by Nicole Ellis
Someone rapped on the exterior door. Meg marked her place with a notecard and carefully closed the old book. She opened the door and found Taylor standing there, shifting on his feet.
“Hey,” she said warmly. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you today.”
“I wasn’t sure either,” he mumbled, not quite meeting her gaze. “I had a lot to do this morning.”
“Well, thanks for coming. I’m a little worried about how these recipes are going to taste and I’d love to get your input on them.” She gestured to the center island. “C’mon. Let me show you which ones I chose. I saw at least thirty recipes scattered throughout the book, but these looked like they’d be best for the event.”
She hadn’t finished reading the journal—so far, she’d only made it about halfway through. Reading Davina’s private thoughts seemed like something she should savor and not rush. Meg still hadn’t figured out if Davina had been a guest or an employee at the resort, but she hoped the journal would reveal her identity soon.
Meg showed Taylor her selections and he familiarized himself with the instructions. She stood next to him, reading over his shoulder, although she’d already gone over the recipes about twenty times to ensure she had everything to prepare them.
“Seems easy enough.” He looked directly into her eyes, his face mere inches away from her. “Are you sure you need my help?” His voice held an unfamiliar edge.
Caught off-guard, she moved to the other side of the island to put some distance between them. Why was Taylor acting like this? Had she overstepped the bounds of their friendship by asking him to help today—especially after he’d already been so generous with his time?
“I suppose I don’t need your help, but I thought you might enjoy testing out some of the recipes in the journal.” She paused to gauge his reaction, but his face was stoic. “If you don’t have time, I completely understand.”
A muscle twitched in his neck and he sighed deeply, then gave her a small smile. “I have time.” He removed his lightweight jacket and hung it on a hook on the wall, then surveyed the room. “Do you have an extra apron?”
Meg grinned. “I do.” She grabbed a red apron off the wall. It bore the words “Kiss the Cook” and an image of a frog. Her mom loved novelty aprons and kept a few in the catering kitchen.
He read the front of it and his cheeks flushed to almost the same shade as the apron. He held it out at arm’s length. “Do you have a different one?”
His expression was priceless. There were others, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, then managed to say with a straight face, “Nope, that’s the only extra we have.”
He took another look at it, then slipped it over his head and tied the strings at the waist. Meg couldn’t keep quiet once she saw it on him, and a giggle escaped. He looked far different than he did at the Lodge, where he always dressed professionally in a crisp, white chef’s jacket.
He pursed his lips and glared up at the ceiling. However, when his gaze lowered, he broke into a huge smile. She breathed a sigh of relief. The gag apron had melted some of the tension between them, and she hoped they’d revert to their normal camaraderie in the kitchen.
Her plan entailed making all three of the new recipes in the morning and sampling them at an early lunch. The icebox cake was the first thing she’d made when she’d arrived at the kitchen over an hour ago. It was supposed to be in the freezer for several hours before serving, and though she wasn’t sure whether it would be completely frozen by lunch time, it should still be edible.
If any of the recipes turned out badly, there were always the tried-and-true catering selections to fall back on. But, if their initial attempts tasted good, she and Taylor would prepare them in larger quantities for the party. With any luck, it would be the latter case. There was a lot riding on the grand opening, and she wanted the Inn’s food to make a good impression from the start.
She’d already seasoned the raw chicken breasts with salt and pepper and put them in the oven, so she got straight to work preparing the roux for the Golden Chicken while Taylor focused on the Baked Rice Milanaise.
He eyed the recipe card. “Are you sure people are going to like this? It’s not fancy.”
She shrugged, her own doubts resurfacing. “I don’t know, but Davina’s notes said it was a popular dish. If nothing else, it’ll add a nice historical element to the party.”
When the oven timer rang, she pulled the chicken out and set it on a rack to cool before slicing. She returned to her sauce, finishing it with an egg yolk and a splash of lemon, then seasoning to taste.
Across the wide table, Taylor’s knife flashed through the tough skin of a green pepper, sending minced bits of vegetable into a pile on the cutting board. Without looking up, he said, “You’re chopping the onion, right?”
“What onion?” Her chicken dish didn’t call for any onion.
“Oh.” He chuckled as he swept the small pieces of vegetable into a bowl. “I’m so used to us working together in the kitchen. I totally forgot we were making different things.”
She laughed. “No problem. I’m actually almost done with this, so I’ll put it in the warmer and then get started on the onions.” She pointed the wire whisk at him, and teased, “But remember, I’m the head chef in this kitchen.”
He grinned and saluted her. “Yes, ma’am.”
She minced the onions for Taylor’s dish and brought the cutting board over to the stove, where he was just adding the green peppers to some olive oil he’d heated in a frying pan. He dumped the onions in and stirred. Delicious aromas wafted upward from the mixture.
He sniffed the air appreciatively, “You know, you just can’t go wrong with onions and green pepper.”
“I agree.” She smiled. It was nice being back in the kitchen with him, working in tandem. When she’d been employed at the Lodge, they’d always had the innate ability to communicate without words while creating amazing food for their guests. She missed that sense of closeness.
