Operation Cinderella (8 page)

“She’s not my ‘new friend’ as you put it.”

“Ah, so it’s an established relationship, even better.”

“It’s not…I’m not—”

“In a relationship? Well, you’re obviously interested in someone. New suit, freshly pressed shirt, and”—she leaned in and sniffed—“cologne.”

“Christ, Frannie, lay off. I hired a housekeeper.”

She blinked. “Oh my God, you’re shagging the housekeeper?”

It was Ross’s turn to shush her and look nervously around. “I am certainly not.”

She tapped a French-manicured fingernail against her perfectly lacquered lower lip. “Really, Ross, doing the housekeeper is so cliché. Tell me you don’t have her dress up in one of those French maid frocks with the fishnets and the silly ruffled caps?”

Ross stared at his empty beer bottle and prayed their server would one day return to bring him another. “I am not…seeing her. We are
not
dating.”

“But you fancy her, I can tell. Don’t bother to deny it. I know you better than you know yourself, darling, which is why I left you before you could come to your senses and leave me first. But back to the incomparable Miss…”

“Gray.”

“Just so, Miss Gray, when do I meet her?”

Never
was the response that leaped to mind, but given that Sam would be living with him for the foreseeable future, that wasn’t really an option. “Don’t you have to be in Milan?”

“Oh darling, that’s not until the end of the month. So tell me, where is she from?”

He shrugged. “A small town in Indiana.”

Francesca gave a delicate shudder. “I suppose that makes her practically perfect for you.”

“Not quite.”

“Don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise already?” Despite her teasing tone, the little crease furrowing her forehead told him she was genuinely concerned.

Now that she’d wrung a confession out of him, the least she could do was serve as a sounding board. “She’s younger.”

“Oh dear, this is shaping up to sound like one of those dreadful Gothic romance novels. Sweet young thing becomes housekeeper to brooding lord of the manor.”

“Not
that
young. Late twenties…okay, mid-twenties. Twenty-six.”

She made a face. “And here you are an old man of thirty-four. But no worries, darling, there’s Viagra now, so you and your Miss Gray can look forward to many happy years of fucking.”

“Francesca!”

Looking pleased with herself, she clucked her tongue. “Calling me by my full name, you really must be miffed. Do relax, Ross, I couldn’t be happier for you and your Miss Gray. Only do try and restrain yourselves in front of our daughter. Mind, I’m supposed to be the kicky, offbeat parent.”

“Stop calling her my Miss Gray. She isn’t
my
anything. She works for me. If my shirt is pressed, it’s because she sent it out to the drycleaner. By the way, you never did say why you’re in town.”

“Changing the subject, are we? Very well, I’m here for the Heritage Foundation Awards Banquet next week.”

Ross nearly spat the mouthful of tap water he’d just taken. “You’re going to the Heritage Foundation Banquet?” A social event sponsored by the renowned conservative think tank was hardly Frannie’s scene.

She shrugged. “We’ll see. Ordinarily I wouldn’t consider it, but the theme of this year’s dinner is five courses by five regional chefs, and Freddie’s been asked to do the foie gras starter. It’s quite a coup, really. Only he’ll be occupied all night in the kitchen, alas, so I’ll be hard-pressed to entertain myself. To be safe, I’ve finagled a seat at one of the VIP tables alongside you, Mr. Republican of the Year!”

So she knew about his award. He sat back, folding his arms over his chest. “Great, you’ll have to tell me how it went.”

“You’re not going?” She shook her head in apparent despair. “But you must, you’re receiving a no-doubt-coveted award!” Dropping her voice, she asked, “Is it because you…can’t get a date?”

He bristled. “Who says I can’t get a date?”

“Mind you, showing up dateless to a black tie affair in DC is the surest way to convince people you’re gay.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m warning you, Ross, if I must I’ll engage an escort on your behalf.”

He wouldn’t put it past her. The very last thing he needed was to show up on some DC madam’s roster as another Client Number Nine.

To get her off his back, he blurted out, “Okay, I’ll go—with a date and
without
your help, thank you very much. In fact, I have…someone already in mind.”

