Olivia sighed. “Oh dear, you do have lots to learn about food. Come into the kitchen. I think Michel will enjoy giving you a tutorial.”
Leaving Laurel in her chef’s capable hands, Olivia went through to her office and immediately checked her e-mail. There were no messages from Chief Rawlings. Her voice mail was also empty.
“Where the hell are you?” Olivia paced back and forth, trying to suppress her urge to call the station. Finally, she grabbed her cell phone and punched in the main number. When the switchboard operator told Olivia that the chief was off duty, Olivia pressed her for his whereabouts. “It’s important. I have information about one of his open robbery cases,” she said, stretching the truth.
The operator offered to take her number. “This is Olivia Limoges. I’m actually a friend of the chief’s. He’s got my number, but he’s not returning my calls.”
Hesitating, the woman lowered her voice. “Honey, he won’t be talkin’ to anybody today ’cause it’s the anniversary of his wife’s death. He’ll visit her grave and then sit for a long spell in the church. Oyster Bay could be attacked by aliens and the chief isn’t gonna notice. He’s in his own world right now.”
Olivia thanked her and hung up, her mood sour. She tried to tell herself that she was cross because the evening writer’s meeting would now be purely social because they were without Rawlings’ chapter and that it was rude of him not to at least call to say that he wouldn’t attend, but an inner voice said something different. You’re jealous of his dead wife. Sawyer Rawlings may drive a station wagon, wear tacky shirts, and be thick around the middle, but you feel something for him. You feel something and yet he still grieves the loss of his wife—enough to spend an entire day lost in the memories he shared with her.
“No,” she said aloud. “It would be too complicated. I can’t . . .”
Rushing from the office, she strode through the kitchen, told one of the sous-chefs to drive Laurel home, and left through the back door, a befuddled poodle on her heels.
She sped home, stopped the Range Rover in a cloud of sand and dust, and rushed down to the beach. Kicking off her shoes, she ran to the water and waded in to her shins. The wind whipped her short hair and sprayed her limbs with sharp droplets of saltwater.
Olivia had successfully returned to a place of complete solitude, but neither the increasing wind, nor the darkening sky, nor the swelling of an ocean stirred by an offshore hurricane could silence the voice in her head.
You feel something for Sawyer Rawlings.
As the first raindrops began to fall, she lifted her face skyward and surrendered to the truth.
Chapter 7
Why, now blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S Julius Caesar
The meeting of the Bayside Book Writers never occurred. Laurel was the first to telephone and give her excuses. With the storm making its presence known in the form of rain and a persistent wind, the young mother felt she’d better say at home and tend to her children and nervous in-laws.
“I’ll be honest with you,” she said in a hushed tone. “Steve also gave me a major guilt-trip over leaving the twins with him and his folks twice in one day.”
Olivia couldn’t suppress a harrumph. “Oh, please. You brought home a gourmet meal, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I haven’t served it yet.” Laurel sounded much meeker than she had during the interview with Christina Quimby. “Maybe after they taste Michel’s food they’ll start pushing me out the door in the future.”
“Don’t count on it,” Olivia grumbled. “And what about your interview with the other robbery victim? Are you still going to pursue that or are you going to wait for your husband’s permission?”
Stung, Laurel became defensive. “Actually, I’m going next Thursday, once Ophelia’s moved through. It isn’t easy, you know. Lying to my husband.” She paused. “Or trying to keep everyone happy. It’s really very hard.”
Olivia was in no mood to enter into a conversation concerning the problems faced by today’s mothers, so she promised to join her friend on Thursday’s interview and then got off the phone. She knew she had treated Laurel callously, but couldn’t help feeling annoyed by her friend’s vacillating will. Now thoroughly out of sorts, Olivia was relieved when Millay was the next to call and cancel.
“I need to make some money before the bar blows away, so I’m not going to waste time eating mini quiches and sipping vino with you all,” she stated with her usual frankness. “I’d come if there was work to be done, but the chief dropped the ball big-time this week.”
For a moment, Olivia almost explained why the chief had failed to send the group his chapter, but then thought better of it. Let Rawlings keep the anniversary of his wife’s death to himself. He would have to explain his involuntary sabotage of tonight’s meeting to the writer’s group in person. “May your tip jar overflow,” Olivia told Millay.
It didn’t take long for Harris to call and bow out too.
“You don’t need to explain,” Olivia said as soon as she heard his voice. “Everyone else is jumping ship. Honestly, I doubt Rawlings will be ready for next week’s meeting either. With the storm’s arrival and the clean up afterward, he won’t have a second to catch a breath, so we’re going to skip his turn and let Millay go next. She assured me her chapter was almost ready and she’d e-mail an attachment to the group late Sunday evening.”
Harris grunted. “She’d better send it in the morning. I’ve got a Facebook friend who works for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and he says that Ophelia’s going to double in width over the next twenty-four hours. We’ll lose power by dinnertime.” Pleased to share the insider information, Harris went on to tell Olivia the other natural disasters his cyber-friend had accurately predicted. “I’m glad I live in an apartment away from the water. No need to worry about flooding or downed trees. The power outages will be a drag, but I’m charging two laptops in preparation. After they die, it’ll just be me, a case of Slim Jims, some not-so-cold brewskies, and a fierce game of Risk between me and the guys in 4C.”
It was impossible to be gruff in the face of Harris’s boyish enthusiasm. “Good luck in your pursuit of world domination,” Olivia said. “And don’t underestimate the value of Australia.”
“Never!” Harris agreed. “I will capture the continent in your honor, fair maiden.” He paused. “On a serious note, be careful. If the road from the Point to town floods, you could be stranded for days.”
Touched by his concern, Olivia resisted the urge to lecture him on her high level of self-sufficiency. “Never fear, my friend. I have food, a generator, excellent company, and a five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel to work. If Michelangelo hid any codes on that ceiling,” she joked, “I’ll have plenty of time to find them.”
“Man, you are so cool,” Harris declared before hanging up.
Olivia wasn’t ready to hunker down until conditions notably worsened, so she and Haviland drove to The Boot Top. Normally, she’d mill about the restaurant greeting diners and offering wine recommendations. Tonight, however, the hostess had called in sick and Olivia didn’t have enough wait staff to spare.
“I’ll have to be Madeleine for tonight,” she told Haviland apologetically. “And no getting underfoot in the kitchen. Health code violations and all that. You stay in the office if you want to be fed.”
Haviland seemed to focus on the latter phrase. Licking his lips, he trotted into the office and sat on his haunches, gazing with expectant adoration at Michel.