One of Those Malibu Nights (25 page)

Now for the gazpacho. Checking Petra’s recipe book, she peeled and seeded ripe tomatoes and red peppers, previously washed by Caterine, who was now employed slowly setting up the tables. Garlic, tons of it, a bunch of fresh herbs,
anything she could get her hands on because she wasn’t exactly sure of which ones to use, so she put them all in. Chervil, parsley, basil, chives, tarragon. She contemplated using the blender but then decided she wanted the nuggety texture and chopped all the ingredients by hand instead, sniffing up the herby aroma, and managing not to cut herself. She stirred in lemon juice and the good olive oil from Azari in Nice that Petra preferred. She added thinly sliced sweet onion and cucumber. Salt, a little paprika. And it was done.

Standing proudly back from her handiwork, she called Caterine over to taste. The girl’s round brown eyes grew even rounder.

“Mais c’est superbe,”
she murmured, eyes reverently closed.
“Formidable.”

Allie heaved a satisfied sigh. Telling Caterine to get the salad ingredients together, she took the goat cheese from the fridge and sliced it into neat rounds. She ground hazelnuts in the blender, added fresh bread crumbs, a touch of nutmeg and a hit of olive oil, then rolled the cheese slabs in them, ready to be toasted under the grill and served on a bed of tiny fresh lettuces, scattered with the edible nasturtium flowers Petra grew in the garden behind the Bistro.

Pleased, she stood back and took a look at the big old railroad clock over the door. With a yelp of distress, she realized it was five o’clock and she had yet to create at least two main courses.

There could be no fresh fish tonight since Petra had not been able to get to the market, but the thin pork chops would grill up crisp and easy. The hanger steak needed a bit of help and she quickly chopped spinach, fried up some bacon, chopped that and mixed in some hearty blue cheese. She beat the steak with the meat tenderizer, spread the stuffing on it and rolled it up. Then she cut it into roulades. It looked terrific. Steak and blue cheese pin-wheels. God, she thought, pleased, I’m getting good at this.

Fresh baguettes were delivered to the kitchen door and Caterine, back from setting tables, carried them over to the bread guillotine, where they could be quickly sliced and placed in the waiting red-napkin-lined baskets.

Caterine had already taken out the butter and was making neat little pats out of it, laboriously stamping each one with Petra’s favorite cow image. Eyeing the couple of mangoes in the fruit basket, Allie had an idea. She quickly peeled the soft ripe mangoes, mashed them with a fork, then began to blend them in with the butter. She placed the result in little round yellow pots and put them in the fridge to chill.
Mango butter
. She’d had it once in the Caribbean and loved it.

Jean-Philippe arrived, surprised to see her in charge of the kitchen. When she told him what was what, he said not to worry, he’d help with the serving as well as taking care of the bar, and he was sure everything would be okay.

Chopping chickens ready for the fricassee and arranging the piles of already prepped vegetables on the counter in front of her—a
mise en place
, as Allie knew a chef like Wolfgang Puck (a friend of hers) would have called it—Allie was exhausted. And scared. Playing around in the kitchen was one thing. Cooking meals—
many different meals
—and all at the same time scared the hell out of her.

So, okay, you took on the responsibility, she told herself, tying on a clean apron. Petra trusted you with her bistro. It’s up to you to take care of things for her.

“Eh bien
, what shall I do now, Mary?” Caterine’s myopic brown eyes stared anxiously into hers.

Allie took a deep breath and pulled herself together. “Okay … I mean,
eh bien,”
she said firmly. “Caterine, you will be in charge of cooking the vegetables. You know exactly how many minutes for the
haricots verts
and the baby squash, correct?”

“Correct.” Caterine stood up straight, spine stiffened with new responsibility.

“Petra is trusting us to take care of everything for her,” Allie reminded the girl. “So we’ll both do our best. Correct?”

“Correct,” Caterine agreed again.

“First customers,” Jean-Philippe yelled from the bar, and despite her resolve, Allie’s heart sank. She glanced panicked around the small country kitchen. It was a long way from the Hollywood movie sets, with the catering tents and the professionals in charge of feeding several hundred people
every day. And from her own enormous, immaculate Bel Air home, where Ampara ruled over the kitchen. She was on her own.

