The keep, p.9
The Keep, page 9
Peter took a cocktail napkin from one of the guests and began brushing salsa from Marco's shirt. "Now, why would she do that?"
Marco opened his mouth to speak but closed it again with a clack of teeth. He must have had a sudden insight. There was no way to explain why Angela would pour salsa on him without incriminating himself. What could he say? I was aiming for her back, but I guess I grabbed her butt by mistake. It was best to shut up.
Angela returned with a rag and a tray of champagne. The champagne was a good touch. Honey took the rag, and voices resumed as flutes were handed around. Marco disappeared into the men's room while Peter and Honey mopped up the dribbles of salsa he left in his wake.
They returned to the small kitchen at the back of the gallery together. As they washed their hands, Peter said, "I told you she could take care of herself."
"I'm sorry about that. I wish she'd have—"
Peter interrupted her apology with a wave. "She did exactly the right thing. Marco shouldn't be allowed to get away with bad behavior."
"I know, but if she'd come to us, we could have handled it."
"My guess is she's used to managing her own problems."
"So you said, and I wish you'd explain. If you don't know Angela, how do you know that?"
He reached for a dishtowel, dried his hands, then handed it to her. "I've spent time with people from disadvantaged circumstances. They have a wariness the rest of us don't. Angela has that wariness."
Honey hung the towel on the oven door. "When were you around disadvantaged people?"
He answered her question with a question again. "Your childhood wasn't a bed of roses either, was it?" Honey blinked. He continued. "Now our mutual friend Rosie is a hothouse flower. You can tell within minutes of meeting her she's never gone a day without a meal or a night without a safe place to sleep."
Strange, she'd had the exact same thought about Rosie the other day, which made her feel guilty now. "Rosie is no wimp." Honey defended her.
"I didn't say that." Peter looked affronted. "She's one of the toughest women I know, but that is a recent development."
Honey agreed with him but was saved from having to admit it by Angela's entrance. "Do we have more dessert tamales?" she asked.
"We do." Honey opened the oven door and pulled out a warm tray. "Do they want apple habanero or chocolate cinnamon?"
"I don't know. I'll take out some of both."
Honey loaded the tray, and Angela whisked them from the room. A moment later, a guest entered the kitchen looking for a clean serving spoon. The one that had been in the rice had fallen on the floor. Peter bustled out with the spoon and the guest, and Honey returned to work.
Two hours later, the gallery was empty except for Peter, Marco, Angela, and Honey. Angela puttered around the room, picking up discarded plates and glasses while Marco did his best to avoid her.
"It was a good night," Peter said. "We sold three paintings."
"I was hoping to sell Death in the Desert." Marco's lips fell into a pout.
Peter placed a hand on his shoulder. "There was interest."
"But no sale." The artist sounded like a spoiled child.
Peter made soothing noises and steered him toward the door. When it shut behind Marco, Peter raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Deliver me from self-important artists."
Angela laughed. She'd been in a cheerful mood ever since the salsa incident. Honey wasn't sure whether she needed to address the issue of dousing patrons with food or let it go. Either way, she was too tired to bring it up tonight.
Honey had been going to ask Angela to come to the house to help her prep for Lisa-Liza's event the next day. She'd been considering bringing her along to the party as well. Honey didn't need the help but thought it might be good training. However, after the temper flare tonight, she was no longer sure that was a great idea.
She didn't know Angela very well. Not yet. She hoped that over time the girl would open up to her, but meanwhile Honey would take things slow. Angela might remind her of her daughter, but she wasn't Willow. Honey needed to remember that.
5.3.3
Charlie opened the door of Sweeter. Angela entered with a jangle of bells, walked straight to where Honey stood at the checkout counter and deposited a paper bag in front of her. "They're high protein."
"Made with coconut oil, so healthy fat." Charlie came up behind her.
"And they're sugar-free," Angela said.
"Gluten-free too." Charlie grinned; his teeth shone white against his tanned complexion. "My mom had cholesterol. We didn't know about gluten though."
