She could see the same old fire in his eyes. It was one of die qualities that had first drawn her to him. When Nathan got excited about a subject, he became totally absorbed and was capable of learning at a furious rate.

  “That was a long time before Mom started her culinary academy, but her TV show was really catching on. The idea that her oldest son wanted to study cooking in Paris must have appealed to her. She offered to pay to send me to the Cordon Bleu. After I graduated, I worked in France for a while, then in Italy for almost ten years. In ‘86 I returned to the U.S. and worked at a bunch of exclusive country clubs and resorts.”

  “Like where?”

  “Well, die Trump Taj Mahal Casino Resort in Atlantic City for one. We might do as many as twenty thousand meals a day. The last place I worked was a cattlemen’s club in Houston. I was hired to be the garde-manger. One day I filled a ten-foot-long ice corral with twelve thousand shrimp and totally blew out my sciatic nerve. I was in bed for a month.”

  Sophie winced.

  “Cooking is hard physical work. When I was young, I loved it. Loved the chaos. Saut6 was the biggest challenge. It’s where the action is. Fire this! Fire that! I could be jiggling eight or ten pans all at once, flames leaping, making things happen. I loved the hot seat in any kitchen. I met some pretty incredible people, too. I’ve worked for chefs that I knew were completely mad, but behind the line, they were geniuses. One guy, I never knew if he was laughing or screaming. It didn’t matter. He was brilliant. The pace in a kitchen is fierce — everything’s in motion. I guess I must love that kind of intensity. I couldn’t imagine anything more creative, more sensual than working with food. I mean, when you cook, it’s like making love. You’re using your eyes, your mouth, your ears, every sense you have. And if you’re really good, you’re cooking with your soul, too. I couldn’t get enough of it.” He leaned back in his seat and took another sip of coffee. “But by the early Nineties, I was getting tired. Too many nights I’d end up in a bathtub with a woman I barely knew and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, just trying to survive the day. I’d been cooking professionally for fifteen years by then. Mom had started her school many years before. My brother had graduated from the Culinary Institute of America and was pretty much running the academy.”

  “Your brother, Paul?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  She laughed. “All I remember is him looking like Ted Nugent and jumping out at me when I went over to your house.”

  “He still looks like Nugent, but he had to cut his hair to get into the institute, and now it’s all falling out.”

  “Is he married?” she asked, her spoon midway to her mouth.

  “No, he’s too busy being Mr. Big Shot Administrator. He eats, sleeps, and breathes that cooking school.” He shook his head. “I suppose Emily’s the only one with a remotely normal life. She’s got twin boys and a lawyer husband. My mother’s already grooming the grandkids to take over the reins of her culinary empire. She cooks with them every Sunday — well, every Sunday she’s in town.”

  “Your mom’s really done well for herself. She’s a huge name in the culinary world. Right up there with Julia Child and James Beard.”

  “Yeah, she’s made history all right. And she’s made money hand over fist with her books and TV shows. It really is an empire now. Six years ago, when I decided I was sick of beating myself up, she asked me to oversee a new project. She and Paul wanted to open a series of restaurants all over the country and use them as training grounds for young chefs coming out of the B.CA.”

  Sophie shot him a questioning look.

  “Buckridge Culinary Academy. Sorry, I’m used to our shorthand. Anyway, I’m no dummy. I jumped at the chance. Since I came on board, we’ve opened nine of the finest restaurants in the United States. As director of operations, it’s my job to oversee them. We offer our top graduates a chance for some on-the-job training at a good salary, including benefits. Best of all, I’m not killing myself any longer and the pay is ten times better.” Taking a sip of coffee, he added, “That’s my life story in a nutshell. It’s your turn.”

  Since he’d done most of the talking, she’d nearly finished her jambalaya. Tapping a napkin to her lips, she said, “I don’t know where to start.”

  “I’ll interview you. Do you have any kids?”

  “One son.”

  “The preacher man’s the father?”

  She nodded. “His name is Rudy and he just graduated from the U of M with a degree in theatre arts.”

