Donovan nodded. “I don’t think I missed anything.” The last inspection had been meticulous, with the inspector citing him over the most mundane things that had nothing to do with food handling, such as improperly storing dirty towels.
“I’ll take a look around and meet you back here,” Deacon said.
Donovan watched him return to the kitchen. Every time he had an inspection new violations were found. He would correct them, but sometimes he felt the health department was out to crucify him. He was pretty thick-skinned but at times the inspections seemed personal.
His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Donovan Russell.”
“Donovan,” his ex-wife chirped. “How did you manage to keep the linen supplier on schedule? You never had a problem with him.”
He tried not to groan. Even though he and Erica had been divorced for several years, she couldn’t seem to get over no longer being married to him. “Erica, I always say please and thank you.” Not that Erica was rude, but she definitely considered service personnel to be beneath her.
“Could you just call him for me?” she pleaded.
A former model, Erica had looks, drive and determination. What she didn’t have was patience. “No.”
“Donovan,” she cried.
“We opened the restaurant six years ago. You know how everything works.” Most of the everyday details had always been her job. And now that he’d sold her his half of the restaurant and moved to Reno, she called him over the most agonizingly silly things.
“But I don’t have your touch.” A tiny whine crept into her voice.
“Being polite is your first order of business.” He closed his eyes trying to maintain his temper. After a couple of deep breaths, he was able to get beyond his irritation. “Erica, you need to hire a general manager to run the restaurant.” A general manager would intercede for her and help keep everything running smoothly. “I gave you the names of people to call. Have you called anyone?”
She avoided his question. “You didn’t need one.” Erica’s voice was soft and wheedling.
Donovan took another deep, calming breath. “But you do.”
She drew her breath in sharply. “Donovan, can’t you just come back to Paris? Your grandmother doesn’t need you and I do. Nobody goes to a hotel to eat the food. And Reno is just a Podunk little town. It’s not like Rome or New York or Paris.”
He swallowed his irritation. “Erica, I’m not coming back to Paris. You can run the restaurant. I left you all the recipes. And you know how to cook.” For someone who didn’t eat, she was a darn good cook.
“Please, Donovan,” she begged.
“No.” He didn’t understand why she thought she wasn’t experienced enough to run a restaurant, or why she was so clingy. Her neediness was one of the reasons why they were no longer married. Her need to be admired, petted and supported had tired him out.
For an intelligent woman, Erica was kind of lazy. She always wanted other people to do everything for her. At first Donovan had been enchanted by her little-girl helplessness. But once they were married, her inability to care for herself got old pretty quick. He’d kept expecting her to grow up, but that never happened. They’d both been relieved to end their marriage after only a year.
He’d opened the restaurant, and her ability to be a charming hostess drew crowds. People returned because the food was outstanding, perfect in taste and presentation. Erica was the center of attention and loved it. The restaurant had been a success. She understood how to run it. He’d even explained everything patiently, writing out a schedule of what to order when and when to expect delivery. He thought she’d be fine on her own, but she wasn’t.
“Erica, I have to go.”
“Donovan,” she cried, and burst into tears. “I don’t know what to do. One of the line cooks quit and I need a new sous chef.”
“I’ll call François about the linen delivery,” he said. “And I’ll have Marie Odile Arceneau call you. She’ll make a terrific general manager and you can go back to being the hostess.” Erica hadn’t made this much of a fuss when they’d divorced.
She stopped crying with not even a residual sniff. “You’ll call him right away?”
“I’ll call him right away.”
She hung up without another word. She’d gotten what she’d wanted and was done with him. But he had the feeling that he would never completely be rid of her. He wanted to go forward and she wanted to go back. And to think he’d once thought her helplessness charming.
The health inspector returned. “You have some changes you need to make, Mr. Russell.” He handed him a list of violations. “You have a month to make corrections.”
He took the papers and just stared at the list. One of the mixers was broken—again. Two temperature gauges in the refrigerators were missing and several first-aid kits were empty. A fire extinguisher wasn’t properly seated in its cradle. One of the line cooks had improperly stored his utensils, which was something Donovan had warned him about repeatedly. And the deep-fryer station should be cleaner. “I will get on these immediately.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose trying to release his irritation. All these violations added up to make him look careless.
Mr. Deacon’s mouth grew even more pinched. “I’ll be back in a month.”
Donovan rubbed his eyes. He had too much work to do and not enough time.
“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Russell,” Deacon said. “You’re a first-rate chef and you know how a kitchen is supposed to operate. You have too many violations, and I can’t help thinking someone doesn’t like you. These violations aren’t enough to shut you down and you still have an A rating, but I feel the need to warn you that these violations can’t go on indefinitely.”
Donovan had no answer. He’d come to the same conclusion himself, but that didn’t mean he could ignore health regulations. He prided himself on himself on the cleanliness of his kitchen. He’d never had so many violations in his entire career. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Fill up those first-aid kits. If I were you, I’d keep extra kits around just to replace the ones that seem to be losing their contents.”
