A Cookbook Conspiracy (4 page)

“He was actually receiving death threats?”

“That’s what he claimed, but we never saw any proof. After a few weeks, we canceled
the job. It was much ado about nothing.”

“He probably did it for publicity.”

“He also reneged on the bill,” Derek added casually. “So I’ll be interested to see
how much money he’s poured into this new restaurant.”

“Wow. Along with everything else, he’s a con artist.”

“He is exactly that.” He poured the last of the wine into our glasses and handed me
mine. “I’m concerned about Savannah’s friendship with him.”

“I am, too.” I took a sip. “Still can’t believe she’s giving him back this priceless
book. He doesn’t deserve it. But she doesn’t see it that way.”

Briefly, I filled him in on Savannah’s Le Cordon Bleu years in Paris, including my
visit and my run-in with Baxter.

Derek was not amused. “For you to work on this book just so Savannah can give it back
to him seems a supreme waste of your talents.”

“I don’t mind doing the work, but the thought of her giving it back to Baxter is so
annoying, I can barely stand it.”

“You never know,” he said, as he rinsed our empty wineglasses and put them in the
dishwasher. “Perhaps something will occur that will change Savannah’s mind.”

“Or maybe Baxter Cromwell will refuse to take it from her.” With a sigh, I switched
off the lights and we headed for the bedroom. “If only.”

*   *   *

T
he enticing scent of coffee pulled me out of a deep sleep. I’d had the strangest dream,
so I remained under the covers, very still, while I verified that I was in my own
house and not in a nightmare high school. I hated nightmare high school dreams. They
always ended the same way: naked test taking and teachers turning into giant lizards.
Why?

Shaking off the dream, I threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. After washing
my face and brushing my teeth, I raced out to the kitchen, hoping Derek hadn’t left
for work yet. I found him at the stove, where he was flipping several pieces of bacon.

“Oh, thank you, God,” I whispered.

He turned. “Call me Derek.”

“Ha ha. But since you made bacon, I’ll call you anything you want me to.” I wrapped
my arms around his waist and just held on to him for a moment.
Right here
, I thought.
Everything is right here.

“You were dead to the world when I got up,” he said. “I thought you might sleep a
while longer.”

“Then you shouldn’t have made coffee. It woke me up.”

“Ah, my mistake.” He rubbed my back, moving his hands slowly up and down my spine.
Then he patted my butt. “Get yourself a cup, then, and go sit down. Breakfast will
be ready in five minutes.”

But he didn’t let go and it was good to know he seemed to need the connection as much
as I did. It was sort of like breathing. For a moment we simply existed together,
drawing strength and sustenance from the contact. Soft light filtered in through the
kitchen window as time drifted by.

He kissed the top of my head. “Go sit now or we’ll have burned bacon.”

“Can’t have that,” I murmured, but succumbed to one more heated kiss. And now my thoughts
were so scattered that I had to take a minute to remember what it was I should be
doing. As Derek moved over to the stove, I glanced around the room. Ah, plates. Plates
would be useful. I reached into the cupboard for two of them and placed them on either
side of the bar where napkins and utensils were already set.

After pouring myself a cup of coffee, I sat on the one stool inside the kitchen and
watched Derek work.

“This is a treat,” I remarked. “You’re usually long gone by the time I’m up and drinking
coffee.”

“I felt like spending a few extra minutes at home having breakfast with you.” He cracked
four eggs into a bowl and whisked them into a froth.

“I’m glad.” I wrapped both hands around my heavy mug and took a slow sip as Derek
popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. “So when do you think the construction
crew will start tearing the house apart?”

He turned. “Thank you for reminding me. I didn’t want to bring up the subject last
night while your sister was here, but we need to talk about that.”

Two months ago, Derek had broached the subject of our living arrangement. I had taken
it to mean that he was planning to move out, because that’s how I roll sometimes.
But he’d actually been thinking of buying my next-door neighbor’s loft. If I was amenable
to it, he’d said. We would tear down some walls and design a much larger place that
would be big enough for both of us and our two careers.

