Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (21 page)

“Clementine, you absolutely rock,” Keira said. “So, Gunnar, what do you and your daughter do on your weekends? You probably spend a lot of time in the kitchen, teaching her to cook.”

“Yeah, right. The girl eats nothing but hamburgers. I can barely get her to eat a vegetable. I've tried all your recipes, Clem, but she makes a face and spits out whatever she tries. Sorry.”

“Hey, that's okay. My brother, Kale, hated veggies as a kid and now he lives on them.”

“I'm supposed to teach her how to bake a cake this weekend so she can enter some contest at her school carnival,” Gunnar said, frowning. “It's the one thing I suck at. She's already pissed at me for five different reasons, and now she'll end up making a lopsided cake that tastes like a tire.”

“I can bake,” Alanna said, glancing at Gunnar. “I learned from the best,” she added, upping her elbow at me. “I'll help you guys.”

His expression changed from defeated hangdog to hopeful.

“You can use the kitchen here,” I said. “Just be out by noon.”

“Violet would be really using a restaurant kitchen,” Gunnar said, giving Alanna one of his rare smiles. “Thanks.”

“Hey, can I come for the lesson?” Keira said. “I'm an okay baker, but I made a tart the other day and it caved in.”

“The more the whateverier,” Gunnar said, flicking a black bean at Keira.

“Oh, hell, I'll come too,” I said. “Alanna can teach and then you guys can help me bake five pies for Saturday night's Pietopia.”

Pietopia nights brought in crazy business. Three weeks ago, half the bank employees down the street came in just for the pie, then ended up ordering from the main menu.
Ka-ching
. New customers. Because of
pie
. My dad could offer Pietopia every night at the Outpost.

Alanna added chickpeas to the food processor for falafel. “I'm suddenly jealous of everyone who knows what they want. Clem's got this place and she's getting married. Keira's going to be on
Eat Me
so she can go to cooking school on her own dime. Gunnar's got his knives and vegetables and daughter. And I've got a boyfriend who said tonight is the deadline. Either I tell him I want to marry him or he's leaving.”

“I don't get that,” Gunnar said. “He loves you to the point that he wants to marry you, but he's willing to walk out of your life? I don't buy this ultimatum crap. If you love someone, you don't try to force them to be what you want. Like Keira's mom is doing to her.”

“Yeah, but Alanna's boyfriend can't wait around forever, either,” Keira said. “Maybe he just wants to face facts—hard as it is—that he's not the one for Alanna. Maybe that's all he's asking—if he's the one.”

“And I'm being forced to decide now when I'm not ready. He might be, I don't know. I'm not even ready to think about it.” Alanna stared into the food processor, then added the garlic, onion, cumin, and coriander that Keira had set out for her. “Don't worry, Clem. I'll bring it tonight. I'm just talking out loud.”

The bigger problem was that she'd gotten me thinking. About Zach. First, I hadn't been ready. Then I was. And now maybe he'd decided he wasn't, after all.

Text from me to Zach:
Should I bring over a late plate for you?

Zach:
Crazed right now—no appetite. Maybe tomorrow. xZ.

Maybe
tomorrow.

Did I have time to think about what the shizz was going on with Zach? Not with paychecks to process, invoices to go through, inventory to count, specials to decide on for the
New York Times
reporter, and a bajillion phone calls to make about the Outpost. I got myself up and out so early Thursday morning
that the birds were chirping in my ears as I walked up Montana, and I had to share the sidewalk with all the dog walkers and joggers. It was barely seven o'clock, but who could sleep when her fiancé was acting all weird? The only way to get him off my mind was to hit the office and take care of business.

The chirps reminded me of my parents' farm, which got me thinking about the red barn and how I'd approach the renovations. A small, but decent-size kitchen, with a back door leading directly to the fields. An office just big enough for me and my dad to share. The main dining room and lounge, and of course a juice bar. My mom, gardener extraordinaire, could take care of the landscaping right around the barn and create a simple back patio.

“Woof! Woof woof!”

I was a million miles away in my head, but I knew that bark. Lizzie, one of Alexander Orr's dogs. I glanced up the street and there she was, wagging her tail and pulling on her leash to get to me. And there was Alexander, bigger dog Brit's leash in his other hand, looking fresh-scrubbed and hot at the same time, as usual.

I had to admit that sometimes, such as now, when Zach was pissing me off, I thought of Alexander and wondered what life would be like with him. Alexander didn't play games, not that Zach was playing a game, exactly, but it felt like that. What's wrong? Nothing. Is something bothering you? No. Zach, what's
up
? Just really busy, Clem.

Right.

If something was bothering Alexander, it would show immediately in those earnest brown eyes, and when I asked, he'd spend an hour telling me every detail. The guy talked. Shared. He cared so much about other people's feelings that he wouldn't want to make someone worry about what was wrong in the first place. I wouldn't even have to ask Alexander what the problem was. He'd tell me.

