Mumbo Gumbo by Jerrilyn Farmer Read Free Book Online Page B

mental math. Fate must be Chef Howie’s mother.
    As for Howie, with his thick brown hair and his devilish grin, there was nothing I could find wrong with his looks. In People magazine’s “Sexiest People” issue, they said Chef Howie was bringing back Elvis sideburns single-handedly. His hands were rough and scarred, the way tough-guy chef’s hands always are, very sexy. He could have been a rock musician with that lean build and those clear green eyes. Very badboy chic. Some insisted it was Howie’s hip, casual machismo in the kitchen that had ratcheted Freak ’s ratings higher and higher. Staring at him now, up close and personal, I couldn’t say I’d argue.
    “Come on,” Fate said, turning back to Howie. “Let’s go to the trailer. We need to talk. One of these girls can tell Greta you want her.”
    Howie seemed very used to following her orders, because without a murmur of dissent or skipping a beat, he told us, “Ladies, I’m outta here. Tell Greta I need her right away. Good to meet you, Maddie.” He gave me a slow TV star smile, and winked. Twice.
    “See you later…Howie.” I know. I am bad.
    Fate Finkelberg turned slowly; her light eyes traveled over my white jeans and blue tank top, stopping for a moment as she checked out my unruly red/blond hair, which, for once, I was wearing down. It’s curly and heavy, and when I’m cooking, I almost always pull it back in a braid or clip it off my neck. As a newly minted game-show writer, however, I was experimenting with the whole long pre-Raphaelite hairlook. It was a pain to fuss with, but I’m trying to get into the pain. Fate Finkelberg, queen of the spiky shag cut, was not impressed. At all.
    “You call him Chef Howie, sweetie pie, or you’re out of a job.” Ms. Finkelberg didn’t raise her voice and didn’t blink. She was taking me on, perhaps hoping I’d snap at her bait and get myself fired.
    What to do…I was being ordered around by Chef Howie’s psycho mother. Something inside of me just wanted to resist. But I shouldn’t. I knew that. I did. I knew it.
    Old bat Finkelberg held my gaze, a slight smile playing at her lips. Stella felt the need to fill the silence, explaining, “Madeline is just getting the hang of things around here, Fate. We’re trying to fill her in.”
    She looked nervously at Nellie, who chimed in with, “That’s true!”
    What terrifically weird dynamic ruled this world? I hated this sort of power play. I tilt at windmills. I tilt at Chef Howie and his mom! This desire I have to oppose idiocy is one of my weaker people skills. It’s a very good thing that I am my own boss in my own event-planning company, I realized. But I was not my own boss now. And the truth was, I needed this particular job. With that in mind, I used what little maturity I could scrape together and struck a nonresistant pose. Alas, my act of restraint was not a complete success. I couldn’t keep my honest eyebrow from arching a fraction of an inch higher than its more mature mate. Ms. Finkelberg, taking note of my absent apology and my uneven brows, smiled to herself and turned quickly, following Howie out of the room.
    “Chef Howie’s mom does not love me,” I said as soon as the door closed.
    Susan Anderson broke into a delighted smile. “Madeline!”
    “You are perfect!” Stella said.
    “Perfect,” Nellie said.
    Susan’s eyes twinkled. “Fate Finkelberg is not Chef Howie’s mom.”
    “She’s his wife,” said Nellie.
    Oh, man. The handsome young chef and the driedout old showgirl with the fist of iron—there had to be some terrific story behind this bizarre Hollywood marriage.
    The door to Greta’s office opened and in walked Greta Greene herself.
    “Greta!” Stell said. “Oh good!”
    “Thank God you’re back,” Nell said. “We have got to talk.”
    “Look at the time,” Stell said, seamlessly taking over. “We’ve got a major contestant problem. We are terribly late getting today’s contestants to the set,