Free A Killer Retreat by Tracy Weber

answered, or if she did, none of us noticed. We were too distracted by the commotion that erupted across the room .
    â€œYou have got to be kidding me!” Monica shoved her chair away from the table and slammed a fork onto her plate. The sharp whack of metal on china shattered the room’s formerly jovial atmosphere. “There’s no meat in this pasta!” She glared at Emmy, eyes narrow with accusation. “How could you be so inconsiderate? You know I get sick if I don’t eat enough protein. I might even pass out!”
    Tears streamed down Emmy’s face. “It’s a vegan restaurant, Monica,” she cried. “They never serve meat. I didn’t target you deliberately.”
    Helen jumped up and reached across the table. She grabbed Monica’s shoulders and shook her forward and back, like a frustrated parent trying to shake sense into an out-of-control teen. “Monica, this outburst will stop . Immediately . You have already hurt this family enough.”
    Monica’s eyes grew wide. She took a step back.
    Helen released her grasp, but the unflinching glare she leveled at Monica seemed even more aggressive than her prior assault. When she spoke, she spit out each word, accenting every syllable. “Now sit down. Shut up. And eat your dinner.”
    The entire restaurant stared in shocked silence. Emmy sobbed into her napkin. Bruce looked down at the table, face so red it was purple. The two dueling women postured defiantly, each daring the other to flinch.
    The wall clock ticked on, counting the seconds for at least a cen tury. Monica finally caved. She threw her napkin on the table and wrapped her fur stole tightly around her shoulders. “Enough of this nonsense. Bruce, we’re leaving.”
    Josh slowly stood and patted his bride-to-be’s hand, before soot hing Monica with an easy smile. “Now, Monica, no need for all that.” He turned and addressed the crowd, palms forward in suppli cation. “Hey there now, folks. It’s all good. Go back to your din ners.” He nodded to the hostess. “Give everyone a glass of champagne on Emmy and me.”
    A grateful-looking waitress popped dark green bottles of bubbly and poured everyone extra-full glasses. The crowd resumed their hushed conversations. I pretended to eat my salad, but I surreptitiously watched Josh.
    He turned to Emmy, who was still crying. “No worries, Em.” He squeezed Helen’s forearm and motioned for Monica to sit. “Mellow out, ladies. I’ll go get the chef.” The two seething women tentatively sat down. Josh ambled to the kitchen and called out, “Kyle, can I talk to you?”
    A scowling man emerged from the kitchen. He held a paring knife in one hand and a dish towel in the other.
    â€œI’m busy back here. What’s up?”
    This pale, lanky man must be the chef Josh had mentioned, though he certainly didn’t look the part. With his tie-dyed apron, blond dreadlocks, and oversized striped rasta hat, he looked more like a thirtyish stoner—if said stoner was in a shockingly foul mood.
    Josh addressed the Bob Marley dress-alike. “Emmy’s stepmom is freaking out over the menu.” He scratched the base of his skull. “Would you please talk to her and work it out?”
    Josh meandered back the table, easy smile still in place. Kyle marched beside him, looking considerably less amiable.
    Monica watched them approach in apparent disbelief. Her lips curled down. Her eyes widened. Her Botox-stiffened brow tried to wrinkle. “You’re the chef ?” She threw up her hands. “Why am I even surprised?” Evidently both questions were rhetorical, because she didn’t wait for a reply.
    â€œThis dinner is ridiculous. There’s no main course here—just some low-budget appetizers. Bring me meat: lobster or filet mignon will do. I’m not picky.”
    Kyle wrinkled his lips in disgust. “This is