by Lee Hollis
“Welcome everyone! I am so happy you could join us for our third annual ‘Fourth of July Celebrity Potluck Celebration’! We have some heavy hitters in the house, so this year’s competition promises to be one for the history books.”
Sneaking in behind her, his presence obvious from the strong tobacco smell from the pipe he smoked, was Penelope’s husband Conrad. As he puffed on his pipe, he held Sebastian in his arms. The cat was clearly spooked by the lights and cameras and lasted only about twenty seconds in Conrad’s grip before he scratched Conrad’s arm and wriggled free, landing on all fours on the floor before scurrying out of the room.
Hayley noticed Tristan inching his way closer to Penelope so he would be prominently featured in the shot. It was obvious the ambitious Tristan was fiercely determined not to remain forever in his famous father’s shadow.
After some canned pleasantries and obviously scripted moments between the big-name chefs for the camera, Penelope ushered her guests into the dining room to take their seats for the seven-course dinner about to be served.
Hayley grimaced as she was seated between Conrad and Carol. She prayed Conrad would have the good manners to ditch the pipe during dinner and she dreaded health-nut Carol would closely watch everything she ate throughout the entire meal.
A simple clam chowder was served first, much to the delight of everyone. But before they could dig in, their attention was drawn to the dining-room entrance, where a dark-haired beauty in a tight-fitting black dress, unusual for Maine in the summer, stood awkwardly.
Hayley instantly recognized her.
It was Lena Hendricks, Penelope’s assistant and suspected ghostwriter.
Penelope’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
Conrad was busy slurping his chowder off his soupspoon and didn’t notice her at first.
“Lena, what are you doing here?”
“Um, I was invited,” Lena said, eyeing the extra place setting at the end of the table, but not yet making a move to sit down with the others.
“You were?” Penelope asked evenly, her face as red as her hairstyle. She turned to her husband, who absentmindedly wiped his mouth with a white cloth napkin.
“Darling, don’t you remember? We discussed this. I suggested we have Lena join us for the weekend because I don’t want you running yourself ragged, handling everything by yourself. I thought you could use the extra help,” Conrad said, making a big point of smiling in front of the camera.
“Yes, I remember. I just didn’t think she was going to join us for meals—”
“Well, the poor girl has to eat,” Conrad said, laughing before turning to all of the guests seated around the table. “Am I right, everybody?”
There were a few titters and nods.
Penelope quickly regained control of her emotions, not wishing to appear as some kind of strong-willed, jealous wife on camera. “Yes. Of course. Please, Lena, sit down and introduce yourself to everyone.”
Lena did as she was told.
There was a palpable tension in the air for the rest of the dinner.
Hayley dealt with the friction the best way she knew how.
By eating.
Everything that was put in front of her.
A shrimp salad.
A full one-and-a-half-pound lobster.
A rich buttery corn on the cob.
And mussels.
Lots of delicious steamed mussels.
They were Hayley’s weak spot.
She loved mussels.
It became the big joke at the table.
Everyone watched and enjoyed Hayley gleefully scarf down her mussels.
Her gluttony certainly brought a little levity to the table and relieved some of the tension from Lena’s clearly unwanted presence.
Even Carol Kay lost her judgmental look for a little while.
Conrad mercifully refrained from smoking his pipe throughout most of the meal, but alas, he couldn’t help himself once dessert was served.
Hayley wanted to pinch her nose shut with her fingers, but instead she just held her breath as the puffs of smoke wafted past her face and up her nostrils.
The hired waiter, who had brought out all the previous courses, served blueberry pie and coffee to everyone except Hayley, who wondered if she was finally being cut off.
But then, Clara Beaumont appeared and set another large plate of mussels down in front of Hayley as her dessert.
The camera moved in for a close-up of Hayley’s surprised reaction.
“Okay! I love mussels! Guilty as charged!” Hayley said, her face blushing as she raised her hand.
Everyone at the table burst into guffaws.
“I’m sorry, Hayley, I couldn’t resist!” Penelope said, laughing. “Please don’t feel as if you have to eat them. I had Clara serve them to you as a joke.”
But Hayley was already diving into the mussels.
There was no way she was going to allow them to go to waste.
“You can just wrap up my blueberry pie to go,” she said, tearing a slimy mussel out of its black salty shell, dipping it into some rich melted butter, and dropping it in her mouth.
Penelope stood up to address her guests. “Everyone, I have a little announcement to make.”
The producer signaled the cameraman to wind his way around the table to get a two-shot of Penelope and Conrad.
“As you all know, I have recently been on a book tour for my latest, Making Magic out of Leftovers . . .”
There was spontaneous applause at the table.
Well, it wasn’t really spontaneous, because the producer standing behind the cameraman started it by clapping her hands wildly, and everyone at the table just followed suit.
“During my travels I have talked to many of my fans, and they’ve all begged me to do a book on easy-to-make casseroles. Well, truth be told, casseroles are not exactly my specialty. I just can’t seem to make a memorable one. But my beloved husband Conrad, believe it or not, is a master when it comes to whipping up a damn good tasty casserole, aren’t you, dear?”