Jean-Philippe hurried in. “It’s Robert Montfort,” he said. “And he’s with his mother.”

“Oh my God,” Allie said. Robert of all people.
And
with his mother.

“He’d like the gazpacho, and the lady will have the goat cheese salad to start. One steak pinwheel, and one grilled pork with pepper sauce.”

She had forgotten to make the pepper sauce …

Caterine organized the bread and the mango butter and took it out to their table, while Allie got the goat cheese under the grill and toasted the rounds of baguette on which it was to be served, atop a watercress and baby lettuce salad dressed with lemon vinaigrette with a hint of honey. She flung red peppers into the blender with garlic and herbs for the sauce to accompany the pork and added capers and cream for good measure. Then she garnished the gazpacho with a slice of lemon and floated chopped cucumber on top. She checked the goat cheese. It was ready. Caterine held the plate while she arranged the toasts artfully. First courses done. On to the next.

“More people arriving,” Jean-Philippe called out.

Peeking through the bead curtain that divided the kitchen from the restaurant, Allie saw that there were. Lots of them. She glimpsed Robert on the terrace sitting with a
handsome older woman. They were tasting their first courses and seemed pleased.

Back in the kitchen, she prepared for a long night.

By ten o’clock Allie was sweaty and tired. Her hair hung in short limp strands around her face and her glasses were pushed on top of her head. At least there had been no complaints.

Robert thrust his way through the bead curtain. “Jean-Philippe just told me it was you, here all alone,” he said. “I had no idea you could cook.”

“I can’t.” Allie slid the glasses back onto her nose and ran damp hands through her miserable hair. “I wasn’t asked for my culinary ability. I was the only one available.”

“The food was excellent,” he said. “Ask Maman. She knows good food when she eats it. Come.” He held out his hand. “You’ve finished for the night. There are no more customers. Join us over a glass of wine, and perhaps some more of those delicious
fraises des bois
.“

“Oh … but …” Looking desperate, Allie ran her hands through her ragged hair again, making him laugh.

“You look just fine,” he said softly “Don’t you know by now that you always do?”

“Ohhh …” she said again, but Robert was already untying her apron. “Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her out onto the terrace.

“This is my mother, Céline Montfort,” he introduced them. “Mary Raycheck.”

Madame Montfort was a still pretty woman, tall, as her son was, with her black hair turning silver at the temples in the most elegant way Allie could have imagined. She wore a blue linen skirt and a white silk shirt with a little scarf at her neck, large pearls, and those chic cream Chanel sling backs with the black toes. She looked, as Allie knew Ron would have said, like a million bucks. While Allie, in her black T-shirt and jeans, felt closer to a mere ten.

“I’m happy to meet a friend of my son’s. And such a talented chef.” Madame Montfort gave her a long searching look that Allie felt sure missed nothing.

“But I’m only an amateur, madame, standing in for my friend, who had her wisdom tooth removed this morning.”

“A painful business,” Madame Montfort agreed. And then, over glasses of champagne, she asked Allie a few questions, about how she was enjoying France, and did she find her life here very different from California.

Dearie came wandering over. Madame Montfort caressed his thick shaggy neck, and the dog gazed adoringly up at her. The moon shone down, the little white lights twinkled in the trees and the wine tasted delicious. Allie turned to look at Robert and caught him looking at her. She smiled, feeling good. It was the perfect end to a surprisingly perfect day.

Half an hour later, after they had said goodbye, Allie found herself alone again, humming softly as she washed off the countertops.

She stood for a moment gazing around the quiet kitchen with its white half-tiled walls, its black-beamed ceiling, its enormous royal blue chef’s stove—Petra’s favorite color—and the steel grills and cooktops. Battered pots and pans were stacked on wooden shelves, alongside the simple cream plates and dishes stamped in blue with the name
BISTRO DU MANOIR
.

Outside, Dearie sprawled on the step and a cool breeze mixed with the aroma of chicken fricasseed in good sweet butter and the perfume of wild strawberries. Leaning against the counter, arms folded across her chest, Allie felt a deep
sense of contentment. Tonight she had made a success out of what had promised to be total chaos. On her own, she had fed thirty-five customers and there had been no complaints. Only compliments. Flushed with a new kind of success she thought this kitchen felt like home, in a way nowhere else ever had. She couldn’t wait to get back and tell Petra all about it.

