Love in the Morning (18 page)

“They buy pictures of people from these shows.” Nona took a swallow of her beer, grimacing. “We had problems with that before—people taking pictures around town and then selling them to those magazines.”

Dick nodded. “If they don't know you're here, they won't bother you. Seems like keeping a low profile is your best bet.”

“That's what I was planning to do,” Lizzy said stiffly. “I've got no reason to tell people I'm here.”

“And we can help you there too,” Nona cut in. “We can steer people from the show away from the dining room.”

Lizzy frowned. “Steer them away? How?”

“Oh, you know, tell them it's overrated. Send them over to some of the other restaurants instead.” Dick grinned in Clark's direction.

Judging from Clark's expression, he wasn't exactly delighted with that idea. “I guess that would work.”

“We're not going to bad-mouth Praeger House,” Nona said flatly. “But we can send members of the crew to another restaurant for breakfast. We'll tell them it's the most popular place in town and the lines will be out the door.”

Clark shrugged. “I don't figure we're likely to get much of their business anyway. The big shots will stay up at the resort and the rest of the crew gets a per diem that's too low for Praeger House. Or anyway that's what happened when they were here before. They'll probably stay at one of the motels out on the highway and eat at one of the fast food places.”

Someone pulled out a chair opposite Nona. Lizzy glanced up to see the spectacular blonde waitress, Ronnie, dropping into a seat. “Evening all.” She broke out one of her dazzling smiles.

“Hey, Ronnie.” Nona smiled in Lizzy's direction. “I thought maybe Ronnie could help out. Seeing as how she's the only one here who's actually been through the reality show mill herself.”

Dick looked like he was considering a wisecrack but decided against it. Probably wise, judging from Nona's expression.

Lizzy turned to Ronnie. “What was your reality show like?”

Ronnie turned her dazzle in Lizzy's direction. “I was on two of them, actually. I mean I started out on
Finding Miss Right,
only I wasn't the one the guy chose. But that turned out okay because he was sort of a jerk after all. He had a girlfriend at home. But I didn't feel that sorry for Morena, the girl who got the proposal. Because she was really a snot and she didn't actually like him that much.”

Lizzy blinked. Conversations with Ronnie seemed to be sort of confusing sometimes. “And the other one?”

Ronnie frowned slightly, furrowing her satiny forehead. “That was the follow-up,
Finding Mr. Right.
I was the star on that one, and we ended up here in Salt Box for the finale. Only I really didn't like the choices I had at the end. So I didn't marry any of the guys. Well, I mean, one of them was already taken so I couldn't have married him anyway, and he turned out to be the best of the bunch. He still lives here in town with his fiancée. She worked for the show too once upon a time. Now she works for Dick.” Ronnie gave Dick a little dazzle. Dick appeared not to notice.

Lizzy glanced at Clark, hoping for a translation. “Just roll with it,” he muttered.

“So you didn't get married,” Lizzy prompted.

“No, I started working here for Ted.” More dazzle. “It's been a great job, and I got to stay in Salt Box. I didn't marry anybody. Yet.”

“Those shows,
Finding Miss Right
and
Finding Mr. Right
—they're produced by the same production company that does
Lovely Ladies of LA.”
Nona turned to Dick. “Right?”

He nodded. “Right.”

“So Ronnie might know some of the people.”

Dick nodded again. “She might. Fairstein's not that big. They use the same crew from one show to another.”

“If Ronnie found somebody she knew, maybe she could get us some information about where they're going to be shooting and when.” Nona raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she could tell us if anybody found out about Lizzy being here—keep her ear to the ground and all.”

Ronnie shrugged. “I could do that. The makeup and hair people always know everything. And they're the only ones I was friendly with.”

“So we'd hear about it if someone told them Lizzy was here.” Nona turned back to her again. “Not that I think that's going to be a problem, because I don't. But it might be good to have some advance warning.”

