No one but herself. Only Georgeanne.
Panic grabbed ahold of her stomach, and she lowered her gaze to the Seattle Times on the overnight case in her lap. She could feel an emotional overload just below the surface. In order to avoid a complete shutdown, she concentrated on the newsprint. Her lips moved as she slowly read the want ads.
The sign above Heron Catering hung awkwardly to the right. Thursday night’s storm had knocked it around until one of the chains had snapped. Now the great majestic bird painted on the sign looked as if it were about to take a nosedive onto the sidewalk. The rhododendrons planted on each side of the door had survived the heavy winds, but the hanging red geraniums were pretty much history.
Inside the small building, everything was in perfect order. The office in the front of the converted store had a desk and a round table. A large picture of two people with matching clothing and identical faces hung on the wall. Each held an opposite end of a dollar bill. In the kitchen an industrial slicer, grinder, and stainless steel pots and pans shined. A selection of menu samples sat on a tray in one of the refrigerators, while the owner’s doubler-decker air-flow oven dominated the opposite corner.
The owner herself stood in the bathroom with a blue rubber band clamped between her lips. A fluorescent light flickered and buzzed and cast a grayish tint over Mae Heron’s face. Her brown eyes studied her reflection in the mirror above the sink as she brushed her blond hair into a ponytail high on the back of her head.
Mae was the epitome of an Ivory Soap girl. She didn’t have any use for fruity skin cleansers or toners or fancy creams. She hated the feel of makeup on her face. Sometimes she wore a little mascara, but because she had little practice, she wasn’t any good at applying it, not like Ray had been. Ray had always been so good at dress-up.
Mae turned to look at herself from the side and raised a hand to smooth a lump of hair at her crown. She might have taken the ponytail out and started over if the bell above the front door hadn’t signaled the arrival of the customer Mae had been expecting. Mrs. Candace Sullivan was a frequent client of Heron’s, and she’d called Mae to cater her parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. Candace was the wife of a respected cardiologist. She was wealthy and Mae’s last hope to keep her and Ray’s dream alive.
She looked down to make sure her blue polo shirt was tucked neatly into her khaki shorts and took a deep breath. She wasn’t very good at this part of the business. Kissing ass and schmoozing customers had been Ray’s forte. She was the accountant. The bookkeeper. She wasn’t good with people. She’d spent the previous night and much of today crunching numbers until her eyes felt gritty, but no matter how many creative ways she’d figured it, if the catering business she and Ray had opened three years ago didn’t receive a generous cash flow soon, then she’d have to close the doors. She needed Mrs. Sullivan; she needed her money.
Mae reached for the manila job envelope on the sink and headed out of the bathroom. She walked through the kitchen, but sto
pped short in the doorway to the front office. The young woman standing in the room bore not the slightest resemblance to Mrs. Sullivan. In fact, she looked like an escapee from the Playboy Mansion. She was everything Mae was not: tall, busty, with thick dark hair and nice tanned skin. All Mae had to do was think of the sun and she burned a nice shade of lobster red. “Ahh… can I help you?”
“I’m here to apply for the job,” she answered with an obvious southern drawl. “The chef’s assistant job.”
Mae glanced at the newspaper the woman held in one hand, then let her gaze travel up the pink satin dress with the big white bow. Her brother Ray would have loved that dress. He would have wanted to wear it. “Have you ever worked for a caterer before?”
“No. But I’m a good cook.”
From the looks of her, Mae sincerely doubted the woman could boil water. But she knew better than anyone not to judge a person by the color of his or her party dress. She’d spent most of her life defending her twin brother against cruel people who judged him harshly, including members of her own family.
“I’m Mae Heron,” she said.
“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Heron.” The other woman set the newspaper on a table by the door, then walked toward Mae and shook her hand. “My name is Georgeanne Howard.”
“Well, Georgeanne, I’ll get you an application,” she said as she moved behind her desk. If she got the Sullivan job, she would need a chef’s assistant, but she really doubted she would hire this woman. Not only did she prefer to hire experienced cooks, but she questioned the judgment of someone who would wear a provocative dress to apply for a job in a kitchen.
Even though she didn’t plan to hire Georgeanne, she figured that she’d let her fill out an application and send her on her way. She reached inside a bottom drawer as the bell above the door rang once again. She looked up and recognized her wealthy client. Like most cocktail-drinking, tennis-playing, country-club women, Mrs. Candace Sullivan’s hair resembled a platinum helmet. Her jewelry was real, her nails fake, and she was typical of every other rich woman with whom Mae had ever worked. She drove an eighty-thousand-dollar car yet quibbled over the price of raspberries. “Hello, Candace. I have everything ready for you.” Mae pointed to the round table where three photo albums lay. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Mrs. Sullivan turned her curious gaze from the girl in pink and smiled at Mae. “Thursday’s storm seems to have played havoc on the exterior of your building,” she said as she took a seat.
“It sure did.” Mae knew she’d have to repair the sign and buy new plants, but she didn’t have the money right now. “You can sit here,” she told Georgeanne, and laid an application on the desk. Then, with the job envelope still in her hand, she moved across the room and took a seat at the round table. “I’ve created several menus for you to choose from. When we talked on the phone, we discussed duck as your entree.” She removed the menus from the envelope, laid them on the table, and pointed to the first choice. “With roasted duck, I would recommend hunter wild rice and either mixed vegetables or green beans. A small dinner roll will-”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Sullivan sighed.
Mae was prepared for that response. “I have samples in the refrigerator for you to try.”
“No, thank you. I just had lunch.”
Tamping down her irritation, she moved her finger to the next choice of side dishes. “Perhaps you would prefer asparagus spears. Or artichoke-”
“No,” Candace interrupted. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I like the idea of duck anymore.”
Mae moved to the next menu. “Okay. How about prime rib of beef au jus, browned potato, green beans, sliced-”
“I’ve been to three parties this year where prime rib was served. I want something different. Something special. Ray used to come up with the most wonderful ideas.”
Mae shuffled the pages before her and set a third menu on top. She had a notoriously short amount of patience and wasn’t any good at this. She didn’t deal well with picky customers who didn’t know what they wanted, except that they didn’t want any of the suggestions she’d worked hard to put together. “Yes, Ray was wonderful,” she said, missing her brother so much it felt like a part of her heart and soul had died six months ago.
“Ray was the best,” Mrs. Sullivan continued. “Even though he was a… well… you know.”
Yes, Mae knew, and if Candace wasn’t careful, she’d find herself escorted out the door. Even though Ray could no longer be hurt by bigotry, Mae wouldn’t tolerate it. “Have you given any thought to Chateaubriand?” she asked as she pointed out her third suggestion.