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Rose shook her head and wordlessly went to assemble the silver chargers of cheese by region. Marta didn’t like cheese. She didn’t like fish. She didn’t like any vegetables. She didn’t like sweets. In fact, Rose had rarely seen her put anything in her mouth at all. Why she was still in the catering business was a mystery.
After all, she’d only inherited the business. Her second husband—or was it her third?—had left it to her when he’d died several years back. In that time, to her credit, Marta had kept the business going and had even upped its profile. But she’d never once shown any interest in food. She was just ruthlessly ambitious, and willing to succeed in any area that would allow her to prosper, both financially and socially.
So she’d succeeded in the catering business by hiring the best people and running the operation with an iron fist. So what if she couldn’t cook? In true Henry Ford fashion, she’d simply hired someone who could.
Rose.
Rose, along with her sister, Lily, had grown up in the Barrie Children’s Home in Brooklyn. The two had spent some of their time in foster care, all fairly good experiences, but as they’d grown older they’d spent more and more time at the orphanage. People didn’t want to foster older children as much as younger ones.
When they were sixteen, though, they learned that their first foster mother had died, leaving her meager estate to the girls so that they could go to vocational school and learn a trade.
Rose had gone to culinary school, while her sister had studied hotel management. Now, while Rose worked as an assistant caterer for Marta, one of the most prominent caterers in New York, Lily was a concierge in one of New York’s most exclusive boutique hotels, the Montclaire.
“How’s it going in here?” a small, twitchy man with a dark comb-over and black-rimmed glasses asked. “Is everything on schedule?”
“It certainly is, Mr. Potts,” Marta cooed. “You go tell your boss everything is just fine. In fact, maybe he’d like to come in here and—” she gave a coy smile “—sample my wares.”
Mr. Potts raised his eyebrows so high his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them up hastily. “Mr. Harker trusts that your wares will be everything they’re advertised to be, Ms. Serragno.”
Rose stifled a giggle.
Potts left and Marta turned to Rose. “Can you believe that man? When I land this big fish, and I will, that worm is going to be one of the first things to go.”
“Oh, I don’t think he meant anything by it,” Rose said, not to reassure Marta so much as to spare Potts his job if she did manage to get her hooks into his boss. “Warren Harker’s just a busy guy. He trusts us to do a good job, just like we always do.”
Marta gave a mild nod. “I’ll do a good job, all right. How’s that artichoke salad coming along?”
The suite was incredibly posh. Rose had seldom seen such ornate handiwork and she’d worked in some of the finest homes in Manhattan. The chandelier alone must have cost more than a year’s worth of her salary. Word was that Harker had two residences in Manhattan, and countless others across the world. Money to burn. Real estate development must be on an upswing.
“Would you care for an hors d’oeuvre?” She asked a group of party guests, holding out the platter with its pretty little assortment of appetizers.
“Oooh! What are those?” a plump, bleached blond woman asked excitedly.
“Avocado egg rolls.” One of Rose’s better concoctions. “They’re particularly good with the tamarind sauce.”
The woman drew in her breath appreciatively and took several of them.
“I’ll try one of those,” a deep voice said behind Rose. Startled, she turned to find herself face-to-face with Warren Harker.
He was taller than she’d realized, even though Marta had gone over his stats quite explicitly. His eyes were a pale, crystal blue, with the faintest laugh lines fanning out into his tanned skin.
“Mr. Harker.” She held the platter out to him. “Would you like an hors d’oeuvre?”
“Anything but that artichoke salad your coworker has been chasing me down with.” He smiled and picked up a cheese puff.
“You don’t like the artichoke salad?”
“I don’t like anything held out to me on a spoon with someone saying, ‘Come on, just have a little bite.”’ He smiled. “Reminds me of my mother trying to get me to eat liver. Not a good memory.”
“Oh, I see.” Rose groaned inwardly. Marta did have a tendency to be a little heavy-handed when she wanted something. Or, in this case, someone. “Look, I’m sorry about that. She’s not…” What? Not herself? Marta was being completely herself. Not taking her medication? She had a purse full of prescriptions. “She’s not usually like that.” A lie, but harmless.
“Have you worked with her long?” He had a great voice. Low, smooth, perfectly modulated.
“Just about a year.”
“Ever think of striking out on your own?”
She looked at him. “As what?”
“A caterer.” He laughed. Very nice laugh. “You are the cook in this operation, aren’t you?”
Marta didn’t like anyone to know that she didn’t cook. “One of them.”
“One of them,” he repeated and gave a broad white smile. “You’re good. Loyal. If I were in the food business, I’d try to steal you away right now.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “My assistant set this whole thing up, and she says that Serragno never cooks, she just hires the best.” He gave a shrug. “Which is why I hired her. And if she hired you, you must be the best. At whatever it is that you do.”
Rose gave a wan smile. “I made the artichoke salad.”
“Ah.” He laughed outright, and several people looked over at them. “I’m sure it tastes far better than this foot I’ve been chomping on.”
Rose couldn’t help but chuckle. “If it doesn’t, I’m in the wrong business.”
“There you are.” Marta swooped in between them, still holding a ramekin of artichoke salad. She turned to face Warren and took what looked like a deliberate step backward into Rose, loudly knocking the platter to the floor.
Rose’s heart sank. All that food, smashed into the carpet.
“Rose Tilden!” Marta snapped. “That was very clumsy. Look what you’ve done to Mr. Harker’s carpeting.” She turned to Warren with what Rose could only imagine was a look of condescending disgust.
“It wasn’t her fault,” Warren said, with a slight edge to his voice. “Someone ran into her.”
Marta acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Don’t worry about a thing, Rose will get that cleaned up.” She snaked her arm through his and tried to lead him away. “Why don’t you show me your view?”
Warren pulled back and went to Rose. “Let me help you with this,” he said, kneeling down in his two-thousand-dollar suit.
“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” Rose said quietly.
“No, it isn’t.” Marta stood over them. “She dropped it, she can pick it up. Now, about that view—”
“Go to any wall,” Warren said, helping Rose anyway. “Look out a window. You can’t miss it.”
Rose felt, rather than saw, Marta’s wrath surround them like a cold mist.
“I can get this,”