Sidecar Read online

  Like any good clinician, she assembled her tools and ingredients first.

  She was a whiz at multitasking, and knew it, so she didn’t worry too much about Michael’s solemn admonition that she needed to concentrate on completing one task at a time. Hell, she could single-handedly juggle multiple gunshot wounds, gang fights, drug over-doses, and crazy indigents pissing in the water fountains in the Presby ER on any Saturday night. This should be like a walk in the spring rain.

  She looked at her watch again. Damn. It was two-thirty. Syd would be there in less than four hours.

  Okay. First things first. The dough.

  Well . . . maybe the eggs. Those she could set to hard boil while she started the pastry mix.

  Oh, and the meat. That needed to be at room temperature. She walked to the big walk-in cooler and grabbed the two pounds of beef shin she’d bought at the butcher shop in Roanoke. She also grabbed the fat slabs of bacon they’d need to wrap the asparagus. Correction: it was pancetta, not bacon. Michael was quick to correct her when she showed up with the wrong damn side meat and had to go back to the store. Again. Hell, she was practically a shareholder in that joint now.

  So. Okay. The eggs.

  She took a heavy, stainless steel and copper pan down from the pot rack that hung over the kitchen’s big center island and put a couple of inches of water into it. She only needed one egg for the dressing, but decided to go ahead and hard boil six or seven. Why waste a whole pan of water for one damn egg? Besides, she liked hard-boiled eggs, and they could always use them for something else.

  Once the eggs were nicely going, she carried her pastry and filling items to the area where the big, gunmetal gray mixer stood, proud and gleaming, like some kind of culinary obelisk. Michael practically worshipped the damn thing. He even had a name for it—Gloria.

  G-L-O-R-I-A. Yeah. That one.

  She paused to look over the recipe.

  Fuck.

  The damn eggs were supposed to be at room temperature, too.

  No problem. She’d wait just a few minutes, then grab a couple out of the hot water on the stove. That should work just fine, as long as she got them out before the water started to boil.

  In the meantime, she could start chopping and combining the spices.

  Okay . . . ginger . . . check. Almonds . . . check. Cloves . . . check. White pepper . . . check. Whole beans of has-to-be-grated nutmeg . . . check. Cardamom . . . shit. Cardamom. God damn it! She forgot the cardamom. She looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. Then she squared her shoulders.

  Substitution.

  That’s what the best chefs did.

  They always did it.

  Okay. What would work instead of cardamom? It was a mainstay of Indian cuisine, right? So that meant it was spicy. It was one of the key ingredients in garam masala—a seasoning Maddie loved. So what was like that? She walked to Michael’s spice cabinet and looked it over.

  Curry.

  That should work. That was in garam masala, too. Okay, curry powder it is.

  She walked back to the mixer.

  Shit . . . the eggs.

  Well. The water had only just started to roll, so they were probably still okay.

  She grabbed a sieve-style spoon and scooped three of them out and carried them to the table next to “Gloria’s” mixer altar.

  Okay. Let’s see. She looked over the instructions.

  Pulse almonds, flour, baking powder, salt, and spices in a food processor until nuts are very finely ground.

  Beat together butter and sugar with an electric mixer until pale and fluffy, then beat in egg. Add flour mixture in 2 batches, mixing at low speed just until a dough forms. Form dough into a disk and chill, wrapped in plastic wrap, until firm, at least 2 hours.

  Whisk together brown sugar, eggs, molasses, salt, and spices. Whisk in pumpkin, then cream.

  Okay. That chilling part was not happening. No time.

  But she could do all the other stuff.

  Where the hell was the food processor?

  She looked around the kitchen, but didn’t see it. Shit. She checked her watch again. Then she turned back to regard the stand mixer. The damn thing had more attachments than an Electrolux. She looked them over. One of these must be used for chopping stuff.

  Michael had them all arranged on a peg-board above the mixer—like medieval torture implements. Hell . . . he practically had the damn things outlined in paint.

  She picked up a fat, cone-shaped and spindled metal whisk and hefted it before turning it over in her hands.

  Probably this one.

