Party of Three. Joan Kilby
the art gallery to take out a loan. I knew I should have had it in my name but he needed the tax write-off so on paper, it’s his.” Cheryl set the suncatcher on the table and gazed around the room as if looking for further insults to her sensibilities. “I’d just knocked the mortgage down to a reasonable level and now suddenly I owe twice as much as I did five years ago.” Her nostrils flared in a refined quiver of rage. “I could kill him. Boil him in his own olive oil.”
“Olive oil?” Ally took a sip from the teacup Melissa handed her. She was starting to feel vaguely human.
“He bought a majority stake in an olive grove along the Murray River,” Cheryl explained. “Turns out there’s no water lease for irrigation. The company is struggling to survive.”
“Fancy Tony getting into farming,” Melissa said as she rehung the suncatcher. “I can see him now in a flannel shirt and Akubra hat with his faithful dog at his heels.”
“You’re thinking of sheep farming.” Ally turned back to her mother. “At least the deal sounds legitimate.”
“No irrigation means a poor harvest,” Cheryl informed her gloomily. “I could lose the gallery.”
“I’ve got mortgage problems, too, now that George is gone,” Ally commiserated.
Melissa looked from her sister to her mother. “Hello! Obvious solution here. Mother, if you want to make Tony sweat awhile longer, and frankly, it would do him a world of good, move in with Ally. You two can split costs.”
“What a great idea!” Cheryl said, taking up the suggestion enthusiastically. “I’ve been dying to do something with that house of yours, Ally. I know you think you’ve got it the way you want it but you haven’t heard my ideas yet. Now that stick-in-the-mud George is out of the way I can really let loose. Oh, I can’t wait. We’ll have a ball, won’t we, Ally?”
If there was any justice in the universe the look Ally threw her sister would have been fatal. For years she’d been collecting furniture and artwork for the time when she had a place of her own to decorate. Since she’d moved into her house she’d worked her way through each room, painting walls, polishing floorboards, sewing drapes and cushions. She’d scrimped and saved so she could have the kitchen and the bathroom renovated. Now her mother was proposing moving in and changing everything. Over Ally’s dead body!
“There’s just one problem. I, uh…” She racked her brains for inspiration. “I have a roommate already.”
“Oh.” Cheryl looked disappointed. “Who?”
Ally crossed her fingers in her lap. “Ben Gillard, the new chef at Mangos.”
“Wow,” Melissa said. “Fast work. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well.” Ally tried to look modest.
Now all she had to do was convince Ben to move in with her. It shouldn’t be too hard; her house easily fulfilled his requirements. Plus, she had something he didn’t even realize he needed—a barometer.
CHAPTER FOUR
“TIPPERARY SPRINGS Restaurant thinks it’s the only fine dining establishment in town. We’ll show them.” Steve stroked his trim silver goatee and paced the kitchen floor in front of the serving window. He wore a navy cashmere jacket and designer blue jeans pressed with a knife-edge crease. Upper crust effing nerd, Gord called him. “I must have that chef’s hat,” Steve went on. “Ben, you will create a new dish using…scallops.” He stroked his goatee some more. “Yes, scallops are good. I like scallops.”
Ben just nodded and took out his frustrations on a batch of sourdough, pummeling it beneath the heel of his hand. There was no more demanding employer than a frustrated amateur cook. “Scallops it is.”
Over by the sink, Baz was hulling strawberries destined to be made into a coulis for Beth’s panna cotta dessert special. Gord was throwing roasted chicken bones and roughly chopped vegetables into the enormous stockpot simmering on the stove. The yeasty scent of the sourdough, the chicken stock, the aniseed aroma of tarragon clinging to the cutting board, created a pleasing melange of smells. The radio was tuned to popular music, loud enough for everyone to hear over the clang of pots and slam of oven doors.
Out in the restaurant, the phone rang. Steve roused himself from his reverie about scallops and went to answer it.
What had happened to Ally? After breakfast, Ben had wandered past the Cottage Rentals and poked his head through the glass door, but she hadn’t been at her desk. Instead, an evil-looking crow of a woman had glared at him over the top of narrow glasses. He was pretty sure he’d interrupted her in the middle of putting a hex on the other girl, the stocky blond one. By now, she’d probably been turned into a toad.
“We have a problem, gentlemen,” Steve announced on his return to the kitchen, adding belatedly, “er, and Beth.”
“What is it?” Ben rubbed at his nose with the back of a floury hand.
“Cassie,” Steve said. “I did her a favor hiring her and already she’s quit.”
Gord threw double handfuls of fresh thyme, parsley and rosemary into the stockpot. “Good riddance. Did she give a reason?”
Steve turned to the sous chef. “As a matter of fact, she did. She didn’t like your attitude, Gord.”
“What the hell does she mean my attitude?” Gord growled.
“Maybe she means you telling her to get her fat arse out of the kitchen and to the front of the house where she belonged.” Baz’s fingertips were red and a telltale dribble of crimson juice stained his chin.
Gord turned on him. “You keep your effing mouth shut. And stop eating them berries or they’ll come out of your effing pay.”
“Stow it, you two,” Ben said. “Steve, can you hire someone else in time for tonight?”
“Julie will have to cover for her,” Steve replied. “I’ve given Cassie until the end of the week to change her mind, otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it from my wife.” He sighed. “If anyone needs me I’ll be in my office nursing a migraine.”
A busy waitress doubling as maître d’. Ben shook his head and folded over the wad of dough, slamming the heel of his hand into the yielding softness till the compressed gas bubbles squeaked. This was a surefire recipe for disaster.
ALLY PUSHED THROUGH the front door of Mangos into the dining room. The twelve-foot ceiling and padded high-backed wooden bench that ran along two walls gave the bistro a European flavor, while the marble fireplace, crisp white linen and mismatched wooden chairs lent the room a funky elegance. A huge vase of fresh flowers sat at one end of the polished mahogany bar. The only jarring note was the expanse of bare gray walls devoid of decoration.
A woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and a lean swarthy man with a shaved head were setting the tables with cloth napkins, cutlery and wineglasses. They must be the waitstaff. Ally recognized the woman as Julie Marsden, a school friend of Melissa’s. “Hi, Julie,” she called out. “Is Ben here?”
“Hi, Ally. He’s in the kitchen.” Julie gestured to a short hallway to the left and behind the bar. “Go through.”
“Thanks.” Ally went in the direction Julie had indicated and found herself in the serving area of the kitchen. Heat radiated from the bank of ovens in the center of the room. A short man with wiry red hair was cursing at a spotty-faced youth, and a young woman with wispy blond hair was mixing what looked like cake batter in an enormous stainless steel bowl.
Ben was shaping dough into mini cob loaves, cutting off even-sized lumps with a pastry knife and rolling them into smooth balls between his palms. Ally found herself mesmerized by the sensual movements of his scarred hands. Her gaze followed his fingers up forearms taut with muscle and sinew to broad shoulders, to his full mouth, strong nose and forehead frowning in concentration.
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