Her dating life really was laughable, she thought. It was a good thing she wasn’t looking for love. Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she would be just fine without it.
Because of the weather it took more than two days to get to Dalton. The last day was harrowing. About forty miles from her destination she drove into a blizzard. The weatherman on the radio insisted there would be a few light flurries stirred up by high winds. The man obviously hadn’t bothered to look out the window.
She had driven in snow but never like this. It was thick and heavy and stuck to her windshield in between swipes of her wipers. She decided she would take the next exit and find a place to wait out the storm. Visibility near zero, she could barely keep the car on the road. She had a death grip on the steering wheel and, when she hit a patch of ice and went into a spin, she tried to remember what her father had told her. Slamming on the brakes, though an automatic response, was definitely not the thing to do. She spun around and around so many times she lost count, narrowly missing a steep drop into a deep ravine before miraculously ending up back in her own lane—facing the wrong way but still in her lane. Thankfully, she was the only car on the isolated stretch of highway.
As it turned out, the next exit that offered any promise was the one to Dalton, and by then the snow and the wind had died down. She reached Dalton around four in the afternoon. She drove through a neighborhood and was surprised by how flat the area was. Street after street of tract housing, each home painted a pastel color. Everything around them looked clean and white, but then the snow blanketed the town. She didn’t think it would look so pretty when it thawed. There weren’t any trees. The terrain was barren, as though someone had bulldozed the land before slapping up one prefab house after another. They were all ranches, too. There wasn’t any individuality and it was a little depressing. Maybe the other side of town was more interesting, she thought. Curious to find out, she continued to drive down the main street until she realized there wasn’t any other side of town. All the restaurants, gas stations, grocery stores—there were two—were clustered together with the fast-food drive-throughs and three small apartment buildings. It wouldn’t take Peyton any time at all to know where everything was.
She stopped and picked up a hamburger for dinner before checking in to the Dalton Motel. Her room was small but clean and warm. After unpacking, she got ready for bed in flannel pajamas and socks. She was sitting in the middle of the bed texting her parents and her sisters to let them all know she’d arrived safely when her uncle Len called.
“Did you have any trouble on the road?” he asked. “I watched the Weather Channel, and it showed a blizzard up there in no-man’s-land.”
“I didn’t have any trouble at all,” she said, deciding not to mention the spinout that nearly gave her whiplash. Telling him the truth would only make him worry. “Where are you calling from?” she asked, deliberately changing the subject so she wouldn’t have to lie again.
“I’m back in Bishop’s Cove,” he said, “sitting on my glider on the deck with a gin and tonic. Know what I’m looking at?”
“The ocean,” she said, smiling.
“That’s right, the ocean. The moon’s bright tonight. The water sparkles. No worries here about blizzards or power outages. You love Bishop’s Cove, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Since she’d spent every summer working there while she was in school, she felt as though it was her home away from home. It was a beautiful resort. A little worn, but still charming. There were a dozen bungalows, a small hotel, and a two-story apartment building.
“Your cousin Debi feels the same way about King’s Landing in California,” he remarked. “It’s worth a lot more money,” he pointed out, “and yet you prefer Bishop’s Cove.”
Of course Debi preferred the more expensive resort. She was all about how much things cost with no real appreciation for tradition or character or charm. If it cost a lot, she liked it. Debi’s father was just as superficial. He was the youngest of the three Lockhart brothers, and maybe because he was the baby, he was spoiled. That’s what Peyton’s father thought, anyway.
Debi was married now, and Peyton wondered if she’d changed at all and perhaps done a little growing up. She was the only woman Peyton knew who could still throw a tantrum like a child.
“You know I love Bishop’s Cove. What are you thinking?” she asked, wondering why he had brought up the resorts.
“I’m going to be making some changes,” he explained. “After I’ve thought it through, I’ll tell you about it.”
It? What it? Was he thinking about selling the properties? She hoped not.
“Are you ready to come home?” he asked then. “I’ll give you a job. You can be the new sous-chef at Leonard’s.”
