Talk of the Town (5 page)
1 stick butter
½ cup champagne
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
12 miniature flour tortillas
12 ounces bleu cheese
2½ cups baby spinach
1 10-ounce cooked lobster tail, cut into ½-inch pieces
¼ cup fresh tarragon
Heat a medium skillet brushed with olive oil over medium-high heat until warm. Sauté mushrooms in butter and champagne. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste and set aside.
To assemble: Arrange half of the flour tortillas on a baking sheet. Spread 2 teaspoons of bleu cheese onto each. Place a spinach leaf on top of cheese. Cover with slices of the reserved mushrooms, 2 pieces of lobster, and 3 tarragon leaves. Add a small dollop of cheese and season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover the filling with a second tortilla. Press down so that the layers stick together. Repeat with the remaining tortillas. Cover the tortillas with plastic wrap or a damp towel to prevent them from drying out.
Heat a dry cast-iron skillet over medium heat until very warm, 1 to 2 minutes. Working in batches, cook the quesadillas until the cheese is melted and they are warm throughout, about 1½ minutes per side. Cover with foil and keep warm in a 200-degree oven. Repeat with the remaining quesadillas. Serve warm.
D
avid’s Lear jet climbed steadily up through the cumulus clouds hanging over New York and streaked through a clear, shimmering blue sky.
He turned away from the window, rested his head against the leather seat, and closed his eyes. A part of him was weary of the nomadic life he’d led the last five years, but mostly he loved the challenge of building the media empire he and Ellen had dreamed about. The thought brought such bittersweet nostalgia he opened his eyes to break the reverie. The best way to stop the memories was to focus on business.
He read today’s edition of the
Three River Review,
the first small newspaper he and Ellen had acquired, in upstate New York, and went through the other three DAS-owned papers, ending with Wednesday’s
Chicago Daily Mail.
He checked his watch and called Tim Porter at home.
Tim’s husky, slow “Hello” made David glance at his watch again. Sometimes he forgot not everyone rose at dawn.
“Sorry, Tim. Forgot it’s early there. Wanted to talk to you about today’s edition. Shannon’s new column hit the right note. It’s exactly on target for where I’m heading with the paper.”
“Great. I’ll tell her at the office this morning.”
Tim was silent, and in those moments David knew the managing editor was nervous. David had watched him at all the meetings before the takeover. Had noticed Tim’s giveaway, the long pauses before he brought up something that might cause problems for him or the deal.
“What did you think of Rebecca’s first food column, David?” Tim asked.
David flicked through the pages and looked again at the recipe for lobster quesadillas. “Ordinary stuff. Let’s see if she comes up with anything better. Is she giving you problems?”
“No. No. She’s being a real pro, like she’s always been.” Tim’s voice sounded stronger now.
“Good. I’ll be in touch,” David said absently and hung up the phone. Easing deeper into his seat, his eyes narrowed on the simple food column. It was nothing more than a throwaway recipe, but he’d just learned something about his managing editor. Obviously, Tim hadn’t wanted to demote Rebecca when David ordered it, even though he hadn’t argued against it. David liked team players, who understood when change, whether you liked it or not, was good business. Nothing personal.
David smiled, remembering Rebecca’s file. Maybe she’d truly surprise him and turn out to be a team player, after all.
On Wednesday morning, Rebecca walked into Kate’s office, looking for approval about her column. She hadn’t had to worry about an editor being pleased since she left the newsroom years ago. Strange how eager she felt for Kate to like it.
Kate peered up over her half-glasses and nodded. “A fine job, Rebecca. I liked the addition of the bleu cheese and champagne. It’s exactly what I asked you to do.”
Her confidence restored, Rebecca strolled toward Tim’s office to receive his richly deserved accolades. She was still hurt by how cavalierly he’d dismissed her, but she’d decided to forgive him. Actually, she needed to console him about “Shannon Shares with Her Friends.” As soon as the paper arrived this morning she’d read her competition, and any infinitesimal fear she’d had about Shannon possibly deserving her job vanished. The column was laughable in all the wrong places, besides containing at least two pictures that should have had “X ratings” for tacky. But what
had
surprised her was a picture of George Crosby, of all people, surrounded by friends in the bar at Gibson’s. It had looked like it was shot by an artist.