Conrad sat back in his chair and puffed on his pipe with a smug look on his face as he soaked up his wife’s forced compliments.
Hayley noticed Penelope flinch slightly and followed her gaze over to Lena, who smiled warmly at Conrad. When Lena realized Penelope was staring right at her, she quickly averted her gaze to the blueberry pie in front of her and made a big show of cutting a piece with her small dessert fork.
Penelope returned her attention to her husband seated next to her and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. “Conrad and I have struck a new deal with my publisher. We are going to co-author a book together that will be out next year on how to impress your friends with the perfect casserole!”
All of the guests applauded warmly.
“We welcome any thoughts you creative types may have for a title this weekend,” Penelope added before taking her seat again and sipping her coffee.
“That’s such a great idea,” Hayley said to Conrad, seated to her left. “I love casseroles!”
Conrad nodded but didn’t verbally respond.
He just blew pipe smoke in her face.
Hayley then turned to her right to see Carol literally counting the number of discarded empty mussel shells in the large wooden bowl that had been placed in front of Hayley.
Yes, she was literally counting how many mussels Hayley had eagerly consumed.
Hayley officially despised Carol Kay at this point, and was going to unfollow her Facebook fan page immediately.
Chapter 4
The rest of the evening was a blur.
An after-dinner cognac.
Lots of conversations about the rigors, trials, and demands of having your own cable network television show. Hayley had nothing to contribute to this topic so she just stood by quietly, nodding and smiling and occasionally choking on Conrad Janice’s oppressive pipe smoke.
Finally, as the clock struck eleven, the guests began retiring to their rooms. Hayley, who had
been stifling her yawns for nearly an hour, was relieved that her first night at Penelope Janice’s estate was finally coming to a close. She was tired and cranky from Carol Kay’s obnoxious digs, and her belly was so stuffed she wondered how she would ever sleep through the night.
Gerard Roquefort bounded off to bed, and Conrad lit his pipe and headed out to the porch. Carol had turned in almost an hour ago so she could be up early for her morning yoga routine, and Penelope had made a warm speech about how happy she was to be hosting such an esteemed group of culinary dignitaries before saying good night and hurrying off to the kitchen.
In the parlor, Tristan Roquefort was eagerly chatting up the lovely young Lena Hendricks. Lena smiled politely at the aggressively smitten young man, but her mind was clearly somewhere else.
Hayley excused herself, although Tristan and Lena barely acknowledged her as she clattered out of the room, her high heels making a lot of noise on the hardwood floors. It was impossible to walk softly in Liddy’s shoes so she just gave up.
She made her way up the grand staircase and was halfway to her room when she ran into Penelope ascending the back stairs that led up from the kitchen.
“I hope you enjoyed dinner, Hayley,” Penelope said.
“Oh my God, I’m going to remember that meal for the rest of my life. I hope I didn’t embarrass myself wolfing down all those steamed mussels.”
“Of course not. You’re a chef’s dream guest. You have no pretenses and you don’t hold back when it comes to enjoying good food.”
“Which is why I have to periodically attend a Weight Watchers meeting,” Hayley said.
Penelope chuckled.
Hayley noticed she was holding a glass of milk in her hand.
“My nightly ritual,” Penelope said, taking a sip from the glass. “Warm milk with a sprinkle of nutmeg. My mother used to serve me a glass every night before bed when I was a little girl. She said it would bring me sweet dreams. She was right for the most part. It’s a habit I’ve never been able to give up.”
“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Janice . . .”
Penelope raised an eyebrow.
“I mean Penelope. It’s a real privilege to be here. And I hope my potluck dish doesn’t disappoint.”
“You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could seriously compete with the other guests. One of these days I wouldn’t be surprised if you have your own cooking show on the Flavor Network.”
“Coming from you, that’s a huge compliment!”
“Good night, Hayley.”
“Good night,” Hayley said as Penelope took another sip of her warm milk with nutmeg. “Sweet dreams.”
Penelope smiled and padded off to her room.
Hayley turned to head off to her own bedroom, but got turned around and walked around for five minutes before she just happened to stumble across it.
The house was so big and confusing to navigate, but she wasn’t going to start complaining about spending five days living in the lap of luxury.
* * *
After removing her makeup, she shimmied out of her designer dress, tossed off her shoes and rubbed her sore feet, and then slipped on a short lacy cream-colored nightgown and crawled into bed.
She lay there, stretched out under the plush goose-feather comforter, wide awake. Just as she feared, she was so full from eating so much at dinner she couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned, sighed, and tried counting dogs and cats because she was never a big fan of sheep.
Finally, she gave up, threw off the covers, and slipped on some khaki shorts, a bulky sweatshirt, and sneakers. Maybe a midnight stroll around the expansive property would help her digest and tire her out enough so she could finally get some shut-eye.
After a few minutes wandering around trying to find the main staircase that led down to the foyer, Hayley managed to get out the front door and into the crisp, breezy night air. The lush gardens were lit at night and as Hayley sauntered through them, she was awed by the beauty of her surroundings. She followed the sound of the crashing waves to a peak that overlooked the rocky Atlantic coast.