“Hey,” he said, as I reached down to give Brit and Lizzie vigorous rubs under their chins and to scratch behind their ears. “Just getting home from last night?”

“Ha. I'm heading to the restaurant early to take care of paperwork. And I'm gonna start deciding on the specials for the night the
Times
reporter comes. Do you know what you're offering?”

“Emil's making it Mediterranean night, so that gives me a lot of leeway. Wish I could steal your falafel recipe. Yours is the best I've ever had.”

“Why thank you,” I said, always happy when Alexander—who knew his food—complimented my work.

He glanced away, then down at his sneakers, then in the nowhere-distance.

“Alexander?”

He shrugged, moving up the sidewalk a bit to let the dogs sniff a little plot of grass around a tree. “I hate this. I want you to win. But I want my bloody promotion.”

Aha, I was right. Something was bugging him? He spilled—immediately. He didn't disappear. Communication was everything. “Same here.”

“Well, if I lose, at least you're in. But I really want in.”

I laughed. “Me too. Maybe a little competition will be good for us. Up our game.”

He nodded and looked at me for a moment, the way he did when he was getting all regretful that we weren't a couple. “I'd better get these guys home for their breakfast. If you need anything, call me. Even though I'm the enemy.”

“Ditto.” I absolutely loved Alexander Orr.

Ten minutes later, chai in hand, I headed into the restaurant and went straight to my office. I took care of the boring stuff first, then planned to add a few new possibilities to the specials for the
Times
reporter, but at the thought of Alexander forever a sous chef or even fired for not getting Fresh in that article, I decided to forget that for right now and focus on the Outpost. I picked up my cell, my Outpost notebook and pen at the ready. First call: to the loan officer at my bank to talk numbers. Yeah, my eyes bugged a time or two during the convo, but the numbers she talked about let me put a check mark next to
Loan
. Second call: highly recommended contractor for a basic idea of renovation costs on the barn. More eye-bugging, but now that I had an idea of what kind of loan I'd get, I knew my budget, and I could go with the good contractor instead of the crappy one my sister's law firm used to add showers (because sometimes she and her coworkers actually slept at the office—
shiver
). Third call: president of the Bluff Valley chamber of commerce for info on how many restaurants were within a fifteen-mile radius (twenty-three), not including fast-food joints,
how many vegans (one), how many farm-to-table restaurants (zero), how many restaurants on a farm (zero).

I heard Zach whispering in my ear:
There are none because it's not sustainable. Because there's no market.

But I believed there was a market. And once word got out about a farm-to-table vegan restaurant on an established farm, people would flock.

For the next hour, I read five articles on the farm-to-table movement, getting more and more juiced about the Outpost. Hell, yeah, this was going to happen.

“Darling, of course the wedding won't be
vegan
,” Dominique said, her expression horrified. “No one besides you and Avery wants to eat beans for the main course.”

I'd almost forgotten that Dominique had arranged this breakfast meeting on Thursday morning at her house in the Hills, a beautiful Spanish-style “bungalow” that was at least four thousand square feet.

“You can have a vegan plate. Some interesting pasta.” She clicked at her iPhone. Before I could say anything, she'd stood up and clapped her hands, twice. What was that about? “All right. Now, moving along to the fashion show.”

“Fashion show?”

Suddenly, the French doors opened and a model wearing a satin wedding gown came sashaying in as though she were on
a runway. The dress was white and had a 1920s flapper quality to it with asymmetrical beading and flounced hem. The model stopped, propped a bored hand on her hip, then pivoted and strutted back toward the French doors.

“I thought I was looking at sketches,” I said.

“We're way past that, dear,” Dominique said. “And besides, this is like live sketches. I liked the lines on this one. Stark, but with a sweet, fierce quality. A bit like you.”

Was that a compliment? Of sorts, maybe. Sweet and Fierce headed out and Ethereal entered. There was something angelic meets Roman about the dress. Next was a forties-style lace gown that I loved, something I could imagine actresses like Katharine Hepburn or Lauren Bacall wearing. Something of a ball gown came out next, a bit like Sara's dress, but so intricately beaded it looked heavy. Finally it was the Kate Middleton, with the long sleeves and high neckline.

“Wow, Dominique, I have to admit I liked a few of those very much.”

Her look of surprise was priceless, but she tried to hide it. “Of course you did. Which was your favorite? I'll need to book the seamstress immediately.”

“I appreciate the fashion show, I really do, but I don't think any of those are really right for the farm. Maybe something like the first one, but without a train.”

“Good God, Clementine, you're not planning on wearing something country, are you?”

I smiled. “I don't know. I'm not there yet.”

“Darling, why don't you let me worry about the dress. I'll send you over to my seamstress to have your measurements taken.”