The Mortal Groove (4 page)

“After Ludtke dropped out,” said Jane, “a lot of people claimed the front-runner status. But right now it's anybody's call who's going to win the party endorsement in June.” Not that her father was counting on it, or even cared that much about it. Truth was, not since Paul Wellstone won his U.S. Senate seat in
1990 had the State Democratic Party endorsement helped a nonencumbant candidate get elected to a major office.

“Your dad seems to appeal to both party faithfuls and independents,” said Tia. “That's quite a trick.”

“A lot can change between now and November, but I hope he wins,” said Jane. “I think he'd make a great governor.”

“Spoken like a loyal daughter.”

“No, it's more than that, but maybe we should move on.”

After Tia pushed the tape into the recorder, she seemed to hesitate. She scrutinized Jane's face for a few seconds, and only then did she remove a small notebook from her purse and open it. “Okay,” she said, slipping on her reading glasses. She pressed the Record button. “In doing my research, I found out that you've been a restaurateur for eighteen years. How did it all start? What drew you to the business?”

Jane shifted in her chair. “Well, I lived in England until I was nine, and then we moved back to the States—to Minnesota. My mother died when I was thirteen. Right after that, I went back to England. I spent the next couple of years living with my aunt Beryl and uncle Jimmy. Jimmy had a restaurant in Poole. I worked there after school and on weekends. I started by running errands, stocking, doing some salad prep, but before I left to come back home, I was working the line. It wasn't elegant food, just basic restaurant fare, but I learned a lot—loved every minute of it. Initially, I was put off by the crazy mix of people who worked for my uncle, but in time, they became friends. I still write to some of them. The restaurant business seems to attract people who don't fit anywhere else. Cowboys, loners, extreme extroverts or introverts, people who'd rather die than work your basic nine-to-five.”

“Does that include you?” asked Tia.

“I suppose, although a forty-hour workweek would look pretty good to me right about now.”

“I do all the cooking at home. My husband likes it that way. Sometimes, just between you and me, I get a little sick of it. I think of cooking as a truly feminine occupation. You know, something a woman should know how to do. But you're more of a businesswoman than you are a cook, aren't you. I assume you don't spend much time in the kitchen. It's not really in your nature.”

“My
nature?
Actually, I feel more at home in a commercial kitchen than I do anywhere else on earth. I don't know how to explain it to you, but . . . the smell of a commercial kitchen, it's something I can't describe, but it excites me.”

“Did your father put up the financial backing for your first restaurant?”

“No,” said Jane. It was a common misconception. “After I graduated from college, I cooked at an upscale restaurant in downtown Minneapolis for a couple of years, just to see if I was really serious about restaurant work. Again, I loved it. I knew nothing about the realities of running a restaurant, so I spoke to the owner and he agreed to let me work the front of the house. I stayed there for two more years, and at the same time I got my cheffing degree and took a bunch of business classes. I talked to dozens of people, all experts in the field. I designed a business plan I thought would not only work, but would get me the money I needed when I applied for a loan.”

“All smooth sailing?” asked Tia.

Jane laughed. “Everything—and I mean
everything
—has been a struggle. I've made tons of mistakes over the years, but I've also learned. That's partly why I wanted to create a new restaurant.”

“You found an . . . interesting . . . location for the club,”
said Tia. “Seems you've got a large gay following. Of course, Uptown is known as a local gay Mecca.”

“I suppose. There are lots of ethnic restaurants, too. And it's become sort of a hot spot for great indie shops, indie movies. If you walk around here at night, you'll see a little of everything. I guess I'd call it culturally diverse.”

“I'm sure that's more politically correct.”

“Actually, I think it's just more accurate,” said Jane.

“You're gay, right?” asked Tina.

She nodded.

“I'm curious. Your father is running for the highest political office in the state. Has your sexual orientation presented him with any problems?”

“You'd have to ask him.”

