by Meg Benjamin
The pantry door swung open and MG stepped inside carrying a couple of bags in her arms. “What’s up?”
“Trying to figure out what to do about the damn quail. It’s got to sit on something, and that something can’t be fois gras.”
“Oh.” She pushed the bags onto one of the lower shelves. “Have at it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What you got there?”
She glanced back at the shelf. “Grits. Darcy says we’ll maybe start doing them for the buffet next month. I’m now the grits maven.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. “How’s that?”
“I’ve been cooking grits for days now. I’ve got it down. They take forever, but Darcy says we can do them the day before and then reheat them in the oven.” She sighed. “So from now on I’ll be cooking up a pot of grits and spreading them on a sheet pan before I leave for the day.”
Joe grinned at her slowly. “Okay, grits maven, grab those bags again and head for the stove. I’m thinking those birds can sit on grits as easy as fois gras, and this stuff’s local, by god.”
MG watched Joe pour grits into boiling water. He was whistling something between his teeth that sounded vaguely like “Texas Cooking”.
“How can he be having fun?” she whispered to Darcy. “Isn’t this a crisis?”
Darcy sighed. “Everything’s a crisis in the kitchen. That’s life. Chefs like Joe live for this shit.”
“I heard that.” Joe glanced over his shoulder, grinning. “You telling me this hasn’t got your juices going? First, I’m going to beat that little SOB head-to-head, and then I’m going to kick his teeth in after the contest is over.”
“Yeah, well, wait until after the judging. There’s probably a rule against pulverizing your opponent.” Darcy leaned against the counter, watching him. “So what do you want to do to flavor this stuff?”
He shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Gorgonzola? Blue cheese?”
He shook his head. “We got goat cheese in the first course. Too much overlap.”
“Cheddar then?”
“Could work.” He stared off into space for a moment. “Maybe try that cheddar and bacon thing you were talking about last week. Use some of that applewood-smoked dry cure. Chop it fine though.”
“Yeah, Chef, I know.” She headed back toward the walk-in, shaking her head.
“Is Ezra still here or did you fire him? And if you fired him, did Darcy think to give Plac a call about coming in early today?” MG pulled a bag of lettuce onto the counter. Might as well start getting ready for lunch, although neither Joe nor Darcy seemed to have remembered they had a lunch to do today. At least chopping vegetables kept her from obsessing about singing at the Faro. Or paying off Aunt Nedda, which was beginning to seem more remote by the moment.
Joe grimaced, running a spoon through the boiling grits. “He should be around somewhere. I didn’t fire him, although I should have. We need the little asshole, at least for the moment.”
“True that,” she muttered, tearing into a head of red leaf.
Ezra walked in a few minutes later. His expression when he saw Joe at the stove reminded her of a rabbit frozen beneath an approaching hawk. “Hi,” he squeaked.
Joe glanced at him, and then ignored him. Darcy reappeared from the cooler, carrying bacon and cheese. She gave Ezra a lazy grin that somehow managed to be full of menace nonetheless. “Greetings, slave. Ready for the worst day of your life?”
Ezra nodded miserably and then followed her to the other end of the kitchen.
“What are you going to do about the sauce for the quail?” MG asked. “Find more mangoes?”
Joe shook his head. “The fruit compote worked with the fois gras. I need something else with the grits. Watch this, will you?” He pushed the spoon back in the grits and ambled toward the pantry again.
MG sighed. Between the lettuce and the grits, she’d have a full morning. She only hoped that whatever torture Darcy had in mind for Ezra at least involved lunch prep, so she wouldn’t end up doing everything herself.
By mid-afternoon, they’d worked through a variety of possibilities. Cheddar didn’t work well with the grits, but the bacon did. Joe switched the cheddar to the stuffing for the quail, mixing it with pecans and dried figs. The mixture came together well, but he needed to try it in the quail. The question of the sauce was still up in the air. He’d tried pears and apples, even a plum puree, but nothing seemed right. Now he was back in the pantry, pacing the shelves.