  She attached it to the mixer and started dumping in all of the ingredients.

  All of them.

  Including the flour, the brown sugar, the molasses, the solid-pack pumpkin, and the assortment of nuts and spices.

  Oh . . . and the eggs. The perfectly poached eggs.

  Shit.

  She needed six tablespoons of unsalted butter. Softened. Well, she could go ahead and start pulsing everything else while she went and got that.

  Sighing, she set the mixer control to . . . damn. There was no “pulse” setting.

  Great. What the hell would be closest to that? The thing had ten speeds. Not helpful.

  Okay. Let’s parse it out.

  She stood back and looked the unit over, critically. She’d repaired a few of these in her time. They were pretty nice machines. High-performance motors—575 watts. Planetary drive systems. Mechanical bowl lifts. Plenty of torque.

  Torque had to be good for chopping. More speed equals greater torque. She set the dial to 8 and turned the unit on. It made a tortured, gurgled, grinding sound at first, but then seemed to even out. There was a dense cloud of . . . something drifting in waves up out of the bowl, but that was probably okay. It smelled sweet and spicy.

  It tickled her nose.

  Damn . . . that curry was really strong.

  Shrugging, she walked back to the cooler to grab a stick of butter.

  While she was in the cooler, she decided to go ahead and get the vegetables she’d need for the Boeuf dish, and the damn asparagus.

  Let’s see. Carrots. Onions. Garlic. Artichoke. Leeks.

  Leeks?

  Nope. Didn’t need leeks.

  What else?

  Lard.

  She forgot about that. The damn Boeuf needed to be braised in lard, not vegetable or olive oil.

  Now where in the hell would he keep that? Would it be refrigerated or not?

  She stood there deliberating.

  Boom. Boom, boom, boom.

  What the fuck? The sounds of miniature explosions continued. She exited the freezer in time to see tiny pieces of egg shrapnel flying across the kitchen.

  “Oh, my god!” She ducked as a huge piece of shell ricocheted off the wall behind her.

  The pan containing the eggs had boiled dry, and the eggs had blown up. Pieces of them were flying around and landing everyplace—even on the ceiling fans.

  Jesus Christ.

  And the stench was incredible.

  Maddie dropped all the vegetables in an unceremonious heap on a prep table and ran over to the Bertazzoni to turn off the gas ring under the, now charred, All-Clad pot. Great . . . that thing was a write-off.

  Pieces of egg and shell were all over the top of the stove. She didn’t even want to look at the shelf behind the stove.

  How would she ever get the stench out of the kitchen? And what about all that black smoke?

  Wait a minute . . . black smoke?

  Where in the hell was that coming from?

  She stood back. Not the stove. It was off.

  But the kitchen was filling up with it, and it would only be a matter of time before . . .

  An ear-splitting sound cut through the air as the smoke alarm went off, and Maddie turned around to see that “Gloria” was the culprit. Dark, black smoke and flames were shooting out from the mixer’s engine housing. The stainless steel whisk had been twisted into an unrecognizable shape, and fin
ally, had stopped turning. A dense-looking, orange-colored, nut and spice magma was overflowing the bowl and dropping onto the floor in fat blobs.

  She raced across the room to unplug the mixer and grabbed a towel to suffocate the flames.

  “How could this possibly get any fucking worse?” she bellowed.

  Ten seconds later the overhead sprinkler system kicked in, and the entire kitchen got doused in a fire-prevention monsoon.

  Yeppers. This was going to be one helluva Valentine’s Day.

  Maddie gazed up at the ceiling with arms extended in a ludicrous pantomime of crucifixion as the overhead waterfall soaked her.

  Now all she needed was for Michael to show up.

  Cue Michael.

  “What the fuck is going on in here? My kitchen! Oh my god . . . Gloria!”

  Maddie closed her eyes.

  Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.

  Not even Patti Smith could save her now.

  Judging by the murderous look on Michael’s face as he stood in the doorway to his kitchen surveying the carnage, she thanked god that she had done her residency in emergency medicine. She would’ve offered even money on whether or not he’d be able to kill her before he went into shock.

