Harvest Moon

She had believed Luca, that he and his wife had an understanding and their legal separation and divorce was being negotiated. There was an occasional text: I’ll be in the restaurant office at five. I want to see you. Couldn’t he be sending that sort of text to any chef he wanted to speak to? Any colleague? To Durant? To Phillip?

Was it possible Olivia was a little nuts? Was she exaggerating, or was it possible she was a little crazy?

Frankly, it surprised Kelly that Luca was still around. Most men with the good looks, money and power of Luca Brazzi would move on to a woman more willing to throw caution to the wind and succumb to that fullblown affair Olivia apparently thought they had had.

It was irrelevant that Kelly longed for that; it was beside the point that Kelly adored him, that she believed herself to be in love with him. She’d managed to keep him at a safe distance because he was married. And … because she was woefully inexperienced with men.

“I think you need to work this out with Luciano,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “I’m not sure what’s really going on here.”

“If that’s the case, dear, then you won’t be at all upset when you can’t reach him.”

“Mrs. Brazzi, if he’s such a philanderer and cheat, having children with mistresses and spoiling your good name, why in the world are you with him?”

“That’s a fair question. Because we married for life, we have a very large family together, we’re business partners and breaking up an international company as large as ours would be dreadfully complicated. And you may rest assured, my name is on every document that matters. All that aside, despite his flaws, I do love the man. He’s a genius, a gifted and complicated man, and he couldn’t manage without someone like me. He has a habit of telling his women that there’s nothing between us, but of course it’s not true—we sleep together every night. We’re husband and wife, dear. Now, here’s what will happen,” she explained. “He has given his word he won’t contact you again. The romance dissolves here and now and you’re on your way to the next available man. Thank you for your time.”

She turned, and before Kelly could even speak, Olivia’s hand was on the office door to leave.

Kelly lost her head and blurted out her feelings before she could stop herself. “I can’t imagine running off alleged girlfriends for a man I loved! Why do you do it?”

Olivia turned toward her. She smiled patiently. “Trust me, I have my reasons. Billions of reasons, really. Good evening, Ms. Matlock.”

Kelly went back to the kitchen, which was hot, steamy and alive with action, shouting and chaos typical of seven-thirty in the evening. In something of a daze, she quickly replaced the perfectly white, starched coat with her slightly soiled one and wrapped her apron around her waist. Of course Luca could have lied to her; perhaps he was just trying to consummate the very fling Olivia suspected.

Or, Olivia could be lying about Luca sending her to ask Kelly to go away, for a billion reasons.

She wasn’t going to find out soon, so she got back in there and started directing traffic, checking the orders, moving dishes along to the waitstaff, observing the line cooks at work, stepping in whenever her assistance was needed.

Luca owned many restaurants, was a controlling partner in dozens if not hundreds worldwide, had a commercial food line and appeared regularly on a nationally syndicated television program, and yet it was not surprising Kelly knew him. He had a special fondness for French American cuisine and partnered up with Durant to open La Touche several years ago. Since Luca kept one of his large, family homes in the Bay Area, he liked to frequent his local investments. While his wife and her friends might dine, the true beauty of Luca was that cooking was still the most important thing to him, all other business or TV shows aside. And Kelly loved it when he was here—everyone held back a respectful distance, and the entire kitchen came under control like at no other time. That was probably because Durant, smart enough to step lightly around his betters, behaved like a professional when Luca was in the house.

She had adored him immediately but never imagined he’d return the emotion. That had been fairly recent, but he’d been promising her a chef de cuisine position since long before he made a romantic overture.

She tried to ignore the fact that Durant and Phillip were chatting near the freezer. When had they ever chatted? They fought like junkyard dogs over control of the restaurant. She assumed if they were talking, it had to be about her.

That light-headed feeling returned, and she ignored it. Kelly yelled that the salmon was up, the crème brûlée was ready for the flame, the filet was out of time.

She had a little trouble catching her breath, and her heart raced. Then suddenly, a burning ache in her chest. This is probably what happens when a man’s wife comes to tell you to end the affair you’re not quite having yet, she thought. This is probably what I deserve! I always knew I should have said, “Great, let’s talk again when the divorce is final!”

