“Hey, I’m back,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Um, yeah. Can I call you later?”
I felt a nervous flutter in my belly. “Yeah, but I’ll see you this afternoon, right?”
He hissed in a breath. “Uh…”
“Oh, no! Beckett, you cannot bail on me.” The nervous flutter escalated to mild panic. I felt flushed and my heart thumped.
“Cat, I’m so sorry. Something came up, and I can’t get out of it.”
I waited for him to explain or elaborate.
“You’ll be fine. Just make something simple. You can do this, Cat.”
So he wasn’t even going to explain? “Beckett, seriously, I don’t care about dinner. What is going on with you? What’s with all the secrecy?”
There was a long pause. “I told you. I can’t talk about it yet.”
“Did I do something? Are you pissed off at me?”
He laughed. “No. Not at all. It’s just work stuff. I can tell you soon, and it’ll be good for both of us. You know I always look out for you.”
That was true. “I’m trying to look out for you too, Beckett,” I said. “I don’t understand why you can’t tell me. I can keep a secret.”
“Just be patient. Everything will be revealed in time,” he said in an overly dramatic voice. “In the meantime, I have to go. Have a fab dinner!”
That wasn’t likely without Beckett’s help. I laid my head on the table, hoping it might stop aching for a few moments. I needed water. I needed a plan. I was so not a cook. Why had I told William, Mr. Gourmand, that I would cook for him? Why was I even pretending I could cook something more than a Lean Cuisine? I sat and downed another gulp of coffee, trying to ignore the way my stomach rolled. Cooking was not rocket science. I could do this. I just had to figure out what to make.
Pasta? My throat tightened, and I swallowed back nausea.
Okay, maybe Mexican. My stomach clenched in revolt, and I had the feeling I’d have a distinctly greenish tinge if I looked in the mirror. I doubted much was going to sound very appetizing to me this morning. William knew I wasn’t a cook. He wasn’t going to expect a three-course dinner.
And then I had an idea. I almost smiled—except my head hurt too much. I really thought it would work, but I was going to need help. Beckett was doing his James Bond routine today, so I was going to have to go with my second choice: Minerva.
I pulled on a sweatshirt and shoes and headed downstairs. The Himmlers, Minerva and Hans, lived in the condo under mine. I hadn’t seen much of them lately, but other than Beckett they were my best friends in Chicago. Minerva had been an opera singer in her day, but it was her talents in the kitchen I was after right now. I knew first-hand that Minerva’s desserts would curl any man’s toes.
I knocked on Minerva’s door, and she answered a few minutes later, looking like she was ready for her close-up in a long black silk robe with feathers at the neck and wrists, her hair in a neat chignon, and her make-up perfect. She looked like she belonged in Hollywood. A delicious aroma wafted into the hallway through her open door.
“Catherine! How lovely. I just baked some Pfeffernüsse, traditional German cookies. They’re Hans’s favorite. You will have one with coffee, ja?”
She cooked in that outfit? Obviously, I had come to the right place. “Actually, Mrs. Himmler, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something today.” I explained that William was coming for dinner, and I wanted to make him something wonderful for dessert.
“Smart girl,” she said with a nod. “The way to a man’s heart is definitely his stomach. Come inside. We will decide on a recipe sure to make him fall in love with you.”
“Thank you!”
Minerva’s condo was laid out much like mine, but hers had a very European feel and was filled with antiques and memorabilia from her opera career. Hans sat in a comfortable chair by the fire reading the paper. He looked up and smiled at me, but Minerva waved him back down when he tried to rise. “We will be in the kitchen.”
I gave Hans an apologetic look and followed Minerva. We perused a few of her cookbooks, which were all written in German, but I could study the pictures. We decided on a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, which was several layers of rich chocolate cake with whipped cream and cherries between each layer, decorated with chocolate shavings and more cherries. It looked decadent and delicious and Minerva promised me it would make William my slave forever. I made a list of the ingredients, and Minerva and I agreed to meet back at my condo in an hour. She wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to use my AGA.