“Okay. But . . . what's your father's opinion of say, gay marriage? I've never heard him make a comment about it.”

Tia had gone through the motions of interviewing her, but now she was headed where she really wanted to go. Jane's instincts had been right to be wary.

“Again, you'd have to ask him.”

“But surely you know.”

She shrugged. “I can only speak for myself.”

“Fine, then tell me your opinion.”

“I'm not sure what this has to do with my restaurants, but I'd be happy to tell you. I think it's beyond ridiculous that rapists and murderers, child molesters and torturers can marry and I can t.

Tia cleared her throat. “But doesn't it ever bother you that being a homosexual is, well, simply not normal?”

“That's an opinion.”

“It's happens to be
God's
opinion.”

“Then maybe you should go interview God.” She started to get up.

“I'm sorry, Jane. Please. I didn't mean to upset you.”

Like hell. “Being gay is a variation, Tia. Like left-handedness. Or color blindness. I think Alfred Kinsey proved that a long time ago.”

“Oh, yes, Kinsey. I saw the movie. I know you may not like what I'm saying, but . . . how can you people call yourselves ‘gay'? I mean, you can't be happy.”

There was so much to respond to in that question, Jane didn't even know where to start. “Do you have any gay friends or family members?”

“Are you suggesting that if I got to know some of you, that I'd change my mind?”

“No. Actually, I don't think that.”

“Since we've moved to a more personal level, let's keep it there for a minute. Do you have a . . . significant other?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been together long?”

“A couple years.”

“When did you first choose the gay lifestyle?”

“When did you first choose the straight lifestyle?”

Tia looked at her over the top rim of her glasses. “Cute.”

“It's a valid question.”

“I didn't choose to be straight. You know that.”

“I didn't choose to be gay. And by the way, it's not a lifestyle. It's my
life”

Tia adjusted her glasses. “You people are so sensitive.”

Jane had just about had enough. “Look, if this interview is going to be nothing more than a veiled attack on my sexuality, we can stop right now.”

Tia held up her hand. “We'll table that thread. But I still have a couple more questions. Growing up, did you feel your dad was a good father? Did he make time for you and your brother?”

Jane's eyes rose to the ceiling. “Yes. Always.”

“How would you describe your dad?”

“Decent,” said Jane. “Human. Unsentimental. A guy who likes a good fight.”

“Do you think you're like him?”

“In some ways.”

“More like him than your mother?”

Talk about an agenda. Jane almost laughed out loud, not that it was funny. “No.”

“You have a brother, Peter. Would you say your family is close?”

“Yes.”

Tia pulled off her glasses. “One-word answers don't make for interesting interviews, Jane.”

She forced herself to relax. “You have to understand, I've always been a very private person. With my dad running for office, I know I should get used to people asking a lot of personal questions, but I doubt I ever will. And when it comes to my father's views—on anything—if you've got questions, you'll have to ask him.”

“All right. Fair enough. But could you talk a little more about your family life when you were growing up?”

Jane took a deep breath. “I guess I feel incredibly blessed. We lived in St. Paul. My dad still lives in the house my brother and I grew up in. As a family, we had our disagreements, our ups and downs, but we loved each other. I think that's what being a family teaches you. You can disagree, but you can still love.”

“Now there's a nice quote. Good for you, Jane.” She flipped
to the next page of her notes. She asked a few more questions about Jane's early life, then moved on to the Lyme House. Ten minutes later, she announced, “I think I've got some great information here, but if you'd indulge me one more minute for one last question?” Tapping a long red fingernail against her notebook, she said, “Do you think your father will support things like the Gay Pride Parade?”

Jane's eyes slid right. “We're done.”

 

Around seven, Jane left the club, headed for the airport. Cordelia's plane was scheduled to arrive at 7:35. This was Cordelia's second trip across the pond since the beginning of the year. Her first trip to England, in early February, had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, which turned into a disaster. Octavia, her husband, Radley, and Hattie were gone from the house in Northumberland, the only address Cordelia had. The staff refused to give out any information about the family, where they were, when they would be back. Cordelia had booked a room in the nearest town and waited for over a week. She eventually gave up and flew home.

