I pushed the doorbell, suddenly aware of a swarm of winged creatures fluttering inside my rib cage like newly hatched termites.
The door opened. Julie stood smiling at me, framed by the soft light from inside. She was wearing jeans, a white cotton shirt, and a bright purple apron. Rolled-up sleeves showed off her toned muscles, and her apron was snug over her breasts. Fit, yet voluptuous, what a combination. We cheek-kissed. Her skin was slightly damp and her hair smelled of jasmine. I pulled away quickly. I didn’t want to think about what I smelled like.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Crazy day. I’m a little worse for wear.”
“To say nothing of your Mustang,” Julie said, looking over my shoulder at the battered Toyota parked in her guest slot.
Oh, well.
I handed her the paper bag of almonds. “For you,” I said. “A bag of nuts, straight from the grove. Don’t let anyone tell you I’m not a romantic at heart.”
She laughed, and ushered me inside.
“Welcome to the land of beige,” she said. I looked around. Sure enough, the walls were beige. The wall-to-wall carpet was beige. Even the photograph of a mountain range hanging over the living room sofa was beige. “I bought the apron as an act of self-defense.” She spread her purple apron and curtseyed.
I’d forgotten how quirky she was.
The smells coming from the small kitchen area were enough to make me weep. Sauteed garlic and onions. Balsamic vinegar. Something else, creamy and comforting. I honed in on a bottle of Pinot Noir breathing away on the counter. Soon I was perched on a stool by the kitchen island, sipping delicious wine and watching delicious Julie perform culinary magic.
She opened the oven and leaned in to poke at something. I spotted a cast iron pan loaded with bubbling, thinly sliced potatoes.
“You didn’t,” I said. “Potatoes Anna? Really? What are you, psychic?”
Not psychic, a voice inside me said. Manipulative. A drop of uneasiness tainted the pleasure, like ink in water. My chest constricted, though I kept my tone casual.
“Did you talk to Martha?”
Julie turned. The heat from the oven flushed her cheeks a becoming pink.
“Guilty as charged,” she said. She pulled a basket of morels from the refrigerator and waved them at me.
“She also told me you loved these.”
My jaw must have tightened.
“Hey,” Julie said. “Give me a break. I never cooked for a monk before.”
She had a point.
Soon we were tucking into heaping plates of crispy, buttery potatoes; big, juicy grilled mushrooms, and a tart, delicate salad of arugula, avocado, and crumbled blue cheese. Her silent concentration on the food blessedly matched my own, until our plates were clean.
I helped myself to more of everything.
“I thought morels weren’t in season,” I said, refilling our glasses. “Where did you find these?”
“The competition can be fierce, but we chefs have our own inside informants,” she said. “They’re called exotic food suppliers. I got the morels from one of our regulars, in Calabasas. Guess where they’re flown in from?”
I had no idea.
“The Southern Himalayas,” she said. “Not too far from where you grew up, right?”
Again, I felt that little kink of unease. She seemed to know a lot more about me than I did her. I took another bite of potatoes, and as the buttery mixture melted on my tongue, I let the feeling melt away along with it.
“So, how’s the chef gig going?” I asked.
“Sous-chef,” she said, “and it’s a nightmare, thanks. I’m dealing with a maniac. When they interviewed me, I neglected to ask why the executive chef didn’t bring his own sous-chef with him. Turns out she’s in rehab for alcoholism.”
She poured herself another glass of wine. “I may be headed that way myself.”
She described her chef’s latest tantrum, one of many. Broken dishes and a weeping waiter were involved. I told her I understood, and detailed several infamous outbursts by my own former boss, the king of homicidal rages.
“He’s one of the reasons I left,” I said. “What about you? Do you have to put up with it? Why not quit?”
“Oh, you know. The three P’s: Prestige. Perfectionism. Pride. I want to have my own restaurant one day, and this job could be a great launching pad for me. If I get the offer-permanently, I mean-I’ll probably take it. Send for my things. Actually move out of this homage to blandness.”
She lifted her glass and toasted the walls. “To anything but beige,” she said, and met my eyes. “Should I open another bottle?”
Her offer was like an unfurling red carpet. I knew exactly where a second bottle of wine would lead. My heart took a small step back.
“No more for me, thanks. I have to drive.”
She looked down. Nodded. Message received. I couldn’t tell how she felt about it, though.
I moved to the sofa and sat, patting the cushion next to me. After a moment, Julie joined me. Her upright back told me she wasn’t as cool about my little rebuff as I’d thought. We perched side by side, awkward with each other for the first time all evening.
Suddenly Julie jumped up. She crossed to the kitchen area and pulled out a mortar and pestle. She poured some of my almonds into the pestle and began grinding, giving those lovely biceps an energetic workout.
“Shouldn’t let these go to waste,” she said. “I’m thinking marzipan might be nice for dessert.”
My mind hopped back onto the red carpet and raced ahead to the main event, followed by all the future meals and desserts I might enjoy with this talented woman and her gorgeous musculature.
I felt my own muscles stirring, one in particular. I quickly trawled my brain for conversational topics, before I embarrassed myself.
John D seemed safe.
As I told her a little about my new friend, I again pictured John D’s family photograph, set in the flowering grove.
“I never knew almond trees were so beautiful in bloom,” I said. “They remind me of those Japanese paintings.”
“Good call,” Julie answered. “An almond is actually in the plum family, along with apricots and cherries.”
“And the blossoms. Pink and cream. Like your skin.”
Julie gave me a strange look.
“Is there a problem?” I said.
“Uh, don’t bring me any more almonds from random groves, Ten, okay?” Then she added insult to injury by scraping the ground almonds into the garbage.
“I thought they tasted just fine.” My voice was tight.
“You already ate some?”
“But if they don’t meet your professional standards, just say so.” I was acting like a deprived child, and I knew it.
“Ten, some raw almonds can make you sick. I’m sorry. I’m probably overly-careful, but when you said-”
“No, I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I’m an idiot. Can we just … reboot somehow?”
Julie took a minute. But then her eyes regained some of their twinkle.
“Our first food tiff.” Her smile was a gentle invitation to let the tension go. “I’ll make you a delicious dessert. Promise.” She yawned. “But not tonight.”
I matched her yawn with two eye-watering ones of my own. She plopped down next to me on the sofa, leaning closer this time. Everything was suddenly all better.
“Long day,” she murmured.
“Long week,” I said. I gave her a brief rundown. She turned to face me, wrapping her arms around raised knees. She was a good listener, and seemed genuinely interested in my transition from cop to detective. Soon we were swapping tales of academy training, hers culinary, mine with the police. The process of moving up the ladder was more similar than you might assume, though Julie’s involved learning to work with pastry and poultry, mine with graffiti and gangs. On one point we agreed completely-negotiating with all the idiots out there provided the biggest challenge.