Crescent City Connection

liveried maid to answer, someone out of the nineteenth century, but the woman who did was clearly the lady of the house. She was anything but what Lovelace expected, much younger for one thing. She was blond and oddly voluptuous—that is, she had one of those bodies that women of the late twentieth century normally do not allow themselves, fleshy in a sexy way.
    She wasn’t thin, but she certainly wasn’t fat. It’s the kind of body, Lovelace thought, that you’d kill for if you weren’t already too busy pumping iron. Brenna Royce looked like she’d never pumped iron a day in her life. She was blond and her hair looked as if it simply grew that way, but Lovelace wasn’t that naive.
    All that might be expected. It was what she was wearing that was surprising—cotton elastic-waist pants, smeared T-shirt, and some kind of dust; lots of it. Something gooey in the blond hair. Brownish stuff on her nose.
    She must be a potter, Lovelace thought.
    “Jackie? Sorry, I was in my studio. Come in and I’ll wash my face.”
    Lovelace stepped into the living room. She’d never seen anything like it. Nothing could disguise its stately proportions, but it was painted white now, and full of wonderful, dazzling contemporary things—art glass and paintings and metalwork and giant ceramics fired in some iridescent, incredibly elegant way. These were Brenna’s work, Lovelace knew it.
    She sat on a sofa that seemed to let her sink about a foot and a half. Brenna returned, hair loose, face clean, a cigarette in her hand—which partially explained the voice, Lovelace thought.
    “The boys are at soccer. They’re just under junior high age—not vegetarians, I’m afraid. But Charles and I are. Would you mind making two separate menus?”
    “No. Of course not.” Brenna was acting as if she already had the job.
    “There’s Charles now.” The door opened on a man who looked as if he drank too much, ate far too much, and smoked. He was losing his hair as well.
    Not as beautiful as his mate. Not at all beautiful. But revoltingly rich, probably. He greeted Lovelace in a heavy, syrupy accent, and without further ado headed straight for the sideboard. He poured himself a drink without offering one to Lovelace and Brenna. He sat heavily on the couch, next to Lovelace and a little too close for comfort.
    “What’s your experience?” he said.
    “I’ve always cooked.”
    He raised an eyebrow.
    “I used to cook at home for my mom, and then I worked in a pizza restaurant, and then a sort of… soup and salad place—” this was a bald-faced lie “—and then Arnaud’s.”
    “Arnaud’s?” Both Royces spoke together.
    “Sorry. Remoulade. Do you know it? It’s a kind of spin-off of Arnaud’s—a cafe, sort of.”
    Charles raised an eyebrow. “Why’d you leave?”
    “Well, frankly, I haven’t yet. I just thought I’d like this better. My boss knows I’m looking—would you like to call him?”
    Charles Royce stared at his wife. “I’m intrigued. This one intrigues me.”
    She nodded. “I thought she might.”
    Lovelace had an odd moment of sensing something under wraps, as if they were talking about something other than her ability to cook. She thought she knew what it was and she didn’t like it. But he turned back to her and said, “You’re the first one yet with restaurant experience—could you handle a dinner party for thirty?”
    “Thirty? I don’t know. How about twenty-five?”
    “Oh, hell, twenty’s enough.” He laughed, and for the first time, Lovelace realized he was young, that they were both young, about thirty-five probably. “We have two goals. We want to lose weight, and we want to feed our friends really well. You look as if you might be able to help us out.”
    “I’ll bet I could. Why don’t you give me a week’s tryout?”
    “We’ll call you. We’ve got a couple of other people to see.”
    She was shocked. She was so sure she had it. They were acting like she was already hired.
    It was only as she walked out the door and stumbled back to the street that she realized how much she had invested in this. She’d love going to that house, working in those sophisticated rooms, talking to Brenna Royce.
    Brenna was somebody she desperately wanted to know, and she even liked Charles a little bit, kind of admired his lord-of-the-manor act. She was pretty sure there was a sense of humor lurking under it.
    She absolutely couldn’t believe she had to leave without the job. But, of course,