  She was only sure of two things right now.

  One. It was a very good thing that she had her attorney on speed dial.

  Two. She’d never be able to mention Syd’s misadventure in the hospital parking lot again.

  Ever.

  “I think that was just about the best meal I’ve ever had.” Syd licked her fingertips.

  “It was certainly the safest.” Maddie poured her another glass of the cold Veuve Clicquot—the only thing she’d managed to salvage from their original dinner.

  Syd stifled a laugh. “I’ll say.”

  Maddie shoved the bottle back into its bucket of ice. “Hey, no laughing. We agreed. Truce. Right?”

  “Right.” Syd saluted. “Truce.”

  Maddie held up the big, red and white striped cardboard bucket. “Another drumstick?”

  “No thanks. Four is my limit.”

  “Yeah. I thought you and Henry were going to have to arm-wrestle for that last one.”

  Syd smiled and looked at the sleeping bag in the corner of the room—still rolled out on the rug where Henry had fallen asleep after they had brought him back from Lizzy’s bungalow. Maddie had long since carried him upstairs to bed, with Pete following along at her heels.

  They were back at home, in their living room, lounging on the floor in front of a big fire, with the remainder of their KFC Family Feast for Four spread out on a blanket beside them.

  Syd stole a glance at Maddie. Incredibly, she didn’t look any the worse for wear, which was remarkable, considering the events of the evening.

  By the time Syd had arrived at the inn, the fire had been contained, the sprinklers had been turned off, and Michael had been calmed down considerably by a generous dose of David’s Xanax and a couple of single malt Scotches. Maddie had tried to protest the combination, but backed off right away when Michael picked up one of his waterlogged Shun paring knives and started drying it with the hem of the tablecloth.

  “I’ll get you some more ice,” she’d said instead and beat a hasty retreat from the dining room, where they all ended up after the fire department left.

  That was several hours ago, and now the unhappy chain of horrifying events was already beginning to claim its rightful place in the county annals of myth and heroic misadventure. Syd was certain that by tomorrow, no one would even remember her own fifteen minutes of fame. But Maddie’s? Well. Hers could be expected to live on. For one thing, she was such an iconic figure in the lives of her patients, that any opportunity to humanize her—especially one that occurred on such a grand and epic scale—was sure to resonate with the locals for a good, long time.

  But Syd had to smile as she thought about the lengths Maddie had gone to in her efforts to do something special for her, and what those efforts had nearly cost them both.

  “Do I want to know what you’re thinking about over there?” Maddie sounded almost tentative.

  Syd gazed at Maddie. She was beautiful in the firelight. Hell. She was beautiful in any light—or in no light.

  “Only how lucky we are.”

  Maddie snorted.

  “I mean it.”

  Maddie still looked dubious. “It’s been quite a few weeks.”

  Syd smiled at her. “It’s been quite a year.”

  Maddie took her hand. “This isn’t quite the evening I had planned to celebrate your birthday.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Syd looked around the room. “An amazing home. A beautiful fire. Great champagne. Henry.” She raised their linked hands to her mouth and kissed Maddie’s fingers. “You. What more could a girl ask?”

  Maddie smiled. “That reminds me.” She fished into the front pocket of her jeans, pulled out a tiny gold key, and held it out to Syd. “I got you something.”

  Puzzled, Syd took it and looked it over. “What is it?”

  “It’s a key,” Maddie drawled.

  Syd lowered it to her lap. “Thank you, Dr. Stevenson. Now that we’ve cleared up that mystery, would you like to tackle climate change?”

  Maddie smiled. “Turn it over and look at the back.”

  Syd sat up straighter and held the key out toward the fireplace so she could read the tiny inscription. “429WP?”

  “Right.”

  Syd gave her a confused look.

  Maddie nudged her playfully. “Come on, blondie, reach for it.”

  Syd smiled as recognition dawned. “Your tail number . . . of course.”

  “I didn’t want you to forget.”

  Syd raised an eyebrow. “As if I could ever forget how to identify your tail.”

