Did you ever meet someone and instantly want to be their friend? That’s how it was for me when I first met Kevin Moore in Paris. She was smart and funny and self-deprecating and so warm and generous I wanted to move to Paris just to hang out with her. That never happened, of course. She had visited Savannah a few times over the years, so I’d seen her every so often. But she owned a restaurant in London now, so unless I was willing to relocate, we would never be as close as I’d once hoped.
“Oh, Kevin,” I said, as I was pulled into her enthusiastic embrace. “It’s great to see you.”
She held me at arm’s length. “Good lord, how long has it been? You look freaking fantastic. I hate you for that. What happened to your hair? I love it.”
I fluffed my hair. “Same as it always was.”
“No, no, it used to be short and feathery. Now it’s longer and—oh, never mind. You blondes just piss me off.”
She laughed and gave me another exuberant hug before I could say one more word. Her voice was exactly as I remembered: posh British accent dripping with dry wit. But in other ways she’d changed dramatically. She’d been little more than a gangly teenager in Paris, a string bean, all legs and arms. Now she was lovely and lithe and all grown-up.
“You look beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m stained and sweaty.”
Her white chef’s coat was indeed a mélange of nasty splotches and mysterious smears.
I gave her an innocent smile. “But it looks great on you.”
“And you’re full of it,” she said with a grin.
I’d once asked Kevin how she got her boyish name and she told me her parents had met while waiting at the same bus stop on Kevin Street in Dublin. It wasn’t far from the National Archives, where her father had been giving a lecture. They fell in love at first sight and vowed to name their first child Kevin.
“They were probably counting on a boy,” Kevin had quipped.
If she’d had my wacky parents, who’d named all of us kids after the city in which we were conceived or born, poor Kevin would’ve ended up with the name Dublin. I liked Kevin better. It had a poetic charm that suited her.
Savannah had told me later that Kevin’s father had been a famous English writer who’d given up his worldly goods to become a missionary in Africa.
Kevin’s dark ponytail swished back and forth as she scanned her stained jacket. “This is all Baxter’s fault. Your sister is supposed to be in charge tonight, but he’s the one ruling the roost. He’s run me ragged and we’ve only just started the second seating. I’m cooking tomorrow night, so I’m concerned, but I’m hoping he’ll back off once he sees that we all know what we’re doing.”
“I hope so, too.” I tugged Derek forward and introduced him to Kevin.
“He’s a Brit? You hooked a Brit?” Kevin stared at me. “How in the world did you manage it from all the way over here in the States?”
“I have no idea,” I said, speaking the truth. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Derek grabbed my hand and kissed it. “I’m the lucky one. Can’t believe I snagged her.”
“Aw, that’s sweet, isn’t it?” She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Derek. “Let me guess. Sussex?”
“Oxford.”
“Damn!” she said. “Not even close.”
Derek studied her. “And you? Cornwall?”
“Closer guess than mine, but no cigar. Devon.” Kevin laughed and glanced at me. “Sorry, Brooklyn. All Brits seem to play this game when they meet on neutral territory. We try to guess where we’re from based on our accents.”
“Oh, we Yanks do that, too,” I said. “I’m tough to figure out since I have no discernible accent.”
The two Brits exchanged glances, and Kevin burst into laughter. “Right. You just keep on believing that.” She patted Derek on the shoulder, then turned to me. “I’ll let you get to your table. Promise me we’ll catch up later? I’ll be in town for two whole weeks.”
She rushed off without waiting for a response and our attentive yet discreet hostess continued to lead us to our table as though we hadn’t stopped to talk.
Once we were seated, she handed us our menus and an extensive wine list and said, “Chef Baxter has listed a few of his own specials, but he hopes you’ll choose to enjoy the offerings of his featured chef tonight, the wonderfully talented Savannah Wainwright, whose expertise is haute vegetarian cuisine.”
“We will,” Derek murmured.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
The hostess smiled and walked away.
“Everything is perfect,” I said, admiring the gold-rimmed white chargers and Riedel stemware. “Positively haute.”
Derek’s lips twisted sardonically. “It’s intolerable, isn’t it?”
“Yes, damn it.” I didn’t want to like the place. I tried to scowl, but my heart wasn’t in it.
He reached for the wine list while I glanced at my menu. But I couldn’t concentrate. How in the heck had Baxter managed something so swank? So fabulous? Toads like him shouldn’t be this talented. “I guess I’m happy everything looks beautiful and of course I’m happy that Savannah’s cooking tonight. But part of me wishes Baxter wasn’t so popular and didn’t have such excellent taste in everything.”
Derek scanned the room and admitted, “It really is a phenomenal space.”
“I know,” I muttered. “That waterfall is amazing. And his staff seems competent and friendly, so I suppose he’s trained them well.”