Month of Sundays (5 page)

You’re a long way from Newport Beach, baby.

She finished her run in front of her favorite grocery store, a hidden gem a few blocks from her apartment that sold the best fresh produce outside of the commercial markets.

“Good morning, Mr. Li.”

Li Fong, the store’s owner, broke into a broad grin. Laugh lines creased his weathered face. His impish grin and slight stature made him look like a teenager trapped in an eighty-year-old’s body. “Good morning, Griffin. How are you today?”

“Hungry.”

Like Old Mother Hubbard, her cupboard was bare. She filled a basket with enough fresh fruit and vegetables to replenish her supply and placed the carrier on the counter.

Mr. Li began to scan her purchases. “Did you enjoy yourself at dim sum yesterday?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you for inviting me.” She patted her stomach. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much in my life.”

Everything had tasted so good she hadn’t been able to stop at one serving.

“Dim sum is about being together. That makes tea more important than the food. Tea, unlike a meal, cannot be rushed.”

“I’ll remember that. Thanks, Mr. Li.” She paid for her purchases and walked home as the morning commuters began to make their way to the subway.

In her kitchen, she poured granola into a bowl, then added sliced peaches and two heaping tablespoons of vanilla yogurt. Her P.A. let himself in as she was shoveling the last spoonful into her mouth. He had two steaming cups from a nearby coffee shop in his hands. He offered her the one in his left.

She wrapped her hands around the warm paper cup and inhaled the cardamom-infused aroma of the chai tea inside. “If you were a woman, I’d kiss you.”

“If you were a man, I’d let you.” Tucker Croft set his latte on the counter and pulled a Day Planner from the depths of his messenger bag. “Give me your CrackBerry.”

She dutifully turned over her smartphone. “What do we have on tap this week?” she asked as he updated her schedule and programmed electronic reminders.

He referred to the Day Planner. “This morning, you’re doing a segment on the third hour of
Today
.”

“On what? Remind me.”

“Healthy, budget-conscious alternatives to traditional calorie-laden holiday meals. Tomorrow, you’re taping a segment on New Year’s Eve cocktails for
Good Morning, America
. Thursday, you’re being interviewed for a profile in
Gourmet Magazine
’s Chefs and Restaurants section. Friday, some accounting firm has booked its holiday party at Match, which means you’ll be cooking for fifty bean counters in pocket protectors and cheap suits.”

Griffin grinned. “Not cheap. Budget-conscious.”

“If a suit costs less than four figures, that spells cheap in my book.”

“Not everyone shops at the Prada store, you fashion whore.” Tucker’s dark blue designer sweater and matching corduroy pants were paired with blue-and-cream colored leather saddle shoes. “Speaking of which, I think I’m paying you too much.”

“For the amount of work I do, you’re not paying me enough.”

She placed her dirty dishes in the washer. “Do I have anything fun planned for this week, or will I be working nonstop?”

“You’re invited to a holiday party Saturday night, but unless you can reschedule, you’re going to be pulling a twelve-hour shift that day.”

“Who’s throwing the party?”

“Jane and Colleen are having a potluck at their apartment. You’re familiar with potlucks, aren’t you? They’re what people like me who can’t afford people like you to cater their events refer to as dinner parties.”

“You’re too young to be so cynical.”

“But it explains why you keep me around.”

She wondered if Rachel would attend Jane and Colleen’s party. Rachel was Jane’s best friend. Her presence would not only be expected but required. Griffin would love to see Rachel again to see if the sparks she’d felt when they met were real, but Saturday night was one of the restaurant’s busiest nights. There was no way she would be able to get away.

Tucker returned her phone. “Jump in the shower while I try to find something telegenic amongst the ready-to-wear dreck in your closet.” He wrapped his cashmere scarf around his neck and clapped his hands like an impatient dance instructor. “Hop to it. The limo will be here soon.”

She pinched his bearded cheek. “What would I do without you?”

“Suffer,” he said with a dramatic sigh. He rummaged through her closet in the master bedroom while she headed to the bathroom to get undressed. “Where’s your
Cream of the Crop
contract?”

She raised her voice so he could hear her through the closed door. “On the coffee table in the living room.”

“Have you signed it yet?”

“In blood. There were so many pages to initial I was feeling anemic by the time I finished.” She tossed her workout clothes in the hamper.

“With the amount of money the producers will be paying you, you’ll be able to drop by the blood bank and buy a few pints. I’ll take the contract to the studio on my way uptown. When do you get to find out who else is in the cast?”

“The first day of filming.”

“Is there anyone you don’t want to see?”

“No one I’m afraid of competing against, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, that’s not what I’m asking. You know how reality show casting directors are. They look for types. The hero. The heel. The saint. The troublemaker. The powers-that-be might be looking to crown the best chef in America, but they want to guarantee there’ll be plenty of drama along the way.”

“If they expect me to be a drama queen, they’re going to be sorely disappointed. I don’t want to fill a role. I want to win.”

*

It was Rachel’s week to pick up the pastries. Even though she no longer allowed herself to partake, she couldn’t shirk her responsibility. Her coworkers would mutiny if she walked into the office empty-handed—or bearing rice cakes instead of bear claws.

She rode the elevator carrying a duffel bag in one hand and a bright pink box from her favorite bakery in the other. The duffel bag contained workout gear and a change of clothes for her planned trip to the gym. The box was filled with every fattening delicacy known to man—doughnuts, fritters, knishes, muffins, and cheese Danishes, to name a few. The smell of sugar and fried dough made her stomach growl. Two floors from her office, she was tempted to hit the elevator’s emergency stop button and inhale a cruller. She gritted her teeth and kept her eyes focused on the floor indicator above her head. By the time the elevator doors opened, she had broken out into a cold sweat. Who knew resisting temptation could be such hard work?

