Wine, Tarts & Sex

Eighteen

In the peak of summer, most kitchens had the necessary items for tomato sauce, so Jake decided on a first course of penne in pomodoro sauce. He filleted plum tomatoes, slivered garlic, picked some basil from a pot on Liv’s back step, opened a can of Italian plum tomatoes, one of paste, then swirled and simmered and seasoned the sauce until the taste was to his liking. Cooking al dente penne, he drained it quickly into a colander and, still dripping the starchy pasta water, dumped it into the waiting sauce. Tossing it with a few splashes more of extra-virgin olive oil, he served it, knowing in his heart of hearts, he’d nailed it.

His companions agreed, their praise effusive as they enthusiastically relished the flavorful dish. By the time they’d savored the last bite of their first course, everyone was on their second glass of Liv’s full-bodied red, and conversation and alcohol-fueled appetites increased exponentially.

A bottle of Liv’s dry white wine accompanied the second course of salade niçoise-Jake’s menu choices determined by what was available in the larder of a woman who didn’t regularly cook. In the hands of a master, canned tuna and anchovies, hard-boiled eggs, potatoes, tomatoes, olives, red onion, and green beans quickly came together in a delectable taste of summer. Jake’s vinaigrette was basic: Dijon mustard and sherry vinegar, whisked together, olive oil added a little at a time, then minced garlic, salt, and pepper to taste.

The presentation, however, was far from basic, the salad artfully arranged on a large platter, each colorful morsel gleaming temptingly from a light drizzle of vinaigrette.

Everyone was silent for a time as they ate, only soft mmmmms of content audible as the succulent flavors melded and tantalized taste buds-every bite fresh, vibrant, crunchy, clean-tasting.

While Matt had eaten all his pasta, he eyed the salad suspiciously and only ate select items, mainly potatoes. But when it came to dessert, Jake had produced a winner for all ages.

Finding a bowl of cherries in the fridge, he’d pitted and halved them, simmered them with sugar and a little water, and spooned them warm over vanilla ice cream. He would have added a few tablespoons of kirsch for flavor if Matt hadn’t been there. But in deference to a child’s palate, he didn’t.

By the time everyone was enjoying their dessert, Liv was thoroughly convinced that having a live-in chef was right up there on the top of her list of pleasures-along with prime sex. Whether it rated first or second was still under debate. Not that her faculties were debate-sharp at this point. Between the drinks and awesome food, not to mention Jake’s can’t-keep-your-eyes-off-him good looks, she was drifting somewhere between euphoria and a ride on the gravy train.

This state of mind caused her to be just a tad slow on the uptake when Shelly walked through her back door. Liv’s first thought was: it was way too early for Shelly to make it this far north. She shot a glance at the clock. Six-fifteen? Like way, way too early. Shelly was always the last to leave work.

Every inch the polished professional in a fawn-colored suit, heels, and sleek, blonde, not-a-hair-out-of-place coif, Shelly smiled at Liv. “I tried calling,” she blandly lied, “but no one answered. Am I too late for supper? It smells delicious. ”

In her blissed-out torpor, Liv was still trying to sort the discrepancies of time, distance, and Shelly’s surprising appearance. Since her brain synapses weren’t currently operating at optimum levels, the sorting was less than speedy.

“It’s not too late at all,” Jake said, smoothly coming to the rescue. Rising, he pulled out an extra chair. “Please, sit down.” He put out his hand. “I’m Jake Chambers.”

“Shelly Parks.” Walking forward, she shook Jake’s hand. “A real pleasure,” she said like she really meant it. “Now I understand why Liv’s been incommunicado.”

“Shelly, let me introduce my friend, Janie,” Liv interjected, getting her brain up to speed, desperate to avoid more of Shelly’s embarrassing comments. “Janie Rolf, Shelly. This is Janie’s son, Matt.” Liv waved her hand toward Roman. “And another friend, Roman Novak.”

Roman came to his feet and shook Shelly’s hand, while Janie looked up with a measured gaze. “Hello,” she said cooly. She’d not yet made up her mind whether Shelly was competition or not.

“It’s a pleasure to meet everyone,” Shelly murmured, ignoring Janie’s assessing gaze. In her business, assessment was de rigueur if one wished to survive. “It was soooo hot in town, I thought it might be cooler up here,” she prevaricated, as she took a seat at the table. “You painted your kitchen chairs again,” she added, smiling at Liv. “I like the wild colors.”

“Thanks. You left work early.” Nothing like a couple mojitos and wine to obliterate tact.

“I had a good day. Made a ton of money for everyone, myself included. I thought, what the hey… the company can get along without me for a while.”

Okay. So Shelly and the truth weren’t tracking tonight, Liv decided. Although what did she expect? She’d be just as nosy if Shelly dropped out of sight with a new guy. “Shelly’s a futures trader,” Liv said, opting for forgiveness and good manners. “She keeps the wheels of commerce greased.”

Slipping her suit jacket off, Shelly smiled. “I’m addicted to the game-what can I say. And I apologize for dropping in unexpectedly,” she added, hanging her jacket on the back of her chair.

“What do you know about offshore accounts?” Janie abruptly asked, although her voice was ultracasual. “Or is that something outside your field?”

“I know a little.” Shelly waggled her right hand. “They’re legal in some instances, but ethically-not so much. The IRS would like to get their hands on the billions they’re losing in taxes with those accounts. They’re beginning to crack down here and there. What do you want to know?”

“I’ll bet I can find you Sponge Bob on TV, Matt.” Roman gave Janie a warning look. “Or would you rather see a Disney movie?” he asked, lifting the young boy from his chair.

