Once Upon a Christmas Eve (6 page)

It seemed as clear to Max as the small diamonds winking from Tommi's earlobes that she had no intention of allowing her private life—or apparent lack thereof—to be discussed any further. At least, not in front of him. With a smile that actually looked rather sweet given the determination behind it, she walked straight past him to nudge the vociferous Essie from the kitchen.

Syd caught the door as they passed, pushing it back
far enough to lock open. Instead of following the women, though, he turned back with a thoughtful frown furrowing his weathered face.

“Can you fix a television remote control?”

Growing more confused by the moment with the owner of the little establishment, the old guy's question caught Max totally off guard. So did the fact that it had been addressed to him.

Apparently, in Tommi's bistro, there were no strangers.

“I don't know,” he hedged. “That would depend on what's wrong with it.”

“I can't tell you that. All I know is I went to change the channel to get Essie's soap opera and the screen went blue. She said I used the wrong remote. We have three of 'em,” he muttered. “They all look the same to me.”

It sounded to Max as if the guy had switched from the television to the DVD. He'd just mentioned that when Tommi came back in, touching the man's shoulder on her way past.

“Don't worry about it, Syd. I'll make sure it gets taken care of. The new
Weekly
came this morning,” she told him, her voice drifting behind her as she spoke of a local free paper. “I left a couple of copies on the table.

“Here,” she said, doing an about-face to hand him a pencil she'd just retrieved. “Essie needs this to do the crossword puzzle.”

“Is my letter to the editor in there?”

“I haven't had a chance to look.”

The problem with the remote had just been preempted. Turning with the squeak of rubber soles on tile, Syd made a beeline into the bistro. As he did, Tommi headed the opposite way, a trail of consternation following in her wake.

“I'm sorry about that,” she murmured, but didn't stop
until she'd snagged two white ceramic teapots and a French press from a rack destined for the coffee and wine bar out front.

Because the door remained open, Max joined her where she worked at the prep station in the middle of the kitchen. His voice went low. “I thought you were closed until five-thirty.”

“I am. The Olsons aren't customers.” Her own voice remained equally hushed as she turned to fill the teapots with hot water from the Insta-Hot, then turned back to spoon coffee into the tall, clear press carafe. “They come down to critique my specials for me. They're just early today.”

“They critique your food?”

Beneath the jacket he'd heard the older lady claim was hanging on her, one shoulder lifted in a small shrug.

“In a way.”

He heard evasion in her response, saw a hint of it in her expression. What he saw mostly as he deliberately refrained from more closely eyeing the fit of her jacket himself was unease. “By any chance would ‘in a way' mean they don't pay for their meals?”

“I can't take their money.”

“Why not?”

“They're on a pension,” she said, totally missing the point of his question.

Her specials ran from thirteen to twenty-seven dollars. He knew because he'd been running totals of her diligently calculated costs of each serving. She likewise kept track of meals served, as would any restaurateur worth a grain of the imported salt she ordered from the coast of France. It was the missing profit between the two he couldn't find.

Leaving his carafe after she'd set in the filter plate and plunger, she set the teapots and accessories on a tray. Instead
of picking up the tray, though, she suddenly stopped, took a deep breath and met his eyes.

“Thank you, Max.”

“For what?”

“For going along with Essie's assumption that you're my accountant. They're very nice people. They truly are. They just like to share everything they hear.”

It was their main source of recreation, actually, she thought.

“As I said the other day,” she continued, terribly conscious of how close she and Max were standing, “I need to keep the partnership business quiet for now. Syd and Essie know my family. It wouldn't be at all unusual for them to mention that you were here if one of them came in. Since my sisters know my accountant isn't a male—” much less the very attractive, distracting, and successful-looking one Essie would no doubt describe “—they'd have questions.”

Her glance faltered. “I need time to explain why I'm entering into a partnership. If a partnership works out,” she qualified, taking nothing for granted where he was concerned. “So the less said to anyone, the better.”

Thinking she'd be a disaster at poker, Max tipped his head to see her eyes. “I'm missing something here.” She wasn't comfortable. Not with him. Not with the situation. Not with whatever it was she was keeping from him and, he suspected, everyone else.

“I understand wanting to wait to mention a partnership to your staff. Employees get nervous when they hear rumors about a change in ownership status.”

“Exactly. I don't want them worrying.”