It would definitely be good to have some advance warning if Teresa was headed her way. Lizzy nodded. “I agree.”

Ronnie turned toward Lizzy again, pushing her long golden hair behind her ears. “I saw that show they did with you. It was pretty awful. Nona says you're okay. And you're working for Clark. So yeah, I'll help you if I can. I mean, I was going to look up some of those people anyway. The people who did my hair were the best.” For a moment she looked almost nostalgic. Apparently the whole reality show gig hadn't been such a bad thing in her case.

“Maybe we're all worrying too much about this,” Lizzy murmured. “Maybe it won't be so bad. Even if somebody recognizes me, they might just ignore me.”

Ronnie's immaculate forehead furrowed slightly. “Oh honey, if they see you, they'll act like those whatchamacallit fish. The ones that eat cows if they fall in the water?”

“Piranhas?” Dick supplied helpfully.

Ronnie nodded. “Absolutely. People on that show would strip you to the bone without even thinking twice. That's what they do.”

Lizzy's heart promptly dropped to her shoes.

Nona took one look at her stricken face. “Let's get you something to eat.”

“Good idea.” Ronnie pushed herself to her feet. “I'll go see what Ted's got in the kitchen. Nachos fix any problem.”

Lizzy felt chilled all the way to her bones. The bones that the Fairstein Productions personnel would like to strip. She took a deep breath.
Keep it together.

Nona gave her a smile that reminded Lizzy of Aunt Josefina. “Don't worry about it, hon. We'll make sure they don't find you. It's going to be okay.”

“Sure. It's going to be fine.” Lizzy's voice sounded slightly hollow even to herself.

Across from her, Dick's eyes looked preternaturally bright. He had that predator-bird look again. Suddenly she was glad he was on their side.

Supposedly.

*****

Clark walked beside Lizzy on the way back to Praeger House. She had her hands jammed in her pockets again, like she was trying not to touch him, even by accident. He figured he'd follow her lead. But he hadn't realized how hard it would be not to put his arm around her, if only to keep her warm in the crisp, mountain night air.

He missed her. But he didn't know what to do about that. It was like a barrier had gone up between them, largely because of him and his first reaction to the
Lovely Ladies
story. If he had it to do over again, he'd handle it better. Anyway, he hoped he would.

As they reached the front steps of Praeger House, he put his hand on her elbow to guide her. She glanced at him, her face outlined by the porch lights. She looked thinner, her eyes more deep-set. Tired.

He figured he didn't look much better.
Cluster fuck. The whole thing is a cluster fuck.

She turned toward him as they reached the door, her shoulders tight. “Look, I wasn't responsible for what happened at Teresa's house, but I was responsible for not telling you about it. About all of it. I'm sorry about that. I should have trusted you—I should have told you before you found out on your own.” She paused, pressing her lips together tight, as if she were trying to keep control.

If it was possible to feel crappier than he had before, he did. “Lizzy…”

She shook her head, holding up her hand. “I'm not finished.” She took another breath. “I just wanted to say that if it all comes apart, I won't let Praeger House take the hit. I won't take you down with me.”

His chest tightened all of a sudden. He wasn't exactly sure what she meant, but he figured it was nothing good. “What does that mean?”

She shrugged. “If people find out, I'll leave. You can say you didn't know because you didn't. If I'm not in the kitchen, there shouldn't be a problem.”

He shook his head, slowly. “No.”

Her smile was slightly exhausted. “It'll work. I've got this. Don't worry about it.” She stepped up to the doorstep, then turned back, her eyes shadowed in the dim light. She reached up quickly and kissed his cheek, a faint whisper of her lips. Then she turned back again. “Good night, Clark.”

He watched her move down the hall.
Idiot, idiot, why did you let her walk away?
He didn't know exactly. But he figured it was up to him to turn this thing around. Too bad he didn't have a clue how to do that.

