Stand-in Groom (19 page)

Johnny put down his pen. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want to go with you. I’d love to go with you.”

She drew in an unsteady breath. “You’re so sweet.”

“I
insist
that I go with you—that is, unless you absolutely don’t want me there?”

Her voice broke slightly. “I do want you there. Badly.”

“Then I’m there.”

“I think I’m going to cry. Say something to make me laugh, will you?”

“If you want to know the truth, I’m not sweet at all. The real reason I’m dying to go to this shindig is because I want to live out a certain fantasy I have of getting it on with you in your parents’ guest bathroom—with a high-class party in full swing on the other side of the door.”

Chelsea laughed breathlessly. “Oh, my God. That did it. Thank you.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Wait until Sunday. You’ll see.” Johnny finished signing the last of the ordering invoices, and with
unerring aim tossed the pen back into the coffee mug that held a variety of pencils and pens. “You know what? I need a picture of you for my desk. I’m sitting here, and I’m wishing desperately that I had a picture of you.”

“You have a desk?” There was a trace of disbelief in her voice.

“I do. I have an office, too, with a door and everything. If you come over here, I’ll show it to you. We can lock the door and live out my
other
fantasy about—”

“Very funny.”

“This time I
am
kidding. Come on out here and have dinner with me, Chelsea. Please?”

“When do you want me over there? And where exactly is it?”

“Nine-thirty, quarter to ten.” He quickly gave her the address.

“I’ll be there.”

“Take a cab.”

“Right this way, madam.”

Chelsea followed the maître d’ through the hushed formal dining room at Lumière’s.

Lumière’s. Johnny worked at Lumière’s. She remembered now that he’d told her that one of the first times they’d met. But she hadn’t expected it, and therefore hadn’t connected it to
this
Lumière’s, which was, of course,
the
Lumière’s on Beacon Street—Boston’s premier gourmet restaurant.

She’d read a recent
Boston Globe
review of the restaurant, commending it on its ability to keep pace with the times and yet still consistently provide first-rate, four-star fare. They credited the restaurant’s head chef and his young, capable staff—one of which surely was Johnny.

The stony-faced maître d’ held open a door for her. “After you, madam.”

“Thank you.” There were plushly carpeted stairs on the other side of the door that led upward, and Chelsea climbed them. She turned back to glance at the maître d’, who was now following her. “Where are we going?”

“To the private dining room, madam.”

Lumière’s fabled private dining room? Even Chelsea’s father had never managed to get a reservation for Lumière’s ultraexpensive, ultrachic private dining room.

It was a medium-sized room, decorated in tastefully muted colors, and only dimly lit by candles, both on the table and in candlesticks, scattered around the room. One wall was window, and it looked out over the street and the Boston Common below.

The table was set for two, with the simple elegance of a plain white linen cloth and shining black china. A bottle was chilling in a champagne bucket. Two tuxedo-clad waiters were standing attentively nearby, and at the maître d’s nod, one of them picked up a telephone and discreetly dialed a number. The other held back a chair for her, then slipped the cloth napkin onto her lap.

“Mr. Anziano will be right with you, Mrs. Anziano.” The maître d’ bowed and quietly headed back down the stairs.

Mrs. Anziano. Funny, she kind of liked being called that. It was against all she believed in, as far as choosing to keep her own name despite being married, but it made her feel good.

Mrs. Anziano. It brought to mind images of a certain
Mister
Anziano lying next to her in bed, his heavily lidded eyes sleepy and warm as he held her after making love. It brought to mind images of
him joining her in the shower, water streaming around them as they freely gave in to passion and desire. …

The waiters had resumed their soldierly stances near a door that no doubt led down a back staircase to the kitchen, and Chelsea smiled at them, hoping that neither was capable of mind reading. But they were like the guards to Buckingham Palace, and they didn’t smile in return.

She smoothed down the skirt of her business suit, feeling much too underdressed for Lumière’s.
Lumière’s
. She still couldn’t believe Johnny worked
here
. …

The door opened beside the waiters, and Johnny stepped into the room.

