Can't Stand the Heat (23 page)

L
auren stood at the burner, gazing listlessly at the sizzling pan in front of her, lost in thought.

She had woken up this morning like a zombie, taking a shower, throwing on a T-shirt and jeans, getting into her car, and driving to the restaurant for morning prep. But the whole time, Cris's image lingered in the back of her mind, and that image was of him walking out her front door. The finality of it broke her heart.

Why did he have to dig through her things? He was the last person in the world that she wanted to know about her debts. She knew that Cris had only been trying to help, but she was proud of her independence. She was proud of how she looked when she saw her reflection in his eyes: smart, sexy, and self-reliant. But once he found her stack of bills, that image disappeared. For the first time, she saw pity in his eyes. It only left her ashamed and angry.
That
was why she had kicked him out.

She wished she could replay that moment. Do it all over again. Maybe then she could . . .

“
Chérie
, watch out!”

Lauren jumped back in surprise just as the ball of fire leaped from the saucepan, sending flames as high as two feet. The blue and orange flames missed her face by mere inches, but she hadn't been quick enough to keep the towel she was holding around the handle from catching fire. She jumped again in alarm and screamed as the burning towel tumbled from the kitchen burner to the tiled floor.

“I'll get the fire extinguisher!” one of the line cooks yelled. Two others rushed toward her, trying to stomp the fire out with their tennis shoe–clad feet.

“Get away from there!” Phillip shouted, charging forward with tongs in hand.

The meaty man shoved the two younger cooks aside, catching them by surprise with his brute strength. He quickly picked the burning towel off the floor with the tongs before tossing it into one of the stainless-steel kitchen sinks. He turned on one of the faucets and the fire went out in seconds, doused by a blast of cold water. A gray curl of smoke rose from the sink.

All the cooks were awestruck, amazed at his quick thinking. Meanwhile, Phillip mumbled angrily to himself, then turned off the faucet.

“The only thing y'all would have succeeded in doing is burnin' your damn legs!” Phillip shouted at the two line cooks who still gazed at him, openmouthed. He then turned to Lauren, glaring at her. “Girl, what were you tryin' to do? What the hell were you thinkin'?”

Her cheeks flushed with heat. She opened her mouth, then closed it. “I'm sorry, Phillip. It was just a mistake. I didn't mean to make the heat that high. I must have added too much oil. I don't know what—”

“I put you in charge! I picked you to run my kitchen . . . not to burn it down to the damn ground!”

Lauren gazed at Phillip, now ashamed. She should have known better. She should have reacted better. She could have caused a serious fire.

She looked around the kitchen at the other cooks, who stared at her with a mix of shock and puzzlement. Nathan, the floor manager, had rushed into the kitchen when he heard the commotion. He now crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at her triumphantly.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry,” she whispered. Tears welled in her eyes. She walked around Phillip to the big steel door that led to the alleyway. The other cooks cleared the path for her. She kept her head down the whole way.

When Lauren reached outside, she fell back against the alleyway's brick wall and took several long breaths. The tears spilled over her cheeks freely now, making her feel stupid and emotional in a silly female sort of way. Worse, she wasn't crying because she had almost turned her face into a melting candle or had embarrassed herself in front of the rest of the kitchen staff. She was crying because no matter what she did, it seemed that her past would always drag her down. She was crying because she missed Cris, but her pride wouldn't allow her to call him and ask him to come back. She was crying because it felt good to cry.

Just then she heard the steel door open again. Lauren hurriedly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as Phillip stepped into the alleyway and walked toward her.

“You all right,
chérie
?”

She sniffed and forced a smile. “I'm fine. I'm sorry for falling apart in there. It won't happen again, chef.”

He wiped his hands on his apron before putting them on his hips. “You don't seem to be yourself today. You sure you're all right?”

“Really, I'm OK. I . . . I just had a rough start. I've got myself together now.”

He gazed at her for several seconds, then sighed. “All right,
chérie
. I'm gonna need you to keep it together. I ain't feelin' my best today.”

Lauren took a closer look at him, and for the first time realized that his brow was covered with sweat and his skin was grayish and clammy. His breathing was a little labored, too. He didn't look well.

Lauren instantly rushed toward him. “What's wrong, Phil?”