MG stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “You realize you and Darcy are basically letting Leo and Jorge run meal service.”
“So?” He shrugged without looking back. “They’re up to it.”
“I hope so because Darcy doesn’t have time to do more than expedite until the two of you get this settled.” She blew out a breath, following him to the back of the pantry. “What are you looking for exactly?”
“I suppose if I told you I’ll know it when I see it, you wouldn’t be satisfied.” He picked up a bag of sweet potatoes, and then tossed it back.
“Not so much, no. I figure you’ve got the rest of today and maybe Friday morning to get this nailed down and tasted before you’re committed to whatever you’re going to do.”
Joe paused, looking back at her. “You taking a personal interest in this, darlin’?”
She shrugged. “I’d like to see Fairley get his ass kicked. The guy’s a thief who accused me of being one. I guess that’s personal.”
“Well, when it comes to tasting, we’ve got a problem. We’ve only got twenty quail.”
MG frowned. “How many do you need?”
“Six judges. Figure two per in case the first one gets messed up. So minimum of twelve.” He blew out a breath. “But I’d feel better with maybe fourteen saved for the contest. We’ve already had one major screw-up. I’m not ready for more.”
She shook her head. “Why do they each need a whole one? They’re going to be eating four main dishes as it is since they’ve got four restaurants to judge. Why not just give them a half or something?”
Joe gave her a dry grin. “Each one gets a complete serving. Then they take a bite. That’s the way they run these things, darlin’. If they take another bite, you can yell ‘Glory, hallelujah!’” He picked up a bottle of pickled asparagus, grimaced and slid it to the back of the shelf.
“So what are you looking for? You’ve given up on fruit?”
He nodded. “Pretty much. I need savory. But I’d also like sweet. I could go for something like a pomegranate molasses, but we’ve already got pomegranate in the dessert.”
“Blackberry jam?” MG counted on her fingers. “Grapefruit marmalade? That’s the stuff we have out on the table at brunch. That and the lavender strawberry preserves.”
Joe stared at her. “Say that again.”
“Say what? Lavender strawberry preserves? It’s over there on the top shelf.”
He pushed past her, digging through the jars.
MG shook her head. “It’s right there in front.”
“Not what I’m looking for.” He sorted through a few more jars, then pulled one out. “There we are. Come to Papa.”
She squinted at the jar label. “I’ve never seen that one before.”
“That’s because we don’t put it out on the tables. Too much for people to take on their morning toast.” He turned the jar so that she could see.
“Jalapeno jelly? Really?”
Joe’s mouth spread in a beatific grin. “Oh yeah, darlin’. This is the real stuff. Made right up the road in Dripping Springs.”
She gave the bottle a dubious look. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Melt it down and ladle it over. Maybe add a few of those chopped figs on top too. Oh yeah, this is the one.” He strode toward the door, then glanced back at her. “Don’t you want to taste?”
“How many quail can you spare to try it out?”
He shrugged. “Maybe four or five.”
“You’re going to try the whole thing? Beets and all?”
He gave her that slow smile. “Just quail, darlin’. I promise. No beets.”
“Then you’re on.” She stepped in front of him, swinging open the door to the kitchen again.
“Great.” He draped an arm over her shoulders. “You can make the grits.”
“I knew there was a catch,” she muttered as they headed toward the stove.
The six test quail were treated as if they were made out of platinum. Joe stuffed the first with a spoonful of the pecan, cheese and fig mixture, then cooked it quickly on the sizzling grill. Darcy ladled out a dollop of the grits on a plate, sprinkled with tiny flecks of bacon and butter. Joe placed the quail on top, then spooned out a stream of golden syrup studded with squares of dried fig.
It tasted like nothing MG had ever had before. It tasted like something she needed to have again. Soon.
“Please, just one more bite,” she begged.
