The Menlo Grill, attached to the Stanford Park Hotel, had always been one of Max’s favorite restaurants. It had a warm, relaxing, semiformal atmosphere without being ostentatious. Since her last visit two years ago they’d remodeled extensively, and she wasn’t sure she liked all the changes, but the menu looked good—she’d skipped lunch and was ready for an early dinner.
She asked for a table in the bar, pointing to a dark corner booth. Less likely anyone she knew would spot her there. She didn’t care if she was seen, but she was in no temperament for conversation. The cross-country flight had caught up with her, but she despised eating a meal in her hotel room. Along with the need to unpack her suitcases and make her temporary lodging a temporary home, not using room service was a rule she rarely broke.
She ordered the fish of the day, fresh trout, because she planned on making it an early night and didn’t want a heavy meal right before bed. She pulled out her iPad and folded the case so it angled toward her, and checked her e-mail while she ate.
She’d avoided Ben’s phone calls through the day, so she wasn’t surprised that he’d sent her a long message about how difficult it was to find a competent assistant, how difficult she was to work for, excuse after excuse. Then near the end he wrote: However, I agree with you about Ginger.
She laughed out loud, then covered her mouth.
I have an idea that might work, hope to have answers by Monday.
When will you be back in the city? We need to strategize on the Bachman trial, there’s a stack of documents up to my ass you need to review, and Gertrude Grant wants to interview you about your Ramirez article. Gert’s show has fantastic ratings to promote “Maximum Exposure” within our key demographic, and it’ll give you the opportunity to follow up on the case and file another article, plus I think it would make a good two-minute slot.
I can’t believe you went to fucking California when we’re up to our necks in work. You’ll be back on Monday?
Max loved Ben even though he drove her crazy. She supposed that was the role of a television producer, but if she hadn’t been friends with Ben since college, if they hadn’t grieved together over Karen’s death, she’d never have put up with him.
Likewise, she doubted he’d have tolerated her. They were oil and water, and not in the good, sexually combustible way, either.
She responded to his e-mail:
Don’t know when I’ll be back. We have three weeks before the Bachman trial, more than enough time to prepare.
I don’t know how many times I have to turn Gert down before you understand that I’ll never go on her show. In case you misunderstood my previous sentence, I will not go on Gert’s show. I do not like her. She’s a bitch. So am I. It’d be bloody if we’re on set together. And Gert ask me questions? Never going to happen.
However, I like the idea of a two-minute slot on Ramirez. I’ll write it up and we’ll shoot it as soon as I get back. Squeeze it into the May show.
That would irritate Ben. The May show was already cut and promo’d, he’d hate cutting in a two-minute “ministory,” but there was a timeliness factor he’d appreciate.
She thought a moment and sent another message:
On second thought, let’s do a live cut-in with an up-to-the-minute status on Ramirez, with a ninety-second historical overview. Also, I might have an article for the Web page on a cold case I discovered when I got here.
She sent it off and grinned. The waiter took her plate and brought a second glass of wine. Ben was going to flip, because it would be a lot more work and he couldn’t edit her, but it was a good idea. The last time they’d done a live cut-in, it had been featured on multiple news programs that night and the following day.
“Thinking about a friend … or a lover?”
She looked up, startled but not surprised to see Andy Talbot standing at her table. She was speechless, a rarity.
“May I? You are alone.”
“Good deduction.”
He sat, though Max hadn’t explicitly invited him.
The waiter came over immediately and asked Andy if he’d like a menu. Andy looked at Max, and she shook her head.
“Not dinner, then,” Andy said. “Glenlivet, neat.”
“Yes, Mr. Talbot.” The waiter glanced at Max. “Another pinot grigio, Ms. Revere?”
She shook her head. She still had nearly a full glass in front of her.
The waiter left, and Andy turned to her with a mock frown. “I’m hurt.”
“I’m tired. And I’m not big on surprises.”
“I should have called.” There was no apology in his tone and Max was as irritated by this as she was of the way he trailed his fingers up and down her arm. “You’re stunning, as usual.”
She put her hand on his and squeezed. “Andy, it’s always good to see you, but I truly am tired and I have a lot of work to do.”
“You’re here on business then.”
“You know why I’m here.” She lifted his hand off her arm and placed it on the table. Leaning back she sipped her wine. Being near Andy was always problematic. It wasn’t simply that he was attractive, like Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy if Butch wore a Caraceni suit. It was their history. The familiarity and chemistry, the love and hate. After Thea’s wedding, she’d ended up at Andy’s house and in his bed. That had been a mistake, just like the time before when she visited for William’s wedding. Andy had been her first boyfriend, her first lover, her first love. Being with him made her feel young and nervous when “nervous” wasn’t in her personality. Could she even admit that she still felt insecure with him? For someone like her, anyone who made her apprehensive was someone she tended to avoid.