“Got that,” he assured her, though he thought more in terms of staff bailing out over rumors of change. “What I don't get is what's so complicated about your family knowing you want the partnership so you can hire another chef.”
His eyes narrowed on the quick evasion in hers. “Do they have something to do with the personal thing you mentioned the other day?”

She ducked her head, the overhead lights catching glints of gold in her dark hair as she picked up the tray with the tea.

“Look,” she murmured. “It's nothing. Nothing,” she repeated, and nodded toward his coffee. “That will take a few minutes to steep. I'll bring it in to you when it's ready.”

With a grace that totally belied her agitation, she slipped through the open doorway, leaving him staring at her slender back. Wondering at her contradictions, impressed by the sheer number of them, his suspicion turned to absolute certainty.

If he'd learned anything about women in the past thirty-eight years, it was that
nothing
always meant
something.
And there was now no doubt in his mind that Tommi Fairchild had something on hers that she wasn't sharing.

He wanted to know what that something was. But the fact that it was personal gave him pause. No one understood the need to keep certain information private better than he did. Particularly when it involved a person's family. Not that he had any idea what family was supposed to be. The whole concept was pretty much foreign to him.

Unlike Tommi, he didn't talk about his relatives. There wasn't a thing he could say about his lineage that wouldn't earn him scorn or a cold shoulder in certain circles, or evoke pity in others. He never lied about his past. He just judiciously omitted certain details about how he'd made it through school and precisely where he'd lived growing up. As for his one attempt to create a family of his own, his short-lived marriage to Jenna Walsh had ended shortly after her old boyfriend decided he wanted her back. Its demise
had also left him with her bills and a profound appreciation for the benefits of remaining unencumbered.

With the clench of his jaw, he cut off the ancient memories. What he needed to concentrate on was how he'd deal with the woman heading back to her kitchen. Tommi's approach to finances was the polar opposite of his own. He would keep his focus on that, not on her unwitting reminders of his past, and definitely not on the softness of her tentative smile when she walked in to see him waiting for her. He would even let go of his curiosity about whatever it was she insisted was “nothing.”

For now.

T
ommi had expected Max to return to her ledgers while his coffee brewed. Finding him right where she'd left him by the plating station, not trusting the speculation sharpening his sculpted features, she quickly checked the digital timers ticking down on two of the ovens and the stock pots simmering on the stove.

“Did you want something else?” she asked, torn between the need to keep him from pressing about the little secret she guarded, and the need to get to the rollitini she'd barely started.

“Just to talk to you. I'm finished with your books.”

Her breath slithered out.

“Oh,” she murmured, anxiety taking another shift. “Is here okay?”

When he had first arrived, all she'd wanted was to know if her bistro interested him. As torn as she was about giving up the total control she now had over her business, her impatience seemed truly ironic.

That finer point was lost, however, as she closed the kitchen door. She felt bad doing that. The Olsons didn't come only for a meal. They came for her company, and that of her staff.

“There's more room here than in the office, and I need to keep an eye on things in the oven.”

“Here works.”

“Then, I'll prepare you something while we talk,” she said, on her way to the refrigerator. “I'm sure you'll want to taste my food before you make any decisions.”

“Your food is exceptional.”

She'd made it as far as the plating station. “You've never tasted it.”

“Actually, I have. I asked my assistant and some of our accounting staff to eat lunch here yesterday. I also had Margie bring me takeout.”

“Margie?”

“My assistant. Even if I hadn't,” he continued easily, “it's obvious your food brings people in. You're not in a location where you can count on a lot of foot traffic. We'll get to that later, though,” he promised. “Right now, we need to talk about your expenses.”

Leaning against the work counter across from her, he crossed his long legs at his ankles and his arms over his broad chest. With his hands tucked as they were, the crisp white fabric of his dress shirt stretched across his shoulders and pulled across honed biceps. “You have a serious problem with cost containment.”

Tommi jerked her attention from all that nicely dressed, hard male muscle. She was still back at the part where he'd had his secretary take him takeout. She wanted to know what he'd ordered. The only to-go she could remember offhand was for a panini and crab cakes. “I do?”

“You do,” he assured her. “Let's start with your employees.
Your records show that you only have four regulars on the payroll. I have no idea how you're running this place with such low staffing—”

“Oh, we do fine,” she said before he could add the “but” to his sentence. She spoke quickly, apparently not wanting him to think her physical management of her business as deficient as her financial skills.