“Nothin' you need to worry about,” Phillip said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Just a little headache. But I'm gonna need your help. So please . . . hold it together. I need my second-in-command to help steer the ship.”

She nodded again and opened her mouth to ask him if he was going to see a doctor soon, but Phillip turned his back on her and disappeared inside. She gazed at the closed steel door. Phillip was in bad shape and he was still giving it his all in there. Meanwhile, here she was wallowing in self-pity.

“Hold it together, Lauren,” she whispered to herself. “You've got to hold it together.”

 

By the time the lunch rush began, Lauren had gotten her groove back. She pushed all thoughts of Cris, her mother, and her sisters far from her mind and concentrated only on cooking, plating, and making sure the kitchen ran with a seamless efficiency. She was ever conscious of Phillip's presence in the room and his watchful, worried eyes. She wanted to show him that he could still trust her. Of all people, he was the last person she wanted to disappoint.

She added the last details to a plate of braised beef short ribs with a side of Yukon potatoes and collard greens. She placed it on the stainless-steel shelf and shouted the order before turning her attention to another dish.

“
Chérie
, come over here,” Phillip ordered from the other side of the kitchen. She scurried toward him.

He dipped a spoon into a pot of French onion soup and handed it to her. “Try this. Enrique here”—he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the sheepish-looking line cook behind him—“butchered my recipe somehow. I've added a few shakes of salt, but it still ain't got what I'm lookin' for. Maybe you got an idea how to fix it.”

Lauren stepped forward. She sipped from the spoon and frowned, licking her lips. She thought for a bit. “I wouldn't add any more salt. It's
too
salty now. No, I say add a little more beef broth, maybe some pepper. See if that helps.”

Enrique nodded.

“I guess my taste buds are a little off today,” Phillip said.

“It all starts to taste the same when you've sampled enough dishes in a matter of hours,” she assured with a smile, turning around to head back. “Well, I better finish that plate of blackened catfish. It has to be out before—”

She stopped midsentence when she heard the clatter of pans and steel behind her. She turned to find Phillip on bended knee, grabbing at his chest, surrounded by pans, soup ladles, and forks. Some of the hair in his slicked-back ponytail had come undone and now hung limply in his face.

“Phillip?” Lauren rushed forward and fell to her knees. She wrapped her arms around him.
“Phillip?
What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong!”

“I think . . . I think I'm havin' a goddamn heart attack.” He almost sounded surprised.

A second later, he closed his eyes and collapsed. She nearly fell with him as he crumpled to the floor.

Lauren began to shout. She screamed for someone to call 911.

S
tephanie retrieved a ceramic platter from one of the overhead kitchen cabinets and placed it on the granite island. She opened a Tupperware container of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies and began to arrange them on the plate.

It had been a rough week. She was still reeling from the PR fallout that came after her fight at the dress salon. Two of her clients had called her yesterday to tell her they would rather go with another real-estate agent to represent their properties. Another half dozen had threatened to fire her, but had only reconsidered after some pleading on her part. She finally convinced them that her personal life had no affect on her ability to sell or to help them buy a home.

All of this was in addition to the fact that she and Lauren still hadn't spoken since their post-fight blowup. Dawn and Cynthia said they hadn't heard anything from Lauren, either, for the past couple of days. She seemed to be freezing all of them out. Stephanie was now starting to wonder if Lauren had really meant what she said and wasn't just speaking out of anger in the mall parking lot that day. Was she really tired of all of them? Did she really see them all as just a burden? That statement had hurt Stephanie particularly badly.

They had never been accepted by the people in Chesterton. Even if men in the community were willing to date them, Stephanie knew she and her sisters still sat on the fringes of all the social circles in town. All the Gibbons girls had to rely on were each other. If they didn't have one another, they were no longer a family of social outcasts. They were just . . . alone.

The thought of having to face all the taunts, putdowns, and whispers without her sisters by her side absolutely terrified Stephanie.

“Miss Gibbons, I think . . .” Carrie walked into the kitchen. “I think I'm ready to handle a house tour today.”

Stephanie looked up in surprise from the platter of cookies she was arranging, pushing her morose thoughts aside for the time being. “Are you sure?”