"There's no cholesterol in gluten." Angela sounded annoyed.
"Then why does everybody say it's bad for you?"
"Just because something isn't healthy doesn't mean it has cholesterol."
Charlie's mouth lifted on one side like he didn't believe her.
"And, there's good cholesterol and bad cholesterol," she said.
"No." His dark hair swung side to side. "I don't think so. I definitely think you're wrong about that."
Honey peeked inside the bag, consternation tuning out the argument. She hated sugar-free, gluten-free baked goods. At least, she had the few times she’d tried them. "You shouldn't have," she said.
Angela gave her a shy smile. "I know your doctor doesn't want you to eat simple carbs."
"Or cholesterol," Charlie said.
A lovely smell wafted from the bag when Honey raised it to her nose and sniffed. She reached inside, pinched off a piece of a grainy looking bar, closed her eyes, and popped it into her mouth.
It wasn't bad. Good texture. Nice flavor. "Are these date bars?"
"Date and walnut. Walnuts are really good for you too. Do you like them?" Angela fidgeted with the strap on her purse. She looked like she was waiting for test results.
"They're good." Honey took the rest of the bar from the bag. "Hard to believe there's no sugar in them."
Angela exhaled. "Want a cup of coffee? I think they'd be good with coffee."
"Sure."
Angela bustled into the office, and a moment later emerged with a steaming mug. "I also brought you oat milk creamer and a bottle of liquid stevia for your coffee. I know you like sugar."
Angela handed Honey a small, glass bottle along with the mug. "Don't use too much. It's really sweet."
"Very sweet," Charlie agreed.
Just the idea of fake sugar gave Honey hives, but she didn't want to seem unappreciative. Angela had obviously gone out of her way to please her. It was endearing. She squeezed a couple of drops into her creamy-looking coffee and took a tentative sip. It wasn't as bad as she'd expected. Better than black anyway.
"You're spoiling me," she said.
"I wanted to make up for last night."
"Make up for what?"
"Dousing that guy with salsa. I hope I didn't get you in trouble with Peter Stiller."
Honey laughed. "If you hadn't dumped salsa on that jerk, I might have. And don't worry about Peter. He's had to deal with worse."
"You're not mad at me?"
"No, I'm not mad at you." To emphasize the point, Honey took a second date bar from the bag. They were good, and she probably wouldn’t have time for dinner.
"I told you so." Charlie fixed his brown eyes on Angela. "I knew she wouldn't be mad. Honey is a nice lady." Angela didn't answer. He looked at his shoes for a long moment as if unsure what to do next. "See you at six?" he finally said.
"Great. Thanks." She waved him away, and he headed toward the door. Honey caught him glancing over his shoulder at her as he exited, his expression wistful. He seemed smitten. She wondered if Angela knew he had a crush on her. It was none of Honey's business. What was her business, however, was the salsa incident.
"So about last night, I'm not saying I approve of your tactics, but I understand the sentiment." Honey had planned out what she’d say that morning. "I had a boss once who made my life miserable. In retrospect, I wish I'd have stood my ground."
"Really?"
"It was right after I graduated from cooking school. I was young and broke, that's my excuse. Anyway, I got a job at a French-Southern fusion restaurant in Louisville. The chef was well-known, and I was in awe of him."
Angela settled onto a stool like a kid settling in for storytime.
Honey rested her elbows on the counter. "Chef Fabian was a class A chef and a class A jerk. He had this way of making people want to please him. He did it by doling out favor in tiny sips…" She held up two fingers to show how tiny they were. "Like it was Hennessy cognac, you know?"
Angela nodded.
"It was fear too. We were all afraid of him. He wielded humiliation like a butcher knife."
"I know somebody like that," Angela said. Honey waited a long beat before continuing her story hoping the girl would share more, but she didn't speak.
"Six months into my apprenticeship, Chef Fabian broke up with his girlfriend. Honestly, I was relieved. The nights she showed up at the restaurant generally ended with the two of them screaming at each other in the alley behind the kitchen."
