“Chef.” Joe managed to keep his voice steady. “That woman is a chef. She’s also your boss.”
Dietz gave him a guarded look. “Thought Fairley was my boss.”
“He’s one of them. Darcy’s another. And right at this moment, she’s the only boss you need to worry about. Correction—you need to worry about me. You need to worry about me a lot.”
A muscle flexed in Dietz’s jaw. “Yeah. Got it.”
“Make sure you do.” Joe stared down at him, narrowing his eyes slightly. “If you make trouble, you’re out. And trash talking the women who work here is making trouble far as I’m concerned. You keep your mouth shut about them. Are we clear on that?”
Dietz stared up at him, his expression stony. “Like I said, I got it.”
Joe turned away, crushing the bag of peelings in his hand. Of course, he’d really like to be crushing Dietz, but at the moment punching him out seemed like more trouble than it was worth. On the other hand, he now had a very good idea of what the run-in had been about between Dietz and MG a couple of weeks ago. One more good reason to either punch the guy out or send him packing. Which he might have to do soon enough.
Robespierre had been distinctly standoffish when MG arrived in the chicken yard, but he couldn’t hold out against a couple of handfuls of cracked corn. “You’re way too easy,” she muttered as she watched him gobble up the bribe. The hens didn’t seem to have any similar problems. She found eighteen eggs—close to a record. Apparently, they didn’t feel neglected, or if they did, neglect appealed to them.
She heard the sound of a car driving up just as she finished cleaning the nest boxes.
Joe.
She wiped her hands on a rag and started out into the chicken yard.
And saw her Great-Aunt Nedda climbing out of her classic Lincoln Town Car.
Ah well.
She hadn’t really spoken to Aunt Nedda since arriving in Texas, given that what she really wanted to say was “How the hell could you let your own brother lie there alone in a hospital?” Now she watched her stride across the yard as if she weren’t in her eighties, as MG happened to know she was.
She wore jeans and a rust-colored suede jacket that a fashion maven might call vintage, but which was probably just something her great-aunt had held onto until it looked fashionable again. Not that Aunt Nedda gave a good goddamn about fashion, even though her black Lucchese boots would probably bring a nice price at a trendy shop. She came to a stop a few feet outside the chicken wire. After a moment, sighing, MG opened the gate and joined her in the back yard.
“Morning, Aunt Nedda,” she said, managing to make her tone neutral rather than reluctant.
“Heard you were running the place,” Nedda snapped. “Figured I’d come out to talk to you since you couldn’t get yourself around to talking to me.”
“Nice to see you too.” MG gave her a dry smile.
Nedda surveyed the chicken yard, pushing a hand through her bright orange hair, a color clearly not found in nature. “You ready to sell yet? Not that it’s worth much. Particularly in this market. But Hill Country land can always get a few dollars an acre.”
“You want to buy the farm?” MG felt like shaking her head to clear it. Nobody had mentioned her great-aunt’s interest in the place before.
“Might. If the price is right. Figure I’d know how to do something with it more than you do, seeing as how I’ve lived in this country all my life.”
MG took a deep breath. Already this conversation was drawing on her limited reserves of patience. “I’m not interested in selling the farm, Aunt Nedda. Grandpa wanted me to have it. I don’t know how you got that idea. I like it here.” She realized that, amazingly enough, she wasn’t lying.
“Got no money, though, do you?” Her aunt narrowed her watery hazel eyes, creating a new set of wrinkles alongside the crevasses already resulting from eighty years in the South Texas sun. “Heard you were working at that place up the road. Tourist trap that place is. Nobody from around here would be caught dead there.”
“I’ve got enough money.” MG raised her chin. “The job at the Rose helps pay the expenses.” With any luck that would be the end of this conversation.
“You think so?” Aunt Nedda gave her a singularly unpleasant smile.