That’s when she noticed Conrad Janice standing there at the cliff’s edge, smoking his pipe.
“Good evening,” she said over the din of the angry tide pushing its way toward the shoreline.
Conrad jumped, startled by her sudden presence.
He swallowed some of his pipe smoke and coughed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Hayley said, reaching out to touch his arm. “Are you okay?”
Conrad nodded as he coughed and gagged some more and dropped his pipe on the ground.
“Would you like me to go back to the house and get you some water?”
Conrad shook his head, and then said in a wheezy, gravelly voice, “No, I’ll be fine. Just give me a second.”
He tried clearing his throat a few times until the hacking cough mercifully subsided.
“I didn’t expect to find anyone out here so late at night,” Hayley said.
“I always like to come out here before bed to free my mind from all of the day’s stresses,” Conrad said, bending over to retrieve his pipe and firing it up again with a lighter from his coat pocket.
“Congratulations on the new book,” Hayley said.
Conrad laughed derisively. “Please. I can’t cook a casserole to save my life.”
“I don’t understand.”
Conrad was still a little drunk from consuming too much merlot at dinner and was probably a little looser and chattier than he might normally have been.
“That cookbook was all Penelope’s idea. She’s just humoring me.”
“Humoring you?”
“Our working together on that silly book is just her way of keeping me busy because she knows when I have too much time on my hands, I tend to get into trouble.”
Hayley didn’t have to ask what kind of trouble.
She already knew from her eavesdropping earlier in the day that the trouble undoubtedly involved the gorgeous young assistant/ghostwriter Lena Hendricks.
Conrad suddenly realized he was probably talking too much. He sucked on his pipe, and then gruffly pushed past Hayley.
“Good night,” he said, leaving her alone near the cliff as he marched back toward the house.
Island Food & Spirits
BY HAYLEY POWELL
Let me just get this out of the way. I love casseroles! As far back as I can remember there was always something about the combination of a number of different ingredients in one baking dish along with a cheesy topping or some kind of creamy sauce, baked and served hot and bubbly straight to the table, that just got me so excited!
As a kid whenever I waited impatiently in the kitchen for one of my Mom’s casseroles to fully bake, I was a bundle of hyperactive energy. I kept asking, “When’s it going to be done? When’s it going to be done?”
My mother remarked that I was less enthusiastic about running downstairs to pore over the wrapped presents Santa placed under the tree on Christmas morning. That’s because Santa never ever left behind a cheesy, gooey, big bowl of pure comfort food. Usually it was just ankle socks or a Barbie doll.
Those days from my childhood sparked my lifelong love of collecting casserole recipes. I’ve written enough recipe cards over the years to write my own cookbook! Several volumes, in fact. Just on casseroles alone.
My friends thought I was crazy since none of them loved casseroles like I did. They just associated the word with a slop of old brown aging meat and canned vegetables covered in a dark gravy that they were served at the dinner table when their mothers were too lazy to prepare a more elaborate meal.
When I was first married to my ex-husband Danny, money was tight, but I was good at making the few dollars we did have stretch at the grocery store and farmers’ market so we lived on many casseroles during the early years of our marriage.
Luckily Danny truly loved all of my creations, and actually bragged to his buddies that I was the only person he
knew who could make a plain old hamburger casserole taste like an expensive beef stew, the kind served at a fancy steakhouse.
So when we were at church one Sunday, and it was announced that the ladies of the congregation were planning to self-publish a casserole cookbook to raise money for new choir robes and needed people to submit their favorite recipes, I nearly screamed out loud. Actually I did scream out loud, which caused Reverend Staples to throw his bible in the air, barely missing the organist’s head as it came crashing down.
Even more thrilling was the announcement that the church would host a benefit supper in two weeks. Anyone who wanted to participate could bring their own casserole for the congregation to taste and vote on a winner that would be featured on the front cover of the cookbook. There was also a cash prize of one hundred dollars! Danny nearly screamed out loud at that one himself. Okay, he did, which caused Reverend Staples to lose his bible again just after he picked it up off the floor.
The next two weeks were a beehive of activity at my house as I tried to narrow down my casserole choices to my top favorites. I enlisted the help of my friends and family, who were asked to taste the casserole of the day and give me a thumbs-up or thumbs-down.
Finally, only two days before the church supper, I was down to two choices—my Overnight Summer Breakfast Casserole and my Summer Vegetable Chicken Pot Pie Casserole.
I was torn. Both had received high marks from everyone, but they were split evenly on which one should be entered into the competition.
So I did what any native Bar Harbor resident would do.
I packed up both casseroles, paper plates, and plastic forks and drove straight to the Bar Harbor Police and Fire Department. I filled each plate with a heaping helping of each casserole and proceeded to pass them out to everyone working there that day, including the dispatcher, all the firemen and police officers on duty, the two local female painters hired to repaint the fire chief’s office, and even one beloved local (I won’t mention his name) who had a small mishap the night before and was spending the night in the jail cell for disorderly conduct.