“Is there a glitch?” I asked.

“Not exactly, but we now seem to have another choice of plans.”

I swallowed my coffee. “What is it?”

He pointed toward the back of the house. “Our original plan
was to break through the back bedroom and make it the master, expand the hallway,
enlarge the living space and add two more bedrooms.”

“Right.”

“But now the space directly beneath yours has come onto the market. It’s considerably
smaller than this one. One bedroom, one bath, and an office alcove. We could join
them by building a wide staircase and balcony along the east wall to create a mezzanine
effect. It would add quite a bit of drama, but we wouldn’t be able to expand the size
of any of our existing rooms. In fact, it would decrease the square footage of the
living room.” He shrugged. “But we’d have an entire suite of rooms to use as guest
rooms and office space.”

“You don’t sound thrilled with that idea.”

“I’m not.” He spooned fluffy scrambled eggs onto each of the plates and added the
strips of bacon. “But it’s your decision to make. This is your home, after all. I
want to give you all the available options before I forge ahead with plans that’ll
surely disrupt your life for several months at least.” He turned to butter the toast,
adding, “As if my presence hasn’t already disrupted things for you.”

I stared at his muscular shoulders and well-toned back. I should’ve been mesmerized
by the sight—and I was. But I was also surprised. Was that
apprehension
I’d just heard in his voice?

Derek? Showing fear?

I suppose it wasn’t out of the question, at least when it came to our relationship.
Recently, he and I had spent several long weeks apart. At one point, he had been off
on assignment in Europe while I had traveled to Lake Tahoe to attend a weeklong house
party with my neighbors, Vinnie and Suzie.

There had been a misunderstanding. A certain woman had answered Derek’s cell phone
when I called him. I knew Derek would never cheat on me or betray me, but the incident
had caused me to question our relationship. Again.

The thing was, the two of us had almost nothing in common. Derek went off on these
top secret assignments regularly. His life was filled with danger and excitement.
My life wasn’t quite the same. I mean, it wasn’t like I was some kind of country bumpkin
bookbinder (although I did tend to wear my comfy old Birkenstocks while working).
No, my life was full and complicated and, yes, interesting, I thought. But exciting?
Dangerous? Not exactly.

On the other hand, I could be sparkling and sophisticated, having been raised in the
heart of Northern California’s wine country and now living in an artsy area of San
Francisco. If you were willing to overlook the aforementioned Birkenstocks issue,
I was one classy babe.

But then there was my strange proclivity for finding dead bodies. And tracking down
murderers. And being threatened with death on more than one occasion.

So maybe my life could be considered sort of exciting and dangerous, although I had
never purposely sought out danger and adventure.

Derek, on the other hand, made his living that way.

So those were some of the thoughts I’d been pondering while away in Lake Tahoe. Frankly,
I’d worried that we might not survive together in the long run.

So imagine my shock when I learned that Derek had experienced some of those same worries
and concerns. He’d admitted as much to me and had come home determined to show how
much he loved me and wanted to build a life together.

So the note of worry in his voice cut straight through me. Did he still harbor doubts
about my feelings for him? If so, they were baseless.

“I love you,” I said, staring at his back. “You can disrupt my life anytime you want.”

He turned and crossed the kitchen in two steps, lifted me up from the barstool, and
drew me into his arms. Covering my lips
with his, he held on to me as tightly as I’d ever been held. Then he buried his face
in my hair.

“I love you, Brooklyn.”

“Good,” I said. “That’s a good thing.” I stroked his back, smoothed his hair, comforted
him. He seemed to need it. And that was nice to know.

After a long, quiet moment, I leaned back and looked at him. “To answer your question,
I’d like to follow our original construction plan and keep everything on this floor.
We’ll have lots more room, more open space, and easier access to all the bedrooms.”

“Good,” he said, breaking into a smile. “I agree.”

“Besides,” I reasoned, “all that running up and down the stairs all the time would
get old. No, your first plan is better and I can’t wait to get started on it.” I paused
a beat, then added, “So how’s that toast doing?”