She politely declined the offer. While it was sweet of her uncle to make it, she wanted to prove herself on her own. Besides, she’d heard that the new head chef at the resort’s five-star restaurant was a real piece of work and a nightmare to work for. He was a screamer and kept his staff in a state of perpetual hysteria. Rumor had it he made Chef Gordon Ramsay look like a Buddhist monk in comparison.
“Come on down to Florida and let me put you to work,” Uncle Len persisted.
Peyton thanked him for his concern but assured him she was making the right choice. “I just got to Dalton, and I can’t wait to start the job. I know I’m going to love it.”
TWO
She lasted four whole weeks and was lucky to get out alive.
Peyton’s poor record with men hadn’t improved. It had even spilled over into her budding career. She’d already met more than her share of felons, weirdos, and degenerates. Could it get any worse? As a matter of fact, it could.
Looking back she realized that Allen Maxwell, Brendan Park, Josh Triggs, Greg Middleson, Troy Calloway, and the countless other misfits she’d encountered had all had a hand in preparing her for Drew Albertson, the biggest degenerate of them all.
She wished that she could say that this was the first time she had ever lost a job, but the truth was, losing this one made it three . . . unless she counted Millie’s Ice Cream Shop. Then it was four. Peyton didn’t think Millie’s should be included in the tally because she had worked there only one hour before the manager found out she was just thirteen years old and made her go home.
None of those jobs mattered, though. They all happened before she found her true calling to the culinary world, and they were simply a means to an end. In high school the part-time jobs kept her in Mary Lynn apple-flavored lip gloss, tattered jeans, and oversize sunglasses. In college they paid for her laptop and all the other extras not covered by her scholarship. But this job did matter because, in her mind, it was going to be the start of a stellar career. Too late, she realized she should have been more skeptical. From the very beginning, the job seemed too good to be true, and after a few days at the magazine, she discovered it definitely was. The boss, or rather, the pervert from hell, was responsible for her misery.
Her first day could only be described as bizarre. She had been told she would have a parking spot assigned to her inside a heated garage, which was attached to the main building. Since she wouldn’t have to trample through the snow to get to the door, she decided to wear a dress and heels. She settled on a wool fitted pale-pink dress with a high V-neck and a straight skirt.
It was five below zero when she left her motel room, and getting to her car in the parking lot was painful. God only knew what the wind chill was. Within a minute her skin was burning. She slipped the key in the ignition while she whispered, “Please start, please start.” She added a Hail Mary, and on the third try the motor came to life. She’d had a new battery installed before she left Texas, yet with this cold it was amazing that anything with moving parts would work. Her lips were blue before the heater started blowing warm air.
Peyton didn’t need directions to the Bountiful Table headquarters because it was the tallest building in Dalton. According to Bridget, Peyton would be able to see it from anywhere in town. She was right about that. It was a giant monolith, extremely contemporary, with gleaming silver letters on top spelling Swift Publications. You couldn’t miss it.
As she drove toward it, she tried to figure out what the structure was supposed to be. It was round and cylindrical. The closer she got to it, the more it looked like a silo, but it appeared to be black. By the time she reached the winding drive leading to the garage, she realized the surface of the building was made of dark reflective glass. Any windows were obscured. She surmised that the structure wouldn’t win any awards from Architectural Digest unless they gave one for what-were-you-thinking. Like a giant statue of the bogeyman in the middle of Disneyland, it didn’t belong.
Bridget was waiting for her in the lobby. She wasn’t friendly. Thin and gaunt, she frowned as she gave Peyton the once-over.
“I’m pleased you’re wearing a dress,” she said. “We don’t have an official dress code here and most of the women wear slacks, and the men wear whatever they want, but Drew—Mr. Albertson—prefers his assistants and trainees to wear dresses or skirts. You’ll be working on the eighth floor. Come along and I’ll get you settled. Mr. Albertson is out of town, but he’ll be back in the office tomorrow or the day after. You’ll meet him then.”
At five feet five inches, Peyton wasn’t all that tall, but she felt like a giant next to the petite, skin-and-bones woman as she walked by her side to the bank of elevators. Bridget’s expression was so rigid, Peyton thought her face might crack if she smiled . . . assuming she knew how.
They passed two women in the hall. Both were smiling until they spotted Peyton. Then they frowned and, like Bridget, gave her the once-over. Feeling terribly self-conscious, Peyton looked down at her shoes to make sure they matched.
