Born to Be Wild Page 9

  Well, she planned to show him and all of Palm Beach just how good a job she could do without the services of a professional caterer.

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” Charles had stated in a proper British whisper as he’d pushed the extra-large cart up one Costco aisle and down another. Over and over he’d told her that she should call Max Wilde and beg him to reconsider, but she’d adamantly stated, “No!” Max Wilde was insensitive, insufferable, and he’d deserted her. The nerve of the man!

  Flipping on the light, she entered Mrs. Fisk’s black and white kitchen. Clean, almost to the point of sterile, it was a place she’d sat in many times chatting with Charles and Mrs. Fisk about the happenings in Palm Beach and Newport, where they often retreated during the hot and humid Florida summers.

  It never ceased to amaze Lauren that her butler and cook could tell her what was going on behind closed doors long before she heard exaggerated versions of the stories from her friends. Naturally she listened to all their reports, dispelled rumors when she could, and made it a point never to pass on the information.

  Listening to gossip was one thing. Spreading it was quite another. She’d long ago tired of the scandalous tales about her own escapades. Most everyone knew that the tabloids and rumor mill blew everything out of proportion, but all too often something vicious would strike out and hurt someone close—all too often herself.

  Of course, people like her—rich society folk— were supposed to be insensitive to backstabbing and name calling. Max Wilde must have thought she was made of steel. Why else would he have treated her the way he did?

  She didn’t want to think about Max, but it was hard to think of anyone or anything else at midnight, when the house was quiet and she had nothing better to do. Looking at the starkness of her kitchen made her think of his disorderly laundry room and his warm and inviting kitchen, and brought to mind the vivid differences between his life and hers.

  She wondered if Max Wilde ever sat around his kitchen discussing the outrageous lives of his friends and neighbors. For some reason she couldn’t picture him doing such a thing. Instead, she envisioned him tossing a ball to Ryan while standing at the counter whipping up barbecued ribs, or explaining an algebra equation to Jamie while chopping an onion.

  This kitchen had never had that homey feel. There were no pots and pans hanging around, no baskets of tomatoes, bananas, and oranges. Mrs. Fisk kept the cookies tucked away in an air-tight box beneath one of the counters, while Max had a red and black motorcycle cookie jar sitting at one end of the bar. She’d liked this kitchen until she’d sat in Max’s.

  Max. Why did his name and so many things about him and his life continually pop into her mind? She shouldn’t think of him at all, especially when she remembered his hot brown eyes staring at her across the kitchen counter as he laid down the law on what she had to do before he’d work for her.

  What an impossible man! One she needed to put completely out of her thoughts, but she couldn’t.

  He’d been rude to her, teased her, and that had kicked off a chain reaction that had them both zinging verbal jabs at each other. If truth be told, she’d been just as rude picking on his friends when he’d merely tried to help her out—and gone out of his way to do it. She wasn’t too sure what a ’29 Indian Scout was, but she had the feeling it was a motorcycle, one that he cherished, one that, undoubtedly, was worth a lot of money. And he’d offered it to Bear—all for her.

  Maybe she should attempt another apology, but he’d already made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her.

  Period.

  Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, she opened one of the freezer doors, took out a package of mini quiche, and quickly scanned the instructions, which were written in impossibly small letters on the side of the box.

  Opening one cupboard after another, she finally found Mrs. Fisk’s baking sheets, then turned on the oven. Three hundred and seventy-five degrees for ten minutes seemed an incredibly long time. With nearly two hundred guests coming on Saturday, with dozens of trays that would need to be filled with tidbits for them to eat, the food would have to cook much quicker. With a flick of her wrist, she twisted the knob to five hundred degrees, carefully placed the quiche on the tray, and popped it into the oven.

  She looked at her watch. Twelve-twenty-seven. At precisely twelve-thirty-two she’d check on the quiche.

  She paced the floor for the longest time, took one look at her watch, but only fifteen seconds had gone by. Did chefs get bored? she wondered.