This time, however, her private investigator had been monitoring the Northumberland house. It was still a Cordelia-esque last-minute decision to get on the plane, but at least there was a better chance the family would be there. Jane offered to make the flight with her, but alas, Cordelia had booked the last seat. That was three days ago. Jane had received an e-mail from her this morning. It contained nothing but the return flight number and her time of arrival.

The traffic on the Crosstown was worse than Jane had expected, so when she pulled up to the curb on the arrival deck, Cordelia was already waiting outside, looking exhausted and utterly forlorn.

“I thought you'd never get here,” she muttered, hoisting her bag into the backseat.

“Traffic.” Jane studied her friend as she got herself settled. “How did you get those scratches on your face? Did Octavia do that?”

“No.”

“Then what happened? Did you see Hattie? Did you get Octavia to change her mind?”

Cordelia pinched the bridge of her nose and leaned her head back. “None of the above.” She motioned with her arm. “Drive on. I will tell all.”

As they eased back into traffic, Cordelia sighed. “At least the PI had it right. They were home this time. I rented a car and drove up from London, got there just before nine in the evening—whenever that was. I'm all turned around for time. I knocked on the front door and believe it or not, Octavia answered. She rushed at me like a she-devil! Refused to let me in. You would have been proud of me, Jane. I started off trying to be conciliatory, but that's wasted on my sister.

“She pushed me out onto the steps and closed the door. Said that Hattie was in bed and she wouldn't wake her. I said fine, I'd come back in the morning. But oh, no. That wasn't going to happen. She insisted that I was responsible for turning Hattie into a weird little kid. That she kept asking for things like Brie, cornichons, fondu, foie gras, Steak Diane, fuffernutter ‘sandwishes.' I responded that I took Hattie's culinary education seriously. That's when Octavia said, ‘And what's all this crap about Mildred Pierce? And Bette, and Katherine?' ”

“Bette Davis and Katherine Hepburn,” said Jane.

“Of course,” said Cordelia, flinging her arms in the air. “Any nincompoop should know who she was talking about. I told
Octavia that film noir was very important to Hattie. That's when she said my influence was pernicious. Pernicious! Me! That I'd turned Hattie into a Goth. Well, you and I both know that Hattie's love of black is only rivaled by her love of pink. That's who she is. I didn't
make
her that way. But Octavia thinks Hattie needs time aw ay from me so that she can develop normally. She admitted that Hattie had cried for days when they brought her to England. That she talked about me nonstop. I mean, is this woman insane? Of course she did. She missed me. I'd been her mother figure for two freakin' years. But Octavia thought it was a sign of some sort of terrible instability or mental weakness. She's jealous, Jane. I could see the green glowing in her evil little eyes.”

“You're probably right.”

“Of course I'm right.”

“So what happened?”

“She told me to leave and slammed the door in my face. Well, I wasn't going to let her stop me. I'd come all that way, I was
going
to see Hattie. There was a trellis on the side of the house that led up to a second-floor balcony. Don't you find it annoying that trellises are always so sturdy in movies but that in real life they aren't? I started to climb it, determined to get inside, but halfway up it gave way and I ended up in some brambles that Octavia had planted just for me!”

“I doubt that she—”

“After I picked myself up and dusted myself off, I drove to the nearest hospital to get my cuts treated. And then I drove back to London.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“On the plane.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I don't remember.”

A bad sign. “Do you want to come back to my house, or should I drop you off at your loft?”

“I can't be alone right now, Jane. Let's go to your place.”

After a hot soak in the bathtub, a stiff glass of black cherry soda, and a bowl of homemade chicken soup, Cordelia was feeling a bit better. Jane could tell because she wasn't clenching and unclenching her fists every few seconds.