Untitled (8 page)

   As if it was all happening in slow motion, I saw the sauce slosh and I knew when it splashed over the sides, it was going to rain down on our students in a sticky mess. I tried to compensate, stepping back, but my butt slammed into the stove. The fire was on, and though I knew in my head that I wasn't in danger of getting scorched, I flinched. I darted forward and tripped over my own feet. I would have gone down like a rock if I didn't put a hand out to stop myself.

   When I did, I knocked into the shelf next to the stove. It was where I'd stashed the brown paper bag with the can of antistatic spray in it. The sleeve of my sweater caught on the bag.

   I knew better. Honest. I knew not to yank my arm away, but remember, it might have felt like it was happening in slow motion, but all this occurred in the blink of an eye.

   I was so anxious to at least look like I had the situation under control that I didn't think.

   I tugged my arm back, and the bag came with it.

   The aerosol can slipped out of the bag and tumbled. It clattered against the tile floor.

   The noise of it was still echoing when I breathed a sigh of relief. The excitement was over, and I hadn't fallen flat on my face in front of our students. Or dropped the pot of peach sauce.

   Life was good.

   I guess that must have been what I was thinking about. That's why I wasn't paying attention until I heard a collective gasp and saw a blur as someone pushed from the back of the crowd of students around me to the front of the group. Before I could register what was happening, that same someone took hold of my shoulders and pushed me—hard—away from the stove.

   I must have been hallucinating.

   That blur looked an awful lot like a tomato.

          The words rang through my head along with the sounds of the voices raised in surprise.

   "What happened?"

   "Are you hurt?"

   "What on earth are you doing?"

   Those first two questions were directed toward me, one by Margaret who was fanning her face with one hand and leaning against Jorge, and the other from Damien who'd raced over the second the commotion started.

   The last question was mine, and I'll admit I did not sound as cool, calm, and collected as I would have liked. My words were directed at Kegan, who was sitting on the floor beside where I lay. He had his hands on his knees and he was breathing hard.

   "I'm so sorry, Annie." Kegan put a hand on my shoulder. Since I was facedown on the floor and struggling to sit up, this was not the best strategy. I pushed his hand away, sat up, and scooped the hair out of my eyes. While I was at it, I picked pieces of peach sauce out of my hair.

   Kegan's face was pale. His lower lip trembled. "I'm so, so sorry. But there wasn't time to explain. I had to do something. Before you got hurt."

   Since I was already covered with peach sauce, both my knees were scraped and one of my elbows was bleeding, this seemed like a moot point.

   "I wasn't going to get hurt," I said. "At least not until you pushed me. I had everything under control."

   "But you didn't." Kegan stood on shaky legs. He stooped down to help me to my feet, and once I was up, he kept an arm around my shoulders. "It was the antistatic spray, Annie. I couldn't take any chances."

   
Huh?
would have been the appropriate response, but I had yet to arrive at
huh st
age. Along with everyone else in the kitchen, I simply stood there with my mouth open, staring at Kegan.

   He wasn't much calmer than I was. He had that deer-inthe-headlights look, but he managed to glance at the students gathered in a tight circle around us. "It's possible for aerosol cans to puncture when they're dropped," he explained. "And if that happens too near an open flame, the flammable solvents and propane propellant can be ignited. And then . . ." When he looked at me, I swear his face was a little green. "Kaboom!"

   Even under its coating of peach sauce, I think my face was green, too. I swallowed hard. "Kaboom?"

   Kegan nodded. "That's right. And it can happen fast. There wasn't time to explain. I had to get you out of the way. And the can, too." He looked all the way across the kitchen to where the can was still spinning on the tile floor near the walk-in cooler. "I kicked it as far away as fast as I could, but I couldn't take any chances that the gases might have already escaped and heated. You know, because of the—"

   "Kaboom." I filled in the blank. When Monsieur Lavoie showed up out of nowhere with one of the stools from out at the bar, I plonked down on it. "Wow, Kegan, you saved my life!"