But the worst pain came from imagining Luca selling her out like that—admitting they were close, perhaps too close, and sending his wife to shut it down.

She was panting, couldn’t catch her breath. She grabbed her chest. A scary bit of heartburn; she never had heartburn. She broke out in a sweat.

Durant’s cruel smile appeared before her, which was easy—they were both five-five. “You slept with Luca Brazzi didn’t you, you stupid cow?”

Kelly’s eyes rolled back in her head and she went down. Lights out.

When Kelly awoke, a man in a navy blue T-shirt smiled into her eyes as he wheeled her toward a vehicle with red-and-blue flashing lights. There was a mask over her mouth and nose. She realized she was on a gurney or stretcher; she felt the motion of it as it slid into the back of an ambulance. “Well, hello,” he said after he’d closed the doors. “Feeling okay?”

She clawed away an oxygen mask. “Where … What …”

“You passed out, got a little cut on your head. Your EKG looks okay at first glance but has to be checked by a cardiologist. Your blood pressure is way up there and you were out a little on the long side.” Then he asked her a series of questions—who is the president, what year is it, where do you work? He listened to her heart, checked her blood pressure. She lifted her hand and saw the IV. “We started the IV in case we need to administer drugs. Do you have asthma? Allergies?”

It was pure instinct that prompted her to struggle to sit up. “No, I’m fine, I’m just …”

He pushed gently against her shoulder. “We’ll be there soon, Miss Matlock. Trust me, you need a little visit with the doctor.” She watched as he tinkered with the IV, then pushed something in with a syringe. Then he laughed uncomfortably. “That kitchen,” he said with a snort. “I might never eat out again …”

“Huh?”

“Seriously,” he said. “We have paramedics in the kitchen and people are yelling about spinach sides and they’re stepping over us! Don’t they take a little break when a chef could be having a heart attack?”

She put her hand to her chest, and her eyes were panicked. “Am I having a heart attack?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. You’re stable now. But you had some noticeable symptoms. One of the cooks said you grabbed your chest and had trouble breathing. You have to see the ER doc before you go anywhere. Seriously, that kitchen is a nuthouse.”

She fell back onto the gurney, suddenly very tired. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

“You under that kind of stress all the time?” the paramedic asked.

She nodded, but what she thought was, Except for Luca’s wife confronting me, it was a pretty average night.

He chuckled humorlessly. “Unbelievable. I had to clear out the kitchen …”

“Huh?”

“I told them to turn off the stoves and get the hell out of the kitchen or I’d have the police do it,” he said. “Thing is, a lot of people have high-stress jobs—surgeons, stockbrokers, pilots. But I’d never work in that kitchen.”

“Don’t like to cook?” she asked tiredly.

“I love to cook. I bet I’m the best one at the house.” Then he grinned. “Firehouse. And of course there’s stress in being a paramedic. But I saw a difference the minute I was in that kitchen. We work as a team. We can count on each other.”

Kelly was fading; she could hardly hold her eyes open. “Did you give me something?”

“Valium,” he said. “The ER doc ordered it. It’ll calm you down a little. You’re anxious, which could account for the rapid pulse and high blood pressure.”

“We work as a team, too. We have to in a five-star kitchen …”

“Yeah, but on your team, they kick the injured to one side. That can go hard on your nerves.”

“Hm. Well this Valium certainly fixes that.”

He smiled. “Have a little nap. We’re almost there.”

“Do you have my purse?” she asked. “Can I have my cell phone? “

“Let’s get you to ER and let the docs have a crack at you first,” he said. “We’ll dig out your cell phone later. You’re too groggy to make good use of it right now anyway.”

Apparently she wasn’t going to die. At least not yet. And she didn’t have her cell phone. It must have fallen out of her purse when she was taken to the ambulance.

After five hours in the ER, she was released to go home. She had follow-up appointments with a cardiologist for a stress test and an internist to give her a physical and deal with her elevated blood pressure, which could be stress-related. Blood work indicated she was also anemic; her head CT was negative—no concussion.