Joan Kilby - Party of Three

If there was any justice in the universe the look Ally threw her sister would have been fatal. For years she’d been collecting furniture and artwork for the time when she had a place of her own to decorate. Since she’d moved into her house she’d worked her way through each room, painting walls, polishing floorboards, sewing drapes and cushions. She’d scrimped and saved so she could have the kitchen and the bathroom renovated. Now her mother was proposing moving in and changing everything. Over Ally’s dead body!

“There’s just one problem. I, uh…” She racked her brains for inspiration. “I have a roommate already.”

“Oh.” Cheryl looked disappointed. “Who?”

Ally crossed her fingers in her lap. “Ben Gillard, the new chef at Mangos.”

“Wow,” Melissa said. “Fast work. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, well.” Ally tried to look modest.

Now all she had to do was convince Ben to move in with her. It shouldn’t be too hard; her house easily fulfilled his requirements. Plus, she had something he didn’t even realize he needed—a barometer.

“TIPPERARY SPRINGS Restaurant thinks it’s the only fine dining establishment in town. We’ll show them.” Steve stroked his trim silver goatee and paced the kitchen floor in front of the serving window. He wore a navy cashmere jacket and designer blue jeans pressed with a knife-edge crease. Upper crust effing nerd, Gord called him. “I must have that chef’s hat,” Steve went on. “Ben, you will create a new dish using…scallops.” He stroked his goatee some more. “Yes, scallops are good. I like scallops.”

Ben just nodded and took out his frustrations on a batch of sourdough, pummeling it beneath the heel of his hand. There was no more demanding employer than a frustrated amateur cook. “Scallops it is.”

Over by the sink, Baz was hulling strawberries destined to be made into a coulis for Beth’s panna cotta dessert special. Gord was throwing roasted chicken bones and roughly chopped vegetables into the enormous stockpot simmering on the stove. The yeasty scent of the sourdough, the chicken stock, the aniseed aroma of tarragon clinging to the cutting board, created a pleasing melange of smells. The radio was tuned to popular music, loud enough for everyone to hear over the clang of pots and slam of oven doors.

Out in the restaurant, the phone rang. Steve roused himself from his reverie about scallops and went to answer it.

What had happened to Ally? After breakfast, Ben had wandered past the Cottage Rentals and poked his head through the glass door, but she hadn’t been at her desk. Instead, an evil-looking crow of a woman had glared at him over the top of narrow glasses. He was pretty sure he’d interrupted her in the middle of putting a hex on the other girl, the stocky blond one. By now, she’d probably been turned into a toad.

“We have a problem, gentlemen,” Steve announced on his return to the kitchen, adding belatedly, “er, and Beth.”

“What is it?” Ben rubbed at his nose with the back of a floury hand.

“Cassie,” Steve said. “I did her a favor hiring her and already she’s quit.”

Gord threw double handfuls of fresh thyme, parsley and rosemary into the stockpot. “Good riddance. Did she give a reason?”

Steve turned to the sous chef. “As a matter of fact, she did. She didn’t like your attitude, Gord.”

“What the hell does she mean my attitude?” Gord growled.

“Maybe she means you telling her to get her fat arse out of the kitchen and to the front of the house where she belonged.” Baz’s fingertips were red and a telltale dribble of crimson juice stained his chin.

Gord turned on him. “You keep your effing mouth shut. And stop eating them berries or they’ll come out of your effing pay.”

“Stow it, you two,” Ben said. “Steve, can you hire someone else in time for tonight?”

“Julie will have to cover for her,” Steve replied. “I’ve given Cassie until the end of the week to change her mind, otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it from my wife.” He sighed. “If anyone needs me I’ll be in my office nursing a migraine.”

A busy waitress doubling as maître d’. Ben shook his head and folded over the wad of dough, slamming the heel of his hand into the yielding softness till the compressed gas bubbles squeaked. This was a surefire recipe for disaster.

ALLY PUSHED THROUGH the front door of Mangos into the dining room. The twelve-foot ceiling and padded high-backed wooden bench that ran along two walls gave the bistro a European flavor, while the marble fireplace, crisp white linen and mismatched wooden chairs lent the room a funky elegance. A huge vase of fresh flowers sat at one end of the polished mahogany bar. The only jarring note was the expanse of bare gray walls devoid of decoration.

A woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and a lean swarthy man with a shaved head were setting the tables with cloth napkins, cutlery and wineglasses. They must be the waitstaff. Ally recognized the woman as Julie Marsden, a school friend of Melissa’s. “Hi, Julie,” she called out. “Is Ben here?”

“Hi, Ally. He’s in the kitchen.” Julie gestured to a short hallway to the left and behind the bar. “Go through.”

“Thanks.” Ally went in the direction Julie had indicated and found herself in the serving area of the kitchen. Heat radiated from the bank of ovens in the center of the room. A short man with wiry red hair was cursing at a spotty-faced youth, and a young woman with wispy blond hair was mixing what looked like cake batter in an enormous stainless steel bowl.

Ben was shaping dough into mini cob loaves, cutting off even-sized lumps with a pastry knife and rolling them into smooth balls between his palms. Ally found herself mesmerized by the sensual movements of his scarred hands. Her gaze followed his fingers up forearms taut with muscle and sinew to broad shoulders, to his full mouth, strong nose and forehead frowning in concentration.

No one had heard her come in over the sound of the music. She cleared her throat. “Ahem.”

Ben glanced up and his expression lightened. “I was just thinking about you.”

Ally looked at the mound of creamy dough in his hand and couldn’t help but blush. “Can we talk?”

“Sure. Just give me a minute to finish this.” With speed and dexterity he shaped the remaining loaves and placed them on flat pans to proof. Moving to the sink, Ben washed his hands with soap and hot water and dried them on the towel tucked into the waistband of his apron. “Let’s go into the dining room.”

Ally followed him out to the bar and hoisted herself onto a stool.

“Brandy?” Ben asked innocently.

Ally shuddered. “No, thanks—” she began, then noticed his grin. Her lips tightened in disapproval and she drew herself upright. “I have a place for you and Danny to live. It’s a house, not a cottage, but there’s no fixed-term lease.”

“When can we move in?” Ben picked up a swizzle stick from a glass container and twirled it between his fingers.

“Right away, but there’s a catch,” she added. “You’d have to share. You see, it’s my house. I live there, too.”

“I don’t know…”

“There are three bedrooms,” she added hurriedly. “We don’t have to share in that sense.”

The swizzle stick snapped between his fingers.

Shut up, Ally. Shutupshutupshutup—

“This is the first time Danny’s lived with me since my divorce five years ago,” Ben explained. “I was planning on it being just me and him.”

“I understand.” She’d scared him off with her crazy talk about sharing. Gathering up her purse she prepared to leave. “I’ll see what else I can find for you.”