He chuckled. “It’s ready. Are you?”

“Starving.”

We sat and while we ate we talked over the construction plans and the timetable.

Derek took a last sip of coffee. “My only real concern is the noise you’ll have to
endure once the demolition begins.”

“I’m not worried about the noise,” I insisted, taking another bite of toast.

“You say that now.”

He was right. The noise would be awful at times. But the thought of all those strangers
tramping through my home disconcerted me more than any noise they would make. I wasn’t
going to bring that up right now, though.

He glanced at his watch. “I must get going.”

“I’ve got to get to work, too. Leave the plates. I’ll clean up.”

“Thank you, love.” He slipped his suit jacket on and used the dining room mirror to
straighten his tie. I didn’t know a whole lot about men’s fashions, but I was fairly
certain his gold-striped tie
cost more than most of the outfits in my closet. Good thing I worked at home. In my
Birkenstocks. And my pretty pink-and-green-striped socks.

“Are you starting work on Savannah’s cookbook today?” he asked as we walked to the
front door together.

“I’ll start on it tomorrow. Today I think I’ll take the book over to show Ian, and
then go have copies made of the pages.”

“You don’t usually copy the pages, do you?”

“Not usually, but I thought I might try out some of the recipes.”

Despite years of professional training in security and intelligence, Derek couldn’t
disguise that look of apprehension fast enough. “Ah. Hmm. That sounds nice.”

“That’s what I figured you’d say, since they’re old English favorites.”

“English food. Are you sure that’s what you want to try?”

“Absolutely,” I said, watching him. “I was thinking of learning how to fricassee something.”

I actually saw him shudder.

“Oh, come on,” I said with a laugh. “I’m not that bad a cook, am I?”

He coughed to clear his throat. “There really isn’t a safe answer to that, is there?”

“Not really.”

“Well, then.” He touched my cheek. “You’re simply perfect just as you are.”

“And you’re a very good liar.”

He laughed, kissed me good-bye, and walked out the door.

“So I suck as a cook,” I muttered as I shut the door behind him. “But I’ll improve
with practice.”

Determined now, I opened Obedience Green’s old cookbook and looked up desserts. I
didn’t find that listing, but remembered that the British often referred to dessert
as
pudding
. There were several dozen pudding recipes and I quickly read the first one. It
contained cornmeal and salt, and Obedience’s directions included this:
To steam your Pudding, spoon ingredients into a cotton bag and suspend from a hook
above the pot of stew.

“Not the sort of pudding I had in mind, girlfriend.” I flipped a few more pages until
I found the desserts and focused on one she called
A Sweet Syllabub Made from the Cow
.

By
cow
, I figured Obedience meant that milk was one of the ingredients. But in fact, her
directions included milking one’s cow so that the milk squirted right into a quart
bowl of hard cider, nutmeg, and sugar.

“Oo-kay, I’ll pass on that one.”

Among the puddings were several recipes for syllabubs, all of which seemed to feature
copious amounts of alcohol. In fact, alcohol seemed to be the only basic difference
between a pudding and a syllabub. Not surprisingly, I opted to make a syllabub. And
I found a recipe that didn’t require buying a cow. Obedience called it
An Exceptional Syllabub To Serve a Traveling Dignitary
.

Pulling out a pad and pencil, I made my shopping list. I could do this, damn it. I
would become a good cook if it killed me.

If I’d thought my cooking would improve over time, I was sadly mistaken. I had attempted
a different syllabub recipe three nights running, and each time the gluey mess ended
up being dumped in the garbage can before Derek got home from work. I tried not to
hold it against Obedience, whose book was a pleasure to read, if not to cook by.

I had learned within the first few pages of Obedience’s diary that she had been only
eighteen years old when she boarded that ship for America. And she was an orphan.
One of the ladies who volunteered at the orphanage had been the one who’d arranged
her apprenticeship with Mrs. Branford, the cook who was swept away in the storm.