A dark cloud passed over Angela's bright face. "I don't like it when people scream at me."
The words seemed obvious. Nobody likes getting screamed at, except maybe one of those radio shock jocks. But something in the way she said them made Honey believe it wasn't a throwaway statement, that Angela had an intimate experience with a screamer. Honey finished the second date bar and washed it down with the dregs of her coffee. She’d added too much stevia. The last sip was overly sweet. She grimaced, then said, "At least she had the sense to break it off with him when she did.”
"True. What happened after that?"
"He changed. For the better, I thought. He was less angry, had more patience. But after a couple of weeks, I realized I was the only beneficiary of his new-found charm."
Angela's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh, no."
"Oh, no, is right." Honey stood straight. "One night, I was closing with the dishwasher and Chef Fabian. Fabian sent me to the front of the house to turn chairs. When I was done, I walked into the kitchen to get my purse and say goodnight. The dishwasher was gone, and Fabian was in his office."
"Let me guess," Angela said. "He grabbed you."
"Not that bad. He called me into the office. I could see the candlelight from across the kitchen."
Before Honey could finish her story, the front doorbells chimed. A forty-something man entered with a confused look on his face.
Angela hopped off the stool. "Welcome to Sweeter than Honey. What can I help you with?"
Relief washed over his features. He lifted his phone and read from the screen. "I'm looking for chorks. Do you know what they are?"
"Of course." Angela led him to the gadget bin, pulled out a set of four fork-handled chopsticks and began explaining how to use them.
Honey watched her with a critical eye. She was good with female customers, but this was the first time she'd seen her with a man. After the fiasco at Peter's, she was worried.
She hadn't been angry as Angela had thought. No, she was sympathetic, but that didn't mean she didn't have concerns. She'd decided to share her own story with Angela today to see how she reacted.
She looks like she can take care of herself. Honey wondered how Peter had decided that. Looking at Angela this morning, she noted how thin she was. There was a circle under her right eye so dark it almost looked like she'd been punched. She didn't look strong. She didn't even look especially healthy.
Honey stood in one swift movement, no longer comfortable sitting. She was going to head to the shelf where Angela and the man were now discussing bamboo rolling mats for sushi construction, but they pivoted and walked toward her.
"I can ring him up," Angela said.
Honey checked her watch. Lisa-Liza's party was in two hours, and she had things to do. She'd wanted to finish her story, maybe get Angela talking about her past, but it was late, and suddenly she was too jittery for conversation. "I'll leave you to it then. Set the alarm when you close up?"
"I will," Angela said.
Honey ran to the office to retrieve her bag. This was the first time Angela would be closing alone. Honey had gone over the procedure with her several times. She was smart, responsible, and personable with patrons, so why did a niggle of worry run up Honey's spine?
She hadn't been worried when she'd scheduled it. The salsa fiasco. That was the problem. The look on Angela's face—serene, undisturbed, no anger or passion—as she stood in front of Marco, popped into her mind. Honey would have understood if Angela had been in a rage, red-faced and yelling but she wasn't. That was confusing.
I don't like it when people scream at me. She didn't like being screamed at, and apparently didn't scream at others. At least she was consistent. But the niggle became a band that tightened around Honey's chest. She crossed the shop and paused with her hand on the front door. Did she trust Angela enough to leave her alone in the store?
What could go wrong?
That didn’t bear thinking about. A myriad of things could go wrong. Angela could insult a client, steal money from the till, break the breakables. But would she? Maybe a better question was why would she? Why would she sacrifice a job she seemed to enjoy, one she needed and wanted?
Honey should have asked herself these questions days ago. If she changed her mind now, sent Angela home and closed herself, she’d be late for Lisa-Liza’s party. Honey was controlling. That was her problem. She had to loosen her grip on her business, or she was going to lose the grip on her health. Her jumpiness was unreasonable, silly.
The man took the bag of chorks and walked toward the door. Honey opened it and followed him out into the evening air.