Once the peppers and onions were soft, he mixed them with the rice he’d boiled on another burner. He then threw in a few final ingredients, scooped everything into a casserole dish, and popped it into the oven for a quick bake.
While it was cooking, Meg set a table for two tucked into the corner of the kitchen. Taylor moved the cutting board and knife to the sink, then wiped down the counter, his long arms sweeping across the stainless-steel surface like it was no bigger than the table she was setting. He continued cleaning the other areas they’d used as she loaded the dishwasher. When the rice dish was ready, he took it out of the oven and set the bubbling casserole on a trivet at the table.
He eyed it dubiously. “Well, at least it smells good.”
“I'm sure it will be fantastic.” She put a few slices of chicken on a couple of plates, then ladled the aptly named golden sauce over the meat and brought the plates to the table.
Taylor inserted a serving spoon into the rice concoction, releasing a cloud of lightly scented steam that made Meg’s mouth water in anticipation. They sat down across from each other and he served up two hearty portions of rice.
“Bon appétit!” Taylor said before cutting into his chicken. He lifted it to his mouth and held it there for a few seconds, breathing in its aroma like he was tasting a fine wine. He chewed, then swallowed. “Hey, this is really good.”
“Is it?” Meg tasted the rice dish. “Actually, this is too.” She ate a few bites of chicken, making sure to liberally coat it with sauce to get the full effect. She set her fork down and regarded Taylor. “Have you ever considered we might be food snobs?”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling merrily. “We’re definitely food snobs.” He pointed his fork at his plate. “But I’d serve these in my restaurant any day. Davina was onto something with her recipes.” His gaze flickered over to the casserole dish. “However, the presentation leaves a lot to be desired. For the party, we can serve this in small bowls, but if I was serving
this at the Lodge, I’d probably make each portion individually in its own porcelain ramekin.”
“I agree.” Meg couldn’t help but wonder what other treasures the journal held. Every time she read a few pages, it was like stepping back in time, into Davina’s life. It must have been fascinating to experience the Inn during its heyday. Had Davina made these same recipes for its guests back then?
Taylor cleared the dishes from the table and Meg got up to make a pot of coffee to drink with dessert, still thinking about the journal. Back in Davina’s time, all of the food at the Inn had been prepared in the same kitchen Celia had used for most of her life. Meg, accustomed to working in larger restaurant kitchens, couldn’t imagine cooking large quantities of food in such a small space. Although they didn’t plan to use the Inn’s kitchen for large-scale cooking on a regular basis, Meg had lent her knowledge and years of experience to design the renovation of it for efficiency.
Once the coffee was percolating noisily into the pot, Meg took the icebox cake out of the freezer. As she’d suspected, it hadn’t frozen completely, but she was still able to slice off two pieces without it falling apart. She put the rest of the cake back to allow it to finish freezing. Later, she’d offer some to her mom and sisters to see what they thought.
With fresh coffee and cake in front of them, Meg and Taylor sat back down at the table. “Are these Oreos?” Taylor asked as he cut into his dessert with the side of his fork.
“Yup.” She watched him closely, hoping he’d like it.
“I didn’t realize they had Oreos back then. I always assumed they were a more recent invention.” He took a big bite and chewed thoughtfully.
“I didn’t either. Apparently, they’ve been around since 1912. Who knew?” She ate a forkful of the chilled cake, letting the morsel of creamy chocolate treat rest on her tastebuds. Ordinarily, she wasn’t much of a baker, but this hadn’t involved an oven, so was it even considered baking? Whatever the case, it was tasty—but she hadn’t met many sweets that she didn’t enjoy. “What do you think?”
He looked up from his plate and took a sip of coffee before responding. “It’s good. Not too sugary. I think it’ll be refreshing on a hot day.”
Relief flooded over her. All three of the recipes were a success. “It’s supposed to be in the high seventies tomorrow.” She took another bite. It could use a little more vanilla, but that was the only thing she planned to tweak for serving it at the grand opening.
“Good.” He stared at her and his lips quivered like he was trying not to laugh. Suddenly, he reached across the table.
The world came to a stop as he brushed the rough pad of his thumb over her cheek, the pleasurable sensation sending a warmth down her neck and into her spine. When she recovered, she shot him a quizzical look.
The color had drained from his complexion. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that. There were crumbs on your face and I thought it was funny and…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She responded quickly, trying to stop him from spiraling. “It’s fine. I totally understand. I’m always embarrassing my family with how messily I eat. I’m sure any of them would have done the same.”
“But I’m not someone in your family.” He avoided making eye contact with her as he drained his coffee, jumped to his feet and set the plate and cup in the sink. “I’d better get going. I forgot I need to take care of some administrative tasks at the Lodge before the dinner rush starts.”
She jumped up from her chair. “Oh, of course. Thank you so much for being my guinea pig.”
“You’re welcome.” Taylor removed his apron and hung it back on the hook, swapping it out for his jacket. He was at least ten paces ahead of her as he exited the kitchen, the door clicking shut behind him.