But first she and Jean-Philippe had to cash up the night’s takings. She put the money and credit card receipts in an envelope and stashed them in her big canvas tote, then walked round the restaurant, turning out the lights, making sure all the doors were locked. She said a fond good night to Jean-Philippe, hauled Dearie into the car and drove home to the Manoir. She liked the sound of that word
home
.

Petra was waiting up for her. Her room smelled of the blue irises in a white pottery jug on her bedside table, and a lamp, shaded with a red silk scarf to prevent the glare bothering her poor swollen eyes, cast a rosy intimate glow. Allie had stopped to brew tea in the big brown pot, making sure to place a packet of the chocolate digestives on the tray before she carried it upstairs.

“Here I am,” she said, putting the tray down on the bed.

“Oh, goodie, tea!” Petra tried to beam but her mouth got stuck.

“Do you think you’ll need a straw?” Allie said.

“What? Tea through a straw? Never. What are you thinking, girl!” Petra unraveled the bandanna that strapped up her jaw, groaning as the swelling hurt even more.

Allie handed her the Tylenol. “Take some with the tea and biscuits. You need food of some sort,” she said as Petra’s tummy rumbled loudly.

“So?” Petra said. “Tell
all!
How did it go?”

And, over tea and biscuits in the cozy pinkly lit bedroom, with the faraway song of a blackbird caroling in the woods, Allie described the night’s events. She told Petra how panicked she had been by the sous-chef’s unexpected defection back to England, and how helpful Caterine and Jean-Philippe were. About the food and her new invention of the blue cheese pinwheel steaks that had, as Petra would have said, “gone down a treat” with the diners. She told her about the fabulous
fraises des bois
steeped in a little Cointreau and served with a huge dollop of fresh cream.

And then she said casually, “Oh, and by the way, Robert Montfort was there tonight.”

Through the blue slits that were her eyes, Petra gave her a sharp glance. “Oh? With the Paris girlfriend, I suppose?”

“Actually, he was with his mother.”

“Ahhhh! The
maman!”

“After I’d finished in the kitchen he asked me to join them for a glass of wine.”

“And did you?”

Allie grinned. “Of course I did. And Maman was very
nice, kind of quietly elegant in that French way, you know with the scarf and the pearls and the Chanel shoes, hair turning silver at the temples.”

“Like her son,” Petra said, yawning. “I wonder if he’ll show up again tomorrow night when he hears you’ll be cooking again.”

“I will?”

“Well, love, I can’t go out with my face like this, can I? The customers would think I’d been poisoned.”

Surprised by how thrilled she felt at the news that she was to be chef again, Allie tidied away the tea tray, plumped Petra’s pillows, made sure she had a glass of water and kissed her good night. Then she and Dearie drifted down the broad wood-floored landing to her room.

She’d been on such a high she hadn’t noticed that her back ached and her feet hurt. Standing in the tiny plastic shower cubicle she let the hot water wash away the smells of the kitchen and her aches and pains.

For once she was not thinking of Ron when she climbed into the soft bed and closed her eyes. She wasn’t thinking of Mac, either, nor of Robert Montfort. She was thinking about grilled fresh asparagus with a crust of Parmesan. Perfect for tomorrow’s starter.

Mac and Sunny had managed to dodge the TV camera crews and the paparazzi lurking at the Colony’s gates, hot on the news about the body at Perrin’s Palm Springs house. They were sitting on Mac’s deck, the sun was shining in a clear sky and a soft breeze blew. It was one of those heavenly late afternoons in Malibu.

Sunny was stretched out on the old metal lounger, hands behind her head, gazing skyward from behind large rose-colored aviators. Mac thought the color appropriate. Rose-colored specs matched Sunny’s optimistic view of life and people.

She was wearing an orange bikini and her toenails were painted to match. He’d thought she was sensational as Vampira in the red boots, but now she was something else again.

There was no need to keep an eye out for paparazzi because Pirate had stationed himself at the top of the beach steps and, as though he knew what was expected of him, was on the lookout for strangers. Mac gave him a pat then stretched out on the chair next to Sunny. He had no doubt that the skeleton at Perrin’s Palm Springs house was that of Ruby Pearl, though it was yet to be confirmed.