…

Ross’s lunch appointment provided Macie with the perfect opportunity to sneak Stefanie in for a tour of the apartment as well as a food drop off. Going room-to-room and seeing her friend’s awed reaction brought an absurd sense of pride. Several times Macie had to remind herself that the apartment she was showing wasn’t actually her home.

Looking around, Stef said, “Wow, this is some place. I always wondered what the Watergate apartments were like. Until now, I’d only been to the restaurant.” Backtracking to the kitchen, she unzipped the last of the insulated food-carrying bags she’d brought for that night’s dinner. “So, how’d your first night go?”

Caught in a web of conflicting feelings, Macie took a moment to answer. “It went fine, thanks.”

Stef stopped in mid-zip. “Just fine?” She sounded a little deflated.

“I mean, it went really well. He was bat shit for the food. Your biscuits were a big hit. He had three, called them slices of heaven because they were light and fluffy as clouds.”

Stef beamed. “I don’t care what his politics are, the man has taste.”

Stefanie’s mom, Rosaria, had taught her to cook at a very young age, so young she’d started out standing on a stool to reach the countertop. These days she had a growing roster of clients who appreciated her culinary efforts and were willing to pay top dollar. Still, if Macie could make one wish come true for her friend it was that Stefanie might meet a man who appreciated all she had to offer, including but not limited to mouthwatering meals. So far, no luck. It didn’t help that Stef was self-conscious about her weight. Listening to her so-called jokes about her cottage cheese thighs and bubba butt made Macie’s heart hurt. If only she’d ditch the baggy sweaters, oversized T-shirts, and elastic waist jeans for clothes that complemented her curves rather than camouflaged them, she’d shine as a knock-out, Macie was sure of it.

Then again, it wasn’t like being a fashion diva had done Macie much good. All the La Perla lingerie and Jimmy Choo shoes in her closet hadn’t kept Zach from cutting out on her repeatedly. Sure, she dated a bunch, but it was Manhattan. Everybody did. Other than Zach, most of her dates never got beyond the third meet-up. Barring a haphazard handful of hot moments, she spent almost as much time solo as Stef did. Macie imagined the stacked take-out and microwaveable meal-for-one boxes she’d amassed over the last five years might reach to the moon.

“So what’s he like?” Stef’s question startled her back to the present.

Walking her fingers along the granite countertop, Macie shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.”

Ross was, she admitted—albeit to herself—better than okay, unfailingly courteous and kind and even funny, altogether at odds with his starchy public persona. Even after just one night, she was starting to wonder if his clean living act might not be an act at all. After dinner, he’d given her his calendar for the month and from what she saw, other than one banquet, a political thing, he didn’t plan to socialize—no happy hours, let alone any adult “sleepovers,” none that she could tell, anyway. Aside from taking early morning runs along the Potomac, he seemed determined to devote whatever free time he could find to Sam.

Stefanie spoke up. “You know, Mace, traditional values aren’t all bad. Back when my mom was still alive, it was nice being part of a family where you knew you could count on everybody to have your back, and they knew they could count on you.”

Assuming they really have your back
, Macie mentally added, thinking of her own parents and how they’d fundamentally failed her. For whatever reason, she found herself admitting, “One-on-one, he’s actually kind of…sweet and easy to talk to.”

She’d exchanged more substantive words in one dinner with Mannon than she had with Zach in three years. But then she was starting to see that she and her ex hadn’t had a relationship, not really. All that time they’d been, as Zach put it, just “hanging out.”

Shaking off the sadness that epiphany brought, she added, “After dinner, he insisted on helping me clean up. Thank God I’d taken the kitchen trash out to the compactor before he got home, otherwise he would have spotted the catering boxes and then my goose would have been cooked. Speaking of which, what’s cooking for tonight?”

“I made spaghetti and meatballs. Don’t worry, I made Samantha’s with texturized soy protein and put it in a separate container. See, I marked them as mock balls so you can keep them separate.” Stef lifted the plastic container with the pink Post-it.

Macie blew out a breath. “Thanks, you’ve probably saved me from having her pitch the saucepot over my head.”

“The
real
meatballs are made with ricotta and…well, you may be my best friend, but I don’t know that I can bring myself to give up my secret ingredient even to you.”

“Suit yourself. But either way your secret’s safe with me. Stealing your ingredients would only lead to cooking and you know when it comes to the kitchen my mantra’s always been ‘Just Say No.’”