He was wearing a brown suit, and again, as on the day they’d met with the lawyer, his shirt and tie were shadings of the same color. Johnny smiled at her as he breezed toward the table, and before she could rise to her feet, he bent over and kissed her.

His hair was slightly damp and his cheeks were baby soft, as if he’d just shaved. He was wearing the slightest hint of a deliciously exotic-smelling cologne.

“Don’t get up,” he told her. He dragged the
chair around from the opposite side of the table so that he was sitting next to her rather than across from her. The waiters scurried instantly to move the plates and silverware and countless wineglasses around. “Are you hungry?”

She couldn’t believe how good he looked. “Did you go home to shower and change? You should have told me you were going to do that.”

“No, I didn’t, actually. I keep a couple of suits here at work,” he told her. He nodded to the waiters and they disappeared. “I take a quick shower and put one on just about every night before I come up to the private dining room.”

Chelsea didn’t understand. “Why do you come up here?”

“When people pay as much as they do to eat in Lumière’s private dining room, they usually want to meet the chef.”

“The chef?” She was stunned. “You mean the
main
chef? The chief chef? The four-star review in
The Boston Globe
chef?”

Johnny was laughing at her. “That’s me. The head honcho, top of the pecking order, I-give-the-commands, don’t-mess-with-my-special-sauce chef.”

He was watching her, gauging her reaction. He’d
known full well that she hadn’t thought he was anything more than one of the lowly kitchen staff. She judged him and made incorrect assumptions based on the way he looked and the neighborhood he’d grown up in. She was as narrow-minded as her father.

“God, you must think I’m a jerk,” she whispered. “You told me you worked here, and I assumed the worst instead of the best.”

He touched the side of her face, his eyes as gentle as his fingers. “Hey, come on. I didn’t plan this dinner to make you feel bad. I thought you would think it was funny. When we met I was driving a truck and wearing jeans. It’s natural you wouldn’t have expected me to be the head chef of a gourmet restaurant.”

“It’s natural, but it’s also close-minded. Johnny, I’m so sorry.”

He kissed her. “Apology accepted. Now lighten up, okay?” She didn’t answer, and he kissed her again. “Okay?”

Chelsea nodded, and he kissed her one more time. “Good.”

Johnny turned toward the champagne bucket, and one of the waiters appeared instantly, holding
the bottle out for him to see. Johnny took it from him, holding it in turn for Chelsea.

“Oh,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t—” But then she saw the label. It was nonalcoholic. It was sparkling grape juice.

“Does it have your approval?” Johnny asked.

She nodded.

Johnny handed the bottle back to the waiter, who opened it and poured them both a glass.

Chelsea couldn’t speak through the lump in her throat. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to get that bottle specially for her. And she suspected getting that bottle had been the least of his efforts. She suspected that she was in for the meal of a lifetime. She knew for dead certain she was in for the year of her lifetime.

Johnny lifted his glass. “What should we toast?”

She shook her head, hoping that he’d want to toast the new level of their relationship, hoping he’d say something,
anything
that would give her hope to believe that he loved her too.

“I know what we can toast.” He lifted his glass even higher. “Here’s to never having to ask your father for money ever again.”

Chelsea groaned. “Please. I don’t want to have to think about that right now.”

“You don’t have to think about it ever again,” Johnny told her, clinking his glass against hers and taking a sip. He set his wineglass down and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He took out an envelope and handed it to Chelsea. “I think there’s probably enough in there to cover the first six payments of your loan.”

For the second time that evening Chelsea was stunned. She stared at him. Just stared at him. “What did you just say?” she finally breathed.

Johnny tapped the envelope. “There’s a bank check in here,” he said. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get the money out—I had it in a long-term CD—so I didn’t want to say anything to you until I talked to the bank officer. But I went over there this afternoon and the penalties weren’t that high, so …” He shrugged and smiled. “You don’t need to ask your father for anything.”