“Will do.” Donovan watched the man leave and pulled himself to his feet. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and dragged a bag out. He’d started keeping medical supplies on hand and had begun checking the first-aid kits every morning when he arrived. How the kits ended up empty, he didn’t know. Even Scott, Donovan’s older brother who specialized in security, was shaking his head over the mystery. He’d installed surveillance cameras that covered almost every inch of kitchen and still the mixers seemed to break when no one was nearby. Temperature gauges in the cold storage areas disappeared. He’d even found cleaning supplies near food prep areas, which was a huge violation.
He picked up his phone and dialed his brother to let him know about the latest inspection and what it had revealed. Something had to be done. Eventually, the health department would get tired of these violations and shut him down. He couldn’t let that happen.
Chapter 2
“I got the job,” Hendrix said to her grandmother, Olivia Prudhomme Beausolie. She cradled her phone against her shoulder while she sprinkled food into her fish tank. Her tiny little fish rushed to the surface to eat. She’d never been a cat or dog person. Animals had fur and fur traveled into every corner of a house. Her kitchen was immaculate.
She’d rented the cottage because the cheerful blue-and-white kitchen was huge while the rest of the cottage was tiny. The owner had liked to cook and knocked out a wall to create one large room from two smaller ones, doubling the size of the kitchen and then retrofitting the expansion with industrial appliances. The problem was that as a rental, the kitchen was a detraction unless the space was rented by someone who cooked and didn’t mind the small living room and bedrooms at the front. That som
eone had been Hendrix after the cottage had stood empty for a number of months.
“A hotel!” Olivia said. “Why a big hotel? I thought you were happy with Mitzi Baxter. You had told me she and her bakery were wonderful.”
“Mitzi’s kids didn’t like me. They thought I was going to take over and force them out.” Mitzi Baxter had offered to sell half the bakery to Hendrix, but a stroke had seriously damaged her health and her daughters had taken over. Quitting had probably not been the smartest action, but Hendrix couldn’t stand the way Lisa and Susan had hovered over her as though worried she’d steal a cup of flour and some raisins. “This way, I’m making double the money and can set something aside to open my own bakery.” Opening her own bakery had been her original goal. Rows of cakes, pies and tarts filed through her mind. Someday, she promised herself.
“Sound’s exciting,” her grandmother said, though she sounded doubtful.
“It does, though I think he’s going to be a little dictator. The executive chef is Cordon Bleu trained and you know how rigid they can be when you breathe around their food. Hopefully, as a pastry chef, our paths won’t be crossing that much. He’s even planning to give me my own kitchen so my desserts don’t get contaminated by the odors in the main kitchen.” Though for the moment, she’d be sharing his kitchen since he wouldn’t have one ready for her just yet.
“That’s good. He won’t be standing over you. I know you work best when left alone.” Her grandmother sounded amused. “I’m proud of you, Hendrix.”
“Thank you.” Hendrix grinned.
“Are you going to keep your experimenting to a minimal?” her grandmother asked.
Hendrix liked to dabble in the kitchen and see what she could come up with. The problem was, she often forgot what she did since she seldom wrote things down and too often couldn’t reproduce what she’d done. “I plan to stick to my established recipes. I know them by heart, and I’ll wait until I’m thoroughly certain he won’t get upset before I start mixing things up.” She tried to be more methodical about what she did, but too often she’d be caught up in the thought of the taste without paying attention to amounts. She liked having little surprises in her cakes. Her champagne cake had a very basic structure to which she added different ingredients in order to create more subtle tastes.
“Give your boss a chance to know you before you go creating things you can’t duplicate,” Olivia advised.
“I’ll rein it in.”
“Hendrix Marie Beausolie,” her grandmother said with an undertone of amusement, “sometimes you just have to play along to get what you want.”
True, Hendrix thought to herself, though she was shocked that her antiestablishment, unconventional grandmother would tell her that. Her grandmother had spent her life doing the unexpected and delighting in the fallout that followed.
Hendrix had to keep her goal of having her own bakery foremost in her mind. She would do anything for her dream.
They disconnected and Hendrix called her mother next. Her parents were world travelers searching for unique items for their import-export business. Currently, they were in Tanzania on a buying trip. She couldn’t reach them, her call going straight to voice mail. She tried to calculate the time and figured her parents must be sleeping. She left a message telling them the good news. Her mother would get back to her when she had time.
* * *
The night manager had given her a white jacket and a toque with the hotel logo on them. She looked odd with the jacket fitting a touch too tightly over her bright yellow dress.
“I know I promised you a kitchen,” he said, when he greeted her at the beginning of her shift, “but I don’t have one ready just yet. I hope you don’t mind sharing my office with me for a month or two while I’m getting yours ready.”
“This is good,” she said her eyes narrowing as she appraised the kitchen.
He was proud of the stainless-steel appliances, walk-in refrigerators with wheeled racks, industrial mixers and a worktable that looked to be ten feet long.
