Patricia Kay - Secrets of a Small Town

Gregg wondered if he should call Glynnis next and see if she had any clue as to who this woman could be, but for some reason, he hesitated to do so. For one thing, his sister was a worrier. For another, his niece was suffering with an ear infection and Glynnis hadn’t been getting a whole lot of sleep the past few days. For all he knew, she was napping along with the kids.

It was always tough on her when Ben was traveling, which was most of the time. Gregg’s frown deepened. He had not been happy when Glynnis married Ben. Even if the man hadn’t been nearly twenty years older than his sister, his frequent absences and his tendency to want to keep Glynnis to himself would have been enough to turn Gregg off. He’d always believed his sister could have done much better, but ever since she’d married Ben she’d seemed happy, so Gregg had kept his opinions to himself. He remembered only too well what had happened the last time he’d meddled in her love life.

Throughout the day, Gregg found himself thinking of the upcoming meeting whenever there was any kind of break in the action. Not that there were many. Antonelli’s had always been popular with the lunch crowd, but for the past year—ever since a big computer software company had relocated its offices in the office complex a half mile down the road—they’d had a packed house every weekday.

When it finally slowed around two in the afternoon, the kitchen staff had all they could do to prepare for the evening meal, which started as early as five. In the afternoons, Gregg usually helped out in the kitchen because it wasn’t only good chefs that were hard to come by. It was hard to find good help, period.

Today he worked on the salad line, cutting carrots and onions, which Maggie, the sous-chef, added to the torn pieces of romaine lettuce she’d arranged on the salad plates. They usually tried to plate at least fifty salads for the evening. Anything left over could be used at lunch the next day. A couple of sliced tomatoes would be added to the salads just before serving, because they did best if they weren’t cut beforehand. There was nothing Gregg hated more than cold, mushy tomatoes on a salad.

In fact, he wouldn’t tolerate that kind of sloppiness in his restaurant. He took pride in the fact that at Antonelli’s they used the best and freshest possible ingredients available and that their salads had been given a high rating from the food editor of the local newspaper.

People who knew nothing about the restaurant business thought it was glamorous. Gregg himself had thought the same thing before he’d actually worked in one. There was nothing glamorous about it at all. It was extremely hard work, and half the startups didn’t survive. Antonelli’s had had a couple of rough years—years in which Gregg wasn’t sure he’d make it, either—but a combination of hard work, informed planning, consistently good food, and luck had pulled him through.

Now Antonelli’s was thriving.

But its success had come at a personal cost to Gregg. As always, when his thoughts turned to Lynn, his former fiancée, he felt a twinge of regret. They’d dated a couple of years and had been engaged another eighteen months before she’d called it quits a year ago. She’d said she could deal with a rival if the rival was female, but there was no way she was going to spend the rest of her life competing with a restaurant for his time and attention.

Gregg hadn’t tried to change her mind. He’d loved Lynn, yes, but not enough to give up the business he’d worked so hard to build.

Not enough. Those were the key words, he guessed. At least that’s what Glynnis had said.

“Hey, boss, you gonna work or you gonna daydream?” Maggie said, poking him.

Gregg blinked, then grinned. “Sorry.” He began to stack the salads on racks that would slide into one of the big refrigerators.

After that, the day passed quickly. So quickly that before Gregg knew it, it was eight o’clock. He alerted Janine, their evening hostess, that he was expecting a guest and asked her to buzz him in his office when the March woman arrived.

On the dot of eight-thirty, Janine said his visitor was there.

Too curious to wait, Gregg abandoned the supply order he’d been working on and walked out front. He saw the woman immediately. Janine had seated her in one of the alcoves, as Gregg had requested. The woman hadn’t seen him yet; she was looking out the window, so he had a chance to study her for a few moments.

She was pretty and younger than she’d sounded on the phone—probably in her middle twenties. She wore her dark, chin-length hair swept back from her face and caught up in the back with some kind of silver clip. She was dressed simply, in black slacks and a wine-colored sweater. A black leather jacket was draped across the back of her chair.

As he got closer, she turned, and their eyes met. Hers were large and gray—beautiful eyes, he thought—and filled with an emotion he couldn’t identify. He frowned. What was it? Concern? Uncertainty? Fear? Whatever it was, it only reinforced his own uneasiness over the reason for her appearance in Ivy.

“Miss March? I’m Gregg Antonelli.” He held out his hand, and she took it. Her hand felt cool, and her handshake was firm.

“Hi. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

He liked her voice. It was much softer than it had seemed on the phone. Gregg sat down across from her and beckoned to Chris, who waited on this section. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“I don’t think so, thank you.”

“What about dinner? You were still planning to eat with me?”

“Yes, I’d love to.” She looked around. “This is a very nice restaurant.”

“Thanks. We’ve done well.”

Picking up the menu, she studied it for a moment, then said, “What do you recommend?”

“Depends what you like. Pasta? Chicken? Veal?”

She put the menu down and for the first time, she smiled. “I’m a pasta person.”

“Then I recommend the combination ravioli and tortellini. That’s our specialty. My personal preference is the marinara sauce, but we do offer it with a cheese sauce, if you’d prefer that.”

“That sounds good. With the marinara sauce.”

Gregg turned to Chris. “We’ll both have the ravioli and tortellini, and I’ll have a glass of the house Chianti. And the lady will have…?”

“Iced tea, please.”

Within moments Chris had brought them a basket of warm focaccia bread and a plate of seasoned olive oil for dipping, followed by their drinks. All the while he was serving them, Gregg studied Sabrina March. She was a small woman, with narrow wrists and slender arms. He’d bet, standing, she wouldn’t reach five feet four inches. She had a small, heart-shaped face which, along with those expressive gray eyes, made her seem vulnerable, yet her voice and mannerisms and the way she met his gaze squarely suggested self-confidence. It was an intriguing mix that he found especially attractive.

When Chris left them to get their salads, Gregg said, “Tell me, Miss March, just how are you related to Ben?”

She reached for a piece of bread, hesitated, then said, “I’d rather explain why I’m here first.”

Gregg tensed at the evasive answer, certain now that he wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

“First of all, please call me Sabrina.”

“All right, if you’ll call me Gregg.”

She put down her piece of bread. Leaning forward, she fixed those big eyes on him. “I just want you to know that I hate having to bring you this kind of news.”

“What news?”

She spoke slowly. “The man you know as Ben Arthur is dead. He died last Thursday.”

“What?” Gregg stared at her. “That can’t be true.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid it is true.”