Chapter Eighteen

Clark stood inside the dining room doorway, trying not to block access for actual paying customers. Right now they had two lines, one at the door and another at the omelet station, both of which were threatening to get out of hand. He glanced back at Desi and his omelet stove again and sighed.

Desi wasn't bad. He hadn't burned anybody's eggs. He managed to remember the orders and keep them going. But he was so…careful.

Lizzy at the omelet station was a study in grace and efficiency. She knew just how much oil and melted butter to pour in, just how many chopped mushrooms or diced onions or slivers of ham to provide. And she knew how long the omelet needed to cook before she flipped it onto a plate and started another one.

Desi seemed to know all that too, but he had to think about it. Clark always worried he was going to drop the whole thing.

He never did, of course, but the entire process took an ungodly amount of time, almost twice as long as when Lizzy did it. And the omelet line just grew and grew. Which meant people stayed longer at their tables because it took them longer to be fed, the line at the entry grew longer as customers waited for tables to clear, and, inevitably, some people got impatient and gave up.

Clark didn't like impatient customers, particularly those who left for his competitors, possibly never to return.

Damn the
Lovely Ladies of LA.
Damn Lauren. Damn fate. And damn me for not being able to do something about all of this.

Lizzy stayed in the kitchen, cooking everything besides omelets. Occasionally she scurried out with replacement trays of scrambled eggs and bacon or plates of muffins. Whenever she did, she kept her head down, like a child trying to escape a bully's notice. Which, now that he thought about it, was a pretty good metaphor for her relationship with Fairstein Productions, bullies extraordinaire.

Still, he hated to see it. She shouldn't have to hide that beautiful face.

“New chef?”

Clark jumped slightly and then turned, not bothering to conceal his irritation. Lauren stood at his elbow, smirking. How the hell had he ever had sex with someone this annoying?

“People in the kitchen here can multitask,” he said shortly.

“So you're still using what's-her-name? The one who did the photo shoot?” Lauren raised an eyebrow. At least she wasn't talking about the TV show yet. He was counting on her sense of self-preservation to keep her from spreading Lizzy's story around town—anything that hurt Salt Box hurt the resort.

“Lizzy Apodaca's still in charge of the kitchen,” he said between gritted teeth. “The sous chef, Desi, is getting some practice making omelets.”

“Not quite as good as your original, though, is he?” Lauren shook her head in mock sympathy. “What a shame. Particularly when you're going to get all this publicity about being a finalist in the Best of the Box breakfast competition. Might make people less inclined to come around and check out your buffet.” Her smirk slid closer to a sneer.

“Did you have something you wanted?” Clark ground out. “Or is this a social visit?”

Lauren shrugged. “Just thought you'd like to know the production company arrived last night. Or most of them did. I guess the women and their entourage will show up later.”

His shoulders immediately clenched tight. “When do they start filming?”

She shrugged again. “Don't know. Sometime this week. They'll be sticking around until the Best of the Box Gala. I guess they'll film some kind of visit from the ladies, you should pardon the expression.”

The tension in his shoulders moved into pain territory. “They'll be at the Gala?”

The smirk was back. “Oh, yes. All of them. They'll be visiting the booths, sampling the dishes. Great publicity. For most of us. You going to have a booth this year?”

He thought about asking her why she'd decided to be such a bitch about this, but he didn't figure she'd answer him. And he wasn't sure he cared. “We'll be there,” he said flatly.

“Good. Should make for great TV. Tell your chef I said hi.” Lauren turned on her five-inch heels and stalked back out the door. He found himself hoping she took a header off the fieldstone steps out front.

He turned back to watch Desi again and saw another customer peel away from the end of the line. At least that particular customer was already inside the dining room and could have some of Lizzy's
pan perdu
instead of an omelet. But there was no way on God's green earth that Desi could run the booth at the Best of the Box Gala. Which meant Lizzy would have to come out of hiding. Almost certainly someone from that goddamned show would recognize her.