  Taking one of Mrs. Fisk’s cookbooks from the bookshelf, she opened it on the counter and flipped through the pages, looking at all the enticing delicacies. Her stomach growled, and she checked her watch again, anxious to try the quiche.

  One minute and thirty seconds had ticked away, leaving her three minutes and thirty seconds. Time enough for a quick phone call.

  Grabbing the phone from the wall, she punched in her brother’s number. It was only ten-twenty-eight in Wyoming. Surely Jack and Sam would be awake and she could tell Sam about Betsy’s wedding and see if she had some advice. After all, becoming a wedding planner had been Sam’s idea.

  The phone rang three times before Lauren heard the receiver bounce off something hard, before she heard Jack’s raspy “Hello.”

  Oh, dear! Maybe he’d been asleep after all.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” Lauren asked her brother.

  She couldn’t mistake the grumbling at the other end of the phone. “It’s ten-thirty, Lauren. What’s wrong?”

  “What a silly question to ask. Everything’s fine. Absolutely perfect. Is everything absolutely perfect with you?”

  “Except for the fact that you woke me out of a sound sleep, except for the fact that Sam’s having trouble sleeping and you woke her up from the first good night she’s had in weeks, except for—”

  “Thank goodness she’s awake,” Lauren interrupted. Knowing her brother, he could go on for hours saying “except for” and she didn’t want to listen to him right now. It was Sam’s voice she longed to hear. “Could I speak with her?”

  “Hang on a second.”

  In the background she heard the squeak of the bed, heard Jack’s complaining and Sam’s delightful laughter as she breathlessly admonished her husband for being such a grouch, all of which brought a smile to Lauren’s face. If her brother and sister-in-law didn’t choose to live in the godforsaken outback of Wyoming, she’d build a house right next door so she could spend every day in Sam’s company.

  The same breathless voice that had chewed out Jack said, “Hi, Lauren.”

  “I am so sorry I woke you,” Lauren began. “I know it’s late, I know you’re pregnant, and I’ve been so wrapped up in what’s going on in my life that I didn’t give a moment’s thought to the fact that you’re carrying around twins, that you must be feeling awful, and—”

  “I’m fine,” Sam told her, “although your niece and nephew have already begun to fight. Not only that, but one of them continually pushes on my bladder, one has a constant case of the hiccups, and neither one likes to sleep. I can just imagine what life will be like once they enter the world.”

  Lauren unconsciously put a hand to her belly, wondering if she’d ever know the joy of bringing a new life into the world. It seemed highly doubtful, considering her past and her propensity for making a mess of all her relationships, but she still held out hope that someday she’d have the family she’d always craved.

  She tried not to think about her own desires and focused on Sam again, thinking of all the wonderful days she had ahead of her. Of course, there were probably going to be some not so wonderful days, too.

  “Mother told me she’d recommended a nanny and that you’d flatly refused to have one.”

  “Your mother means well, but what do I need with a nanny? I’m perfectly capable of raising my own children. Jack swears he won’t leave my side. Beau’s anxious to have a brother and sister. Pastor Mike’s already planning
a christening, and Crosby’s grumbling about having two more mouths to feed. I haven’t got the heart to tell Cros that I’ll be breast-feeding the babies for at least the first year. As much as he fusses, I think he’s secretly looking forward to having children in the house. But enough about us. Tell me about Betsy Endicott’s wedding. It’s in just a couple of days, isn’t it?”

  “Saturday,” Lauren stated, but suddenly her mind wasn’t on Betsy’s wedding or her troubles. It was on homes and big happy families. Families like Sam’s and her brother’s. Children like Max’s.

  “Is something troubling you?” Sam asked, the concern in her voice bringing Lauren back to reality, tearing her thoughts from a pink-cheeked baby in a bassinet and a husband and wife marveling at the bundle of perfection they’d created. She didn’t want to bother Sam with her insecurities about the future, not when Sam had enough to worry about with twins on the way.