  Maddie laughed and pulled her closer. “Well . . . here’s hoping. But in this case, it’s a functional key.” She smiled. “It unlocks the airplane.”

  Syd dropped her head to Maddie’s chest and groaned. “Like you’d ever trust me near another engine . . .”

  “Oh, honey, it’s just like riding a horse. You get tossed off, you get right back up on it.”

  “Oh, really? Think that works with KitchenAid appliances, too?”

  Maddie seemed to think about that one for a moment. “Doubtful.”

  Syd smiled into her chest. Maddie smelled wonderful—a mix of pine and lavender.

  An idea occurred to her.

  “Still,” she said, as she laid a trail of soft kisses along Maddie’s collarbone. “I suppose we could work on that physics lesson again. I think I nearly had the hang of it last time.”

  “You think?” Maddie ran her hands up along the skin beneath Syd’s sweater.

  “Um hmmm.” Syd kissed up the side of Maddie’s neck. “You, know,” she grasped Maddie’s shoulders, “since you have that CFI rating . . .”

  Maddie sighed happily. “That’s CFI, MEI.”

  Syd kissed her chin. “Two instructor ratings?”

  “Yeah.” Maddie looked serious now. She lifted her head to try and capture Syd’s mouth, but Syd backed away.

  “Overachiever. I knew I loved you for a reason.”

  Maddie tried in vain to kiss her again, but Syd skillfully rolled over, and pulled Maddie along with her.

  Maddie landed on top of her with a huff. “Oh, I get it now. You want some more of that hands-on instruction, don’t you?”

  “What tipped you off?” Syd reached a very sensitive spot and just about launched Maddie into orbit.

  “Easy, baby,” Maddie breathed, as she started a long, slow descent down Syd’s body. “Remember. Once we hit V1, we’re committed, and we have to go.”

  “Oh, honey,” Syd tangled her fingers in Maddie’s thick, dark hair, “I reached V1 ten seconds after I met you.”

  Like the good scientist she was, Maddie was quick to show that her own findings trended in the same direction.

  And that wasn’t a bad thing, for w
hen they returned to earth, they were still wrapped up together . . . on a blanket, in front of a fire, in their own home, with the boy who would one day become their son, sleeping soundly upstairs.

  Maddie’s (original) Four Course Birthday Menu

  Canapés au Camembert; Pancetta-Wrapped Grilled Asparagus with Vinaigrette Dressing

  Daube de Boeuf a la Saintongeaise; Roasted Vegetables

  Pan-Seared Artichoke with Balsamic Glaze

  Pumpkin Custard Tart with Red-Wine Caramel Sauce

  BOTTLE ROCKET

  Shawn Harris’s debut novel was a runaway best seller.

  In lesbian fiction parlance, a best seller was defined as any book that sold more than three thousand copies in the lifetime of its print contract. Well, Shawn’s semi-autobiographical novel, Bottle Rocket, blew the lid off that equation. Within three months, her fledgling, comic romp was living up to its name and had soared right off the charts and into the annals of lesfic legend. Bottle Rocket was a bona fide hit, and Shawn was an overnight celebrity.

  Nobody was more stunned by this turn of events than Shawn.

  Well . . . maybe Shawn and one discriminating and outspoken reviewer for the esoteric online journal, Gilded Lily.

  Kate Winston was an icon in the lesbian fiction world. Positive or negative comments from her could make or break the critical fortunes of any aspiring author brave enough to seek her approbation.

  Not many dared.

  Those who did and lived to talk about it went on to enjoy tremendous success and frequently acceded to the highest and most elusive level of accomplishment—crossover status.

  Gilded Lily was the mainstream mouthpiece of the lesbiverse. With over 82,000 subscribers, the online magazine boasted a list of regular contributors that read like a who’s who of gay culture. And Kate Winston was one of its best and most controversial bloggers.

  The marketing director for Shawn’s publisher never thought the likes of Kate Winston would ever look twice at the fledgling novel. But when the sales numbers for Bottle Rocket started inching closer to the stratosphere, the editors at Lily took notice and shoved a copy of Bottle Rocket across the table toward Kate in a weekly storyboard meeting.