She headed to the break room and was mobbed before she reached the door.

“Way to go, Bauer,” Mike Andrews said. “I knew there had to be a reason we were keeping you around.”

He bit into a cherry-filled doughnut in a way that made her mildly uncomfortable. She didn’t know why the bosses kept
him
around. He hit on all the female employees, his work was sloppy, and he was always the last one in the door each morning and the first one out of it each afternoon.

“Glad I could help.” Turning down the cheese Danish he offered her, she grabbed a bagel and headed to her desk.

“Don’t you want some cream cheese with that?”

“No, plain’s fine.”

She locked her duffel bag in the bottom drawer of her desk and booted up her computer. She took a bite of her bagel while she waited for the computer’s processing system to do its thing. Still warm, the bagel was perfectly cooked with a crunchy crust and a soft interior, but without lox and cream cheese, it was tasteless. She forced the first half down while she shuffled through the pile of tax returns in her inbox. She liked to tackle the more difficult returns at the start of the day when all her synapses were working as they should. She saved the easier ones for the afternoon when the post-lunch crash set in and she could barely remember two and two equaled four, let alone which page of the tax code applied to her client’s needs.

“Turning over a new leaf?” Etta Simms, the office manager, took a seat on the edge of Rachel’s desk.

“How could you tell?”

“New girlfriend?” Etta pointed to the remaining half of Rachel’s bagel, then pinched off a small piece of her apple fritter and carefully placed it in her mouth, being careful not to smear her MAC-covered lips.

“Etta, you know you’re the only girl for me.”

“I’ll tell Lawton you said that.” Etta swung her shapely milk chocolate-colored legs back and forth and giggled like a schoolgirl. Even though she was a dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual, she obviously loved it when Rachel flirted with her. Rachel obliged her every chance she got. Lawton was Etta’s husband of thirty years, though no one could recall ever laying eyes on him. Rachel often teased Etta that the wedding photo on her desk wasn’t hers but one that came with the frame.

“When do I get to meet your mystery man, anyway?”

“Are you coming to the holiday party on Friday?”

“It’s being held here at the office, isn’t it?”

Etta pursed her full lips. “You don’t read your e-mail, do you? This year’s party is being held at an actual restaurant.” She stretched her neck to see over the walls of Rachel’s cubicle. “We don’t want a repeat of last year,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. Rachel must have looked lost because Etta tried to prompt her memory. “Remember I walked in on Mike Andrews getting busy with one of the interns in the supply closet? The sight of his flat white ass doing it doggy style put me off the position for weeks.”

Rachel shuddered involuntarily. “Thanks for putting the image into my head.”

“Of Mike and the intern getting their freak on or me and Lawton doing the same thing?” Rachel blushed furiously, and Etta let out a throaty laugh. “I do what I can, girlfriend.” She slid off the desk and smoothed the front of her fitted skirt. “Lawton and I are going to see you Friday night, aren’t we?”

“Which restaurant?”

Etta put her hands on her ample hips. “Girl, you really need to start reading your e-mails.” She commandeered Rachel’s mouse and quickly located the mass e-mail she had sent out two weeks before asking everyone to set aside Friday night for the company holiday party.

Rachel had saved the date but hadn’t retained any other pertinent information like time, venue, or dress code. She read the e-mail again. Her mouth fell open when she saw where the party was going to be held.

“Match? Our company party is going to be at Match? How did you manage that?”

“I made the reservation even before last year’s party ended. No matter what the cost, I was not going to risk seeing Mike Andrews’s bony ass again.”

“You’re my hero, Etta. I bow before you.”

She bent and kissed Etta’s hand. Laughing, Etta tapped Rachel’s shoulders with a number two pencil. “Rise, my knight, and serve your queen.” She spun Rachel around to face the computer screen. “In other words, get to work.”

Rachel did as her queen commanded, but she couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand. Her stomach was doing flip-flops. She couldn’t tell which prospect excited her more—seeing Griffin again or finally being able to taste her food. It had to be the latter. The former was more unnerving than thrilling.

What if Griffin had been only humoring her the night they met? What if she had been only paying lip service when she told Jane and Colleen she wanted to see her again?

Whether she meant it or not, she’ll see me on Friday
.
Then I can judge for myself.

*

Griffin familiarized herself with the layout of the revamped studio kitchen at 30 Rockefeller Center before her segment began. She and one of the three anchors had been granted ten minutes, enough time to make a spinach salad but not nearly enough time to demonstrate the proper way to roast a turkey.

“Are you ready to shine?” Aggie Anderson asked as a makeup artist touched up her face. Griffin knew Aggie’s given name was Augusta, but in much the same way Katherine Couric had morphed into Katie to appeal to the bleary-eyed masses, Augusta had become Aggie.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” Griffin rolled up the sleeves of her chef’s coat. Its burgundy color was so rich she reserved the coat for TV appearances. She saved the white ones for work.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Aggie adjusted Griffin’s clip-on microphone. “I saw the segments you did with Matt and Ann last year. You were a natural.”

“They make it easy.”

“I’d rather make it hard.” Aggie smiled in mock apology when the back of her hand pressed against Griffin’s breast.

From the moment Griffin arrived on the set, Aggie had watched her every move. She was cute in a way most television reporters were—attractive but nonthreatening. If Ann Curry, Robin Roberts, or Diane Sawyer were hosting the segment, Griffin might have trouble keeping her mind on the task at hand. As it stood, she didn’t think she’d have any problems concentrating. Aggie was trying way too hard, putting her off instead of turning her on. If she learned to take her time and let Griffin come to her, it might be a different story.

Griffin grabbed Aggie’s wayward hands. “Slow down. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me as a captive audience for at least another ten minutes.”