“Alaina covers breakfast and lunch and Shelby does lunch and dinner. Shelby teaches a spin class at the gym while we're closed in the afternoon,” she explained, accounting for the longer hours. “Andrew works dinner with Shelby Thursday through Saturday. Since those are our busy nights, that's when Mario comes in to bus tables, do dishes and help me mop up.”

Which apparently left her with the cleanup the rest of the week, he realized. “And if one of them can't make it?”

“I call Bobbie. My sister.”

“Isn't she the one who just got engaged?”

His question gave Tommi pause.

“Just last week, actually.” And now that Bobbie would be getting married, Tommi knew she wouldn't have anywhere near the extra time she'd once had. Or the need for the money. Aside from having finally found her calling as head of Golden Ability Canine Assistance and being the almost-new-stepmom of two, Bobbie's fiancé seemed intent on spoiling her silly. All of which was wonderful for her little sister—but only added another disconcerting change to the others happening in her own life.

“Bobbie always helped out in a pinch.” In an emergency, she probably still would. If she could. But Tommi wouldn't impose on her time with her new family.

It was time to consider other options.

“Frankie has helped out once in a while, too,” she continued, though she immediately ruled her out as a possible
permanent fill-in. Brainy and highly educated, her second oldest sister seemed to enjoy the diversion of serving the bistro's patrons. Especially the sometimes smart-ass but harmless guys who occasionally hung out at the wine bar. But Frankie was a university research assistant with a full life of her own.

“You have two sisters?”

“Three. Georgie is the oldest. She's far too busy to help, though.” Not that Tommi would ever ask. Her hugely successful, accomplished and very sophisticated first-born sibling had far more important things to do than help out in a bistro that, at capacity, only seated twenty-eight, wine bar included. Georgie was into causes on a much larger scale. “She works for a philanthropy and travels a lot.”

“Interesting names,” Max muttered.

She gave a little shrug, reached for a pair of gray oven mitts. Growing up, her feeble attempt to set herself apart from “the Fairchild girls” had been to spell her name without the ending “e” like her sisters. Her rebellions had always been subtle. “We were supposed to have been George, Jr., Frank, Thomas and Robert. Our dad wanted boys.”

He'd noticed on her driver's license that her name was Thomasina Grace. At the time, the name had struck him as rather formal, almost regal, in a way. Now, watching her pull on the bulky mitts and open the nearest oven's door, he couldn't help but think it a lot of name for such an unassuming woman.

Tommi fit her. Though she possessed a certain, almost casual refinement, the tomboy quality of her nickname better suited the subtle restlessness that always seemed to keep her moving.

He knew exactly how the need to keep moving felt. That restive, unsettled mental energy had driven him for years.

Not caring to consider why his own restiveness was there, more interested in what pushed her, he jerked his focus to the large and heavy-looking pan on the rack she'd pulled out. Whatever it was had a mahogany crust and smelled incredible.

“So which is it?” he asked, as she pressed the crust down and ladled thick, rich broth over the top. “You do or you don't have some sort of emergency staffing in place?”

“Not emergency,” she admitted. “When I need extra help serving or prepping for a private party, I make arrangements ahead of time with the culinary school. The students get credit for real-world experience,” she explained with a smile. “But I'll get something figured out. Soon.”

He had the feeling she was helping those students out as much as they were her. What he liked was that the help was free.

“Then, that brings me back to the rest of what I was going to say. I'm not sure how you run this place with such low regular staffing,” he repeated, his attention divided between the appealing curve of her mouth and what looked like some sort of casserole, “but you obviously manage. My concern is that you only have four employees, but your total payroll dollars equal wages and benefits for twice that many.”

“Twice? My math isn't that far off, is it? I always double-check it.”

“It's not your math. It's what you're paying. You show a base pay for each employee that's nearly double what other restaurants offer.

“Then, there's insurance,” he continued, before she could ask what was wrong with that. “I don't know a company in this industry who pays for so much coverage for their employees. Those two things right there are a big part of why your profits are almost half of what they should be.”

He wasn't at all surprised that she'd been turned down for a loan. Had he been a banker, he would have done the same. Looking at the business as a potential investment, though, even a minor one, he could see where there were significant profits to be made. With some equally significant changes. “Cut those expenses and you'll save thousands a year.”

Tommi felt her back go up. She wasn't about to cut her employees' pay. Or their benefits. Needing to hear him out, though, she calmly asked, “Enough to hire another chef?”

