Bet on My Heart. J.M. Jeffries
If Reno didn’t work out she could always go back. But she didn’t want to—she wanted to leave her mark here. This was her home now.
Having survived her first week with Donovan was a relief. She hadn’t blown anything up or set fire to the kitchen. She decided she deserved a little treat. She climbed into her VW bug with the ladybug paint job, complete with eyelashes over the headlights. She headed for her favorite vintage fashion store after a quick stop at her house for some cupcakes she’d frozen for Hazel, the owner of Vintage Fashions. They’d be defrosted by the time she arrived.
Hazel Winston’s vintage shop was a small store set in a tiny, out-of-the-way strip mall. She was a tall, curvy blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a penchant for vintage fashion. The store itself was small and felt cluttered with a dozen racks of clothes, shelves of vintage accessories and boxes of gently used shoes. On the walls, Hazel had hung lattice and there she kept her most recent acquisitions. She was an expert on fashion from the forties and fifties and her passion showed in the white tulle Balenciaga wedding gown that floated in ethereal splendor on the most prominent wall in the store.
Hendrix gazed longingly at the Balenciaga wedding gown, but the price was too steep. Plus, she’d first need a man in her life, and that wasn’t part of the picture she had for her future.
Hazel dropped what she was doing and rushed over. She wore a pale yellow dress with a black-and-white polka dot neckline and cuffs—vintage Oleg Cassini.
“Did you bring my cupcakes?” Hazel demanded holding out a hand.
Hendrix handed over the box. “Hazel, do you have my dress?”
“I have three for you.” Hazel placed the box on the counter and, after a small peek inside, she led the way to the back of the store. “Thank you for the cupcakes. They look wonderful.”
“This is why I love you.” Hendrix followed her. “You love my cupcakes.”
“Everyone loves your cupcakes.”
Hendrix had been supplying her friend with baked goods for a couple years. Part of Hazel’s clientele came just for a quick snack while browsing the store.
Hazel grabbed the three dresses she’d found and hung each one over a hook on the wall. Hendrix was immediately drawn to a navy blue dress with embroidered yellow daisies on the halter top and a full skirt that flowed out over a white crinoline. She barely looked at the other two. One, a Dior form-fitting street dress of gray-and-green serge was almost as cute. The third dress was a black, pleated Coco Chanel silk dress with creamy white contrasting silk at the neck, cuffs and hem that would look heavenly on a romantic date.
“I’m celebrating my first week on my new job.” She began to unbutton her yellow dress once she was in the dressing room.
“You didn’t insult a customer or set fire to the kitchen, did you?”
Hendrix laughed. “I don’t deal with customers anymore.” Just an annoying executive chef. “I sort of miss talking to them.” She didn’t miss the complaints. No matter how good something was, one person would be dissatisfied. “And for your information, I only set fire to a stove once when I was adding butter rum to a chocolate sauce and some splashed over the rim of the pot.”
Hazel laughed. “Where’s the new job?” Hazel held out her hand for Hendrix’s dress.
“Hotel de Mariposa,” Hendrix answered as she pulled the navy blue halter dress over her head and settled it around her curves. The designers in the fifties really understood how to accent a woman’s natural curves, which was one of the reasons she loved vintage fashion so much. She wasn’t forced to slide her curves into current fashions designed for girls who looked like sticks.
“Ooh. The new in place. You are moving up in the world.” Hazel helped Hendrix adjust the dress.
Hendrix stepped back to view herself in the full-length mirror clamped to the wall. Nice. A little nip at the waist and it would be perfect. She twisted and turned to see herself fully. “I’m going to wear this swing dancing next week. And I have just the right shoes for it.” She’d found navy blue platform shoes in a sale bin at a resale store in San Francisco a couple years ago and she’d been saving them for just the right dress.
She wondered if Donovan did swing dancing. That would be a hoot, watching him trying to keep up with her doing the Lindy Hop or the jitterbug. She did a couple steps of the Lindy Hop and watched in satisfaction at the way the skirt flowed around her long legs in just the right wave action. This dress was perfect. She twisted her hips in a couple more moves and grinned at Hazel.
“I’ll take it.” She had room on her credit card and with the new job she would be able to pay the card next month and still indulge herself.
Hazel helped her out of the dress and back into her own clothes. She fondled the dress as Hazel folded it and led her to the front of the store.
She walked out into the blazing Reno sun ready to take on the culinary world.
* * *
“The guests at table five are demanding to see the executive chef,” the hostess, Rena Masters, said as she ran through the kitchen.
Donovan took off his apron and made his way through the kitchen and out into the restaurant to table five, wondering if they were complaining or complimenting. It was always a crapshoot.
“Are you the executive chef?” a woman demanded. She was in her early sixties with snow-white hair and a lovely face that owed its youthfulness to genetics rather than Botox. The man with her was distinguished-looking. He nodded politely after a smile.
“I’m Donovan Russell,” Donovan said.
“I’m Lenore Abernathy. This is my husband, Bruce. You’re apple custard tarts are divine. I’ve never had one so amazing before. How much do I have to pay you to get this recipe for my restaurant?”
Donovan reeled. The whole restaurant community knew who Lenore Abernathy was. Her restaurant, Piquant, was world famous. “It’s a secret recipe.”
She stared at him and he tried not to quake. “I would kill for your secret recipe.”
Donovan was too stunned to think straight. “Um...” How would he tell her that he had no idea what his new pastry chef had put in the tart?
“Donovan Russell,” Bruce said. “I know your name. Don’t you own Le Noir in Paris?”
“I did. I sold it to come to Reno and help my grandmother out.”
Lenore nodded sagely. “I read about your grandmother. She won this place in a poker game.”
“That’s my grandmother.”
“Bruce and I are on our annual food tour,” Lenore explained. “And I need this recipe. I will be happy to call it the Russell tart.”
“I don’t know if I want to be a tart,” Donovan said.
Lenore stared at him, eyes wide with surprise, and burst into laughter. “I do like a man with a sense of humor.” She pointed at the empty chair across from her. “Sit down. Let’s talk food.”
Donovan couldn’t refuse. She was authoritative, a bit too much like his grandmother. He couldn’t say no to one of the most successful restaurateurs in the United States. He sat down and tried to figure out what he was going to say to her. He couldn’t say he didn’t know what Hendrix had added. And he couldn’t just make something up and expect Lenore to be satisfied. She was astute, shrewd and a woman of substance. She would know he was lying.
“As you know, recipes are sacred,” he began.
Her eyes narrowed. “Piquant is not only known for its dinners, but its desserts. And my clientele also buys my upscale frozen foods. I want to try this out in my restaurant. Who knows, it might make its way into the frozen food section of your favorite supermarket.”
Donovan listened, thinking hard. His grandmother