Devil's Food (3 page)

She flung a handful of walnuts into the tub. “I called you two hours ago.”

“I got over as fast as I could.” He leaned over the counter, brushing her back with his elbow. “Whatcha making there?”

“Bartolo ordered ninety chicken-salad sandwiches for lunch.”

“And twelve cherry pies,” Bert complained. “I’m not sure I can finish in time.”

“Defrost a dozen,” Guy told him. “That should help.” He started toward his office in the back. “Emily, come with me. I need
you to check the invoice we got from the dairy.”

“Just pay it,” she snapped.

Guy stopped in his tracks. For a moment he watcher her furiously stir the chicken salad, wondering if she was aware of the
little smacking noises her wooden spoon made as it mucked through all that mustardy, meaty quicksand. “Come when it’s convenient,”
he said finally, leaving the kitchen.

First she made the sandwiches. Then she frosted three chocolate cakes. Finally Emily went back to the office. Guy was on the
phone trying to collect a few overdue invoices. Bartolo and Associates, the law firm across the street, owed him about six
thousand dollars. Guy was trying to convince old man Bartolo that he’d never see ninety sandwiches and twelve pies until his
bill was paid in full, preferably in cash. Fairly convinced he had won, Guy hung up. He studied Emily’s face a moment. “Are
those two black eyes or are you trying to look like that dog on the Miller Lite commercials?”

She remained at the door.
Say it!
she thought. No words survived the trip from brain to tongue. “Which invoices did you want me to check?”

Guy got up from the desk and inspected her eyes at close range. Suddenly he kissed her deeply, roughly. “Let’s get out of
here for an hour. I’ll get a room at the Meridien.”

She pushed him a few inches away. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What’s the matter, Plum? Don’t tell me you’re busy.”

“I just did.”

They stood a moment, angrily breathing in each others’faces as his warm, heavy hands crept over her shoulders, her back, reclaiming
territory that another man had usurped for a few days. It made him crazy when she went home to that proper codfish of a husband.
Crazy! Guy lifted her blouse, catching his breath when he touched stomach. One hand got under her bra, ah, it was so sweet
there. And there. “I missed you,” he whispered, half amused, half terrified, at his own ludicrous understatement. What he
really wanted to do was throw himself at her feet, beg, confess like a man, hope she’d pick him up—wrong, all wrong. What
he really wanted was Emily to throw herself at his feet so that
he
could pick
her
up—wrong again. She’d never do that, not while her husband was around. The gulf between Guy’s aspirations and current reality
overwhelmed him with hopeless lust. He kissed her again.

Too soon she opened her eyes, back in the grim world of dishes and dishonor. “I have to go.”

“Where?” He despaired as Emily’s hand squeezed not him, but the doorknob. “Can’t get messed up, eh? Must be lunch with your
husband. That explains the suit and pearls.”

Without answering, Emily left. Guy’s stomach went cold. He
sat a moment wondering if he should follow her. No: Such behavior was beneath his dignity. She could be meeting a girlfriend,
seeing her gynecologist, getting a facial, one of those woman things. They always liked you to think they were doing something
more exciting with a handsome stranger. Guy returned to his accounting and made quite a few addition mistakes.

It was a craven way out, but an exit nonetheless. After leaving Guy’s office, Emily took the red business card the woman had
left at the cash register. She peered at the small script.
Diavolina
: “little she-devil”—how appropriate. She left Cafe Presto and began walking quickly toward the South End, needing air and
movement away from Guy. No thinking, just movement. Suddenly the drizzle became steady, pelting rain. In her haste to leave
Cafe Presto, Emily had forgotten an umbrella. Now she’d get her new suit wet; just a little more punishment for her naughtiness.
Stuck at a traffic light, Emily beseeched the clouds. Give me a break, she thought. I ended it, didn’t I?

She stepped into the bustling intersection. Over the past decade, as the mezzo-affluent had renovated the brownstones lining
Tremont Street, the area had become a mecca of tony eateries and boutiques. The new stores offered a nice contrast to the
fire-gutted churches still jagging the boulevard. Despite the cars triple-parked on both sides of the street, traffic moved
just fast enough in the one remaining lane to outpace the kicks of pedestrians, who felt they had the right of way, like in
California. After a long, mindless walk, Emily stood outside a large window. A red neon sign in the upper left corner spelled
DIAVOLINA
. She went in.