5.3.4
Honey entered the crescent driveway and parked in front of Lisa-Liza's house. It was obese—a tract home that thought more highly of itself than it ought. It reminded Honey of a popular reality show that revolved around over-coiffed, over-dressed women. Everything about it was large. The fountain, the palm trees, the double front doors with oversized lion-head knockers.
Honey lifted one of the felines and let it drop. A moment later, she heard the clack of heels on wood and Lisa-Liza opened the door. Silhouetted against the bright chandelier behind her, Honey couldn't read her expression, but she felt waves of irritation streaming from the woman. "I hope you don't need help," she said by way of greeting. "My husband left early."
Honey could tell from Lisa-Liza's toned arms, she worked out regularly. She was certainly fit enough to lend a hand. But Honey said, "I can make a couple of trips."
Lisa-Liza spun on her heel. Honey followed her through a wide entryway, down a hall and into a spacious kitchen. Crackers, cheese, vegetable sticks, and hummus were laid out on a horseshoe-shaped counter. Five women gathered around the spread, glasses of white wine in their hands.
"Our instructor is here," Lisa-Liza said.
Five faces turned toward Honey, and her heart thudded. Honey acknowledged the loud beat with a combination of dread and surprise. She'd been teaching in-home cooking classes for years. She'd taught in condos, in mansions, and in modest, suburban three bedrooms. She'd taught for lawyers, doctors, and kindergarten teachers. Before this moment, she'd have said nothing could make her nervous anymore.
Shake it off, girl.
"Hi, y'all. My name is Honeysuckle Wells, but everybody calls me Honey."
She was annoyed Lisa-Liza hadn't introduced her by name, but she really couldn't complain. She'd been mentally calling her hostess by the wrong moniker for weeks. Honey knew her name was actually Liza, but she seemed like the kind of woman who should have two. Like her house, Lisa-Liza was pretentious.
Honey placed a cold storage bag on the counter and turned to retrace her steps.
"Do you need help?" An older, less fit woman than Lisa-Liza, but more attractive by Honey's way of thinking, offered.
The earlier thud in her chest repeated itself. Honey didn't know what was wrong. She was jumpy, jittery, nerves tingling. She hadn't been happy about leaving Angela in the store alone, but she didn't think that was her problem. The words “panic attack” hovered in a dark corner of her mind. She drew a curtain between herself and them, smiled, and said, "I could use a hand."
"I'm so looking forward to this. My doctor said I should go on the Mediterranean diet, but I don't know what that is. I mean, I've been to the Mediterranean, but I ate at tourist places mostly. They gear all that food for Americans. It's not authentic. Are you making authentic food tonight?" She gave an embarrassed laugh.
Before Honey could answer, the woman answered herself. "Of course, you are. You're a chef. Chef's know what they're doing, don't they?"
She continued her monologue about chefs she'd known, and Mediterranean food, and European travel all the way to Honey's van and back to the kitchen not giving Honey a chance to get in a word edgeways. Which was fine. Honey was finding it hard to catch her breath. Speaking would have been more work than it was worth.
Honey began setting ingredients out on the large granite countertop. The menu included dolmas, falafel, and a Greek salad with feta cheese and kalamata olives. She'd been looking forward to the meal herself. Her talkative assistant, whom she'd learned was called Bets, wasn't the only one who'd had the Mediterranean diet suggested by their doctor.
Honey had been experimenting with her own versions of Greek food for a month or more. Problem was she tended to be attracted to the festive, less healthy, recipes. Lisa-Liza had insisted tonight's meal stay within a certain calorie allotment, which forced Honey to think outside the meat and cheese box. She'd been pleasantly surprised by the results.
"What else can I do?" Bets gazed at her through eager eyes.
Honey glanced around herself searching for a task she could hand off. Her thoughts, normally as neatly organized as her kitchen when she taught, were coming in short bursts. They flew at her from all directions. "Can you give me a minute?" she said and instantly regretted it. Her tone was filled with irritation. She never snapped at class members.