Even worse from Clark's point of view, he'd have to tell her about it. Then she might decide this constituted
taking a hit,
which she'd promised to avoid by leaving Salt Box. He tried not to grind his teeth. He already had the beginnings of a headache and it was only nine thirty in the morning.

After a few more moments, he turned and headed back to his office. At least he could get a little work done before he had to break even more bad news to his chef.

*****

Lizzy pulled her denim jacket closer as she trotted across Main. The autumn wind was beyond brisk as they reached the end of October, and she wore a T-shirt and jeans beneath her jacket. The fact that she only had a T-shirt to wear, even though the temperature was currently in the forties, also explained her possibly foolhardy expedition to Main. She had to get some long-sleeved shirts before she froze. Maybe even a sweater or two—she was living in the Rockies now, after all.

She knew the Fairstein Productions crew had arrived in town, but she didn't care. She hadn't had much interaction with them, and she looked a lot different right now, given her slightly sloppy outfit.

She ducked in the door of Menninger's western store before anybody could notice and headed toward the women's section. At least the place was moderately crowded today. She shouldn't stand out all that much.

She worked her way through a rack of long-sleeved shirts, then flipped through some wool sweaters. Unfortunately, they seemed a little out of her price range, although she lingered over an oatmeal-colored fisherman's knit for a few minutes, mentally checking her bank balance. Gorgeous stuff. Maybe she could splurge once this crisis was over.

Assuming this crisis is over at some point and I don't end up back in my car heading east.

The sound of loud voices had her turning toward the entrance, along with several other customers. One of the sales ladies headed toward the sound, frowning. Lizzy stared at the doorway, her throat suddenly tight.

A group of women came barging inside the shop, more or less simultaneously, pursued by a cameraman and somebody carrying a light bar. Their high-heeled boots clattered on the wood floors and the sparkle of their jewelry was well-nigh blinding, particularly in the bright camera lights. All of them were talking at full volume. What had sounded like anger at first turned out to be several shrill voices vying to be the loudest.

The typical sound of the
Lovely Ladies of LA,
in other words.

Lizzy slipped behind the nearest clothes rack, her heart pounding. The voices came nearer—of course they'd head for the women's clothing section first. She grabbed three or four long-sleeved T's and headed for the nearest dressing room, trying not to run.

Do not call attention to yourself, idiot.

Inside the dressing room, she hung up the clothes with shaking fingers, then turned back toward the curtain across the doorway. If she opened it a fraction of an inch, she could see a thin section of the women's clothing department. She narrowed her eyes, trying to spot the ladies. The nearest one had long dark hair held back by a diamond-studded clip. Her pulse sped up again.
Teresa?

“What the hell is this stuff?” The voice was so close that Lizzy jumped back again, plastering herself against the side of the dressing room. She could see the bright camera lights reflected on the floor.

The noise of scraping hangers on one of the racks sounded right outside. “Jesus Christ, it looks like sweetheart of the rodeo,” another voice sneered. “Who wears this crap?”

“Cowgirls, honey,” another woman chimed in. “Don't you want to be one?” The hoots of laughter were unmistakably nasty.

Lizzy stayed tight against the wall. She recognized one of the voices. Amber Forstman, Teresa's best friend—or as much of a friend as anyone could have on that show. There'd been a long segment on one of the shows after Lizzy's debacle in which Amber and Teresa had discussed her. Amber's opinion had been that Lizzy was probably a psychopath bent on ruining her cousin's life by poisoning her guests. Teresa had pretty much agreed with her, only she said Lizzy wasn't a psychopath, just a totally incompetent cook. On the whole, Lizzy thought she'd rather have been a psychopath—at least then she might have poisoned people with well-established culinary technique.

Now Amber stood right outside her dressing room door. She could probably recognize her, no matter how different she looked now.

Lizzy sank to the floor, bending her head between her knees and taking deep breaths. Throwing up would undoubtedly attract unwanted attention, not to mention being just the reminder of her identity the ladies needed.