“Not enough for that. But there are other things that can be done to pay for him, pay for more waitstaff and turn a better profit.” He eyed her evenly. “You could even take a real salary for yourself.”

Tommi kept ladling. He'd obviously figured out that pretty much everything she made went back into the business. What he didn't seem to understand was that, except for backup, she didn't need more waitstaff.

She could seriously get into the more profit part, though. More profit meant she would be able to pay for the babysitter she would eventually need. And for a larger apartment. The Williamses down the hall from her were moving in a few months and their two bedroom would be available. It even had a view of the little park across the street.

Thinking of the park reminded her that she'd need to buy a buggy, then a stroller. And a bassinet, a crib, a car seat.

“How much of a salary?”

“At a minimum, double what you're drawing now.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him motion toward the pan. “What is that?”

She'd just considered that double would be good and was about to add “rocking chair” to her mental list when she
became conscious of the nerves jumping in her stomach. The disturbing direction of their conversation was only partly responsible for the sensation. Some of it came with the alternating panic and wonder that came whenever she thought of her impending motherhood.

The rest had to do with Max, and the way he watched her every move. Specifically with the way he watched her mouth when she spoke and the feel of his glance moving down her throat.

Already far more aware of him than she wanted to be, she reached under the plating station and pulled out a shallow bowl. “Cassoulet,” she replied, now conscious of his eyes on the nape of her neck. “It's a peasant dish from the south of France.”

“What's in it?”

“In this one, there's chicken, pork, bacon, sausage, seasonings and white beans.” Ladling a scoop into the center of the bowl, far more comfortable with her food than his effect on her nervous system, she told him that the French usually used duck confit with garlic sausages and bacon. “Basically it's a stew of white beans and meats.” Closing the oven, she added a fork to the bowl and handed the bowl to him. “The best part is the crust.

“So aside from cutting wages and benefits,” she continued, leaving him to contemplate what she'd just given him, “what are the other things I can do to make a better profit?”

Glancing back, she saw him poke at a bite of beans and sausage.

“You could relocate.”

She went utterly still.

He didn't seem to notice. His attention remained on the meat he lifted with his fork, then let cool a moment before
he tasted it. After a quick pause, his eyebrows rose in silent approval.

“Relocate?” she asked, too busy rejecting the possibility to care about his obvious approval of her current house specialty.

He forked up another bite.

“Just hear me out.” He sounded as if he'd expected resistance. He just didn't seem too concerned about it as he settled more comfortably against the counter. “You didn't add to the few dollars you spent on advertising when you started staying open for dinner, but your dinner business picked up pretty quickly. You only have an ad in one free local magazine, a website and phone listing. What do you think brings in your customers?”

The man had obviously known what he was looking for in her books. Since he hadn't answered her question, though, she wasn't totally sure where he was going with his.

“Mostly word of mouth. And the reviews.”

“What keeps them coming back?”

“The service. The food. The atmosphere.”

The nod he gave was thoughtful. She just couldn't tell if he was considering what she'd said, or what he was eating.

With the timer about to go off on the other oven, she grabbed her mitts again, pulled out the baguette slices she'd left crisping and slid them onto a cooling rack.

“Exactly my point,” he informed her, eyeing what she would serve under melted Gruyère in French onion soup with the same curiosity he had the fullness of her lower lip. “People come here because they like what you've created, not because you're convenient. That was mentioned in your reviews,” he reminded her. “You're not near anywhere most people are likely to be going. All you have here is a
neighborhood of old apartment buildings that are stalled on their renovation.

“On this block you have a dry cleaner and a bookstore. The storefront next door is empty. When I was in the other day, most of your customers didn't appear to be tenants of these buildings. Since they were leaving in cabs, I assume they came from uptown. If you're doing as well as you are here, imagine what you'd do in a better location.

“That was great, by the way,” he said, holding out the suddenly empty bowl.

She should have felt pleased by his unqualified assessment. She supposed that at some level she was. It was just that the pleasure she usually took in knowing her efforts were appreciated happened to be buried under a pile of disagreement and misgivings.

“Thanks,” she murmured, and set the bowl in the sink.

The large pan of bread pudding sat cooling near the chocolate tortes she'd prepared that morning. Since it now had his attention, she disappeared into the refrigerator and walked back out with a stainless-steel bowl full of the crème fraîche she'd made yesterday.

On her way to the pudding, she picked up a dessert plate.

Resistance was veiled by an accommodating, deceptive calm. “Where would you suggest I move to?”