Untitled by Unknown Author

Jim ducked into the office.
       "This rose is perfect," I told him. "Did they say how much for a dozen?"
       "They? Dozen?"
       I didn't pay a lot of attention to Jim's questions. I was busy trying to excavate. "Yeah, I think we'll need at least that many, don't you? Even if we just put a couple in each vase, we'll want them on the tables and a few more on the bar. Did the people who sent them over say how much they'd be per dozen?"
       "Annie, Eve told me what happened last night. I thought you'd be upset. I left the flower to make you feel better."
       Jim's words sank in. My stomach went cold and my hands froze over the stack of papers. No easy feat, considering that my cheeks were suddenly flaming. "I'm so sorry!" I turned to find him looking at me like I was a stranger. "I just assumed—"
       "That everything is business. Aye." He scraped a hand over his chin. "I'm beginning to get the picture."
       "That's not what I meant."
       "No, what you meant is that you're so busy thinking dollars and cents, you forgot that there are times when people just want to do something nice for you."
       He was right, and realizing it only made me feel worse. As if to further prove the theory about how well I'd compartmentalized the facts of Sarah's death and my reaction to it, I burst into tears.
       In a heartbeat, Jim had his arms around me. I buried my face against his chest, and he rubbed my back and whispered soothing words until my crying subsided. When it finally did, I refused to look at him. I am not a woman who cries prettily. Not like Eve. She can shed a swimming pool full of tears and still look as fresh as if she'd just walked out of a day spa.
       I was not so lucky. I knew my eyes were red and swollen. My nose was red, too. It also needed blowing—badly—and I reached around Jim and grabbed a tissue from the box on my desk.
       Even when I was done, Jim didn't let me go.
       "I'm sorry," he said.
       I sniffed and grabbed another tissue to wipe my eyes. "You? You're not the one who's supposed to be sorry."
       "I snapped at you."
       "I deserved to be snapped at."
       "You've been under a lot of stress."
       "And you haven't been?" A few more snuffles and sniffs, and I could almost make myself sound like I wasn't talking from the bottom of a lake. When Jim tugged me closer, I settled into his arms. "You're right," I said. "All I've been thinking about is money. I should have known—"
       "I should have understood—"
       "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions."
       "And I shouldn't have gotten defensive."
       I felt a watery smile blossom and looked up at him. "Truce?"
       He kissed me. "Truce," he said when he was done. "And believe me, I can understand why you're not thinking straight. Finding someone you know dead and knowing that she took her own life . . ." He pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry," he said again even though he didn't have to. "I'm not usually so insensitive. I've been a wee bit on edge, I'm afraid."
       No, I was the insensitive one not to have noticed.
       Before I could tell him this, Jim explained.
       "It's Michael O'Keefe," he said.
       I may have been insensitive, but I was not unconscious. Even Annie Capshaw, a cooking calamity, had heard of O'Keefe. As food critic for DC Nights , a regional magazine, he had a powerful influence on the local restaurant scene. The tattoo that started up in my chest was all about nerves. "He's coming? To Bellywasher's? When? How do you know?"
       "Well, I don't know. Not for sure. And not when. O'Keefe never announces his visits. Just shows up and expects to be treated like a king. If he loves your restaurant, you're an instant hit. If he hates it—"
       "You go down the tubes."
       Jim nodded. "Aye. Something like that. I have a friend who has a friend who works for the magazine. She said O'Keefe was making a list of new places to hit this month, and