Carrie hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I'm sure. I want to get my real-estate license next year and . . . and if I'm serious about being an agent, I need to learn how to do this.”

Stephanie smiled. “Well, I'm very proud of you for taking the initiative, Carrie. I know this part of the job isn't one of your favorites.”

“It isn't . . . but it has to be done, right? I'll only get better if I get some practice.”

The doorbell rang and both women gazed at one another.

“Well, it looks like you're about to get some practice right now.”

“Looks like it,” Carrie said, smiling nervously.

The doorbell rang again.

“It's your house tour. Go ahead and answer.”

Carrie nodded again before adjusting her suit jacket, pushing back her shoulders, and heading toward the foyer.

Stephanie beamed. So her mousy assistant was finally starting to venture out of her hidey-hole. Rather than shadow Carrie during the tour, Stephanie decided to stay in the kitchen for now. At least she could hear what was going on in the foyer from here. She'd only intervene if it sounded like Carrie was having problems or the young woman's nerves were starting to get the better of her.

Stephanie returned her attention to the arrangement on the platter, sorting her last stack of cookies. She heard Carrie open the front door. “Hello! Welcome to the—”

“Stephanie!
Stephanie!”
someone yelled a second later.

When Stephanie heard the familiar voice calling her name, she cringed.

“Sir, you can't just come barging in like this!” a panicked Carrie shouted. “We're conducting showings today! Sir!”

“Stephanie, where are you?”

Stephanie lowered her head and thumped it against the granite counter.

Hank Montgomery had been blowing up her phone for the past couple of days, leaving bipolar phone messages. One moment he'd be ranting about how she had ruined his marriage, that his wife refused to speak to him, and that now he was in danger of being kicked out of his church. The next day he'd leave a message saying that all he could do was think about her and how she had “freed” him. He had even shown up one night at her house, yelling for her to come out and speak with him. She told him that she would call the police if he didn't get off her damn lawn.

If Stephanie had known that one spanking would get her into this much trouble, she would have just taken the Tiffany bracelet and shut the door in his face. She should have just let him go home to boring missionary sex with his snooty wife.

Married men,
she thought with a slow shake of the head.
They always come with the most drama.

“Stephanie!” He ran into the kitchen and stopped when he saw her.

Hank, who was usually immaculately dressed, didn't look too good today. He was wearing a wrinkled linen shirt and pants. The shirt wasn't properly buttoned. He had dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept for days. In his arms was an enormous bouquet of pale pink roses and white Asiatic lilies.

“I found you,” he said, smiling ear to ear.

“I'm so sorry, Miss Gibbons!” Carrie cried. “He just . . . he just
barged
in! I—”

Stephanie held up her hand. “It's OK, Carrie. I'll handle it. You can go back out there and get ready for the house tours.”

Carrie paused. She glanced warily at Hank.

“Are you sure, Miss Gibbons?”

Stephanie nodded.

Carrie hesitated again before finally walking out of the kitchen.

“I had to come here.” Hank rushed toward her, making her take several steps back. “I had to see you, Stephanie. I had to get this off my chest, but you won't talk to me. You won't return my phone calls!”

“For a good reason.” She scowled up at him. “You've lost your goddamn mind!”

“I haven't lost my mind! I'm in love with you!”

She sighed in exasperation.

“Penny wants to leave me again. But I . . . I don't care. I want us to be together. You complete me, Stephanie. You can give me what I need!”

“Hank, I told you that was just a one-time performance. I'm not the dominatrix of your dreams, sweetheart. That isn't my thing. I just did it as a thank-you. I don't whip men on a daily basis.”

“But you
freed
me!”

“I didn't ‘free' you! Stop saying that! I spanked you with a hairbrush! That's all!” She grabbed his arm and ushered him toward the kitchen's entrance. “There. I heard what you had to say. You got it off your chest. Now you can leave.”

“But I'm in love with you!” he shouted, yanking his arm out of her grasp. “Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

“Hank!” Hank's wife's shrill voice echoed in the foyer.

“What is it with you people?” Carrie yelled. “This is a place of business!”

“Hank!” His wife walked into the kitchen. When she saw Hank and Stephanie together, she narrowed her eyes into thin slits.