   Some of the color rushed back into Kegan's face. "Not really. I mean, as it turns out, I don't think the can punctured."

   "But if it had . . ." I didn't want to think of the
Kaboom!
scenario, so I didn't finish the sentence. Marc handed me a wet cloth, and I wiped the sticky sauce off my face. "We're grateful," I told Kegan. "All of us. That was really quick thinking."

   "It was nothing. Really." Kegan blushed like a teenage girl at her first mixer. "Anybody would have done the same thing."

   "But that's not true, is it?"

   The question came from Brad, who stepped to the front of the group and clapped Kegan on the shoulder. "Not everybody would have known that stuff about the flammable propellent. You know what I mean, buddy?"

   I guess Kegan did, and I guess he was embarrassed by all the attention and about being thought of as a hero by his fellow classmates.

   He got pale all over again.

sieur Lavoie.

   While I hightailed it into the ladies' room to get the sticky peach sauce out of my hair and off my face, they took over like the pros they are. After I blotted the gluey mixture off my clothes with wet paper towels that were a little too wet, they made sure everything was under control while I retreated into my office until my skirt and sweater dried.

   I sat at my desk for a while and wallowed in my embarrassment, not to mention my incompetence. But hey, it wasn't the end of the world. If I'd learned nothing else in the course of two murder investigations, it was that there are far more important things in this world than saving face (or peach sauce). I got over it, and when I did, I did the only thing I could think of to make myself feel better: I updated our QuickBooks program and caught up on paying Bellywasher's bills.

   Unlike cooking, numbers are dispassionate, predictable, and without pitfalls. The familiar process of checking invoices against orders and packing slips was comforting, and while I was at it and my heartbeat had calmed down at last, I practiced every single excuse I could come up with to explain this latest cooking catastrophe to Jim.

   "The peach sauce made me do it."

   "I tripped, see, and after that . . ."

   Just thinking about everything that had happened—and the messy results—made me shift uncomfortably in my chair. My hair had dried into stiff spikes. My sweater was stained beyond saving. I'd missed some spots of peach sauce on my cheeks and my nose. I knew this for a fact because as I sat there, the honey in the sauce hardened.

   "Look on the bright side!" Since I was doing a onesided role-playing of sorts, I smiled when I said this, just the way I planned on smiling at Jim when I delivered the news of the botched cooking demonstration. I hoped by that time, the skin on my cheeks and nose wouldn't feel as if it was being pulled tight. "None of our students got hurt. Or even splashed with the peach sauce. And I didn't get hurt, either. At least too not much, anyway."

   I glanced down at the bandages stuck to my knees and fingered the thick wad of gauze and tape that Monsieur had insisted on wrapping around my elbow. Thanks to his ministrations, I wasn't bleeding anymore, but I wasn't sure I had any blood flow to my arm, either.

   "I guess it could have been a real disaster," I said. Since Jim was a practical guy, I knew he'd appreciate seeing the incident from this perspective. "If it wasn't for Kegan . . ."

   I stopped to consider this, and when I did, my stomach went cold. The next second, I smiled. When it came to Kegan, there really was more there than met the eye. For all his bashfulness, he really came through in a pinch.

   If Kegan hadn't jumped into action . . .

   If that can of antistatic spray really had been punctured . . .

   If the fumes had ignited in the heat from the stove . . .

   I shivered and thanked my lucky stars. Scraped knees

were a small price to pay. Looked like Kegan was living up to that romance hero name of his, after all.

   As for Jim . . .

   I was finished with the bills, so I clicked out of the program and turned off my computer for the night.

   I would explain this incident to Jim the way I explained everything else to him: with the whole truth and nothing but. One of the reasons I was so crazy about him was that he never seemed to hold it against me.

   Feeling better, and better able to face our students, I pushed back my chair and headed out into the restaurant.

