of the Weekend Magazine.” She hated how she felt about this guy. He shouldn’t even register in her life among the blessings and happiness she had, but he did. He was a thorn in her side that she hated admitting to. That he bothered her so much bothered her.
“Marie, you were on the cover three weeks ago. They called you ‘the New Goddess of Good Taste.’”
“Yeah.” She smiled, remembering. “That was a good one.” She ran her finger over the edge of the magazine, feeling the staple and pressing her thumb against it, trying to squelch all the nasty feelings Van brought out in her. “But it took me a year. A year of freaking out every night.”
She didn’t talk about the doubt and some of the tears and the bone-deep desire she had almost every day to resort to her old ways and abandon the whole thing. Run off to a beach and sell oranges to tourists.
“Sauvignon has only been open six months.” She stopped herself before she started whining that things were unfair. Instead she looked down at Van’s arrogant face blown up and glossy.
He wasn’t handsome, at least not by her standards, and while the picture of him was flattering, he still wasn’t what she would call good-looking. His unsmiling craggy face was…interesting maybe. Perhaps some people could see past those tremendously overgrown eyebrows to the intense eyes beneath them, but she couldn’t get past her desire to find the nearest tweezers. His wild black hair with silver shot through it might be attractive. And the scar at his chin was…intriguing. Maybe. But the guy was not handsome.
“He’s got great press,” Simon said with a wry smile. Marie looked at the headline, having gotten caught up in the out-of-control eyebrows. Really, someone should have taken the guy in hand years ago.
“‘Van MacAllister,’” she read aloud. “‘A man’s man. Making haute cuisine rough, ready and masculine.’ Oh, give me a break,” she moaned. “What does that mean? Masculine haute cuisine?” Marie threw the magazine back on Simon’s desk and crossed her arms, dismissing Van MacAllister. “He’s grilling meat, Simon. Let’s not get carried away.”
“Well, some people might say you’re just baking bread.”
“Simon…”
“I’m not saying it.” He pressed his hands to his chest. “You have to admit, though, he’s become very popular.”
“I don’t have to admit anything,” she muttered. He stole my kitchen, made fun of me in the paper and is making it impossible for me to sleep. It’s amazing I haven’t killed the guy in his sleep. Which is no doubt peaceful and plentiful.
“You know what they’re calling us in the papers, don’t you?” she asked, quietly. This was the real rub, the coup de grâce in the bad vibes she felt for Van MacAllister.
Simon had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “Ah…” He cleared his throat and fiddled for a moment with a pen on his desk. “Hip meets homey.”
“That’s right and guess who’s homey?”
He pointed the end of the pen at her.
Marie had written polite but firm letters to the editor until her hand was numb, but the buzz kept building. She was hardly homey, unless one considered the French countryside home. Then, maybe she could be considered homey. But only if it were an outrageously classy, sensual home. That served Thai chicken salad and triple espressos and rhubarb-strawberry bars for dessert. Okay, maybe that is homey. But it’s rhubarb—it is hard to toughen up rhubarb.
“Why are we even talking about Van MacAllister?”
“Well,” he said, steepling his hands against his smiling lips and took a deep breath. “This really is so exciting.”
“What is?” Marie didn’t even try hiding her confusion and frustration. Simon pointed at the magazine.
“Meet your new cohost.”
2
“VERY FUNNY.” Marie laughed, a pop of incredulity that came from her gut. She stood to leave. “Are we done? Because I have to get back to the restaurant.”
“I’m not joking Marie. The executive producers…”
“Simon, come on,” she chastised. But Simon wasn’t laughing. In fact, he looked uncomfortable. Sweaty. He looks sweaty. And very very serious. Marie sat back down in her chair.
“Oh, no,” she breathed. “You’re serious.”
“I thought you would be excited.”
“Excited?” She shook her head at him in disbelief, trying to get her brain around this nonsense. This was worse than getting fired. This was like being overrun by the enemy. Marie felt a strange itch along her skin, an awareness of her heartbeat as it skipped a beat and then doubled. “This is my show, Simon. I built it. It’s called Soul Food with Marie Simmons, not Soul Food with Marie Simmons and a Cohost. And definitely not Marie Simmons and Van MacAllister.”
“Well, we haven’t really worked out the name yet….”
“The name isn’t important!” she cried. “You just said it’s your most popular segment,” she said in a far more reasonable voice. Though it was a bit high-pitched. “I beat out Patrick and Ivan, for crying out loud. Why in the world do you want to mess with a good thing?”
“Marie?” Simon crossed his arms behind his head, looking at her like she was speaking a foreign language. “Six months ago when you signed on you said you would do anything.”
“And I did, I did everything you asked. I wore a fruit hat, Simon.”
Simon laughed, caught her eye and then coughed uncomfortably. “Right, so why not a cohost?”
“Six months ago I would have wrestled in Jell-O if you wanted me to. But now I have a name and a reputation….” And a very small, very fragile empire to protect, damn it! “And you expect me to just hand it over to Van?” It was ludicrous. Outrageous! And she was beginning to hyperventilate.
Six months ago there was no alternative to being laid-back. Well, there was. It was called homeless, she thought ruefully. She had nothing to lose then. Marie’s Bistro had barely gotten off the ground, she had taken out another loan and was thinking of selling it all and moving to Peru. Soul Food was changing all of that. And now they want to change my show!
“Marie, your interest is our interest,” he told her and Marie almost recoiled in shock at what a used car salesman Simon was turning into right before her eyes. “We just want to…enhance your reputation.”
“How?”
“We’re looking for male viewers and younger viewers.”
“Young?” Marie shook her head, confused for a moment until the lightbulb went on. Simon and the rest of the producers had fallen for the hype. “No, come on Simon…”
“He’s the hip in ‘hip meets homey.’” Simon shrugged apologetically.
“I’m hip.” The adult voice tried to get her under control, but Marie was far
