Ken stifled a groan. A former news anchor, Alicia Duncan now had her own morning talk show. Apparently she didn’t have anything better to fill the air with, so she’d taken to bugging Ken.
He shook his head, annoyed that he had to revisit what he’d thought was a dead issue. “I told both of you yesterday, I’m not interested.”
“Fair enough. I just wanted to make sure you’d fully considered her proposition before turning it down.”
“I’ve considered,” Ken said, trying to hide his irritation.
“Have you?” Marty asked.
“Come on, Marty. You of all people should know how I feel about publicity.” An old college friend of his father’s, Marty had known Ken his entire life.
Marty waved his fork in Ken’s direction. “Promotion’s a good thing, son. It’s not like you’d be falling in with the enemy.”
“That’s not the point. I built this restaurant up my way, and I’ve always advertised it my way. So far, I think my plan has worked like a charm.”
All of his advertising focused on the food and the mystique that had grown up around the Oxygen name. No testimonials, no personal appearances, no tacky commercials filmed inside the restaurant, nothing that might diminish the aura that Ken had worked so hard to build.
And since every restaurant he’d launched had been a remarkable success, Ken had no intention of now screwing with his advertising plan. As his dad used to say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Marty just shook his head and took another bite of salad without saying a word. Marty’s habit of suddenly dropping out of conversations drove Ken crazy. And this time Ken was certain the older man was doing it on purpose, presumably to give Ken time to once again ponder Alicia’s proposal.
One pernicious side effect of Ken’s success was his semi-celebrity status—a status that unfortunately attracted the Alicias of the world. But just because the press now treated him as a celebrity, that didn’t mean he had to encourage such nonsense. So when Alicia had suggested filming a segment of her show in the kitchen—and having the restaurant’s hailed executive chef, Tim Sutton, whip up one of his famous creations on camera—Ken had flatly and resolutely said no. It wasn’t an answer he intended to change, no matter how much Marty or Alicia pleaded.
Across from him, Marty finished his salad without saying a word. Not until the waiter slipped over and silently removed the empty plate, did Marty look up and meet Ken’s eyes.
“Go ahead,” Ken said, his voice resigned. Years of experience told him that there was no getting rid of Marty without first hearing him out. “Finish what you came here to say.”
“It would bring in a broader clientele.”
“I’m content with the clientele I’ve got.”
“Then do it as a favor. For Alicia.”
Ken ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out what the hell Marty was talking about. “Excuse me?”
Marty just shook his head, then ripped open a sugar packet and dumped it into his coffee.
The clack of the spoon against the coffee cup grated on Ken’s nerves. “Marty…”
“Well, son, it’s just that I think you ought to think of the girl,” he said, signaling for a waiter, “especially after the way you two broke up.”
Ken swallowed a burst of anger as he wondered what kind of nonsense Alicia had been spouting. “For one thing, we weren’t dating. We went out to dinner twice. That doesn’t make a relationship.” They’d slept together, true, but both of them had known it wasn’t going anywhere. “And even if we were, I’m not changing my philosophy for anybody. Not you, and certainly not Alicia. Nobody. I’m off limits. My restaurant’s off limits. And that’s just the way it is.”
“If you’re sure…”
A waiter, Jake, came over.
“I’m sure,” Ken said.
“It would make a great tie-in with the anniversary. Five years next Saturday since you opened this place.” He let the thought linger, then turned to Jake and started discussing the day’s dessert selection.
Ken’s stomach twisted. He knew perfectly well what day next Saturday was. Every year at this time he struggled through his own private hell. When the anniversary of Oxygen’s opening rolled around, it was as if someone opened a memory floodgate and he was sucked out with the tide.
Five years ago he’d thought he had it so good. The opening of his first restaurant, a woman he adored and whom he thought adored him. But he’d been a fool. He’d stood right in this very room with an engagement ring in his pocket, so sure she wanted a life together as much as he did. Two days later, she’d left for New York with another man. Years later, the memory still rankled.
He’d wanted to wait until after they were married to make love, but apparently that wasn’t enough for Lisa, and soon enough Ken heard the rumors and saw the pictures in the tabloids. She and Drake Tyrell were an item, a regular fixture in all the Manhattan hot spots.
The turn of events had completely sideswiped him—and Ken didn’t consider himself anyone’s fool.
What bothered him most, though, was that after five years, he still couldn’t get her out of his head. If he saw her again, he didn’t know if he’d want to run to her or away from her. He hoped the latter. The thought that, after so much time, Lisa Neal still had power over him was more than a little disturbing. And yet it was true. The woman had gotten under his skin and stayed there.
“I’ve decided to skip dessert,” Marty said. “How about you? Have you made a decision about Alicia’s program?”
Keeping his expression mild, Ken stood. “I’m skipping it, too,” he said. “And this discussion is over.” He told Jake to comp Marty’s meal, then headed back through the tables toward the kitchen, needing some down time to relax and regroup.
Ken wasn’t the type to feel sorry for himself, but one week out of the year didn’t seem too outrageous an indulgence. The other fifty-one weeks he focused on his business and generally got on with his life. But despite the parade of women that came with his pseudo-celebrity status, so far he hadn’t met a woman who affected him the way Lisa had. Half of him prayed that one day he would, so that he could finally forget about her. The other half wanted to hang on to the memory of her forever. Unfortunately, though, right on the heels of the memory was always the now-familiar anger that burned a hole in his gut every time he thought about the way she’d left him.
“I know that look,” Tim said. “That’s your one-week-before-the-anniversary look.”
The familiar smells and sounds of the kitchen accosted his senses and lifted his spirits—the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of oil in a skillet, the gentle hiss of steam rising, the pungent aroma of minced garlic and diced onions. Despite himself, Ken’s lips curved into a grin. “I think I’m entitled.”
“Entitled? To what? To mope?” Tim looked up from where he was supervising his sous-chef, his face ruddy from the heat of the stove. Behind him, the assistants were doing prep work and the expeditor was finishing up the final orders for the latecomers to lunch.
“The woman I loved turned down a marriage proposal and told me she was moving to New York five years ago,” Ken said, making sure his voice was low enough for only Tim. “A year later, she dumped me and shacked up with some Hollywood big shot. I think I’m entitled to a touch of melancholy.”
Before Lisa left, Ken had been absolutely certain of the way his life was going to go down. He was going to live in a bungalow near the beach with his filmmaker wife and their beautiful kids, and they’d spend Sunday mornings trying to outdo each other