she be taking advantage of him? “Maybe he’d be taking advantage of me. Ever thought of that?”She quickly looked about and over each shoulder as if someone might have heard her conversation with herself and noted her hooded and unfocused eyes. But she slapped her desk, angry with her self: “Why am I embarrassed? What’s wrong with thinking of a man?” How long had she waded through the depths of unfulfilled want of a man’s mouth on her lips, her neck, her breasts and elsewhere until her legs parted? And how long would she have to wait to hear loving words spoken from a sexy man’s lips?
She wasn’t loose. She would ask him to dinner. “Yes, an innocent dinner.” She would get to know him first. “Yes, for I’m not a Carol, by God! But he’s got a body that won’t quit and that face! Makes me want to kiss every part of him.” A knock at her door shook her out of her sexual reverie and she fanned her burning cheeks. “Come in, Carol.”
Her friend stuck her curly head in the door and as if the occurrence happened every day said, “Kitchen fight.”
Barbara rushed out of her office. She looked back at Carol. “Between?”
“Not between. Just Carl.”
“Carl? What about?”
“Just keeps exclaiming, ‘Merde!’”
They hurried through the lounge, nearly empty, it being after the lunch hour. Once they stepped up to the dining room, even though the kitchen doors were closed, Carl’s voice drowned out the rock music that someone had turned on. Carl, Fiore’s head chef, was holding a frying pan above his head as if to brain someone. His cheeks were red and he was in the midst of a diatribe to no one in particular using more French than usual. The rest of the kitchen help had hid behind workstations or had scampered out the door.
Barbara knew Carl had a temper, had even quit in a huff numerous times, but he had always returned. He was absolutely necessary to the restaurant. His dishes were exquisite and they were the main reason for Fiore’s rave reviews that it had been receiving in all the Bay Area newspapers.
“Hold on, Carl!”
Seeing Barbara, he slowly lowered the frying pan and came away from his beloved stove. “Pourquoi as-tu fait cela?”
“What?” Her French was quite limited. “What’s this about?”
He ground his teeth and repeated, though in English, “Why? Why cancel my order of Kobe beef?”
“I didn’t do that, Carl. Why would I do that?” If there had been an order, had it disappeared between the kitchen and the office?
The frying pan began to rise. “I’m Fiore’s chef! What am I to do now?”
Barbara had to diffuse the situation immediately. “Don’t worry, Carl. I’ll call Giordano’s and ask if they have any of those food items to spare.” And as Barbara began to leave she looked over at the employees that still remained. “Everything’ll be taken care of.” She raised her voice, “Get back to work!”
Standing out in the dining room, Carol joined Barbara. “What was he yelling about?”
“Someone canceled his order of steak.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah. Just what I need.”
“Maybe Carl just thought he ordered it but forgot to.”
“No, he never forgets anything.”
Carol had to trot to keep up with Barbara. When they reached the office, she closed the door as her friend sat down in her desk chair with her head in her hands.
Speaking through her hands she asked, “What’s going on here, Carol? Missing that order, well, it’s more important than Billy’s missing receipts. More and more things are going wrong! Find me that guy who nixed Carl’s order and we just might have the criminal for everything else.”
Chapter 11
Before his shift started, Silvio was called into Barbara’s office. She imagined him facing her across the desk and holding his hand out for his pink slip and his last check. Instead, he followed her down the hall humming ‘Mai Piu Cosi Lontano,’ and when they reached the office he crooned, “Signorina, please,” as he held the door open for her. She sat and beginning to blush, busied herself with moving the articles about on her desk - her phone, message pad, the pencil holder, etc. She even pushed the computer further back against the wall. She felt extremely embarrassed, especially when remembering her sexy daydreaming. Her eyes couldn’t meet his. How was she going to broach the subject of dinner at her place? If he wasn’t to be reprimanded or fired, he might feel that turning down her invitation would definitely be a reason for either happening. How could she ask him if he felt that he had to accept?
Finally she said gently to Silvio, “Now, you don’t have to. You won’t be fired if you…” Her eyes rose to his figure. He was leaning against the door with his arms crossed and still humming. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned. How dare he? He should be worried or nervous. Maybe I should fire him. She pressed her lips together and brushed the formerly neatly straightened contents of her desktop away, either to the right or left. Then she rested one elbow on the cleared area in front of her and waited for an explanation of his rude behavior. But his smile broadened as he met her eyes that had begun to narrow in annoyance. Her nostrils flared, “What’re you looking at!”
“You turn red.”
“Red? Oh, blushing.” She waved her explanation aside. “You’d blush too if you were about to ask someone to come to dinner and before you asked, they smiled like that.”
His smile faded and he looked down as if properly chastened. “I am sorry.”
She calmed herself and sat up, saying officiously, “Would you like to have a little dinner with me?” She hurried on, “I mean, Carol and her new boyfriend, John, are coming also (she hadn’t even asked her or him).” When he didn’t answer her immediately she looked away from him and mumbled, “I mean you don’t have to, you know.”
He answered, “You ask me to eat with you? Si, I am happy to eat with you. When?”
She hadn’t decided that. She scrambled for an answer. The answer was contingent on Carol’s possible availability – Friday? - and her own negligible talent in the kitchen. What would they have that she knew how to cook or should she research Italian foods or would she need to consult her one recipe book? If all else failed, she could always contact Giovanni’s. “Friday? How about Friday?” She had to ask Carol quickly.
When Silvio left, Barbara poked her head out of the door and called anxiously, “Carol?” When she didn’t answer she hurried out to the lounge. Wiping the mahogany bar, her friend raised her eyebrows and waited for her to speak. “Come to dinner Friday night?”
Carol set down the rag. “Friday… I’m sorry but John and I are going to the Blue Horse that night. I don’t think so.”
”But I invited…you know.”
Carol’s knowing look was comical. “Oh, well then. Now I don’t know what John will say but…sure.”
Chapter 12
