Until There Was You(3)

Liam’s glance bounced around the kitchen once more. He sighed, perhaps irked that there was no one else to talk to, then looked back at her. “You married?”

“Um, no. Nope. Not married. Not yet, I guess I should say. I, um…well, you know. Haven’t met the right guy.” Oh, bieber. That made her sound…unwanted. “Not yet. I mean, actually I’m seeing someone…um, and, you know, I came close once or twice, but—”

“Came close to what?” Stacia asked, banging through the kitchen doors once more.

Posey jumped. “Nothing,” she muttered, tugging at her dwarf-embroidered vest.

“Cordelia was telling me about when she almost got married,” Liam said. Was that derision in his voice? Probably.

“What? You almost what?” Stacia pressed a large hand to her ample bosom. “My own child, and I don’t know this—”

“Mom, stop. It was…you know.” Posey took a deep breath. “Ron. You remember.”

“The one with the rash?”

Posey grimaced. “It cleared up very quickly.”

“He was the one who turned g*y, right? Liam, honestly. Posey just cannot find a normal man, not that she tries very hard, working out at that junkyard—”

“It’s not a junkyard. It’s architectural salvage.” And I am seeing a normal man, I just don’t want you to keel over if I tell you who.

“I always say, if she’d just clean up a little, some man would see what a beautiful, sweet—” Stacia broke off, a religious gleam beginning in her sky-blue eyes. Ruh-roh. Posey knew that look. It was the look of Matchmaker, one Posey had seen far too many times over the years. Ron the Gay with the Rash had been one of Stacia’s better picks, actually. There’d been Carol Antonelli’s nephew, who’d taken her to McDonald’s on their first date and didn’t even pay for her Big Mac. The restaurant-supply guy who’d turned out to have two families, one in New Hampshire, one in Delaware. And now, the look of Matchmaker with Liam.

Don’t do it, Mom, Posey begged silently, hunching her shoulders to ward off the blow.

The blow came, though not the one she expected. “You’ll have to come back and meet my niece, Liam,” Stacia said. “Gretchen? From The Barefoot Fraulein? On the Cooking Network? She’s my late sister’s daughter. We’re so proud of her! Have you ever seen her show?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he murmured. He glanced again at Posey, eyes dropping to her costume. Just in case she forgot that she looked like an idiot.

“Well, you’ll have to come by,” Stacia said. “We were just thrilled when she told us she wanted to come work here! And she’s such a sweet, sweet girl.” Mom paused cunningly. “Very pretty, too.” Gretchen was very pretty, Posey would give her that. She looked much like Stacia—tall, blonde, blue-eyed, voluptuous—German beauty at its finest. Posey, on the other hand, was adopted—five foot three (five two and a half, why lie?), a hundred and seven pounds, dark, short, difficult hair and brown eyes. As for Gretchen’s sweetness… Posey stifled a snort.

“We could use a little help, to be honest,” her mom continued. “Ever since that—” Stacia took a meaningful breath “—that Italian restaurant moved in down the street, business has been a little slow.”

Business had been slow well before Inferno opened, though Posey knew her mom would never admit it. Guten Tag’s food wasn’t bad, if you liked old-school German cuisine (which, it must be said, most people didn’t). The slogan—We’ll feed you till you’re stuffed!—didn’t exactly scream gourmet dining.

Inferno, on the other hand, was only six months old and had already been reviewed by the New York Times (four stars). They had a slogan, too, one that appeared on the local television stations and in swanky tourist magazines—Our life’s mission: to make the best meal of your life.

Dante Bellini, the owner, had recently earned the undying wrath of her parents when a reporter asked about other restaurants in the area. His reply was, “There’s a kitschy institution down the street, but no real competition.” Stacia and Max found the words more offensive than if he’d burned their house to the ground.

The restaurants were indeed very different. Guten Tag was all about fun, not food—the costumes, the music, the cries of “Zicke zacke, zicke zacke, hoi, hoi, hoi!” every time someone ordered a beer. Inferno was sophistication incarnate. Its interior was gorgeous, as Posey well knew—Dante had bought more than ten thousand dollars’ worth of furnishings from Irreplaceable Artifacts, her very own business. This was still a sore spot (or a pulsating ulcer) with the elder Osterhagens. Nevertheless, Inferno boasted the fountain Posey had rescued from the old monastery in New York, marble columns from the public library in Lowell and four sculptures of Italian saints from a church in Vermont.

Yep, Dante Bellini knew how to run a business.

He was also pretty good in bed.

Of course, Posey would kill herself before telling her parents that particular nugget. Still, it made her stand up a little straighter.

“But come, come,” Stacia said, taking Liam by the arm. “Our son and his partner are here. Did you ever meet Henry? You must have, even though he was in medical school back when you worked here. Posey, don’t just stand there, sweetheart, come out and have a drink with us.”