Stephanie finished re-sealing the bags. “Cooking can be a lot of fun when you have someone like my pop who appreciates good food and the time and care that goes into preparing it. From what you’ve said, it sounds like Ross Mannon might be that kind of guy.”

Macie wasn’t sure what to say to that, so for once she said nothing. Stef studied her. “You know Mace, other than my biscuits and baklava, there’s not much in life that’s one hundred percent perfect, including people.”

Sensing she might be on the receiving end of a lecture, Macie bristled. “Your point is?”

Stef shrugged. “Just consider it…food for thought.”

.

Stef had been gone all of five minutes when stomping footsteps announced that Samantha Mannon was home early from her school trip to The White House. Talk about a close call.

Coming into the kitchen, she announced, “Something smells good.”

Considering this wasn’t only an olive branch but a whole olive tree, Macie resolved to make an effort. “Thanks, I made my famous spaghetti sauce and meatballs.”

“Famous, huh? You mean like you made all the stuff from scratch?”

Obviously the kid was impressed—as well she should be. Macie nodded. “I’ve been peeling tomatoes all morning.”

“You sure are industrious, Miss Gray.” She pressed her foot down on the trash can pedal. The lid popped up, and she leaned over to look inside.

Macie’s heart slammed to a stop. She hadn’t had the chance to carry the trash to the compactor. The liner brimmed with boxes and discarded packaging emblazoned with the Good Enuf to Eat name and logo, hallmarks of professional catering in plain…
evidence
.

“Samantha, don’t touch that!”

Startled, Sam jumped back and the stainless steel lid slammed closed. Had she seen inside?

Macie searched the girl’s face, but it was as blank as a professional poker player’s. “Jes—
jiminy
, you should wash your hands. Garbage containers carry all kinds of germs.”

Gaze riveted on the can, Samantha made no move toward the sink. “We’re learning about composting in Biology class. Did you know some people keep worms to feed their leftovers to and then the worms—well, you’re going to love this part—crap it all out and then they use the poop for—”

“Fertilizer, yes I know.” Was the kid out to torture or bore her to death?

“I was thinking of doing that for my science fair project. Maybe you could start saving the scraps from all the great meals you’re making us.”

Macie scraped a hand through her hair.
Christ, I could seriously use a cocktail
. “I don’t know, I’ll think about it.”

Stuffing her hands in her jeans’ pockets, Sam took a long look around. “Where are all the dirty pots?”

Perspiration beading her brow, Macie snapped, “I already washed them, why?”

Sam shot a look to the wall rack from which the cluster of copperware hung, shiny as mirrors. “My grandma in Texas makes her spaghetti sauce in a big stew pot, and she lets it simmer for the whole day. It gives her hours and hours to work on the pasta—with the pasta maker.” She looked pointedly at the counter. Other than the microwave, toaster, and Mannon’s much-used coffeepot, there were no other appliances out.

Macie propped her fisted hands on her hips. “I guess I use a shorter recipe.”

“Maybe you could let me have it so I can e-mail it to Grandma, save her some time, seeing as how she’s in her golden years and all.”

The kid was Satan’s spawn, no doubt about it. “Don’t you have some homework to do?”

“Some reading for English Lit,” Sam admitted. “That Jane Eyre sure steps into some serious shit.” Smirking, she turned and sauntered out.

Watching her go, Macie let out the breath she’d been holding. Was Sam onto her? If so, then the kid’s game, Macie surmised, would be to hold the threat over her head for as long as she could and then produce her trump card when it really counted. At least that’s how Macie would play it were their positions reversed. Hopefully by then she’d have enough on Mannon to make her exit, and nothing else would matter. All the more reason to get on the J.O.B.

She left the kitchen and tiptoed past Sam’s closed bedroom door. A conversation in progress confirmed the kid was within, either talking on her cell or video chatting—so much for
Jane Eyre
. Mannon’s study lay at the far end of the hallway. She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. He’d left his laptop lying open on his desk—talk about trusting. It was apparently password unprotected and still running. He must have dashed out that morning without logging off. Keeping one eye on the study door, she leaned over the desk and began scrolling through his history of recently visited sites.