tapped at the open door, thus saving my mother from certain institutionalization. “Jill?”

“Yes?” I asked, wondering why she’d addressed me rather than Mandy.

“Mr. Nagasaki wants to see you in his office, Jill.” The assistant glanced at my mother then turned and fled back down the hall. My mother can have that effect on people.

Mandy grimaced as I stood and grimaced back at her.

“Guess I’d better go see what he wants.” I turned my attention back to my mother. “We’re going to talk more about the invitations, Mom.” She might believe she’d escaped my wrath regarding her friends’ sons, but I wasn’t about to let her get away with it.

“I’ll look forward to it.” She smiled and I could have sworn that smile hinted at evil machinations. She added, “Mandy explained that with your employee discount I can afford more, so we’ll finalize the appetizers before I dash off to a fund-raiser.”

“Talk with you later,” I said to Mandy, then mouthed, “Sorry” over my mother’s head.

My steps to Mr. Nagasaki’s office were slow, as if I were walking through thick mud. Being called to his office did not look good.

What did he want? Since he’d hired Breck, I hadn’t expected to see Nagasaki until the staff holiday party, where we’d take turns bowing at each other.

Unfortunately, I arrived before coming to a conclusion about what was going on. The assistant showed me directly into Nagasaki’s office. For once, he remained seated at his desk, making those Japanese hieroglyphs on a pad in front of him.

He didn’t acknowledge me right away. I stood awkwardly, watching him. It took a moment for him to finish before he stood and greeted me with a bow. I bowed back.

He gestured toward a chair. I took a seat, bowing first.

He didn’t say anything at all for several minutes.

When his staring got to me, I asked, “You wanted to see me?”

He nodded and looked me over.

It was fairly early in the day, so I wasn’t wearing as many menu items as usual. He couldn’t be concerned over the stains on my uniform. And my hair, while not perfect, didn’t yet resemble a bird’s nest.

He was totally silent.

I asked, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I believe so.”

Now we were getting somewhere. Not.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded. “Perhaps you can explain to me how the rumor that you and I have a personal relationship got started? My wife would be very disappointed to hear such a rumor.”

“A personal relationship? As in …”

He nodded again.

Ohmigawd. People thought we were having an affair? Surely not. I must have misunderstood. There was the language, or at least accent, difference. Seconds ticked by before I asked, “As in we’re an, um, item?” I crossed my fingers for luck as I awaited his reply.

He didn’t keep me waiting long. “Precisely.”

My thoughts whirled like the contents of a blender. How could there be rumors about us at all? And more importantly, why was I the last to hear of them? I thought I was the chairperson of the gossip mill at this hotel. “This is the first I’ve heard of any rumors. Who told you this gossip?”

“That does not matter. What is important is that you and I each do whatever is necessary to dispel such a patent untruth.”

Yeah, like I’d be glad for such a rumor? I can’t imagine it doing my reputation any good. “I wholeheartedly agree.”