Midnight Cravings. Elizabeth Harbison

had to be a good reason for what must surely be a rare outburst. Beatrice Beaujold was kind, a grandmother figure, the sort of wise older woman people went to for advice. That was the image her colleagues at Page-turner Promotions had projected for her.

      Obviously, she’d just been caught at a bad moment. Josie would have a delicate word with her about publicity and how important it was to maintain a good public image.

      She steeled herself and crossed the lobby to where the older woman was still creating a commotion.

      “Ms. Beaujold?” Josie said as she drew near.

      “Who’s that?” Beatrice snapped, squinting behind thick round glasses.

      Josie extended her hand. “I’m Josie Ross, from Page-turner Promotions. We spoke on the phone.”

      “Oh, yeah?” Beatrice looked Josie up and down, as if she were assessing a prize on Let’s Make a Deal.

      From the look on her face, Josie expected her to either bid a dollar or ask for the goat behind door number three.

      “That all you’re wearing?” Beatrice asked.

      “W-what?” Josie stammered, putting a hand to her sleeveless silk blouse. “What I’m wearing?”

      “Hardly decent.” Beatrice sniffed and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Go cover yourself, girlie. No one needs to see all that bare flesh.”

      Josie glanced at her knee-length skirt and sleeveless white blouse, which she was evidently going to be wearing all weekend unless she could find a decent clothing store, and wondered what Beatrice was seeing that she was not. “I’m sorry, I don’t under—”

      “A little modesty never hurt,” Beatrice declared.

      There was no answer to that. Josie decided her best bet was to change the subject. “Well. Is this your niece, Ms. Beaujold?” she asked, smiling at the girl with the baby.

      Beatrice shot a glance at the young woman with the baby. “Yes. Cher, introduce yourself proper, girl.”

      The girl lurched to attention, as much as her stick figure and the chubby baby in her arms would allow. “I’m Cher,” she said dully.

      Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Baby’s Britney, if you can believe that. My brother’s kin.” She widened her eyes, shook her head and all but cranked her index finger in a circle at her temple.

      Josie forced a smile. This was no momentary lapse, she realized with horrible certainty. This was Beatrice’s personality. No wonder no one else wanted to take on this job.

      No wonder Susan Pringle had written confidentially about “special challenges” with Beatrice. God knew what that letter said, but if it got out…. At best, the public would get wind of some less-than-flattering comments about Beatrice. At worst, Beatrice would get wind of them herself and leave her publisher. Who might then fire Page-turner.

      Who would then almost certainly fire Josie.

      It didn’t bear thinking about.

      “And are they staying for the evening?” Josie asked in a voice not quite her own.

      “Weekend,” Beatrice corrected. “I’m stuck with ’em.” She gave Josie a look that challenged her to have a complaint about it.

      “Oh.” Josie nodded a little too vigorously. What was she going to do? If word got out that Beatrice was so…unpleasant…it would be terrible for her and for the PR firm. But how was she going to hide it?

      Quickly she realized what she had to do, the only thing she could do. She—Beatrice’s publicist—had to keep Beatrice quiet and out of the public eye as much as possible.

      No wonder everyone had bowed out so Josie could have this “plum” assignment. No one wanted it!

      “Hot as hell in here,” Beatrice said, fanning her face with her hand.

      It was the perfect segue. “We’ve reserved a wonderful air-conditioned suite for you on the top floor,” Josie told her. “Plenty of room for all of you. In fact, I think you’ll enjoy it in there. There’s a wide-screen TV, a fully stocked minibar and a refrigerator. You might not want to leave the room once you see it.” She gave a light laugh while sending up a fervent prayer. “Oh, and we sent up some Rocky Top Beer, too, which you can take home with you.”

      It was like throwing a cocktail meatball to a hungry rottweiler. Beatrice looked satisfied for a moment, but then she frowned deeply and snarled, “I hope I don’t have to take all them stairs to get up there.” She looked dubiously at the gorgeous sweep of a stairway.

      “No, no, there’s an elevator in the hall,” Josie assured her. The pleasant expression she had frozen on her face was beginning to melt. She couldn’t keep this up much longer. She took Beatrice’s key out of her pocket. “Here’s your room key. I’ll show you the way.” She led Beatrice and her small entourage toward the elevator.

      “So,” she said as they walked, searching the air for something to say that wouldn’t bring criticism. “I understand you’re going to be cooking some of your famous dishes while you’re here. How fun.”

      “Nothing fun about cooking,” Beatrice said, sniffing.

      “No?” Josie was surprised. She thought that, at least, was something Beatrice felt warmly about.

      “But people love your recipes. Surely you must enjoy creating them.”

      Beatrice snorted. “Nope. It’s a gift.” She spat the word as if it were a gnat that had flown into her mouth. “Damn gift. All the women in my family have it. My grandmother, my mother. Sister missed the boat, though. Madge.” Her mouth turned down at the corners into a very unpleasant expression when she said Madge. “She’s jealous that I got it.”

      “She doesn’t cook?”

      Beatrice heaved her heavy shoulders. “Haven’t seen her in more’n five years.”

      “Oh, that’s too bad.”

      Beatrice nodded, and for a moment Josie thought she spotted a little tenderness. “Too bad it ain’t been ten years,” she said.

      Josie nodded and pressed the up button for the elevator.

      They waited.

      “So. The Beaujold women have a gift for cooking,” she said, pressing the button again. Where was the elevator? The inn only had five floors. How long did it take an elevator to get from top to bottom?

      Beatrice stared at her with beady eyes. “Wickham women. And the gift is for bewitchin’ men,” she said with an absurd swing of her hips. “Seducing ’em. They cannot resist. The recipes,” she finished, “are simply how we do it.”

      “Lots of people seem to think the recipes work magic,” Josie said, thinking of Buffy and others she’d met who swore by the book. She’d never given the idea much credit, but she was surprised at the number of stories she had heard of men making proposals—proper and otherwise—over chilis and hot cakes from the book.

      “You got a husband?” Beatrice asked unexpectedly.

      “Not at the moment, no.” She saw a change in Beatrice’s expression and added quickly, before she could be accused of being a half-dressed lesbian, “Someday, maybe, but right now I’d rather not get tied down.”

      “Smart girl.” Beatrice thumped a meaty finger against her temple. “That’s where I made my mistake. Shoulda just played the field.” She cocked her head toward her granddaughter. “Tried to tell Cher that, but she got it all confused and had a baby.” She shook her head. “Girl’s got nothin’ upstairs. Nothin’.”

      Cher gave her aunt a look of sheer hatred.

      “Remember to get them cheesecakes out of the car when you’ve unloaded your stuff, girl,” Beatrice barked, then said to Josie, “They asked me to