Promises to Keep (2 page)

They may not have taken reservations, but they still tried to look after their most regular and valued customers, and Mason was definitely one of them even though his wife was a . . . surprise.

As with all their regular customers, particularly the ones who, like Mason, arrive after the lunchtime rush, she has gotten to know them, has even grown to consider some of them friends.

“I totally meant to thank you.” Steffi picks up her tea and sips. “I can’t believe you remembered to send me the cookbooks.”

“Of course. What did you think of them? This, by the way,” he gestures to the cake, “is sublime.”

“Thank you. And I did look at the books. You were right about the slow-cooking one—there’s a lot of meat in it, so I had to look at it more carefully, but I loved the recipes, and I see how you could take the meat out and adapt them.”

“That was the point of my sending it to you,” he says. “I knew you’d like the vegetables.”

“I have to say, the chili is incredible. I made it the other day.” She sighs, barely perceptibly.

“You did? But doesn’t it have turkey in it?”

Steffi laughs. “Yes, but I made it for my sister’s birthday. We’re having a surprise party for her on Friday, so I made two batches, one with turkey for the party, and then I adapted it slightly for a vegan batch. Also, I added some allspice and cinnamon, which was gorgeous—made it ever so slightly sweet. And now,” she sighs again, heavily, “I have to make it all over again tonight.”

“It was that good?”

“No. Rob invited a ton of people over last night while I was at work and, several pounds of grass later, they all attacked the chili. Which would normally be fine, but I’d made it for my sister’s birthday party this weekend, and Rob knew that,” Steffi says in disgust. “Sometimes I think I’m living with a child.”

Mason laughs heartily. “I think all rock stars are a bit like that.”

“I thought it was all
men
?”

“That too.”

“Christ.” Steffi shakes her head. “And according to my dad
I’m
still a child. How is it I’ve ended up with someone even more irresponsible than me?”

“I take it he isn’t the love of your life?”

“I can’t even talk about it,” Steffi says sadly, for she recognizes this feeling, and knows it is now just a matter of time. Talking about it, even with someone as sympathetic as Mason, would just make it real; giving voice to her inner feelings would mean she would then have to make a change, and how can she run when she doesn’t know where she’s running to?

“So tell me more about the cinnamon with the chili,” Mason says. “I love that idea. It’s very Moroccan, to mix the sweet and the sour. Interesting to do that with chili. It worked, I take it?”

“Apparently so. At least according to the stoners lounging round the apartment last night. You should try it,” she says and grins. “Or maybe I’ll add it to the menu.”

“Do that and you’ll have to pay me royalties.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

Mason throws up his hands. “Okay, I’m joking. So when are you going to write a cookbook for me?”

“When I can think of an angle that will sell it.”

“I asked you ages ago to start thinking.”

“Are you sure we really need an angle?”

“Yes. But when you’re ready come and see me and we’ll talk.”

Steffi sighs again. “I must be the only chef in the country who is being offered a publishing deal and is too busy to take it.”

Mason laughs. “I haven’t actually offered you a deal . . . yet. I just said come and talk to me when you have a good story to tell.”

“Isn’t being a rock chick and vegan chef in a vegetarian restaurant enough?”

“Sadly, no,” Mason says. “Hey, there was something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Ask away, but quickly.” Steffi checks her watch, and notes that Skye is getting itchy feet, clearly wanting to leave.

“So we’re moving to London . . .”

“What?”

“We just bought a publishing house in the UK and we’re merging the two businesses, so I have to spend some time over there to get this company going.”

“I can’t believe we’ve been sitting here talking about chili when you have this huge news. That’s great! It’s great, right?”

“It is great, and we’re all really excited. Olivia’s there now, working with the decorator to get the apartment ready. But here’s the thing: we can’t take Fingal.”

“Fingal?” Who is Fingal, Steffi wonders. Butler? Driver?

“Our dog. Fingal.”

“Oh!” She laughs. “I thought it was a butler.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mason shakes his head and winks. “The butler’s coming with us.”

“Tell me that you’re joking now.”

He shrugs. “I know. It’s really ridiculous. That we have a butler.”

“It’s insane! What are you even doing here? You’re much too posh for this restaurant.”

“It’s not me!” He suddenly sounds like a little boy. Plaintive. “It’s Olivia. This is how she grew up, I guess.”

“Wow. So let me ask you a question.” There is a twinkle in her eye as Steffi leans forward. “If you have a butler, how come your suits are always so horribly pressed? I think you should fire him.”

Mason sinks his head into his hands with a shrug. “I can’t help it. When I put them on they’re perfect, but everything I wear looks like I’ve slept in it within an hour. It drives Olivia nuts. She makes me change my clothes every couple of hours when I’m at home.”

“She does?” Steffi is astonished.

“I know. But anyway . . . Fingal. He can’t come with us—no dogs allowed in the apartment in London—so we need to find him a home. Do you by any chance know anyone?”

Steffi’s eyes glaze over for a moment as she realizes what a dangerous conversation this is for her to be having. She loves dogs. She has always wanted a dog. She is known in certain circles as the dog rescuer, and has never been known to leave an animal rescue center without a dog in tow.

The problem, she has repeatedly discovered, is that her life is simply too busy for a dog; and by the time she finishes work, the whole schlepping up the stairs to the apartment, getting the dog, going back down for walks, and all the rest of it, is just too much. Every dog has ended up being rehomed, usually with friends of her mother.

There was McScruff, the West Highland terrier, who now lives with Florence, her mother’s hairdresser, in Maine. There was Poggle, the Maltese, who was the product of a divorce, and no one mentioned to Steffi that he wasn’t house-trained. He now lives with Arthur, her mother’s lawyer. And last year there was Maxwell, the eight-month-old golden retriever she fell in love with at the rescue center.

