Once Upon a Christmas Eve (5 page)

“Nothing about them personally, no,” she confirmed. “I'll admit they creeped me out a little at first, but they seemed grateful and respectful and in the year they've been coming around, they've given me no reason to worry.” She offered a faint smile, hoping to coax one out of him. “No more than any of the customers I also don't know who come in my front door, anyway,” she qualified. “I'm okay with them there.”

For a moment, Max said nothing. He just kept his focus on the acceptance in her eyes, partly to keep it from straying to the smooth skin exposed by the almost careless way the top of her jacket was unbuttoned. Mostly, though, because he didn't know what to make of her defense of a couple of homeless guys most people would have run off or reported for vagrancy.

The way he often had been in his youth.

The errant thought came out of nowhere. Unexpected.
Unwanted. And just as immediately banished as completely irrelevant. His past was just that. Past. Over. Done with.

“You're not usually alone when customers are out front.”

Having pointed that out, he told himself to leave it be. It was her business he needed to focus on. Nothing else. If he found her bistro an appropriate investment, he could get into her general security measures later. Scott could worry about her personal safety.

“I've gone over what you gave me,” he continued, certain he had his priorities straight. “If you'll give me your payroll records, inventories and about a half an hour, we can talk. I'll need your tax returns, too.”

“I have everything right here.”

Looking as anxious as she sounded to get his audit over with, she turned to one of the filing cabinets beside her desk. Pulling the files he'd requested, she stacked them on the desk and turned to where he waited for her to come out. As cramped as her office was they'd pretty much be bumping elbows in there together.

Seeming aware of that herself, she turned sideways when he did to slip past him in the doorway. Even then, their bodies brushed. As they did, her back bumped the door frame.

Without thinking, he caught her by the upper arms.

Their contact was brief, the skim of clothing rather than flesh as he turned her around so she was in the hall. Still, beneath his hands, he felt her supple, feminine muscles tense. His own body had already gone tight from the faint scents of lemon and something herbal clinging to her skin. Or maybe what he caught was the scent of her hair; her shampoo, or whatever she used to make it so shiny.

It had just occurred to him that he had no idea how something so innocent could smell so erotic when he let his
hands slip away. He could still recall the feel of her slender muscles when he'd curled his hand around her arm the other day; the way they'd tensed, then, almost instinctively relaxed before she'd leaned into him.

Conscious of her all over again, he took a step back.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“It's a tight space.” Offering the excuse with an uncertain little smile, she took a step away herself. “We're always bumping into each other back here.”

When he'd first come in, he'd thought she'd looked a little pale. At the time, it had seemed that heat from the ovens baking things that smelled incredible would have put a little color in her cheeks. But that had been before he'd glimpsed the gentle curve of her breast and he'd found himself totally sidetracked by the too-appealing lines of her body.

Her color definitely looked better now as she stood with one hand splayed below her throat. What had the bulk of his attention, though, was the way her forearm covered where his jacket had grazed hers. It was almost as if she'd felt something in that fleeting contact, too, and wasn't yet ready to let it go.

Seeming conscious of what she'd just betrayed, her hand fell. “I'm sorry. I forgot to ask. Would you like coffee? Or something to eat?”

Far more aware of her than he wanted to be, far more aware than he
should
be, he shrugged off his jacket.

“Coffee would be great.”

“Regular or French press?”

“French press is more work.”

“But it's better.”

Telling himself her soft smile had nothing to do with his choice, he murmured, “French press, then. Black.” Calling, “Thanks,” as she walked away, he dropped his jacket over
the back of the chair, rolled up his sleeves and pulled his calculator and the file he'd had Margie open on her from his briefcase.

Concentrating on her books was exactly the distraction he needed. What he didn't need was the vague restlessness she'd increased somehow, and that lingered even as he settled at her desk and flipped open her files.

Within minutes, though, that edgy sensation had been buried by bafflement.