Meg stared at the exit, her vision glazing over. Taylor had been running hot and cold lately. One minute he was the sweet, funny guy she’d known for a couple of years, and the next, he was so standoffish that they might have been strangers. Something was bothering him, and she hoped his generosity in giving up his free time to help her wasn’t contributing to it.
She busied herself with chopping vegetables and making ten more rectangular icebox cakes, so they’d be properly frozen before serving tomorrow. They couldn’t do everything the day before the event, but the more they did do ahead of time, the easier it would come together the next morning. It would have been nice to have had Taylor’s help, but she understood he had other obligations.
At one o’clock, Libby and Debbie arrived, with Samantha hot on their heels.
Debbie took a deep breath. “It smells wonderful in here.” She gestured to the counter. “Is this one of the recipes out of that book you found?”
Meg nodded. “Taylor and I tried three things from the journal, and they were all excellent. I’m finishing up the prep for them and they should be fairly simple to put together tomorrow.”
Libby took a three-ring binder out of her giant purse and sat down at the table with it. “We’ve got a lot to do before tomorrow too.”
“I’m happy to help,” Meg said.
“Doesn’t Zoe need you at the Inn?” Debbie asked from the sink where she’d been washing her hands. She dried off on a paper towel and tossed it into the garbage, then came over to the counter to stand next to Meg.
“No. She said she and Tia had everything under control.” Meg uttered a self-deprecating laugh. “I think I just get underfoot when I’m there.”
Libby looked up from her notes. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Oh, but I think it is.” Meg laughed again, but, in truth, it bothered her that they didn't need her at the Inn.
“Well, we’re glad to have you here with us,” Debbie said warmly. She walked over to Libby and peered over her shoulder. “What’s first on the agenda?”
Libby flipped a page in her binder and scanned its contents. “This menu is heavy on hors d’oeuvres that we’ll put together right before the event, but there are things to get done today. Let’s get started with the deviled eggs.”
“I’m on it.” Samantha disappeared into the walk-in refrigerator and returned with two massive cartons of eggs. She set them down near the stove and filled a stock pot with water from the sink.
“How are you doing, Mom?” Meg asked. With everything going on at the Inn, she hadn’t talked to her mother since the family dinner on Sunday. Even then, things had been so chaotic that having a private conversation with anyone had been difficult.
Debbie looked up and shrugged. “I’ve been better.” Pink circles of blusher stood out from her cheeks in stark contrast to the pallor of the rest of her skin.
“Are you feeling alright?” Meg held her breath. Her mom had been so sick two years ago. Now, Meg panicked a little every time Debbie had even the slightest cold.
“I’m not ill, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Debbie poked her finger at something on the page in front of Libby. “I’ll get started on this.” She disappeared into the walk-in cooler.
“What’s going on with Mom?” Meg hissed to her sisters. “Is there something she’s not telling me?”
Samantha sighed. “One of her friends from her cancer group died.”
Meg felt a rush of relief, followed by a stronger wave of guilt. She was glad to know that her mom was healthy, but another family hadn’t been so fortunate.
Libby came over to Meg. “She’s taking it pretty hard.”
“Well, wouldn’t you be?” Sam asked. “I wish I’d never told her to go to that knitting club meeting.” She removed a bin of flour from the pantry and slammed it down on the counter. Little clouds of flour dust floated off the lid, settling on all of the surfaces below.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Libby said.
“Maybe not, but then I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty. Mom’s down in the dumps now and it’s all my fault.” Sam swiped at the flour with a clean towel, brushing it into the trash.
Libby rolled her
eyes. “Again, it’s not your fault. Not everything is about you.”
They’d obviously known about the death of their mom’s friend for a while, but nobody had told Meg about it. She lived above her parents’ garage and yet was the last to know. It seemed like she was always just outside of the loop for everything in her life.
Debbie came out of the walk-in, carrying an armful of produce. Meg and Libby helped her to unload it onto the counter, while Sam finished cleaning up the flour mess.
Meg eyed her mother. Should she say anything to her about her friend’s death? It didn’t seem like the right time—Debbie was smiling now, in her element as she scurried around the kitchen.
Meg had hoped to have a nice relaxing day, trying out the journal recipes and spending time with her family. Instead, she’d somehow upset Taylor, and now had her mom to worry about too. On the bright side, the dishes she’d cooked had turned out great and she’d get to serve them at the event tomorrow—and maybe again when she opened her own restaurant at the Inn. Although, with the lack of major progress in emptying the barn, she wouldn’t be cooking there anytime soon. Thinking about that made her almost as depressed as her mom had been earlier.
Very little in her life was going right, and the only thing that would take her mind off of everything was to immerse herself in the thing she loved best—cooking.
She locked eyes with Libby and rolled up her sleeves. “I’m sure we have a lot to do today. What can I do first?”
11
Tia
“I love your dress,” Tia said to Celia as she climbed the stairs to the Inn at Willa Bay’s front porch and joined her by the railing. “You look like you just stepped out of the pages of a 1920s Sears catalog.” For the themed grand opening of the Inn at Willa Bay, the elderly woman wore a new, cap-sleeved floral dress in a shade of blue that matched her eyes, and black patent-leather Mary Janes on her feet.