“How about that one?” The other woman's voice sounded deliberately harsh, as if she'd practiced being shrill.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Amber brayed, “you have got to be kidding me. Embroidered roses? Where the fuck would you wear something like that?”

“Oh, I don't know,” the first woman answered. “Maybe to the club. It'd be sort of a goof. You could wear it over your Roberto Cavalli.”

“Oh, Jesus, I wouldn't wear this crap with Cavalli.” Amber or somebody followed up with a decisive clash of hangers. “Let's look at the boots. Maybe they've got good cowboy boots.”

The boot section was on the other side of the store.
Yes, please God, yes. Go look at the freakin' boots.

The sound of their voices faded slightly as they moved across the store. The bright lights disappeared. Lizzy peeked out the side of the door to see them wander into the back. She took a breath. Caution told her to run back to Praeger House while she had a chance, but she needed the damn shirts—she was freezing. She grabbed two and headed across the store toward the cash register, managing not to run by force of will.

The same woman was behind the register as last time. Lizzy thought her name was Jolene. She handed her the T-shirts and dug into her purse quickly, pulling out a handful of bills. She could hear the sound of raucous voices, maybe moving closer again.

“I reckon you'd like to get checked out before they get back here again,” Jolene said softly.

Lizzy blinked at her. Was it possible she knew about Lizzy's run-in with the
Lovely Ladies?
Of course, she was Nona's friend, and maybe they'd discussed the show.

“Yes, ma'am,” she mumbled, “I really would.”

“Stupid cows,” Jolene muttered. “Only that's an insult to the cows—they're not as dumb as those women.”

Lizzy managed to choke down a snicker as Jolene took some of the bills from her hand.

“That'll cover it,” she said.

“Thanks.” Lizzy grabbed the shirts, not even waiting for a bag, and headed toward the front door.

Behind her she heard someone call something, but she didn't look back to see who it was or what it was about. Instead, she dove out the door and headed down Main. At the corner, she paused for the light and glanced back at the store.

Amber Forstman was standing at the cash register, staring straight at her through the front window.

Lizzy turned back toward Main and trotted across the street as soon as the light was green. She didn't raise her eyes again until she was safely ensconced in her kitchen. And her heart rate didn't drop until she'd mixed up three different kinds of muffins for tomorrow. Who knew? They might well be the last muffins she got to do at Praeger House if she had to take off.

After she'd finished all the afternoon prep for the next day's breakfast and headed to the Blarney Stone, she finally had to face facts. She might have been recognized.

She dropped into a chair at Nona and Dick's table. Nona gave her a sympathetic frown. “Heard you ran into some of those dames from the show. Jolene Adcock said one of them was watching you through the front window.”

Lizzy grimaced. “Yeah. Amber. She's my cousin's BFF.”

“She one of the ones who upchucked for the camera?” Dick raised a gray eyebrow.

Lizzy shrugged. “I don't remember. Maybe. Probably. A lot of them did.”

“But not all of them?” Dick picked up his beer and took a healthy swallow.

Lizzy shook her head. “I guess not. It seemed like it at the time, but not everybody was eating. I mean most of those women are fanatics about dieting.” Even though she'd made some low-fat, low-carb snacks, they didn't want to be seen eating on camera.

Nona narrowed her eyes. “You remember who got sick?”

She shook her head again. “No. That's pretty much a blur now. All I remember for sure is that a lot of people were vomiting but not exactly who was involved. I was busy.” Busy being screamed at by Teresa mainly. Of course, that meant Teresa hadn't gotten sick herself since she'd been way too busy having a meltdown to eat anything.

And neither had her friend, now that Lizzy thought about it.

“Amber didn't get sick,” she said slowly. “She was right there when Teresa started screaming after the first guests began throwing up. She did some screaming of her own, in fact.”

“You'd think she'd give you a break if she didn't get sick herself.”

Lizzy shrugged. “Amber's one of the women who never eats. She looks sort of like Skeletor with false eyelashes.”