He'd already had Margie run the usual preliminary credit checks on her. Beyond the fact that Ms. Fairchild's credit was excellent, he'd found there was no record of any initial loan, open or closed, for the restaurant. Likewise for any student loans. The SBA loan she'd mentioned was nearly paid off. She had credit cards, but owed nothing on them. The only car she'd financed, a small, sporty but practical now five-year-old SUV, had been paid off two years ago.

He had no idea where her initial funding had come from. He would have thought she'd saved it herself somehow. But her profit and loss statement indicated that she hadn't a clue how to save a dollar, much less the thousands it would have taken to get her business up and running.

A look at her website last night had only raised more questions. The short paragraph about the restaurant that served “the best of the Northwest in a rustic, provincial style,” had also mentioned that Chef Fairchild was a graduate of a local culinary institute of some note, that she'd taken courses in Paris and Nice, and that she'd worked under chefs of considerable renown at two of the most prestigious restaurants in town.

The studies in Paris and Nice had caught his attention. Someone had had to pay for that. Even if she'd earned a scholarship, travel expense would have been involved.
His first thought had been that her family had paid for her education, thus the lack of student loans and the ability to travel abroad. Some parents did that, or so he'd heard.

He hadn't had that privilege. Or the family for that matter. As he'd been reminded minutes ago, his own roots were considerably meaner, and definitely leaner, than those of the people he associated with now. But she'd insisted that her family hadn't been involved in her career at all. Since the background check they ran as a precaution to uncover possible fronting operations hadn't come back yet, he had no idea if they would have been able to help her, anyway.

He'd gleaned nothing else from the site, other than an unusual craving for the crab cakes described on the menu of her seasonal fare. Those offerings came with the warning that they could change, sometimes daily, depending on what was freshest from the sea and the local organic markets.

He'd yet to taste her food, but if it was anywhere near as excellent as the heaven in a mug she'd silently set at his elbow, it was easy to see how she'd earned her reviews. As he perused the records in front of him, vaguely aware of the rattles and bumps coming from the kitchen, it was her business acumen he seriously questioned.

 

Tommi gave the colander in her hands a shake as she stood at the metal sink. Distracted by worry over what could be taking Max so long and with the water splashing over the spinach she rinsed, it took a moment for the knocking to register.

“Yoo-hoo, Tommi” came the muffled warble of a familiar female voice. Another knock sounded on her back door. “Are you in there?”

“It's just us,” her male counterpart announced.

The colander landed in the sink with a clatter. Turning
off the tall, goose-necked faucet, Tommi grabbed a towel and headed across her kitchen, wiping her hands on the way. The Olsons never showed up before five o'clock. It was barely four-thirty.

Reaching the heavy back door, she pushed it open with a concerned, “Essie?” as cold air rushed in. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything's just fine.” Her white-haired, eighty-something neighbor offered the smiling dismissal with a wave of her arthritic hand. “I hope you don't mind that we're early. Syd thought we should call down to make sure you were here and have you unlock the door. But I figured if you were out, we'd have just taken ourselves a little extra exercise.”

Certain of her welcome, the woman who'd always reminded Tommi of a slightly eccentric Mrs. Claus walked in with her spry though equally aged husband at her elbow. Both wore running shoes and fleece jogging suits; his black with a white racing stripe, hers purple with pink.

Considering the neon-bright coral lipstick she wore, the woman was getting more color-blind by the day.

“We can't watch our shows,” Syd muttered on his way past. “Didn't make sense to sit there doing nothing, so we thought we'd see what you're cooking up for supper tonight.” Behind his black-rimmed trifocals, his keen eyes narrowed as they swept her kitchen. As if drawn by a beam, his attention fixed on the dessert rack in back.

Essie's focus remained on Tommi. “I just hope whatever it is, that you'll be eating some of it yourself,” she admonished her, a tsk in her voice. “I know you said you weren't dieting, child, but I swear you look thinner every time I see you.”

“Oh, leave her be, Essie.”