George looked just as sweetly hunky in the photo as he had when Rebecca met him at a Health and Career Fair in the roughest inner-city high school where they were both volunteering for the day. It had been lust at first sight and a playful good time together ever since. Seeing his picture reminded her that she hadn’t returned his last two phone calls.
Rebecca arrived at Tim’s office just as Shannon was leaving. Paralyzed with disbelief, Rebecca froze in the open doorway. Why were Shannon and Tim positively glowing?
Smiling, Shannon gave Tim a coy little wave and floated toward Rebecca. “Your column was so . . . revolutionary,” she whispered in passing.
Refusing to acknowledge her rush of embarrassment or allow Shannon a flicker of satisfaction for her zinger, Rebecca pretended not to hear. She strolled in and placed her meager one page on Tim’s desk. “What do you think?”
He frowned down at it. “The picture is great. My wife said the quesadillas looked good enough to eat. Maybe it will inspire her to actually use the new kitchen.” He laughed and looked up expectantly for Rebecca to join in.
She mustered a weak smile. “Do you know what the new owner thought about my first food column?”
“Rebecca, you know I love your work. Always have. Always will.” Tim glanced around like the room was bugged before leaning closer. “He thought it was standard stuff. Ordinary. He wants the paper to be more hip. Edgy. Why don’t you try kicking it up a little? Give it the old Rebecca Covington touch.”
The phone rang before she could remind Tim in no uncertain terms that according to the new boss, the
old
Rebecca wasn’t good enough now.
“Yes, Shannon.” Tim rolled his eyes and shrugged. “No, no, I’m not busy. Yes. Absolutely. Yes. That’s right . . . he loved your column . . . thought it was exactly on the mark. Yes . . . yes, I think so . . .”
Tim dismissed her with a grimace and a wave. Rebecca had no choice but to gather up the newspaper page and walk out. All the way back to the Home section she rolled her
ordinary
column tighter and tighter between her clenched fists.
So, Evil One . . . boss from hell . . . you want my special touch? You’re going to get it!
She placed her poor shredded column beside her computer, sat down, and stared at her screen.
Part of her wanted to tell them all to go to hell, pack up, and stalk off with dignity. The other part refused to surrender.
Staring at her screen saver of a glorious rose-colored sunset, she struggled between her common sense and her pride. Usually her Midwest common sense won out, but she had a healthy ability to rationalize. Tim
had
given her a direct order to add the “old Rebecca Covington” touch. Really, he had ordered her to do it, she told herself over and over again.
To obey his request, like she had Kate’s, she would change the spinach vichyssoise for Sunday’s Food section.
She shuddered at the thought of another ordeal in Harry’s kitchen, but she’d promised to pay for all damages from now on.
She knew her Sunday column would either dazzle David Alan Sumner with her edgy brilliance or this time he’d fire her for good.
A
t dawn, when David hit the gym in his condo building, the Sunday editions of his papers hadn’t arrived.
An hour later, finished with his workout and showered, he came back upstairs to find the bundle of newspapers at his door. As he did every morning that he happened to be in this austere penthouse he facetiously called home, he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to read, saving the
Chicago Daily Mail
for last.
A blast of sunlight, very intense and golden, came through the big window behind his desk and he blinked, blinded for an instant, the words blending together, so he had to reread Rebecca’s food column to make sure he’d gotten it right.