Nearly lunchtime and there was no manager, in fact no human, in sight. Emily glanced over the pinkish brown walls and aqua
tablecloths: Southwestern Vulva, a style Ross detested. It looked more like something his partner Dana would design. The low-backed
chairs would keep their occupants comfortable for about two hours and the lighting would smooth the most corrugated complexions.
How about the food? Emily took a menu. Diavolina offered the standard mishmash plus a few
trendy entrées involving offal and invertebrates. At the moment it was one of the hot places to be seen eating in Boston.

Calling obscenities over her shoulder, the woman in the sweatshirt burst from the kitchen and stalked to the bar. Her hair
had still not touched a comb; either a bottle of ketchup had scored a direct hit on her apron, or she had been slaughtering
chickens out back. As she rolled up her sleeves, Emily realized that the woman wasn’t wearing shoulder pads at all; she was
wearing muscles. They overlaid her body like dozens of little saddlebags. Emily watched her yank a mug from the freezer and
mix herself a tremendous martini.

She walked to the bar. “Remember me? Cafe Presto?”

“Of course! The cashier! Your mascara wasn’t all over your chin then.”

Emily smiled pleasantly. “My name’s Emily Major. Still need a chef?”

“You’re looking for a job? What happened between eight this morning and now?”

Emily could feel the blood bubbling to her cheeks. Reminding herself that she was the sister of a great actress, she continued
smiling. “I quit.”

“Now that’s handy.” The woman leaned mightily over the counter, displaying forearms laced with tattoos. “What can you do besides
pistachio buns?”

This was not the same beggar who had come to her cash register this morning. Emily thought of leaving Diavolina; then she
thought of returning to Guy Witten at Cafe Presto. “Anything. I’m a great cook. I spent a year in Korea, a summer in Paris,
a couple months in Morocco—”

“Why?” the woman interrupted. “You got something against hot dogs?”

“My husband is an architect. I went with him to his projects.” It didn’t sound very hip, did it. “You were fairly eager to
hire me this morning.”

The woman swallowed a large belt of her martini. “I’ve been reconsidering. This is a much bigger place than Cafe Presto, Ms.
Major. What makes you think you can run it?”

“What makes you think I can’t? Food is food.”

“Ah, but how are you with kitchen personnel? Friendly?”

“Fine,” Emily snapped, feeling her cheeks flame again. “Ask anyone at Presto.”

“Diavolina’s different. How good are you with knives?”

The kitchen doors banged open and a small, ferocious man strode toward the bar carrying a plate of food. His nose looked as
if it had spent some time on either cheek, courtesy of a sledge hammer. “Put it there, Klepp, I’m not hungry.” The woman pointed,
then turned to Emily. “Eat some of that and tell me what you think. I’ll consider this your entrance exam.”

Emily began eating as her interviewer poured drinks for a half dozen customers who had wandered in. The food wasn’t bad but
the book on power dressing that she had been reading recommended force, verbal as well as sartorial, in gaining the respect
of a potential employer. In case after case, starting salaries were at least ten thousand dollars higher than an ordinary
wimp’s. “The cole slaw’s compost,” she said confidently when the woman returned. “You could tile the Callahan Tunnel with
these corn cakes. The chicken is burnt.” She popped a pickle into her mouth. “I can’t tell whether this is tomato or cranberry
relish. What’s for dessert?”

“Zero,” the woman replied. “Your interview is over.”

“Already? When do I start?”

“Never. I’m not impressed with your personality.”

This particular reaction had not been discussed in her book. Emily was on her own. “This is not my real personality,” she
confessed. “I’m having a bad day.”

“I don’t think so. And I don’t think you’d make a good kitchen manager. You have about as much finesse as an earth-mover.”

“Listen,” Emily said, hunching over the counter. “I desperately need this job. I’ll work very hard here.”

“I’ve got three more interviews this afternoon,” the woman replied. “Serious contenders. They won’t give me any of this Korea
or Morocco crap. My customers don’t want to eat monkeys and camels.”