The elevator ride was strange, too. Most people in elevators stare straight ahead at the doors or up at the numbers above the doors until they reach their floor, but not the crowd in the elevator she and Bridget stepped into. Peyton stared straight ahead while everyone else, including Bridget, stared at her. It was unnerving.
The executive offices were nicely appointed, though the colors were a bit bland. Everything had been done in light and dark gray—the walls, the furniture, and the fixtures. It was as though the decorator wanted the furnishings to match the computers. They did, exactly.
Reception was in front of a wall of glass. A stunning redhead sat behind a sleek white counter, speaking to someone in her headset. She smiled at Bridget, but when she turned her attention to Peyton, the smile stiffened and appeared to be forced. The reactions Peyton was getting were becoming comical, and she worried she’d start laughing. What was wrong with these women? Why were they so hostile toward her?
Bridget led the way to the inner sanctum. Several cubicles separated by low four-foot walls were clustered in the middle of a large room. Beyond was Drew Albertson’s office. His name was printed on the door along with his title, Managing Editor. Directly in front of Peyton, a large open cubicle held two desks facing each other.
An older woman with delicate features and big brown eyes walked up to greet them, and Peyton was relieved to see that, unlike the others, the woman was smiling at her with genuine warmth.
Bridget’s sour expression lessened. “Mimi, this is the new trainee, Peyton Lockhart. Will you take over with her? You know, go through the manual and show her around? I’ve got to get back to my office.”
Before Mimi could agree, Bridget took off.
“Welcome, I’m Mimi Cosgrove,” the woman said, extending her hand. “Let’s put your coat away. The closet’s down the hall. Your desk is here.” She pointed to the one on the right in the large cubicle. “You have lots of space.” She nodded toward the desk on the left. “That’s where Lars Bjorkman sits. He’s an assistant editor . . . still learning the ropes,” she explained.
“Where is your work station?” Peyton asked.
“Right in front of Drew’s office. I’m one of his personal assistants.”
“Have you worked here long?” she asked as she followed Mimi down a hallway.
“Over seven years,” Mimi answered. “I used to work on five, but I was transferred to Drew’s office about eight months ago.” She added, “It’s a change.”
Mimi didn’t volunteer any other information about her transfer, and Peyton felt it would be intrusive to ask. The woman was being very sweet to her. She didn’t want to grill her with questions right away.
“Did you know we have a professional kitchen here?” Mimi asked. “One entire floor. Any recipe that’s printed in our magazine has to be tested several times and then voted on. Would you like to see it?”
“Oh yes, please,” Peyton answered eagerly.
“Come on then. We’ll take the stairs. I’ll give you the grand tour. Then I’ll show you the manual. You’ll have a lot of reading to do the next couple of days.”
They spent the morning together going from floor to floor, meeting employees. The test kitchens with their state-of-the-art appliances and gleaming countertops were definitely the highlight for Peyton. When they returned to the eighth floor and stepped out of the elevator, Mimi turned to her right and pointed to large double doors made of highly polished mahogany.
“That’s Randolph Swift’s domain. It’s a gorgeous office. You won’t meet our CEO right away. I was told he’s gone to visit relatives, but I don’t really know where he is. I haven’t seen him in quite some time. None of us have. Ever since his wife died, he’s become somewhat of a recluse and doesn’t come to his office much. When he was here all the time, he used to address the employees on the intercom, catching us up on the latest happenings because he thought of us as his family.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m starving, and no wonder. Look at the time. It’s already after noon. Let’s go down to the cafeteria. The food’s quite good, but then it should be, right?”
The morning had flown by. As they took their trays and made their way to a table in front of the windows, Peyton noticed heads turning and conversations becoming more hushed.
She set her bowl of vegetable soup and cup of hot tea on the table. Mimi commented that she’d forgotten utensils for her salad, but before she could get up, Peyton handed her a fork and an extra napkin.
“Thanks,” Mimi said. She studied Peyton for a long minute and then said, “You know, if you don’t like working for Drew, or if you decide you don’t want to be a food critic, there are a couple of other positions available. Bridget could help you . . . if you decide . . .”