Mrs. Montgomery was in worse shape than her husband. Not only did she still have a bruise on her cheek from the fight at the dress store, but she also had bags under her eyes and looked like she had gotten dressed in the dark.

“I heard that your car was here! I can't believe you would go running after this bitch again, you lying piece of shit!”

Oh, this was going to get ugly. Stephanie wagered she could take on Mrs. Montgomery again if she had to, but she certainly didn't want to get in a fistfight in one of her clients' homes. Her professional reputation was tarnished enough. She glanced at Carrie, who stood in the kitchen entryway looking dazed and bemused. Stephanie mouthed, “Call the police.”

Carrie snapped out of her malaise and nodded. She ran back into the foyer.

“You said you didn't want to be married to me anymore!” Hank shouted back at his wife. “What do you care if I see her again?”

Mrs. Montgomery's eyes began to water. Her bottom lip quivered. “I gave you thirteen years of my life, Hank! I gave you loyalty and . . . and love and—”

“You nagged me and acted like you were my mama, not my wife! You never did what I wanted in bed! You wouldn't do anything I asked for!”

“Sex!
That's all you ever think about!” his wife sneered. “I swear you are addicted to it, Hank! You need to pray on that! You should go to the reverend and—”

“The reverend can't tell me a goddamn thing! He's got three girlfriends of his own!”

His wife sputtered. “How
dare
you talk about the reverend that way! Just because you're a sinner doesn't mean everybody is! You need to pray that God takes the devil out of you, Hank!”

“It's not the devil! A man wanting to get his dick sucked every once in a while doesn't mean he's been taken over by demons!”

Stephanie leaned against the fridge and stood silent as they argued.

The married couple's quarrel carried on for another fifteen minutes before the cops finally showed up. Stephanie watched in relief as Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery were escorted from the premises by a bored-looking patrol cop.

Soon after the police car pulled off, a BMW pulled into the driveway.

“Oh, thank God they left before our next tour,” Carrie said as she stood beside Stephanie in the doorway, adjusting her hair. “Do you want me to take this one?”

A man and a woman climbed out of the BMW and strolled up the walkway, smiling as they gazed at the house.

Stephanie chuckled. “We can
both
do this one.”

After that little fiasco with the Montgomerys, Stephanie needed the distraction.

She watched as the couple approached, holding hands. They looked like they were in their mid- to late thirties. The plump woman was wearing a bright orange sundress and wide-brimmed straw hat. She pushed up the hat's floppy brim and stepped forward first, climbing the brick steps.

“Oh, this house is just lovely!” she gushed. “It's perfect for us, Dante!”

Her dark-skinned companion smiled and nudged her shoulder. “Don't act so overeager, baby. We haven't even seen the inside yet.”

She giggled and stepped through the doorway. “I guess that's why we're married. You keep me from getting too crazy.”

“Hi, my name is Stephanie Gibbons,” Stephanie said, shaking the woman's hand. “I'm the real-estate agent for today's property. Pleased to meet you.” She glanced toward her assistant. “Carrie, will you hand her a flyer, please?” She then looked back at the woman. “This has all the pertinent information about the house, but if you have any additional questions, I or my assistant, Carrie, will be happy to answer them.”

“Thank you!” The woman pushed back her hat and raised her gaze to the foyer's ceiling. “Oh, Dante, look at that chandelier!”

Her husband, Dante, stepped through the doorway next while his wife stood a few feet away, hurling a flurry of questions at Carrie.

“Pleased to meet you,” Stephanie said, smiling politely and offering her hand for a shake.

He slowly looked her up and down, hungrily licked his lips, and grinned. “Pleased to meet you, too.” He then shook her hand and winked.

Uh-oh
, Stephanie thought, tugging her hand out of his grasp like he had bitten her.

This was a bad case of déjà vu. She wasn't doing this again!

She anxiously cleared her throat. “Carrie, why don't you give this lovely couple a tour?”

“You . . . you want me to do it . . .
by myself?”

“Sure! Why not? I'll just be straightening up . . . somewhere.”

Stephanie dashed out of the room. When she reached the kitchen, she saw the bouquet Hank had left behind, sitting on the counter. She stomped toward the bouquet, grabbed it, opened the cabinet underneath the sink, and dumped it into the wastebin, closing the lid on her
last
affair with a married man.