“I’ve got enough,” MG repeated. “Thanks for asking. You’ll get your check at the end of the month, just like usual. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Don’t know why you’d want this place anyway.” Her aunt narrowed her eyes, studying the chickens. “Not much left of the old farm. That fool Harmon sold off half his acreage to pay for those cancer treatments for Lureen. And then she died anyway.”
MG didn’t know where to begin in responding to that particular statement. Should she go after Aunt Nedda for calling her grandfather a fool or for thinking her grandmother’s life wasn’t worth the cost of trying to save it. She folded her arms across her chest and worked on saying nothing at all.
“’Course he came to me when he decided to mortgage what was left,” Nedda continued, turning her laser gaze back to MG. “I gave him a good deal. Better than one of those downtown banks would’ve done.”
MG nodded. “I know what the terms are. I’m paying you every month.”
“Never could pay it off though.” Aunt Nedda’s lips turned up slightly in another mocking smile. “Don’t even think he paid off the interest. And then he missed that payment when he was in the hospital. Farm doesn’t produce enough to make a dent. Sooner or later, the place will come to me anyway. You sell now, you could save yourself some cash.”
“Is there anything else you wanted, Aunt Nedda?” MG said between her teeth.
“Just came by to see if you were ready to sell out. I guess you’re not. Yet.”
MG shook her head. “Nope.”
“You call me when you are. Don’t wait too long, though. I might not be interested a couple months from now. By then you may have defaulted on the loan and I’ll have it anyway.” She nodded brusquely. “Be seeing you.”
Not if I have anything to do with it.
MG watched her great-aunt stride back toward her Lincoln, remembering her grandfather’s assessment.
Still got the first dime she ever made. And she don’t know anymore what to do with it now than she did fifty years ago.
What she did with it, apparently, was hold on until the dime shrieked for mercy. Just like everybody else within fifty feet of Nedda Carmody.
Which didn’t really make the whole thing feel any better. She sighed. She really hoped Joe was planning on dropping by. Otherwise, she’d probably end up going to the Rose and snarling at Darcy or going into Konigsburg for a beer. Trust Nedda Carmody to take what had been a really great day and turn it right around.
Chapter Sixteen
Fortunately for MG’s sanity, Joe came by shortly after her great-aunt left. They spent the rest of the day wrangling chickens, eating some really great food he’d lifted from the brunch and making love. A lot of making love, as it turned out.
After a while, she even felt comfortable enough to break out the Martin. She sat cross-legged on the back porch, strumming chords and feeling suddenly shy about doing anything else.
“Sing for me,” Joe said, running a finger down the side of her throat.
“What do you want to hear?”
He shrugged. “You’re a songwriter. Play me something of yours.”
She smiled, unreasonably pleased that he’d asked, then blew out a breath, thinking. “Travelin’ On” was one of her best songs, but it didn’t feel right for a lazy Sunday afternoon. After a moment, she segued into “The Right Guy.” It was still rough—she hadn’t gone back to clean up the lyrics yet. But the music was solid. And, of course, it had a certain amount of personal significance.
When she’d finished, he smiled again. “Thank you,” he said. “I liked that.”
She felt self-conscious all of a sudden. “Wonder if the chickens ate the vegetable peels?”
Joe’s grin turned dry. “You want to go see?”
“Not particularly.” She leaned back in her seat. “I think I want to make the chicken yard bigger, maybe give them some grass to scratch.”
“Just means adding more fence. No big deal. Buy some wire and I can help you do it next weekend.”
Next weekend.
She blinked, realizing suddenly that she hadn’t been thinking further than today. They were going to have a next weekend. Somehow she managed not to lapse into an idiot grin, but it was close. “Okay, thanks.”
“No problem.” He gave her one of those slow grins, and she slid the Martin back in its case.
“What do you say we put the chickens back in the yard and then go back inside?”
He looked up at her through those ridiculously long eyelashes. “Does that involve fooling around?”
“What do you think?”
He pushed himself to his feet. “I think those chickens are going back inside the yard in record time.”
