Page 60 of Best Served Hot

Though funnily enough, admitting it did make me feel the tiniest bit better.

Emerson Leigh crossed her legs at the ankle, pushing her purse farther to the side. She wasn’t even touching it anymore. “I understand. But I’m jealous of you, too.” That was what Bennett had said. No, Julie, stop thinking about Bennett right now. “Like, you know exactly what you want, and you go after it.” She looked down, folding her hands in her lap. “I have no idea what I want. I feel lost.” I remembered back to a few times before when she’d let it slip how she felt lost or anxious. “My dad was a big businessman, and I grew up feeling like he wanted me to do something like that, too, but I’ve never known what I want to do, and that makes me anxious. Maybe it’s because I have too many choices.” She looked back up, eyes widening in panic. “Oh no, I know I’m lucky! Except maybe by having to work, you had no choice but to figure yourself out.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s okay.” And sobered. She was probably right, at least partially. My series of jobs and internships had taught me the things I liked doing with my time and the things I really didn’t like. “I don’t know, you’re in a fortunate position where you don’t have to work, and there are plenty of people who don’t find fulfillment through work. Maybe you’re one of them. Or maybe you’re not, you just haven’t been forced to figure it out yet.”

She just furrowed her brow.

I said, “I have to tell you, the party the other night was really good. Everything was put together well and it seemed fun. And I know your dad was looking for someone to plan events for his charity, and other people out there are always looking for event planners for all sorts of interesting parties and galas. I imagine that would be pretty fulfilling and would make you feel like you’re doing something good. And even if it’s not your thing, who knows? Maybe going outside of your comfort zone will help you figure out who you want to be.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly, then clapped her hands together. “Speaking of going outside of your comfort zone. I’m not the only one who needs to do that.” She closed one eye and looked intently at me through the other. Was she trying to wink? “Have you forgiven Bennett yet?”

I choked on nothing. I hadn’t even been taking a breath. There was really no excuse. “What?”

She repeated it, slowly and loudly, as if the problem had been that I hadn’t heard her. I shook my head. “Yes, I heard you. I just . . . I don’t know.”

Except . . . didn’t I? Maybe I was just hiding from this relationship because I was scared of going outside of my comfort zone, into this world of Bennett and Emerson Leigh and the Deckers.

Maybe I should give my own advice a try.

I put on my own battle face. “You know,” I said, “I think I have.” I jumped to my feet. “I should call him.”

Emerson Leigh stood, too, though she was much more graceful about it. Somehow she even managed to scoop her purse up at the same time. “No need.” A mischievous smile crept over her glossy lips. “I’m here to take you to him.” She paused and considered. “That, and to tell you you’ve got your job back.”

“Wait, what?” I blurted. I wasn’t even sure which of those sentences I was responding to. I put my palm up in the air to stop her before she could slowly, painfully repeat what she’d said. “You’re taking me to Bennett? And what do you mean about my job?”

“I mean that I told Dad to rehire you, and of course he listened to me. You should be hearing from him soon.” She spoke over her shoulder as she strode confidently down the hall toward her shoes. “And also that it’s good you forgave Bennett, because I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t. Or what he would’ve done, honestly.” She bent over to wiggle her shoes on. “I guess he would’ve just sat there alone all night, all sad.”

“Sat where?”

“You’ll see.” She snapped her fingers. “Now go put on something presentable.” She cast a critical eye over me, which was fair, considering these sweatpants were on their third day. And on the second day, I’d dropped ice cream on them. “And maybe brush your hair.”

• • •

Fifteen minutes later, my hair was brushed, and I’d put on a mostly clean pair of jeans. No matter how many times I asked Emerson Leigh where her shiny black car was taking us, she wouldn’t say a word, only smiled at me like the Cheshire cat. So I sat back on the supple leather seat that was somehow my exact body temperature and hoped that she wasn’t taking me somewhere to kill me.

If she was, it was the worst possible place for it, because any decent investigator would trace the murder right back to her. Her car glided to a stop back outside Maisie’s boutique. Emerson Leigh gestured for me to get out. On the sidewalk, I turned, waiting for her to follow me, but she just slammed the door shut and waved out the window as the car drove away.

The front door would usually have been locked at this time of night—opening hours for the boutique were generally whenever Maisie felt like getting up to whenever she got bored of being there—but it swung open easily when I pushed it.

I gasped at the inside. The tables of artisan faux-fur scarves and self-published poetry books by Maisie’s friends were back in their places, but an aisle of lit candles wove its way among them, tracing a path deeper into the store. Banishing thoughts of how wise it was to have lit candles flickering a little too close to what appeared to be very flammable polyester, I followed the path back to the stairway, where candles framed every step. They danced and glowed beside me as I climbed, making me feel a little like I was tracing a fairy path in the forest.

“Julie.” My heart leaped at the sound of Bennett saying my name. There were more candles upstairs, some lit, some not. In the middle of the open space, topped by candles and a bouquet of peonies so fresh I could smell them from where I stood, sat a white-clothed table for two.

And of course there was Bennett standing beside one of the chairs, the flames reflecting against his glasses, giving him fire in his eyes. His button-down was red-and-purple checked today, his hair in that characteristic swoosh, and my heart squeezed hard at the sight of him.

“I hope we’re not summoning demons tonight,” I said, sweeping my arm out at the candles. Bennett’s lips quirked. “Though if we are, I call dibs on not being the blood sacrifice.”

A buzzer sounded downstairs. Bennett stepped around me. “That’s the blood sacrifice now,” he said.

“You really can get anything delivered in New York.”

Of course, when he came upstairs, he was carrying two slightly greasy paper bags. “Our first course,” he said, setting them on the table and opening them up. “Emerson Leigh arranged for us to get takeout from West. They don’t usually do takeout, but somehow she worked a miracle.”

Two missed reservations and finally we’d get to try it. “That’s amazing.” I waited for him to carefully divide the food up onto our plates—he seemed to be using the fancy gold plastic leftovers from Emerson Leigh’s party—then gallantly pull out my chair. I sat down and let him push me in, then he took his seat.

I knew there would be a talk coming, but obviously we couldn’t let the food get cold. Or warm, in the case of the tuna tartare with benne seeds I finally got to compare to Jada Knox’s review. It really did taste a little bit like coffee, which, contrasted with the cold, clean chunks of tuna and hits of acid, was the perfect mellowing factor. The red stew, with a tender chicken thigh nearly falling apart in the spicy, sharp broth, was both hearty and exciting, the bland, fluffy fufu it was served over the perfect contrast. And the curried goat with roti and crispy potatoes? The whole fried red snapper with jerk seasoning? All the contrasts of flavor and texture made me want to eat and eat and eat until I burst.

We kept our conversation strictly food-related until we were both picking bits of flesh off snapper bones at the end of the meal. “This was amazing,” I said. “Both the food and the ambience. How’d you light all those candles?”