  “He wants to be an actor?”

  “He has a lot of interests. Right now he’s in Italy traveling with his partner, John.”

  Nathan looked confused. “Business partner?”

  “His lover. Rudy’s gay. Before they left, he and John had a commitment ceremony. We had the reception here at the hotel.”

  “Gay,” repeated Nathan, giving her a hard look. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I was surprised, I suppose, but I’ve got no problem with it. It’s been a very hard road for Rudy, though. His father is still a minister and thinks Rudy is committing a terrible sin.”

  “Lucky for your son he’s got one parent with sense. I look forward to meeting him someday soon. You know, Sophie, you always were a liberal at heart. That’s why I could never understand how you could get involved with such a narrow-minded, conservative, even reactionary religion. How you escaped that group with your old self intact is beyond me.” He reached for her hand. “I’m just glad you did.”

  Feeling more uncomfortable with each passing second, Sophie blurted out, “I married for a second time about seven years ago. His name is Bram. I know you’ll like him. Everyone does.”

  Nathan sat up a bit straighter, withdrawing his hand. “You’re … married?”

  “I should have said something right away, but —”

  “I didn’t realize,” he said, looking stricken. “God, you must think I’m some sort of sleazy creep to go on like this about our past.”

  “No, of course I don’t.”

  He pushed his sandwich even farther away, then raked a hand through his hair. “I feel so stupid.” He thought for a moment, then looked up at her defiantly. “Hell, no, I don’t. I wouldn’t take one word back. I’m just sorry … well, I mean, I’m happy that you’re happily married. You are happy, aren’t you?”

  “Very.”

  “Umm.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Damn,” he said, shooting her an amused smile. “I’m glad but I’m not glad. I mean, here I find you again after all these years, discover you’ve rejected the theological crap that kept us apart — something I thought would never happen — and you’re still unavailable. It’s a lot to assimilate, Soph. You’re going to have to give me some time.”

  Which reminded her of one of her questions. “How long are you going to be in town?”

  “That kind of depends.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s getting late. I’ve got to get to my mother’s book signing. You wouldn’t want to tag along, would you? I know she’d be happy to see you again. So would Paul and Emily.”

  “Your brother and sister are here, too?”

  “The whole clan. Even my uncle Arthur. Wolves travel in packs, remember?” This time his smile was less convincing.

  She made a quick decision. Bram would probably be out with his buddies for another couple of hours. She’d already made a commitment to cover the event for the paper. It just made sense for her to go with Nathan. “I’d love to,” she said, smiling broadly.

  “Great.” He took out his wallet.

  She quickly laid her hand over his. “The meal’s on me. Put your money away.”

  He grinned. “Just like old times, huh? We could always eat here for free.” He turned his hand over and held hers for a moment. “God, I wish the rest of the world would just go away and leave us alone for a day, a month, the rest of our lives.”

  She gazed at him sadly. “Not possible.”

  “No, I guess not. But at least I’ve got you for the afternoon. That’s a start.”

  It wasn’t exactly the sentiment she wanted to hear, but she allowed him to hold her hand as she eased out of her chair. It felt so strange to be near him again, walking out the door with his hand pressed to her back. At the same time, she noticed a lightness inside her body she hadn’t felt in years.

  6

  Bram returned from his golf game a little before two. After checking Sophie’s office to see if she was around and finding it empty, he decided to take Ethel, their much-adored mutt, for a short walk down by the river.

  Ethel’s transition from living in a house in south Minneapolis to becoming a hotel dog had been rocky. Bram and Sophie had tried hard to ease her into her new digs, but Ethel was an old girl, set in her ways, and not terribly interested in new people, new surroundings, or even new tennis balls. The fact was, Ethel had never been a ball of fire. She walked slowly, ate slowly, slept soundly, and dragged through every day in third gear. She’d spent most of the winter moping around the apartment on the sixteenth floor, primarily because it didn’t have an attached porch where she could sit and watch the garbage trucks lumber down the alley. Elevators were a brief curiosity, but she lost interest in diem after a couple of weeks.