  “Of course nothing’s troubling me,” Lauren fibbed. “I just wanted to hear your voice, and tell you about the darling baby clothes I bought the other day. I found a place called Baby Gap that has absolutely adorable things. I imagine I got a bit carried away buying shoes and dresses and would you believe, I even found denim overalls and khakis. I picked up some darling sterling silver spoons at Neiman Marcus, and, well, I could tell you everything, but I want you to be surprised when the packages arrive.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as they come. Now,” Sam said flatly, “what’s troubling you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I know you better than you know yourself, Lauren, so spill!”

  What could she say? She didn’t want to tell Sam about Max, because she’d promised Sam she wouldn’t get involved with another man, at least until her business took off. She couldn’t tell her about the problems with finding a caterer, because Sam would tell Jack and Jack would send out the Seventh Cavalry to help. She didn’t want or need her brother’s assistance. She needed to prove to him, just as she needed to prove to herself, that she was perfectly capable of functioning on her own. There was, however, one small thing that had been nagging at her since this afternoon, and she knew Sam would tell her the truth.

  “I was accused today of being a ... snob,” Lauren said, her voice nearly a whisper as she uttered the despicable word. “Do you think that’s true?”

  “Well—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Sam, and please don’t say the polite thing just to protect my feelings. I can handle the truth.”

  “You’re not a snob.”

  “Thank you,” Lauren said, the words rushing out on a gasp of relief. “I couldn’t imagine you, of all people, thinking that I had an elitist attitude.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Sam stated, knocking the wind right out of Lauren.

  “Finish? But you said I’m not a snob.”

  “You’re not. You’re the loveliest person I’ve ever met, but sometimes... Lauren hated the sound of her sister-in-law’s sigh. “Sometimes you’re a little self-centered.”

  Lauren took a moment to contemplate Sam’s words. If they’d come from anyone else, she would have tossed back an immediate rebuttal, but she trusted Sam to tell her the truth. “I didn’t realize I was egotistical. I don’t mean to be.”

  “I didn’t say egotistical, Lauren. You’re not selfish, either. Goodness, I don’t know anyone as giving and loving as you. It’s just that sometimes you get so carried away with what needs to be done or with what you want to do—like going on a shopping trip or planning a wedding or... or calling someone late at night—that you don’t take into consideration everyone else’s feelings. Sometimes your mind is made up before you listen to what someone else wants or needs.”

  Lauren laughed lightly. It was either that, or cry. “I don’t think I’ve ever purposely set out to hurt someone, except when I pushed Peter into that lake, and at the time I was secretly praying that there were alligators in the water.”

  Sam laughed, too. “Peter had that coming, but tell me, why did someone call you a snob?”

  Because she was, Lauren realized, remembering the way she’d scrutinized Bear’s fingernails, expecting them to be greasy just because he rode a motorcycle. Hadn’t she thought Chip was a snob when he’d inspected Max in much the same way she’d checked out Bear?

  As for Jazz and Gabe, she didn’t know the first thing about either of them, yet she assumed that they’d be lousy waiters. No, she hadn’t assumed that at all. She’d assumed that her friends would laugh at them and at her for hiring them. Which made her, without a doubt, a snob.

  But she couldn’t admit this to Sam. It was far too embarrassing. In light of that fact, she knew she’d have to take steps on her own to lessen her snooty ways.

  “Who called me a snob and why isn’t all that important,” she told Sam. “Besides, it’s getting late and I really shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “You’re not bothering me.”

  Maybe she could get part of it off her chest. “It’s a long story, but one of these days when you have a lot of time I’ll tell you about Max—”

  “Who’s Max?”

  “Are you sure you want to hear about him now?”

  “Positive.”

  Lauren sat at the kitchen table, crossed her legs, and pulled her aqua silk robe over her knee. “Max is the man who was going to cater Betsy’s wedding.”

