Page 33 of Hard to Kill

“So, what’s for dinner? You’ve failed to mention that.”

“Beef Wellington.”

I’ve already poured the wine, and hand him a glass of Caymus, a Napa Valley cabernet far more expensive than what Iusually spend on wine, no matter what the occasion. It just seems worthy of the meal I’m preparing.

I see genuine surprise in his eyes.

“Youare making beefWellington?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Dr. Kalinsky.”

“I just know how difficult it is to get beef Wellington right.”

“You mean because of the chopping and dusting of the steak with the flour, frying it just right in oil, then slow-cooking the whole thing with the perfect blend of red wine and garlic and mushrooms and onions, before topping it with a puff pastry that only the bravest home cooks ever think about attempting?Thatkind of difficult, doc?”

He stares at me. “Whoareyou? Somebody must have taught you to cook.”

“Martin.”

“Who’s Martin?”

“My second ex-husband.”

I take a healthy sip of my wine.

“That sonofabitch,” I say.

TWENTY-SEVEN

DR. BEN KALINSKY MAKES the fair point that until this moment I’ve never talked about either of my ex-husbands, other than to jokingly refer to them as Thing One and Thing Two before I change the subject.

I counter now by reminding him that he never talks about his ex-wife.

He grins. “Who?”

I check on dinner. We’ve still got some time. Rip has taken his usual spot at our feet.

“Tell me about Martin.”

Back at the Meier Clinic, I promised Fiona that I’d do a better job of opening myself up. I do that now, for the man I told Fiona I loved even more than either of the men I’d married.

So I tell him.

About the time I decided that even with my career beginning to take off after a couple of high-profile cases, I needed a new hobby. I considered learning to play the piano. I chose cooking classes instead. A Manhattan culinary studio called Home Cooking on Grand Street. The teacher, as gorgeous as his accent, was Martin Elian.

He was going to be famous someday, he said, when he finally had enough money to open his own restaurant.

“Maybe even as famous as you are going to be,” he told me.

I sip my wine, say to Ben, “I could tell you a little more about browning the puff pastry just right.”

“I want to hear about the chef.”

“Brigid was taking the class, too. I was sure he’d go for her. Martin was a few years younger than both of us, but she’s always been the pretty one. Trust me when I tell you this: he was prettiest.”

“And swept you off your feet, the romantic French bastard.”

“Did he ever.”

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