  Down by the Mississippi, Ethel had rediscovered bug watching, a favorite activity now denied her because she had no patio to guard. Activity wasn’t usually a word Bram associated with Ethel. Bug watching was about as athletic as she ever got. Knowing they had to do something to get her out of her funk, Sophie had finally come up with a plan.

  One afternoon she went over to Manderbach’s department store and bought a large, overstuffed pillow. That night she placed it next to their bed and encouraged Ethel to sleep on it. Ethel loved anything soft, so it wasn’t a tough sell. She snoozed on top of it for several weeks before Sophie finally moved it to the hotel lobby. When Ethel saw the pillow in its new location, she immediately dragged her old bones over to it and slumped down. If she could have jumped for joy, she would have. Instead, she just morosely raised her eyes. Both Bram and Sophie recognized it as a good sign.

  Now she reclined in comfort for most of the day, glowering at the guests. They might not be as entertaining as bugs or garbage trucks, but hotel dogs had to make certain sacrifices. The bellmen took her out regularly for her daily ablutions, while the rest of the staff fawned over her with comments like “The poor thing. She needs some cheering up.” They all thought she was such a pathetic little pooch. Ethel was good at pathetic — she’d been working the image for years.

  “Well, old girl,” said Bram, giving her leash a gentle tug, “I think we better head back to the hotel. Your pillow’s probably getting cold. And I’ve got some research I need to do for one of next week’s shows.”

  Ethel smacked her jaws a couple of times, then looked up, giving him her most pitiful stare.

  Back at the hotel, Bram stood for a few moments at the reception desk, checking the day’s mail. It was mostly bills, with one postcard from Rudy and John “somewhere in the Black Forest.” Bram had grown close to Rudy and John during the past winter. They’d made a number of plans to get together for dinner, movies, theatre, and musical events, only to have Sophie back out at the last minute because of some crisis at the hotel. That left the three of them to trudge along without her. Eventually, they all became so annoyed with her continual excuses that they started referring to themselves as “the Stood-Up Club” — Rudy’s term. Bram laughed at it now, wondering when Sophie would return from her meeting at the paper.

  As he was about to lead Ethel back to her throne, she dropped like a ten-pound sack of potatoes on top of his loafers. He looked (town at her, amazed at her lethargy. She couldn’t even sit down and wait like a normal dog; she had to fall over. “Come on, old girl. You have to get your afternoon nap, especially if you’re planning to have your usual rock ‘n’ roll evening lying on your pillow under the dining room table.” He slipped the mail into the pocket of his jacket, then glanced up, surprised to find Sophie leaving through the front entrance. She was with a man Bram had never seen before. From their laughter and the intimate way the man maneuvered her through the doors, Bram wondered who he was. He would have shouted for Sophie to stop but didn’t want to make a scene. The guy was probably just some bozo she’d met on the elevator. Nothing to get excited about. But where was she going?

  Dragging Ethel over to the concierge desk, where Hildegard O’Malley was seated, he asked if Sophie had left him a message.

  “None that I know of,” she replied in her schoolmarmish, rounded tones.

  He thanked her and was about to walk away when he heard a voice behind him say, “Does that belong to you?”

  Bram turned to find the woman he’d met in the bar last night peering curiously at Ethel. She was dressed in gray slacks and a gray silk blouse. Both items of clothing accentuated her slim figure. Bram eyed her briefly, noticing she looked like a million bucks.

  “Lela, hi. I didn’t see you there.”

  “I was just using the hotel fax.” She glanced down at die puddle of black fur covering his shoes.

  “This is … ah, Ethel.” He wiggled one of his feet, trying to get her to stand. “Ethel, say hi to Lela Dexter.”

  Ethel opened one eye.

  “Actually, that was a rather warm hello for her.”

  “Is she yours?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “But that’s the dog that sits on that blue pillow between the club chairs in the lobby. I was told she belonged to the owners of the hotel.”