“Well, she does, Syd. That top is practically hanging on her.”

The top Tommi wore was hardly “hanging”—though she had actually lost five pounds in the past few months. They happened to be five of the ten she constantly battled, but she knew her changing shape would be showing soon enough. She wasn't as flat as she had been in some places and was definitely thicker in others. All that concerned her at the moment, however, was that she had no idea what else the always outspoken woman was about to observe. With Max within earshot, she just knew she didn't want to find out.

“Why can't you watch your shows?”

“I hit a wrong button on a remote control,” Syd confessed, altering the reason for his wife's frown. “Now we can't get anything. We don't want to bother you with it, but maybe Andrew can take a look at it when he gets here. These things don't tend to confound you young people the way they do Essie and me. He'll be here soon, won't he?”

Andrew, her part-time waiter and a full-time starving artist, wasn't working that evening. Shelby would be there, though. She told them that, thinking as she did that she could have checked on their little problem herself in a while had Max not been there. But he was, and because she wanted to avoid the inevitable questions his presence would raise, she decided to hustle the Olsons out front and asked if they wanted to eat now or wait until her cassoulet was ready.

As she'd suspected they'd do, they opted to wait because they liked to eat with the “youngsters,” as they called her employees. They did accept her offer of hot tea, though, and had just about vacated her kitchen for their usual table
nearest the kitchen doors when Max walked out of her office carrying his cup.

As small as the area was, he'd had to hear their every word. From the way he abruptly came to a halt, it seemed he'd taken the last few moments of quiet to mean they were already gone.

Syd and Essie stared up at him. Almost in unison, the couple who'd been married for the better part of sixty years looked from the rolled sleeves of his white shirt to the sharp crease in his slacks and bounced bespectacled glances toward Tommi.

With his quietly powerful presence leaving them temporarily mute—and her feeling trapped—she focused on what he held. “More coffee?”

“I didn't mean to interrupt,” Max said as she took his cup. Aware of her quick disquiet, wondering why that odd unease was there, he gave the couple eyeing him an acknowledging nod.

The thin, elderly man holding open one of the swinging doors possessed a truly impressive, electrified shock of gray hair. Beside him, a rounded little woman with snow-white curls and bright coral lips cradled a basket of bread.

“Essie and Syd, this is Max Callahan. Max,” Tommi said before either could voice the speculation adding more creases to their respective brows, “this is Mr. and Mrs. Olson. They live upstairs.”

The old gentleman stuck out his hand. “We're two doors down from Tommi.”

“We didn't know you had company, dear.”

The woman's comment held far more interest than apology. While Max shook hands with her husband, she blatantly checked out the cut of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders, his watch and the shine on his shoes.

Her smile went as bright as her lipstick. “You should have said something when we got here.”

“Oh, he isn't… You aren't…” As quickly as Tommi sought to disabuse the woman of her notions, she just as quickly cut herself off. “Mr. Callahan is a…business associate.”

“It's Max.” Tommi clearly didn't want to be rude. It seemed just as apparent that she didn't care to share the nature of the business that had him coming out of her minuscule office in his shirtsleeves. “I'm just going over some numbers for her,” he said, keeping everything simple.

Disappointment removed the odd and sudden hope from the older woman's expression. “Ah. You're her accountant, then.” The pronouncement came with the knowing lift of her chin. “I just thought maybe our Tommi finally had herself a boyfriend. Her youngest sister just got engaged. Bobbie,” she explained, just in case he didn't know. “Sweet girl. We'd love to see Tommi find a man of her own, too, but all she does is work.” Her head leaned at a considering tilt. “Are you married?”

Tommi set down Max's cup with a discomfited clink. “Let's get you seated, Essie. Then I'll get your tea. And I need to get Max's coffee,” she insisted, as the elderly lady opened her mouth as if to say she wasn't done yet. “Come on. I'll bring you the blend I just got from that new organic company I'm using. Mango green. You'll love it.”