  “I thought Henri was going to do it.”

  “He died yesterday. It was just awful. The poor man keeled over from a heart attack and his funeral’s Saturday—the same day and time as Betsy’s wedding.”

  “So who’s Max?”

  “The chef who was going to help out. Unfortunately he wanted to hire a bunch of bikers to wait on people and then he called me a snob because... well, just because. So he quit before we even signed a contract, and tonight Charles and I went to Costco because I’m going to cater the entire thing myself.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’ve decided to cater Betsy’s wedding. But please don’t tell Jack because he’ll worry and then he’ll want to help me out and I know I can do this all on my own. After all, how hard could it possibly be to whip up a few little hors d’oeuvres?”

  “It’s not as simple as it seems,” Sam said. “Why don’t you let us help?”

  “Absolutely not. You’ve got a date with an obstetrician.”

  “Not for several months.”

  “I don’t care how much longer you have, you need to rest and Jack needs to be with you, not here trying to help me out. Trust me, Lauren. Everything’s under control.”

  A puff of black smoke suddenly billowed out of the oven.

  “Oh, dear!” Lauren shouted, dropping the phone as she ran across the kitchen. “The quiche is on fire!”

  oOo

  The firemen departed at two-twenty-two, taking with them the last of the chocolate-covered pecan cookies Charles had baked earlier in the day. Lauren had hoped to eat a few of them herself before going to bed, but the nice-looking men all decked out in fire-fighting gear had seemed to need them more than she. In fact, their disgruntled attitudes had calmed down immensely after she handed them the entire box.

  Why they should have been upset was beyond her. After all, it was their job to respond to fires. Maybe she had told the 911 dispatcher that her kitchen was on fire, when it had been merely a small blaze in the oven, but there was no telling what a flaming tray of quiche could have done to her home.

  Fortunately, Charles had put out the inferno with a scoop of baking soda minutes before the fire engine arrived.

  Dear, sweet Charles. What would she do without him?

  Lauren gathered her soot-splattered robe over her chest with one hand and held the dustpan to the floor with the other, helping Charles sweep up the last of the baking soda and bits and pieces of charred canapés.

  When they’d completed their task, Charles stood before her in his short purple silk dressing gown and bare feet and asked, “Is there anything more I can do for you?”
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  “I don’t believe so, but thank you.”

  “Very well.” He walked across the kitchen, stopping when he reached the doorway. Turning slowly, he looked back at Lauren. “I was wondering, Miss Remington?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think Mr. Wilde might reconsider catering Miss Endicott’s wedding if I were to ask him?”

  “There’s no need for you to do that, Charles. I have every intention of doing it myself.”

  A slow smile touched Charles’s mouth. “Very well, Miss Remington.”

  She didn’t like to grovel, especially with a man like Max Wilde, but after tonight, she had no other choice.

  Seven

  The last thing Max wanted to do was get out of bed at three-thirty-one in the morning, but the incessant knock at the front door forced him to throw off the covers and shoot out of bed before Jamie and Ryan were ripped from their dreams.

  He stormed down the hall, stepped on a half-naked Barbie doll sprawling on the living room floor, swept it up before it caused bodily harm to anyone else, and limped the rest of the way to the door.

  Getting yanked awake in the middle of the night did not put him in the frame of mind for visitors, especially one knocking nonstop.

  Lauren Remington was the last person on earth he’d expected to see when he peered through the security hole, but who else would have the nerve to pay a social call in the middle of the night?

  He slid the chain lock off the door, turned the dead bolt, and opened the door a crack. He rubbed his tired eyes. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  A smile touched her pretty pink lips, and her green eyes sparkled. “It’s three-thirty and I apologize profusely for waking you.”

  He tried not to notice how beautiful she looked standing under the dim porch light, but he wasn’t dead, only groggy. He was in complete control of his senses, too, which were yelling, She may he gorgeous, but what on earth is she doing here in the middle of the night?