Joe shook his head. “Precious stuff. And it’s still not right. We need to try another one.” He turned toward Darcy. “What do you think?”
“Lose the figs,” she said. “Just go with the jam. Maybe with some lemon zest.”
“Yeah, that could work. Do we have more of this stuff if I use up this jar?” Joe raised an eyebrow.
Darcy nodded at MG. “Off to the pantry, slave. We should have at least a couple more jars on that shelf.”
MG started across the kitchen before turning back. “Could you stop calling me slave? I’m sort of tired of it, and it’s not accurate anymore. Besides, now you’ve got Ezra.”
Darcy sighed. “Just do it, MG. If we get through this thing without embarrassing ourselves, you can call yourself my personal assistant.”
“Be still, my heart,” she muttered as she headed for the pantry.
They worked through dinner, with Darcy expediting now and then and Jorge and Leo running the kitchen. Ezra hung around being a runner, although his day had officially ended in the middle of the afternoon. MG had the feeling he was trying to redeem himself, and she wished him luck. Joe didn’t look like he was in a redeeming mood at the moment.
When they’d gone through the six test quail he’d allotted, he shrugged and pulled off his beanie. “Okay, y’all, that’s it. For better or worse, that’s what we’re going with.”
“I’d think it’s better,” MG said loyally. “I think it’s a smash.”
“Isn’t she adorable?” Darcy muttered. “Maybe you should give her a doggy treat.”
“I can think of better things to do with her.” He put his arm around her shoulders again. “Come on, darlin’, time to head home.”
Darcy gave him a dry smile as he headed for the door. “Just for that I’m taking home a bottle of Kim Crawford sauvignon blanc. And don’t even try to charge me for it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Joe pushed open the back door, then took MG’s hand when they’d passed through. When she started toward his truck, he pulled her back. “Nope. Tonight we stay at my place.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re really that worried about the quail disappearing?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a bleak smile, as he opened the door to the cabin. “For all I know Ezra could be a secret agent planted by Fairley to see what we’re up to now. I’ve got the quail, the jelly and the bacon in here. Anything else we can replace, but that stuff gets guarded until Saturday.”
He slammed the door behind them, then gave her a gentle push toward the living room. “Let me get this stuff put away, and then…” He walked away from her toward the kitchen.
MG followed him halfway. “And then?”
He slid the quail into the refrigerator. Then he stepped into the doorway, leaning over her, one arm propped above her head. “And then you help me work off some of this adrenaline so I don’t stay up half the night.”
His eyes were shadowed in the dimness of the room. Her heart gave a quick thud. “I do?” Her voice sounded suddenly breathy.
One corner of his mouth edged up. “You do. Definitely.”
He dropped one hand to her shoulder, sliding his palm up the curve of her throat. “And I help you too. Don’t tell me you’re not nervous about the Faro tomorrow.”
She started to answer, but her voice seemed to catch in her throat. She nodded instead.
“There, you see? Mutual assistance.” He was definitely grinning now.
She watched him unbutton his chef’s coat. Usually he wore a T-shirt underneath. This time, he hadn’t. The white of the coat set off the slight brown of his skin, the dusting of black hair across his chest, arrowing down toward his stomach.
She leaned forward, running her finger down the line to his navel, enjoying his quick inhale as she did.
He dropped his coat to the floor, then reached for her, burying his fingers in her hair. His mouth covered hers, and she felt the familiar spiral of heat in her core, drawing her up as his tongue plunged deep.
Then she drew back from him, one hand on his chest. “Take the pants off.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Now?”
She nodded. “I want to see you first.”
He brought his hands the elastic waist on his black chef’s pants, then shoved them down across his hips along with his underwear. His erect cock sprang free, his body half shadowed so that the lines of his muscles stood out, along with the slight swell of his hips and the pattern of hair along his arms. He stood watching her, eyes dark, his hands loose in front of him. “Okay?”