THE CHICAGO DAILY MAIL SUNDAY FOOD
SPINACH VICHYSSOISE
1 cup finely chopped white and pale green part of leek, washed well
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1¼ pounds boiling potatoes
4 cups chicken broth
2 cups water
½ pound fresh spinach, stems discarded and the leaves rinsed, spun dry, and shredded coarse (about 8 cups)
½ cup heavy cream
In a large saucepan, cook the leek with salt and pepper to taste in butter over moderately low heat, stirring, until the vegetable is softened. Add the potatoes—peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces—the broth and the water, and simmer the mixture, covered, for 10 to 15 minutes, or until the potatoes are tender. Stir in the spinach and simmer the mixture for 1 minute. Puree the mixture in a blender in batches, transferring it as it is pureed to a bowl, and let it cool. Stir in the cream, the chives, and salt and pepper to taste. Chill the soup, covered, for at least 4 hours or overnight, and serve.
Makes about 8 cups, serving 6 to 8
A Note from Rebecca Covington
Darlings, you must promise me to be extremely careful when you make this divine recipe! Herbs have been known to be harmful to a husband’s health.
I know
Desperate Housewives
has shown us not only how to cheat on our wayward men, but also how to “off” them when necessary. But let us not forget the Chicago socialite who perfected the technique years ago.
The dear, put-upon woman added sorrel mixed with the spinach in this sublime soup recipe. The two are so alike in look and taste it is nearly impossible to tell them apart. Except her miserable, cheating husband was violently allergic to sorrel! Of course it wasn’t quite enough toxic matter to actually kill him, but just enough to make him wish he were dead.
He ended up in the hospital for four days, which gave her time to clean out the wall safe and hide financial assets.
Isn’t that just so deliciously, cosmically correct? Happy cooking!
Xo Rebecca
David fell back in his chair and laughed with real amusement. It was something he rarely did, but when it happened he was lighter, as if the dull ache of sadness so much a part of him the last five years vanished for just that moment.
In his mind, David saw the picture of Rebecca Covington that used to head her former column as vividly as if he was looking at it now.
Her glamour had hit him first. Only then had he detected courage in her tilted chin, and a certain spirit in her eyes. Those perceptions, along with what he’d read about her, had warned him she might sue him for age discrimination. He’d expected it, alerted his legal team to the possibility.
But instead, she’d surprised and amused him.
When the newspaper finally hit Rebecca’s door on Sunday morning, she rushed to retrieve it. She held it like a baby, carrying it to her favorite chair by the window, where the light was so good she could read without her glasses.
My God, my hands are trembling!
Getting a grip on herself, she took a deep breath and turned to the Food section. Heart pounding like the hammer of fate, she read her column.
Laughing, she read her column again to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. It was funny, but would David Alan Sumner be amused? Or would he order Tim to fire her
again
?
The chilling thought that she’d put not only her job but Kate’s in danger cut through her like a steel blade. Stricken with sickening guilt for not thinking of the danger to Kate sooner, Rebecca rushed to the phone to call her.
She picked up the phone and realized she didn’t know the number. Information was no help—it told her Kate’s number was unlisted.
Desperate, she tried Pauline.
Pauline answered on the first ring with a laugh in her voice. “Rebecca, I loved your Sunday column. I’m dying to know who tried to kill her husband with soup.”
Still consumed with guilt about Kate, Rebecca had a hard time keeping her voice light. “Sworn to secrecy. Even to you. Pauline, do you know Kate’s home number?”
“Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t know it. She’s real private. Is everything all right?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Rebecca tried to sound reassuring. “Everything is fabulous. See you in the morning.”
Each time the phone rang she hoped it was Kate, but it was always one of her many sources who had fed her dozens of gossip items over the years. The phone had been deathly quiet since last week’s bloodbath. This morning it rang off the hook, with people feeding her juicy tidbits of news. Obviously they all assumed she was back in business as usual.
Was she on the way back to the top? Or had she recklessly sealed her fate and Kate’s?
O
n Monday morning, Rebecca put on her darkest, biggest sunglasses, clasped Sunday’s Food section to her chest like armor, and walked as fast as her four-inch heels would take her to the Daily Mail building. Everyone in Chicago always seemed to know her business before she did. She didn’t want to hear any
new
bad news from a cabbie or passerby before she dealt with Tim.
