Perfect Sax (12 page)

A
fter the heat of the day, the early-evening air was refreshingly cool. I brushed off my white jeans and smoothed the tan silk sleeveless shirt as I waited on the front walk outside Wesley’s house, right next to a mammoth-size demolition Dumpster, in leafy old Hancock Park. From around back, I could hear Wes as he opened the garage door. But before he could pull his new Jag down the driveway, another car pulled up the street and turned into it.

Dexter Wyatt. Ah.

I was seriously annoyed to notice how raggedy my breath got as vast quantities of adrenaline, or something like it, began pumping up my senses.

Dex stepped out of the car in one languid movement and smiled at me. His hair tumbled over his forehead. His shorts showed off tanned legs, great calf muscles. His boyishness was extremely sexy.

“Impressive,” he said as he walked behind his car and over to me at the curb. “You been standing out here next to a Dumpster all day hoping to catch a glimpse of me?”

“Maybe.” Eye contact made me intensely aware of how warm the evening was, after all.

Dexter handed me a large sequin-dusted Hawaiian-print shoulder bag, the one I usually bring to our events because it
can hold everything and it’s hard to miss. “Yours, I take it. Properly returned, with apologies from my sister.”

“Thanks.” I took the bag and opened it to find my cell phone. I wasn’t too surprised to discover the battery was dead.

“Nothing disturbed, I hope. No loose change missing. Never can trust that brother-in-law of mine.”

I giggled. “It’s fine, I’m sure.”

“So you want to go somewhere?” Dex asked, gesturing a playful finger toward himself, and then me, and then hitching his thumb over to his cute sports car, laying on the charm. “Grab a bite, maybe? Seeing as you are looking so hot.”

“Thanks. Now don’t get me wrong. Normally, I would love to be picked up on the street by a passing guy. Really.”

“I know.” Dex had a great smile and he used it. “I remember last night with fondness.”

“But things are just a little messed up right now…”

The red taillights of Wesley’s Jaguar came suddenly into view, backing down the long driveway, until it stopped, blocked by Dex’s car.

Dexter reassessed the situation. “Boyfriend?” He actually sounded crestfallen. My solar plexus did a little flip.

“Not exactly. Best friend. Partner.”

“Gay?”

I mock-scowled at Dexter. “Look, I have a few errands to run and I better get going. Thanks so much for driving this by.” I gestured to my purse. “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

“Trouble? I wanted to see you again, Madeline. I have been thinking about you all day. Did you ever get to sleep?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I kept thinking about you.”

“Oh, man.” I giggled. “What a line.”

“Women,” Dex said philosophically. “They never believe you when you are telling the truth.”

“Maybe, but that puts us in an excellent position to
not
believe you when you are telling us big lies, you see.” I leaned a little closer to him, catching his scent. He smelled yummy. I stepped back.

“You lack trust,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

“I’ve got to go.”

“How about later?”

“Why?”

“You seem like a complicated woman,” he said. “Moth to the flame.”

“I am so going to cure you of that,” I said, laughing.

“Good.” Dexter took a few seconds to look me over. “I take even the slightest scolding as encouragement. So when will you be free? Nine?”

“Make it ten o’clock. I’ll meet you somewhere. I’ll have Wesley drop me off.”

“Where?”

“How about Fabiolus on Melrose?” I suggested a charming little Italian place in an odd part of Hollywood, right behind Paramount Studios. It seemed to fit us, as we had already set a precedent of eating off the beaten path.

“I’ll be there.” He walked me over to Wesley’s car. “So it’s a date, then.” As he bent down to open the door, his lips almost brushed against my hair.

“Fine.” I sat. “Wesley, this is Dexter Wyatt. Dex, Wes.”

“Hi there,” Wes said amiably.

“Good to meet you. And, Madeline, I’ll see you later.” Dexter Wyatt shut the car door, hopped into his own vehicle, and drove smoothly off, heading south. Wes pulled out of the driveway and turned north.

As we glided up the street, he cast a look over at me. “So I leave you for three minutes and you pick up a guy?”

“That was Zenya’s brother, the guy I told you about. He was returning my bag.”

“And what does he do?” Wes asked.

“I don’t think he does much. Trust funds, I assume.”

“Oh ho.”