Monday was errands—laundry, groceries, gas. She priced wire and fence posts at the hardware store, feeling another little jolt of delight at the thought that Joe was going to help her fix her chicken yard.
On Tuesday morning she showed up in the kitchen at her usual six o’clock, carrying an extra large basket of eggs since it included Sunday’s and Monday’s production, along with whatever the hens had already done for Tuesday. Joe gave her a slightly absent smile and disappeared, eggs in hand. Darcy tossed her a bag of onions and some fresh chilies for chopping.
MG sighed. So much for Cinderella at the ball. Back to the cinders again.
It was a normal day. That much she was sure of when she went over it later. Nothing was out of the ordinary. She chopped, she diced, she put away supplies, she fetched and carried ingredients for Leo and Jorge and Darcy. She dodged Fishhead and stayed out of Fairley’s way. Nothing she hadn’t already done a hundred times by then.
Which is why she was taken completely by surprise when Fairley appeared in front of the counter where she was chopping celery for dinner. She glanced up at him and stopped—she’d never seen him looking so grim before.
“Put the knife down,” he snapped. “Come with me.”
She stepped around the counter, frowning as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Come with you where?”
He took hold of her upper arm, jerking her along beside him as he stalked toward the hall.
She heard footsteps on the concrete floor. “What the hell are you doing, Fairley? MG’s got stuff to do. And she’s my assistant, not yours.” Darcy’s voice came from behind them.
Fairley didn’t even glance back, which struck MG as particularly ominous. “This has nothing to do with you,” he snarled, “stay out of it.”
Darcy’s footsteps faded as he towed MG down the hall. He knocked twice on Joe’s office door, then opened it.
Joe glanced up, annoyed. “What?” When he saw her, his eyes widened. “What’s going on, Fairley?”
Fairley pushed her forward, then dropped a tote bag on Joe’s desk. Her tote bag, MG suddenly realized. The one she’d put in the staff room this morning when she’d picked up her apron. She hadn’t noticed he was carrying it until now.
Fairley turned toward her. “Is that yours?” he said abruptly.
MG nodded. “Yeah. I left it in the staff room. Why?”
Fairley reached inside the bag and lifted out two bottles of wine, placing them upright on Joe’s desk. “What were you going to do with these? Drink them? Or maybe sell them? That would be the smart choice.”
She stared at the bottles, shaking her head. “I didn’t…I’ve never seen those before. I don’t even like wine.”
He turned to Joe. “That’s a Ca’rome, barolo 2007, three hundred on the wine list. The other one’s a Silver Oak, Cabernet 2004, three hundred fifty.” He turned back to MG. “You’ve got good taste, I’ll say that for you. Of course, you’re also a thief.”
It occurred to MG that it really was possible for your blood to freeze. She’d never felt so cold at the same time her cheeks were on fire. She also didn’t seem to be able to get any coherent words out of her mouth. “I…I…”
Joe held up his hand, glancing at her briefly, then looked back at Fairley. “How did you happen to find these?”
“I’ve been monitoring the staff room ever since the incident with the balsamic vinegar.” He gave MG another withering look. “Particularly her stuff. I found this bag hidden behind some boxes of detergent in the closet. I assume she was going to pick it up and smuggle it out when she got off work today.”
MG finally found her voice. “That tote bag was with my egg basket when I left it in the staff room this morning. It’s what I carry my shoes in so that I can change when I get here.” She glanced down at her running shoes, which she only wore to run around the kitchen these days. “I left it folded in the basket, and I sure as hell didn’t put any wine bottles in it.”
Fairley gave her a contemptuous smile. “Right. So the wine just jumped into the bag of its own accord.”
“You son of a bitch…” MG began, but Joe raised his hand again.
He turned to look at her for the first time. “Go home, MG,” he said quietly. “Just get out of here and go home.”
She stared at him, trying to see what was happening, but his expression was blank. “Go on,” he repeated. “Get out of here.”
A pain started somewhere in her chest, and she realized suddenly she hadn’t taken a breath for several seconds. “But…” she whispered.