As Roman carried Matt away from the table, Janie leaned forward slightly. “I was just wondering. For instance, if someone was getting cash from, say, the Isle of Man on a regular basis… would that be legal?”

Roman glanced back and gruffly said, “Watch it.”

“It’s just a general query,” Janie said with a dismissive shrug. “People talk at cocktail parties… about their stocks and, well, these offshore accounts. I was just curious.”

“Legalities can always be parsed,” Shelly noted. “And they often are with these offshore accounts.” She’d seen the interchange between Janie and the large man who looked like he could snap anyone’s neck without breaking a sweat. She chose her words carefully. “If you had specifics, I might be able to give you a more definitive answer. Or if I couldn’t, I know a corporate tax lawyer who could.”

“Never mind,” Janie said with a careless wave of her hand. “Although, should I need more information at a later date, perhaps I could give you a call.”

“Certainly, anytime. By the way, I loved that soap you starred in. You were great.”

Janie adored flattery. “It was a few years back, but thanks,” she murmured, preening.

“You had a fabulous part. Tammy Winthrop was a woman who went after what she wanted. How cool is that?”

And truer than you think, Liv reflected, privy to Janie’s leave-no-stone-unturned pursuit of Leo.

“Didn’t you marry-what was his name-the big-time developer?”

“Leo Rolf.”

“That’s the one. Good for you. Money makes the world go round.”

Roman frowned as he returned to the table.

Liv looked at Janie.

Janie looked at Roman.

Jake set the penne in front of Shelly. “Bon appétit,” he said into the silence.

“I stuck my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?” Shelly scanned the faces around the table, their unease palpable.

After a lengthy moment, Janie softly sighed. “Actually, I’ve left Leo. I’m in hiding here.”

“And I barged right in. Sorry.” Shelly tipped her head in Janie’s direction. “But don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d forget you ever saw Janie.” The threat in Roman’s deep voice was unmistakable. “Leo doesn’t believe in playing by the rules.”

Shelly figured Leo Rolf might have his hands full if Roman Novak was protecting his estranged wife. “Trust me; I’m dependable. As for rotten divorces,” she added tersely, “believe me, I could write the book.”

Roman smiled.

Was that tight-lipped smile threatening or sympathetic? Shelly wasn’t sure.

“Just so there’s no misunderstanding,” Roman added, his tone softer now, only a hint of a growl evident, “Janie isn’t here. She’s never been here. You didn’t see her.”

Shelly nodded. “Understood. Leo Rolf’s last divorce made the papers in Minnesota, too.”

“Look, I can vouch for Shelly’s discretion,” Liv said. “Enough already about life’s problems.” She turned to Shelly. “Now, eat your pasta before it gets cold. And no more talk about vile Leo,” she added, surveying her companions. “It’s ruining my good mood.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen, since I have plans,” Jake murmured with a shameless grin. He held up a wine bottle. “Who needs a refill?”

After topping off everyone’s glass, Jake launched into a story about a celebrity chef of TV fame who had drunk one too many of his signature POM martinis and had nearly burned down the studio along with the head of the network, who happened to be there for promo shots.

Janie chimed in next with a humorous story about her first audition in Hollywood, followed by another of Roman ’s vivid descriptions of vice and politics, New York style.

As the conversation continued apace, the focus on less angst-ridden topics, Shelly finished her second course. By that point, she’d come to the conclusion that both Liv and Janie would without a doubt be enjoying themselves tonight. Jake was charming and heart-poundingly handsome, not to mention he knew his way around females. Roman was all hard-bodied, larger-than-life machismo, coiled tight as a drum. His disciplined constraint was intriguing. Or frightening. She hadn’t quite decided which.

Not that Janie appeared intimidated.

Maybe she was too Midwestern, Shelly thought. Big-city detectives with hard eyes, however entertaining their stories, weren’t the norm in her-granted-probably unworldly sphere.

After finishing dessert, however, and numerous glasses of wine, her reservations were largely dispelled, and everyone had been categorized as charming to the core.

“Stay the night,” Liv offered after Janie left to put Matt to bed. “You shouldn’t drive after drinking anyway.”

“I don’t know. I have to get up real early.”

“I’ll set the alarm. You can sleep in the downstairs bedroom where it’s extra quiet.”

“And then I won’t wake you when I leave,” Shelly noted with a grin.

Liv grinned back. “That, too. But stay. McKinley and McKinley wouldn’t like it if you were picked up for a DUI. Bad for their image.”

This would have been an opportune moment for Jake to say, “I’m going back to the city. I’ll drive you.” He’d even run the idea through his mind a couple times. God knows, every sensible brain cell was telling him to get out of Dodge. If he actually stayed a second night, he’d be setting some alarming, possibly dire record. He didn’t do sleep-overs. It had always been his cardinal rule.

And now, he couldn’t bring himself to say those few simple words: I gotta go.

Instead, he poured himself another glass of Liv’s wine. A good wine, perhaps someday even a great wine. Not that he was about to disclose his personal judgments on the subject. Both her red and white were remarkably balanced and smooth for (1) a boondocks wine-growing region of the world, (2) a brand-new vineyard, and (3) hybrid grapes no one had ever heard of.

“Let’s play charades,” Janie suggested brightly as she returned from tucking Matt into bed. “I adore charades.”

Maybe because her entire life was a charade, Jake thought, immediately blaming his churlishness on his inability to do what he should do. Like leave.

Liv looked at Jake.

He grimaced.

Roman shrugged.

Shelly said, “I love charades, too!”

And three out of five adults inwardly groaned.