She licked her lips. “Oh, yes.”
“Come here.”
She moved toward him slowly, wanting the moment to last and also wanting it to be over. When she was in front of him, he slid his hands beneath her shirt, pulling it up over her shoulders, then throwing it to the floor. He pushed her bra aside, cupping her breasts, pulling at her nipples. Her breath caught again.
“Turn around,” he said, pushing her gently toward the wall beside the couch.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands against the wall as he pulled her jeans and underwear down, pushing them away from her feet. And then he was gently pushing her legs farther apart, running his palms over the soft skin of her inner thighs. He rubbed his fingers along the lips of her sex, and then inside, plunging into her, working her, bringing her up. She gasped, then gasped again.
“Okay?” he whispered.
She nodded. “Yes. Okay. Now, please.”
He paused for a moment to sheathe himself, and then he entered her from behind. Slowly, so slowly.
Her breath came in a sob, her hands fisting against the wall. “More.”
His hands brushed her thighs, pulling her wide, and then he was moving again, faster now, plunging deeper in steady strokes. She heard him groan, his face pressed against her shoulder. “God, Mary Grace. Sweet god.”
The first orgasm almost drove her down, her knees suddenly turning to water beneath her.
He brought his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him. “Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”
“Go on,” she whispered. “Please.”
He drew back and then forward, testing her tight muscles, and then plunged into her again and again, crying out her name finally as he came.
Their bodies bucked together, aftershocks trembling through them. She brought her head up to lean against his chest, then stood panting, feeling the heat of his skin against her own.
“Wow. Just wow.” She pressed back against his shoulder as she caught her breath, and he leaned forward, resting his forehead against her hair.
“That about sums it up.”
“How’s the adrenaline?” she murmured finally.
“Retreating,” he whispered. His hands moved across her body again, resting finally on the jut of her hipbones. “But you never know when that tide might rise again.”
She straightened slowly, then turned, running her hands along the muscles of his chest. “Just let me know. I’ll do my best to help.”
“Oh, d
arlin’, I can pretty much guarantee—you’ll be the first to know.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead, then gathered her into his arms. “Let’s go to bed and see which happens first—sleep or something more interesting.”
She closed her eyes, leaning against him. “You’ve got a deal, Chef.”
Sometime later—she’d lost track of just how long by then—he went into the kitchen, returning with a couple of sodas and a bowl of pretzels.
“No beer?” She arched an eyebrow.
He shook his head. “Not until it’s over.”
She frowned for a moment. “You don’t drink much, do you?”
“Nope.” He turned to set the food on the table by the bed and she caught sight of the tattoo on his hip again. She’d never really studied it close up before. 365.
She ran her finger across the numbers, feeling his muscles flex beneath her touch. “What does this mean?”
He shrugged. “Three hundred and sixty-five days. A year.”
She frowned. “Okay. And you have this on your back because…”
He turned, watching her, his expression suddenly closed, blue eyes opaque.
“Forget it,” she stammered, “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”
“It stands for three hundred and sixty-five days when I didn’t get high. It was the day when I finally believed I could make it.”
She sat very still. “You had some doubts?”
“Up until then I did. But after a year, I felt like, yeah, I can do this. I don’t need to get high to work. Or to play either.”
“How long ago was this?”
He sat down beside her on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “It was back when I worked in New Orleans. My first big headline job. In a big hotel kitchen with a couple hundred plates on a week night and four or five hundred on the weekend. The adrenaline rush was like nothing I can describe. And after service was over I just wanted it to go on, so I could ride it a little longer. So I’d hit the clubs, have a few boilermakers, a few tequila shots and some cocaine. A lot of cocaine, as it went on.”
He closed his eyes, letting his head rest on the pile of pillows. “Only you can’t do this kind of work if you’re high. You screw up. You make other people screw up. You piss people off. Most of them were glad to see me crater when I finally bottomed out. Except for Clem.”