On our rounds, we dropped by the police station, where I left the copies of Grasso’s paperwork for Detective Baronowski. He wasn’t in. Next, I asked Wes to drive me downtown, where we scouted around the quiet Sunday streets looking for my loan officer. He wasn’t in front of the building near Flower, but about two blocks over I spotted his dog. When I approached the dog, sitting alone on the sidewalk in front of a closed office tower, the owner came out from the shadow.

“I borrowed some money from your dog last night,” I told the man, trying to remember if he was the same guy. It was the same dog, all right. His tail beat the sidewalk in happy recognition.

“Big Nick shouldn’t be giving nobody no money,” the man muttered, eyeing me. “What you want?”

“I owe Big Nick a dollar thirty-five, plus a bonus of ten dollars.” I had the money in my hand and held it out.

“So give it to ‘im,” the man said, watching me like I must be a cop and he wasn’t about to get pinched.

I could see no sign of the man’s collection jar, so I just bent down and put a ten and a one and a quarter and a dime on the pavement.

Big Nick stood up and sniffed the money then sat back down, tail thumping.

“Big Nick don’t like most people. So if he bite you, don’t be blaming me. Big Nick is a mean mother.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Big Nick looked at me with love in his eyes.

“Don’t I get nothing?” the man asked.

“Sure. Sorry. You have a jar?”

He kept staring at me.

So I opened my bag and took out another ten-dollar bill. I handed it to the man and he snatched it before I let go, almost ripping it.

There was no thank you involved, but I didn’t mind. I had repaid a debt and gotten to see Big Nick again. Sometimes, low expectations help in life.

Wes had pulled his white S-Type into a no-parking zone on Seventh, just around the corner. When I got back, he was smiling.

“You always amaze me, Mad. The people you know, the friends you meet.”

“I own this town,” I said, and then asked nicely to be driven over to Iris Circle. As it turned out, no one was home at Albert Grasso’s house. I decided to leave the cardboard carton of papers at the front door, and then I second-guessed that decision. After all the commotion, I hated to leave the stuff there unattended. But I hated even worse the idea I would still be stuck with them. I tucked the box behind a shrub to one side of the door and hopped back into Wesley’s Jaguar. I must say I could get used to such service.

After that, I felt a lot better. I needed to pick up some vitamins and Wes was uncomplaining as we ran a few other errands. Even though he was a dear, I longed for my own wheels. I needed some independence to get back to normal.

We stopped back at my house on Whitley to pick up a few items I’d forgotten to pack. I was pleased to see the crimescene tape had been removed. Wes and I discussed what to do about the house and where I should stay. We agreed that it was best for me to hang at his place for a while. We’d open the office tomorrow, as usual, and work out of the downstairs rooms. Wesley had already called a cleaning service, which would arrive in the morning, and he insisted he’d deal with the upstairs rooms. He suggested we take this opportunity to remodel a bit, maybe push out a wall and expand the bedrooms.
I was unfocused, unwilling to think about my bedroom the last time I stood in it. Unable to avoid it. And the awful memory of Sara Jackson.

Before we left the neighborhood, I asked Wes to swing around to Iris Circle again. I hoped the cardboard carton I had left by the door earlier had been taken in. But when we drove up to Albert Grasso’s house, I could plainly see the box sitting half hidden by the shrub where I had left it.

“Wes, hang on half a second while I go up and ring the doorbell again. Maybe Grasso was doing laundry or giving a late singing lesson when we stopped by before. Maybe he didn’t hear me knock. I’d feel better if I didn’t have to worry about that box all night.”

“Sure.”

But again, no one answered.

“Enough. Let’s get out of here,” I suggested when I was back in the Jag. “I have a date for dinner.”

Fifteen minutes later, Wes dropped me off at the Fabiolus Café. Dexter Wyatt was already seated at a table and I joined him.

“Am I late?” I asked.

“I was early,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind, but I already ordered for us.”

That caught my attention.

I should explain. In most of my recent relationships, I’d had the upper hand in the foodie arts. It isn’t surprising. I am, after all, a graduate of the Culinary Institute. A professional. I’d worked as a chef in Northern California and down in L.A. before Wes and I started our catering/event-planning firm. I love exotic cuisines and complex, demanding recipes.