Emily stood up. “I’ll come back at two o’clock. You’ll see who the serious contender is.” She wandered around Copley Place
for several hours, then walked back to Diavolina. The woman kept her waiting for a few moments before bringing a dish of apple
pie to the bar and introducing herself as Ward. Maybe that was her last name; Ward didn’t use, or divulge, another. They briefly
discussed money. Emily was hired.

Having taken Dagmar Pola, the pretzel widow, to Legal Sea Foods instead of his wife’s cafe for lunch, Ross Major returned
to his office in a foul mood. Not on account of Dagmar, of course: She had hired Major & Forbes to construct the gallery of
her dreams. No, Ross had acquired a sharp headache the moment he was told that Emily had left Cafe Presto at eleven and would
not return until three. Where had she gone? A thousand destinations, all involving mattresses, sprang to mind. He had hardly
swallowed a bite of his lobster bisque and now could barely recall a word of what Dagmar and he had talked about. Fortunately,
most of it had been gas about murals and pretzels.

Ross’s secretary, Marjorie, immediately saw the tension in his face. “How was Dagmar?” she asked brightly, following him to
his office.

“Terrific.” He rubbed the kinks forming in the back of his neck. “Any aspirin handy?”

When she returned, Ross was standing at his glazed window high over the financial district. “You can’t even see Faneuil Hall
from here,” he complained. “Some panoramic view of Boston.”

“You can see better from Dana’s office.” Marjorie handed him a glass of water and five aspirin, his usual dose. “Looking for
something down there?”

“No.” Ross backed away from the window. “Is Dana in?”

“He left around twelve. In a big hurry.”

“Why? Was he seeing someone?”

Marjorie had not seen her boss so distraught since the time they received new rates for liability insurance. “I don’t think
so. I’ll look in his appointment book.” She left.

Ross went to his partner’s spacious office and glanced over
Dana’s desk. In the corner, he saw a vast collection of vitamin supplements and homeopathic medicines, all connected with
sexual potency; Dana gobbled them like raisins. Otherwise, the desktop was cleared of everything but official correspondence.
After twenty years Dana had finally learned to treat epistles from his mistresses the same as he would live hand grenades:
average time from perusal to paper shredder, five seconds.

Ross was gazing out the window with a pair of Dana’s binoculars as Marjorie returned. “His appointment book’s blank. Sorry,
Ross. I’ll ask when he gets back.”

Dana Forbes didn’t reappear until four, fairly drunk. He told Marjorie that he had been at the athletic club, then out to
lunch with Billy Murphy, who was in charge of building permits at City Hall. Dana no longer noticed the disapproving frown
on Marjorie’s face; over the years he had seen it so often that he thought this was the woman’s natural demeanor. A shame,
because she was otherwise an extremely handsome lady, expertly preserved, outstanding in high heels and Brooks Brothers suits.
Dana would have asked her out years ago except that she obviously preferred his partner. “Ross in, darling?” he asked cheerfully.

Marjorie passed an envelope through the laser printer. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“Really? Must be good news.” Tossing a few pills into his mouth, Dana went to his partner’s office. “Hey, buddy! Did you ravish
Dagmar?”

Ross looked up from his sketching pad. For the last hour he had been debating whether or not to call Emily at Cafe Presto
and demand to know where the hell she had been. Swiveling in his chair, he faced Dana. “Where the hell have you been?”

“To a six-martini lunch. I fixed three permits with Murphy. Wasn’t cheap.” Dana walked to Ross’s desk. “What are these?” he
asked, picking up a handful of sketches. “Very nice.”

“Just fiddling around.” Ross cursed himself for having left them exposed. “Emily might be wanting to open her own restaurant
one of these days.”

“No kidding! That’s great!”

Was that enthusiasm a wee bit forced? As he took the sketches back, Ross thought he smelled a whiff of perfume on his partner’s
white shirt. Sweet, floral. Wait: That was only the booze evaporating on Dana’s breath. Right? “Tell me about Murphy,” Ross
said. “Where’d you eat?”

“Drink,” Dana corrected. “Where we always do. The Blue Frog.”

“Where did you sit?”

“Where we always do. Behind the pinball machine.”

“How long were you there?”

“Long enough to take care of all current business. What is this, an inquisition?”

Ross rubbed the two deep furrows between his eyes. “Sorry. I thought we had agreed to let Marjorie know where we were at all
times. In case a wife called or something.”
Wife
: With the very word, lightning flashed between his ears.