“The fire extinguisher holders are empty,” she said.
Donovan sighed. He opened a closet, pulled out two boxes, opened them and hung the fire extinguishers where they belonged making a mental note to let Scott know that this had happened—again.
He then handed her a recipe box. “These are the recipes I want you to use. The ones in the last divider, I developed to appeal to people on a variety of different diets—they accommodate guests with allergies and diabetes and those on gluten-free diets. The ones in the front are more traditional dessert recipes.”
“Okay,” she said taking the box gingerly. “What about my recipes?”
“I want you to incorporate your recipes, as well.” He opened the box to show her the neat sections of index cards inside. He pulled a few out and spread them over the surface of the work table.
Her lovely lips pursed. “But...but this is Reno. People don’t come here to diet.”
“People who come to Reno want safe fun. They don’t want to die from a nut allergy because you used almond paste and didn’t declare it. We want our guests to come back.” Alive, he added silently.
“I suppose so,” she said with a tiny frown.
He watched her turn his statement around in her head. Her face was as expressive as it was beautiful.
The casino was open twenty-four hours a day, which meant the kitchen was open twenty-four hours a day. The night crowds didn’t eat as much as the day crowds, but they still wanted good food.
She twitched a bit, her shoulders rolling. She scratched at her long neck. Was she nervous? Donovan studied her closely. She didn’t look particularly uncomfortable, but neither did she seem to be at ease. He handed her a clipboard with the day’s needs on it. She glanced at it.
Donovan watched her for a moment and decided she would be fine. He’d already shown her where the baking supplies were stored.
“I have some errands to run,” he said. “If you need anything, here’s my cell phone number. Just give me a call if you have any problems, or...if...you just need to talk.”
She seemed surprised when he handed her a piece of paper with his cell number scrawled across it.
“Thank you,” she said frowning slightly.
As he left, his last glimpse was of her standing in front of the huge table sorting through the recipes in the box with a slight frown on her face.
He headed to his car. He had an appointment with a rancher and then a butcher. As he opened the door, he paused. He’d given her his private cell phone number. No one had it except his family and the restaurant managers. Why did he do that?
He stepped out into the morning air. The sun was just cresting the horizon. The air was cool and crisp. He sat in his car for a moment.
To be honest, she was sort of cute and a little quirky. And she’d looked a little lost when she’d first shown up this morning. She’ll be fine, he told himself as he started the car, backed out of his parking spot and drove out of the parking lot. She’ll be fine.
* * *
For her first day on the job, Hendrix wore her bright yellow vintage 1950s dress fashioned after one of Coco Chanel’s classic chemise dresses. It was her good-luck dress and she’d worn it for her first day on every job since she’d found it in a hidden store a block from her grandmother’s tea shop.
Hendrix spread the cards out in front of her trying not to wince. Boring. The recipes weren’t bad, just too conventional for her taste. Yet, her grandmother had warned her to play along. Could she? Was the compromise worth the job?
She sorted through the recipes, setting aside those she thought had possibilities. Would he really notice if she added something to give them an extra pop of flavor? She flipped open her laptop to check out information on food allergies and then began adjusting the recipes to her own ideas of what they should tas
te like without using ingredients that might cause allergic reactions.
The jacket itched. She scratched at her shoulders. Maybe she should just make them the way he preferred. And then when he liked her, and he was going to like her, she could start flipping ingredients around, nothing extreme. She wouldn’t be outrageous. She would play it safe. Yeah, I can do that.
She made a list of ingredients, pushed a wheeled cart to the storage area and filled it with what she needed to get started. Once back in the kitchen, she started work despite the itching from the scratchy jacket. She wanted her own jacket. This one didn’t fit right and she was going to be a hot mess by the end of the day.
For the next few hours, she made cakes, rolled out dough for pies, peeled fruit for fillings, made custard and crème brûlée. She filled the ovens with the aromatic smells of a dozen different pastries. On the side, she made cupcakes. Her special cupcakes filled with nuts, vanilla, cinnamon and a touch of ginger. She could do most things Donovan’s way, but she needed one thing for herself.
The door opened and Donovan stepped into his office. A small, white-haired woman accompanied him. She had the look of an empress with her head held high, her brown eyes soft and mysterious and her tiny, slender figure elegantly dressed in a blue silk, formfitting sheath. The woman was so different from her own grandmother, Hendrix paused in rolling out the dough for another pie to stare.
The elderly woman approached. “You must be Hendrix. Donovan has done nothing but rave about your baking. When do we get to try something?”
“Hendrix, this is my grandmother,” Donovan explained.
“Everyone calls me Miss E.,” the tiny woman explained.
Hendrix watched as Miss E. eyed a nearby cupcake. Hendrix had been decorating them with white icing and little fondant butterflies. Mariposa did mean butterfly, didn’t it? she thought. She would have to get a Spanish-English dictionary and check.
“Here.” Hendrix thrust a cupcake at Miss E.
Bet on My Heart Page 2