The men I had dated tended to be less food involved. In fact, my longest-lasting boyfriend of record, Arlo Zar, was a certified food wimp. He was a Big Mac kind of guy. Among other oddities, Arlo eschewed vegetables outright. He refused
to eat anything green, on principle, except for iceberg lettuce. And only iceberg when it was cut into a wedge and served with Thousand Island. Arlo was a comedy writer and sitcom producer and considered his food quirks charming. I had been amused, as I always was, by Arlo and his ways. At least, for the first couple of years.

Honnett and I only lasted a few months, and even then our romance had been on the erratic side. After Arlo, Honnett was amazingly open to trying new foods. But he was at heart a steak-and-potatoes kind of guy. I can always tell what people like to eat best, what flavors comfort them most. Holly says I have EFP—Extra-Foodery Perception. I claim no alien gifts, but I will admit this sensitivity to others’ tastes and desires has served me well in my business, planning menus for so many clients. And I have relied on it, knowing I have an edge in evaluating new people.

I looked across the linen-draped table at Dex and smiled. What a guy ordered from a menu was a most revealing right of passage in a new relationship. I prolonged the delicious suspense a moment longer as I sipped my glass of cool white wine. The bottle of Valpolicella Classico Superiore “Villa Novare” 1997 sat on the table. Dex had good taste in wine. Very good taste. Extra points.

“Great wine.” I looked up at him and found everything I saw appealing. This was dangerous. “What did you order?”

“For you,” he said, “the goat-cheese-and-blackened-chicken salad to start. Balsamic dressing on the side.”

I smiled.

“Okay so far? Followed by penne ai calamari—penne pasta made with sautéed calamari and a fresh sauce of cherry tomatoes, garlic, basil, and white wine.”

“And for you?”

“I’m having polenta e poccio—cornmeal and prosciutto
covered with a Gorgonzola sauce, and also the lonza di maiale al provolone e asparagi, which is the—”

“Pork loin in white wine and asparagus sauce,” I interrupted, “covered with provolone cheese and served with sautéed spinach.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And I figured we could share if you found anything more appealing on my plate.”

I eyed the menu quickly and discovered I couldn’t have ordered any better myself. What a pleasure.

Another memory surfaced. Xavier Jones had been a true culinary genius. He was a boy I met in culinary school, the top of our class. He and I planned to open our own auberge in the wine country of Northern California together someday. That was all just a dream, of course. We never did anything like that. We didn’t even get married. But it had only been with Xavier and, later, with my friend Wesley that I had found such extreme-sport cuisine compatibility.

“You judging me?” Dex asked, amused.

“A-plus. But don’t let it go to your head.”

“So,” Dex asked me, refilling my wineglass, “how come you don’t look tired? I look like shit and you look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” I remembered flirting. I liked flirting. I tried to remember how. “I can go without sleep. One of my few true talents.”

“Too modest,” he said. “If we’re going to be friends, and I insist we are going to be, then you have to tell me the three best things about yourself. No, five.”

“Oh, come on! I am much too demure. Too shy. Too—”

“Full of it. Come on. You must. And I’ll tell you the five best things about me. You go first.”

Our first course was delivered, which gave me a moment to think. It’s not that I’m really demure and shy. It’s just that I don’t think about myself very often. I realized, too, that not
many men had seemed all that interested in my view of myself. Which was interesting, really.

“You’ve had enough wine and you’ve missed enough sleep, so be totally frank,” Dex said, looking at me over his wineglass.

“I’m a pretty good speller.”

Dexter laughed loudly. A deep, handsome, masculine laugh. “More personal stuff, Madeline, or I’ll have to raise your number to ten.”

“No, no! Okay…I’m honest. Not everyone agrees that’s a good trait, however. But I am really truthful. And I’m curious about everything, so I read a lot and tend to ask a lot of questions.”

“Again, all your good traits seem to have two edges.”

“Ain’t that the truth? Let me think. How many is that?”

“You have given me two—you’re honest and curious. I’m throwing out the good-spelling confession.”

“Okay, but you must count how good I am without much sleep. I have great energy. That’s three. And I’m a great cook. I love to cook,” I added. “And I like sex.”

Well, there. That got Dexter’s attention. I couldn’t believe I said it, but it was true.