Page 31 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

“I’m sure the kitchen is fully stocked. Mrs. Carmichael will help you find whatever you need, so long as you don’t get in her way.”

Relieved that I won’t have to shell out for pans and such, I pick my way through the store. By the time I’m done, I have a cart filled with different imported meats that the store owner, a sweetheart named Mr. Machiatto, cuts for me on his slicer. I also have tons of ripe, luscious vegetables, an assortment of fresh fruits, olives, pickled everything, breads of all varieties, eggs, sliced smoked salmon, and lump crabmeat that Mr. Machiatto assures me is free of nasty shell fragments. He also winks as he adds a jar of fresh-made mayonnaise and a log of hand-churned goat butter to the cart.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he says in a heavy New Jersey accent.

But when I get to the display of caviar, I falter. I already have hundreds of dollars of food in my cart, all of it necessary. I can’t shell out hundreds more for a little jar of Norwegian wild salmon roe and a tiny thimble of Beluga.

“Oh, glad you reminded me,” Jean-Luc says. “Mrs. Carmichael asked me to pick up some caviar for the festivities later. I nearly forgot. Mr. Machiatto, if you would, I’ll take everything you have.”

“Sure, Mr. Lucas, but I got fresher roe. Just came in… say, thirty-k?”

“Dollars?” I squeak.

Jean-Luc chuckles. “Chump change for a billionaire,” he assures me, before adding in a louder voice for the store owner, “That’ll be perfect. Put it on my tab.”

Mr. Machiatto disappears. I turn to the driver. “Is your last name Lucas? You’re Jean-Luc Lucas?”

“The French don’t pronounce the last ‘s,’ and yes. My parents must have hated me. I am Jean-Luc Lucah.” At least, that’s the way he pronounces it, which sounds so much better when he adds the accent.

But yeesh. I thought my parents were deranged. “My full name is Buffilda Bunny Winters. My parents named me after a fictional slayer. That’s why I go by Bunny.”

“Or Bumps.” And he snickers.

I just shrug and change the subject. “Are you really going to shell out thirty-thousand-dollars on caviar for a birthday party?”

“Billionaires are expected to provide the lux without thought for the expense, and a party without mounds of caviar isn’t a party worth throwing. But, hey, don’t worry. Alain’s going to love that you’re doing something for him. No one ever does.”

I can’t compete with thirty-thousand-dollars of fish eggs. I only wanted a few little blobs to decorate the crab and egg salad sandwiches I intend to make. What seemed like a great idea—a special idea that will remind Alain of our watching cooking shows together, with me curled up into him, a bowl of popcorn between us—now seems lame.

Jean-Luc smiles at me softly, as if he understands. “I promise that Alain will be impressed. He doesn’t need expensive gifts. The thought really is what will move him.”

Just in case, I zip down an aisle I noted earlier that contains baking supplies. I pick up a jar of actual gold leaf—edible gold leaf—and some dried edible flowers.

There’s more than one way to make something look pretty. I bet his chef doesn’t gild his food.

+++++

I’m sweating like a proverbial pig. What if I can’t achieve the look I see inside my head? I only have one chance to get this right. More than anything, I don’t want to ruin Alain’s birthday by presenting him with some half-assed assortment of food.

Step by step, Bunny. Just do it by the numbers. It’s like learning any new fighting technique. You can’t expect immediate perfection.

Except, I need it to be perfect right now. I need to show Alain how much he means to me without actually saying the words. I might not be ready to take us to the next level of our relationship, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to secretly know I want to go there.

First, I cover the rolling table with butcher paper, secured with tape beneath. Then, I get busy. Since Mrs. Carmichael is occupying the kitchen staff, I enlist Jean-Luc to help me go through the cabinets to find what I need.

It's like an upscale cooking store in Alain’s kitchen. Anything I’ve ever not considered buying is there, gleaming, waiting for me to use it. I find a variety of crystal bowls, stands, and cake plates. First, I set those out. Then I commandeer a portion of the kitchen in the corner. When Mrs. Carmichael tries to complain about my taking up valuable space, I simply stare her down.

“Boss’s girlfriend,” Jean-Luc reminds her.

And I’ve never been so grateful for my fake stature as I am today, because I need the room. I need to impress Alain. I need to make him fall in lov… er…

I shake my head, unwilling to even finish the thought in the privacy of my own head.

Nope. Not going there. Not going to be that woman desperate for love.

Jean-Luc proves an admirable second and takes the heat off me when I need to boil the eggs for the egg-salad. He helps wash and chop. It all goes smoothly, actually, which makes me nervous as I place the last sandwich in the big plastic baggies I located in a drawer and stick them in the fridge for later. All I have to do is load them onto the cake plates at the last minute. The rest of the crudites, fruit, and vegetables are already in place. The salami flowers are there, too. I figure that no one is actually going to eat them, but they should be okay even if someone does. Alain keeps his house on the cool side. Plus, there are enough nitrates, or whatever, to keep the meat fresh for days.

Jean-Luc whistles. “This is gorgeous, Bunny—er, Miss Winters. You’re really talented.”