She brought him home, only to discover that the reason a beautiful pure-bred golden retriever was in the animal rescue center in the first place was because he was
crazy
. He was the most high-energy dog she’d ever known, manic, in fact, and within a week every single pair of her shoes had been converted to chews, and not the expensive Jimmy kind.

Maxwell had been shipped out to cousins on a forty-acre farm in Milbrook, where he has apparently decided that the sheep and donkeys are his playmates. They are, understandably, not terribly impressed, but Maxwell is beloved by his new family, and so Steffi considers herself something of a good Samaritan.

But a dog! She has always wanted a dog. Something small and cuddly who would love her to pieces. Or large and scary, like a Doberman, who would actually be a pussycat and her best friend. A companion. Man’s Best Friend—isn’t that what they say?

And wouldn’t this perhaps be a perfect solution? It wasn’t permanent, but would break her in gently.

“How long for?” Steffi finds herself asking.

“A year.”

“Wow. That’s a long time.”

There is Rob to consider. Rob hates dogs. Never trust a man who doesn’t like children or animals. But what does it matter, given that they have neither? But she loves dogs. She wants a dog. She wants this dog. Even though she doesn’t know what it is.

“What kind of dog is Fingal?”

She is thinking: small, terrier type. Big brown eyes. Loyal. Loving.

“Scottish deerhound. But he’s terrifically low-maintenance. Do you want to see a picture?”

“Sure.”

Scottish deerhound? What the hell
is
that? Steffi hasn’t even heard of a Scottish deerhound.

Mason flicks through the photos on his iPhone and hands it over.

“Jesus Christ!” Steffi yelps. “That isn’t a
dog
. That’s a
horse
!”

“He is quite big, but he looks much bigger in that picture because he’s with the kids.”

“He’s not with the kids. They’re riding him.”

“That was just a joke. They don’t really ride him.”

“I couldn’t take care of a dog that size. He’d eat me for breakfast.”

“Actually he’s very lazy. He could eat you for breakfast if he could be bothered, but trust me, he couldn’t be bothered. Mostly he just lies around on sofas all day.”

“Always good to have a dog that’s trained to stay off the furniture.” She peers at Mason. “How does Olivia feel about having a dog lying around on the sofas all day?”

“Not happy. He’s only allowed on two sofas, and she’s covered them with special throws so his fur never actually touches the Fortuny fabric, heaven forbid.”

“Heaven forbid, indeed. God, Mason. I . . . I mean, I was going to say I’d take the dog, but he wouldn’t even fit in our apartment. And he looks like you’d need to walk him eight miles five times a day.”

“He doesn’t.” Mason shakes his head excitedly. “He just needs to be run. He’s basically the same type of dog as a greyhound, so he needs a couple of short bursts of really intense exercise. And you wouldn’t even notice him in the apartment. He’s incredibly quiet and mellow.”

“Really?” Steffi looks at the picture dubiously.

“Really. And you would absolutely love him. He’s the coolest dog in the world.”

“I guess he’d be something of a man magnet,” Steffi muses, handing the phone back to Mason.

“Why would you care? You have a boyfriend.”

“I won’t have if I come home with Fingal. He hates dogs.”

“Oh. Never trust a—”

“Yes, yes. I know.” Steffi sighs. “So here’s the deal. I’ll meet him. Which doesn’t mean yes, it just means I’ll meet him.”

“That would be fantastic!” Mason says. “You’ll love him and, honestly, I would feel so much better about his being with someone I know. You could feed him chili spiced with cinnamon! He’d be in dog heaven!”

“What were you going to do if you didn’t find someone?”

Mason’s face falls. “Olivia thinks we’re going to adopt him out. Permanently.”

“Would you?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to. I love Fingal. He’s my dog.”

“Hey, given that I probably won’t have a boyfriend to come home to if I decide to look after Fingal, you wouldn’t happen to have a spare apartment I could live in as well?” Steffi is joking.

Half.

Mason looks at her curiously. “I don’t have an apartment—we’ve already signed a year’s lease with a couple from Belgium who are moving to New York, but . . . are you serious?”

“It depends. What are you thinking?”

Mason sighs, looks away, then back at her. “You know what? Nothing. It’s silly. You live and work in New York. Forget it.”

“What? Tell me. Now I have to know.”

“I do have a house. Not an apartment, but a wonderful old farmhouse in Sleepy Hollow.”

“Cooooool.” The word stretches out as images of roaring fires and long leafy walks flutter through Steffi’s head.

“I’ve had it for years,” Mason continues. “It’s very old, but beautiful, and with twenty acres. Olivia hates it, so I just keep it rented out. However the last tenants scooted out early and it’s empty. I was waiting to rent it out after Christmas, but . . .”

“Would I like it?”

“I have no idea—I hardly know you.” Mason smiles. “But I love it.”

“Sleepy Hollow’s right by my sister, Callie. She’s in Bedford,” Steffi muses out loud. “It would be amazing, to be near her. One more question . . .” Steffi looks around and lowers her voice. “Do you happen to know if there are any vegetarian restaurants in the area that might be looking for a vegan chef?”

T
he phone startles Steffi. She reaches for it blindly, then stumbles out of the room so as not to wake Rob.

“Shit.” She trips over her flip-flops outside the bedroom and kicks them viciously out of the way, collapsing on the sofa and rubbing her ankle.

“Lo?”

“Steff ? Did I wake you?”

“Oh hey, Callie. Yes, you woke me. What are you doing calling so early?”