Chelsea lifted the envelope’s flap and peeked at the dollar amount written on the check. “This is your savings,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears as she looked back at him.

“Part of it.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re my wife.”

“I’m not
really
your wife, Johnny. Not
really.”

Johnny glanced up at the two waiters. “Can we have some privacy, please?” When the two men vanished, he looked back at Chelsea and took her hand. “We’re married. From now until the day it’s over we’re really married. You’re
really
my wife and you need this money. So, I’m giving it to you.”

“But I thought …” She lowered her voice as if the walls might have ears. “I thought you were saving to open your own restaurant.”

“Twenty-five percent of your grandfather’s trust will more than pay me back,” he told her, putting the situation in terms he knew she would understand. “In a year I’ll have more than enough to open my own place.” He smiled. “At the rate I was saving, that puts me about five years ahead of schedule. You’re making my dreams come true. The least I can do is return the favor.”

Chelsea gazed at him. Money. This was about money. For a moment she’d almost forgotten that their marriage was first and foremost a business deal. He was merely making a wise investment, using his savings to ensure her happiness, in turn
ensuring that their sham of a marriage would survive an entire year, which would enable him to receive his share of her inheritance.

Silly her. She’d been sitting here hoping that he would gaze at her with those soulful brown eyes and tell her he was giving her this money because he loved her.

She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Well, you’re full of surprises tonight.” She handed the envelope back to him. “I’d like it if you could hold on to this—at least until we get … back to your place.” Home. Lately she’d caught herself calling Johnny’s condo “home.” She had to stop doing that, because it
wasn’t
her home. It was merely her temporary residence until … How had Johnny put it? Until the day it was over. She had to remember that it
was
going to be over. And soon. A year would fly past more quickly than she could believe.

“I’ll have my lawyer draw up a loan agreement,” she added.

“That’s not necessary.”

“I’d prefer it,” she told him.

He nodded. “As you wish.”

Chelsea forced herself to stop wishing for things
she couldn’t have. She forced herself to stop thinking about the money and the future. She was with Johnny right now, and dammit, she was going to enjoy every minute of it. “So … what’s for dinner?”

Johnny smiled.

“You would not
believe
what this man was able to do with a pile of vegetables, a chunk of tofu, and some spices,” Chelsea told Moira. She shook her head, still disbelieving. “I’ve never tasted anything like that dinner in my entire life. He’s some kind of culinary genius.”

Moira was watching her, chin in her hand, eyebrow raised.

Chelsea had to look away. “I’m gushing, I know. Isn’t it awful?”

“Sounds to me like Johnny Anziano should change his last name to Right—as in Mr. Right. Gee, and he’s already your husband. How convenient.”

“He’s my husband for a year.
Only
for a year.”

“So when the year end approaches you renegotiate—”

“He’s got plans.” Chelsea hated the sound of
pure, aching despair in her voice. “He’s going to use his share of the trust to open his own restaurant, but before he does that he wants to go to Paris, to study with some kind of famous master chef for three months.” She rushed to explain before Moira could interrupt. “You see, after dinner, we went downstairs into the kitchen, and he showed me his office—Moira, he’s got this huge, gorgeous office, and the walls are
covered
with newspaper and magazine reviews and awards—and I just happened to look on his desk and see this application that was half filled out for a special advanced cooking program in Paris being offered by the International Culinary Institute.”

“You just
happened
to see it.” Moira grinned. “And you being you, you couldn’t just mind your own business.”

Chelsea slumped over her desk, resting her forehead on her arms and closing her eyes, reliving the dread she’d felt when she’d spotted the word
Paris
on the application. “He lived with a woman for nearly three years, and she still lives in Paris. I couldn’t
not
ask about that application.”

“And he said?”

“He didn’t mention Raquel, of course. But he
told me getting accepted to this program was the ultimate nod from the international gourmet community. Only seven chefs are accepted each year. He told me his chances of getting in are extremely slim, and he reassured me that if he did get in, he wouldn’t leave for Paris until next May.”