   I was just in time to see that dinner was over and some of our students were heading out the door. Not all of them, though. Kegan was still seated at the table where he'd had dinner. He looked worried and miserable. Until he saw me. Then a look of relief swept over his face. He was seated with Monsieur, who raised his wineglass in salute to me. Marc and Damien each gave me a brief once-over. Satisfied that I'd sustained no permanent damage, they went about their business of cleaning up.

   Big surprise—Brad was helping collect plates and carry them into the kitchen.

   I watched the kitchen door swing closed behind him. "What's that all about?" I asked Kegan when he hurried over. "Call me crazy, but Brad doesn't seem like the type who would help swab the decks."

   "You're OK, aren't you?"

   So much for my attempt at avoiding the subject of my most recent culinary debacle. I sighed and turned away from the kitchen door, toward him.

   "I'm fine. Honestly. It's nothing that won't heal in a couple days. I might not be fine, though, if it wasn't for you."

   Of course, he blushed. By now I'd come to expect it.

   I knew if I said anything else about what a hero he was, he'd only feel more uncomfortable. When I changed the subject, I hoped it would stay changed.

"How was dinner?"

   Kegan's uneasiness disappeared beneath a smile. "The chicken wings were fabulous. The ice cream sauce was superb. But maybe you already know that, huh? Did you get to taste any of it?"

   I laughed when he did. "Unfortunately, none of it landed in my mouth. How about the corn? How was that?"

   "Perfect. And so was the rum punch. That's a great recipe."

   That only left one thing.

   "The flowers?" I asked.

   He made a face. "He wasn't happy," Kegan said, and instantly, I knew which
he w
e were talking about. Rather than explaining, he looked toward the table where he'd been sitting, and I saw the single iris bud that had been dropped into a too-big vase. It leaned to one side, sad and alone.

   "Brad's not big on ambiance," I said. As if I had to tell Kegan. I lowered my voice and leaned closer to him. "I didn't think he was too big on being friendly, either, but I guess that should teach me not to judge people too quickly. It's nice of him to help out."

   Kegan looked thoughtful. He bent his head closer to mine. "I've been wondering about him. You know, all those questions he was asking before class. Do you think—"

   The kitchen door swished open, and Brad strode into the restaurant. Like people do everywhere when they're caught talking about people who suddenly show up, Kegan and I leapt back from each other and pretended to be talking about nothing at all.

   "Hey! Glad you're still here." Brad strolled over. "I was afraid I'd missed you."

   Kegan gulped. "You were?"

   Brad chuckled. The sound was kind of rusty. Like he hadn't laughed in a long time. "You act like I'm a hit man lying in wait for you. Actually, I was wondering if I could buy you a beer. You know, to show my appreciation for what you did tonight. That was really pretty remarkable. If it wasn't for you, Annie here might have been as burned as her chicken wings."

   I ignored the critique. It wasn't so easy to disregard the fact that if I let Brad buy Kegan a beer, I was being ungracious.

   "Oh, no!" With an easy smile, I took over the way I did at the bank when a customer was unhappy about things like account balances or how long it takes for a check to clear. "If anyone's buying the beers, it's me," I said, and when Kegan looked like he was going to turn me down (no doubt because he didn't want to be singled out), I latched on to his arm.

   "That includes drinks for Marc and Damien and you, too, Monsieur!" I said, and I waved Lavoie over. "You all helped out tonight, and I really appreciate it. How about that martini bar over on Saint Alphath's?" I suggested to Monsieur. "You can meet us over there after you lock up."

   Monsieur gave me a kiss on each cheek. It was his very French way of saying he'd be delighted. That taken care of, Kegan, Brad, and I left Bellywasher's together.

   We stepped outside, and as much as I hate to admit it, my throat clutched and my stomach knotted. I couldn't help myself. I guess it's my own version of post-traumatic stress disorder. Every time I leave the restaurant after dark, I can't help but relive that night when a drive-by shooting pocked the restaurant—and nearly Eve and me, too—with holes.

   Like I always did these days, I paused before I stepped out on the sidewalk ahead of Brad and Kegan. I darted a look up and down the street.