  “She does.”

  “ You own this place?”

  “Well, technically, my wife owns it. But it’s a community-property state.” He gave her a mischievous grin.

  “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Baldric.”

  “All good ones, I hope.”

  Placing a hand on her hip, she glanced up at the clock over the reception desk. “Do you have any plans for the afternoon?”

  You had to give it to this woman. She wasn’t shy, and that made Bram all the more intrigued. “That depends on what you’ve got in mind.”

  “A visit to Kitchen Central. It’s somewhere in St. Paul. The streets in this town are a maze of confusion even to my New York sensibilities. There’s a book signing I’d like to attend. I thought it might be nice to have some company. If you like, we could have coffee afterward. My treat.”

  It sounded much more fun than reading through a stack of boring newspaper clippings in an empty apartment. He could always do the preliminary research for next week’s radio interviews later. “Sure. Why not? I’ll even drive.”

  “I guess I picked the right escort.”

  “I guess you did.” He grinned.

  Half an hour later they entered the Har Mar Mall. Since Sophie had dragged Bram to this particular shop more than once during the past few years, he knew right where to find it. A good two hundred yards away from Kitchen Central’s entrance, they could see a line forming.

  “Who’s the celebrity du jour?” he asked, observing several people carrying the same book.

  “Constance Buckridge.”

  “Oh, sure. I watch her TV show every now and then. I think she’s originally from Minnesota. Lives somewhere out east now.”

  Lela picked up the pace. “She’s also staying at your hotel.”

  It was news to him. “Do you know her?”

  “Not well. We met once, socially.”

  “But you’re a fan of her show?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Come on.” She pushed through the crowd at the front of the store and made her way slowly to the back, where a table had been set up with stacks of books, a water pitcher, and a glass.

  Everybody knew what Constance Buckridge looked like, so Bram spotted her with no trouble. She was in her early sixties, attractive in a Kim Novak sort of way. She favored neutral tones, creams and tans, colors that highlighted her still flawless skin and dyed-blond hair. She usually wore her hair in a bun or twist — Bram wasn’t sure of the word — and today was no exception. He’d never noticed it on TV, but in person she had an infectious energy that radiated throughout the room. He’d heard that she was well liked in the cooking world.

  Scanning the crowd to see if he recognized anyone else, he was surprised to find the same man he’d seen leaving the Maxfield earlier with Sophie. “Who is that guy?” he asked Lela, pointing him out.

  She turned to look. “That’s Constance Buckridge’s oldest son, Nathan. The New York gossip mills consider him a real catch, sort of a creative hunk with a huge bankroll. He’s divorced. Never remarried. And that man over there” — she nodded to the opposite side of the room — “the shorter, balding one wearing die chef’s uniform? He’s standing behind his mother. Sort of clean-cut and preppie, wire-rimmed glasses. He’s Paul Buckridge, Constance’s younger son. He’s talking to two women. The one with the long hair is his sister, Emily. The other one — the woman Paul has his arm around — I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”

  But Bram had. It was Sophie.

  “They sure seem glad to see her,” said Lela, looking puzzled. “Especially Nathan. He’s hardly taken his eyes off her. Maybe she’s his new squeeze.”

  “No, she’s not,” said Bram.

  Lela stopped and looked up at him. “You sound pretty sure of that.”

  “I am.”

  “And that would be because …”

  “She’s my wife.”

  She glanced back at Sophie. “I see.”

  “I don’t,” muttered Bram, though he planned to find out.

  Cocking her head, Lela added, “But she’s so short And you’re so tall.”

  “Works for me.”

  Moving behind die table, Constance called out “May I have everyone’s attention for a few seconds?” She waited until all the talking died down. “I want to thank everyone at Kitchen Central, especially Jean Lundstrom, for inviting me here this afternoon. I intend to sign books until my hand falls off, but before I begin, I want to introduce you to some special people who’ve accompanied me here today. First my two handsome sons, Chef Nathan Buckridge…” She held out her right hand to him.