Chapter One
Wonton wrappers lined the kitchen counters as I stuffed each one with a teaspoon of the crab Rangoon mixture. The kitchen was huge, much larger than the one in my small culinary class, and I was feeling a little lost.
“Guests will be arriving soon,” Mr. Franko announced.
He was short, kind of chubby, and the toupee on his head wasn’t fooling anyone, but this was my first big job, so I wasn’t going to point out the crooked mop on top of his head.
The guest list was filled with musicians, mostly wanna-be’s, but with Mr. Franko’s reputation, at least a few of them would go on to greatness.
I brushed the wrappers with egg wash and began folding them one by one. The oil was heating up and almost ready for me to start frying them when a tall, blonde haired woman walked into the kitchen.
“Smells delicious,” she said.
I looked up, smiled, and then went back to my work. With 20 guests on the invitation list, I didn’t have time to chit chat with this woman, whoever she was.
“Crab Rangoon, oh man, that’s my favorite thing to eat…well, second favorite,” she said with a wink.
I found her to be obvious, too obvious, and slightly vulgar, but intriguing in some way.
She leaned against the counter, watching me as I dropped six of the appetizers into the hot oil.
“I’m sorry, I’m Carla,” she said.
“I’m Marcie,” I responded, still not wanting to spend much time talking.
“I can’t wait to taste you, I mean taste what you have made,” she said.
Seriously, who was this woman?
In the small town in Indiana where I grew up, lesbians were a myth, something men watched on movies and wished they could experience, not like here in L.A., where women openly admitted their taste for the same sex. I wasn’t sure if I was used to it yet or not, and Carla certainly made me wonder if I ever would be….
Her smile was contagious, and even though I found her offensive on many levels, she was attractive, funny, and somehow sexy.
Carla pushed away from the counter, gripped a glass of wine and swaggered out of the kitchen.
I watched as her tall, lean frame left the room. Her legs were long and toned and looked amazing in the red high-heels she wore so effortlessly.
I finished the remaining appetizers and made a walk through to all the guests, serving them each my tasty creations one by one. When I made my way to Carla, she was talking to a pretty brunette; she was cute, young, at least ten years younger than Carla and seemed interested in everything she said.
“Thank you, they look almost as good as you…” Carla said as she picked up one of the crab apps from my tray.
The brunette looked irritated at her attentions towards me, and I knew by the heat on my cheeks that I looked embarrassed.
Mr. Franko was announcing an upcoming show for one of the musicians, so I snuck back into the kitchen.
Carla showed up behind me, smiling in her flirtatious way. Why was she so interested in me, I wasn’t gay?
“So, you seeing anyone?” she asked.
Wow, she’s forward.
“No, I broke up with my boyfriend before I started culinary school.” I said.
I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to throw that into the conversation, maybe just to let her know I dated men, not women…
“Boyfriend?” she asked.
Her perfectly manicured eyebrows rose at my confession of being a straight woman as if she was shocked at the revelation.
“So, you came out when you went to school?” she asked.
Her blue eyes stared into my soul, as if they waited for not only the answer to the question, but the answer to life.
“Came out?” I asked.
I knew what she meant, but I played coy, hoping to throw her away from the topic.
“Came out darling, you know, gave in to your sexual preference for women…” she said.
My stomach tightened and my eyes moved quickly away from hers and back to the next course I was preparing.
The memory of Shawna from culinary school and our one night of exploration shot through my mind like a vivid movie. That didn’t mean anything, did it?
“I’m not gay,” I said, smiling so I wouldn’t offend her.
“Oh, you are…I can sniff others out like a hound dog looking for rabbit,” she said.
I could feel her eyes still on me, but I refused to look at her directly. The fear of her being able to see through me, see the night of sexual deviance I shared with my best friend from college kept my eyes on the chicken breasts in front of me.
“Here, come by the gym,” she said, pushing a business card next to me on the counter.
I looked up, noticed she had a smile, no longer looking at me like I was her prey, but softer, kinder…
“I manage the place, at least until I hit it big…” she said.