Miss E. grabbed the cupcake, peeled the paper wrapping away and bit down into it. A surprised look appeared on her face. “This is wonderful. Are they going to be on the menu today?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to cook up something that—” Hendrix caught herself in time “—that...was a little different.” A little unexpected, she mentally added. She’d followed Donovan’s directions, but the cakes and pies were dreadfully average. She’d resisted the desire to inject surprising ingredients to alter the flavors—almost. She couldn’t help adding a little something extra to his apple-custard tarts and chocolate mousse.
“We discussed the menu,” Donovan said with a sharp glance at Hendrix, who fidgeted, scratching at her wrists.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Hendrix asked Miss. E.
“No food allergies.” Miss E. broke off a piece of the cupcake and handed it to him. “Try this.”
As he popped it into his mouth, Hendrix thought about running away and hiding.
He chewed and frowned. He chewed a bit more. “This is good.” His sharp glance took in Hendrix’s face.
“I’m trying,” Hendrix burst out. “I’m trying to cook the cakes and pies you wanted, but I can’t. They’re boring. They’re too conventional. They’re—” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said in a little voice.
Donovan stared at her. “You can do better?”
Hendrix swallowed hard. Why couldn’t she just stay silent for a change. “Your recipes are fine. I made them.” She opened the refrigerator to show the pies and cakes cooling on different shelves. “Try one. You’ll see.” She started scratching again.
“You’re scratching. Why?” Miss E. frowned at her.
“This jacket itches. It’s driving me crazy.”
Donovan frowned. “It’s just a cotton jacket.”
“It’s not my cotton jacket.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Mitzi always let me wear my own jacket.”
“This is a perfectly acceptable jacket,” Donovan said.
“It’s not you. It’s not the jacket. It’s me. It throws my Zen off.” Now he’d really think she was a nut job.
“Donovan,” Miss E. said, resting her hand on her grandson’s arm. “Leave her alone. If she wants to wear her jacket, let her. Who’s going to know? She can wear a tutu and combat boots for all I care, I just need another cupcake”
Hendrix brightened. “Combat boots? Awesome.”
“No combat boots,” Donovan snarled at her.
She took an involuntary step back. “Fine, just my jacket...please. I’ll leave the combat boots at home.” Not that she had combat boots, but the idea was intriguing and Mitzi would have let her wear them if she’d insisted on it. She shrugged out of the jacket relieved to escape from the itching. She would bring her own jacket tomorrow—she cringed—assuming there was a tomorrow.
“Have you ever done a wedding cake?” Miss E. asked.
“I’ve done several different themes, wedding cake pops, wedding cupcakes and a seven-tiered marble cake.” Weddings at casinos had become quite popular. Did the hotel have one scheduled?
“Scott, another of my grandsons, is getting married. When you have time, his bride-to-be, Nina, and I would like to discuss a wedding cake.”
Hendrix grinned. “I love doing wedding cakes.” Her champagne cake was perfect for a wedding. She could use pink champagne and decorate it with roses and daisies...her imagination began to soar. “I can cook up some samples for you try.”
Miss E. grinned. “We’ll be in touch.”
Donovan’s mouth was compressed in a hard line and he didn’t look happy. Hendrix went back to her triple chocolate-nut brownies completely forgetting him as thoughts of how she would decorate the wedding cake floated through her mind.
* * *
“I don’t think she’s going to work out,” Donovan said to his grandmother in the hall after he closed the door so Hendrix wouldn’t hear. Not because of her cooking, but because she was too much of a distraction. He found himself thinking about her at odd times and he didn’t like it. When he was in his kitchen, he needed to think about food, not some cute pastry chef and her cupcakes. Did he just think that? He did. She would have to go.
“She’s going to be just fine.”
“Grandma, it’s my kitchen. You told me...”
“I know what I said, but if you don’t keep that young woman around, I will be unhappy. People are going to eat here just to have one of those cupcakes.”
Donovan glared at her helplessly. “But...”
“You used to be so experimental and creative in your own cooking. I let you have fun in my kitchen, even though sometimes I was cleaning goop off the ceiling at three in the morning. Maybe it’s time you cleaned someone else’s goop off the ceiling.”
“Miss E...”
She held up her hand, her voice firm. “Just let’s see how this works out.”
“I’ll be repeating those words to you when the kitchen catches fire.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Donovan? You used to be so much more carefree in the kitchen.”
“Guests have certain expectations,” he replied. “They like conventional and don’t like surprises.”
“This hotel is about gambling. Everything else is gravy. If the extras can attract people, then the percentage that comes in for those cupcakes will also drop money in the slot machines. We’re in the business of providing the fantasy, and food is as much a part of the fantasy as the gambling. When people feel special, they spend money. I want them to spend all their money here, not across town at some other casino.”
“I’ll keep her on a trial basis.”
Miss E. patted him on the shoulder. “Of course you will. She’s going to work out and she’s going to surprise you in a way you’ll never expect.” With that parting shot, she stepped into the elevator and waved merrily as the doors closed.
He returned to his office, his thoughts a jumble. Hendrix stood in the middle of the kitchen looking oddly hesitant.
Without preamble, he said, “My grandmother loves your cupcakes.”
She nodded. “Awesome. But you’re not so sure, are you?” She pointed at him, a spatula in her hand. “You’re still on the fence about me. You think I’m weird, quirky and kooky.”
“I try not to judge.” Even to his own ears, he sounded defensive. Usually he was decisive and at times uncompromising when it came to food, but this woman put him off his game. The decision to hire Hendrix was either going to rock his world or blow up in his face.
“I know I’m a little unorthodox...”
“Is that the word you like to use?”
She smiled, a mischievous glint in her dark brown eyes. “No one has ever complained about the end result. I have a process and I know it’s not always easy to understand. You have your own process. As much as we put spices, herbs and other ingredients into our food, we put our personality in, too.”
She was shooting down every argument he could muster before the words left his mouth. “If you would give me a minute, I could express my concerns.”
“Do you have any more?”
Defeated, he shrugged, “Not really.”
She walked over and patted him on the arm. “That’s how teachers teach chemistry in school. How to think logically and blow something up spectacularly.”
“There will be no blowing up of anything in my kitchen. Ever.”
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “I’m cool with that.”
“I hear you.” He didn’t quite believe her. He had the feeling his grandmother was right. He’d be cleaning gunk off the ceiling at three in the morning.
“You don’t trust me yet, but you will.” She turned back, walked over to the ovens and started opening them. Watching her move aro
und the kitchen, it was almost as if she was dancing. There was joy in every movement as she pulled out pie after steaming pie and set them on the counter to cool.
The most amazing scents washed over Donovan. He knew without one shred of evidence she hadn’t followed his directions as explicitly as he’d demanded. Was that a look of guilt on her face?
She disturbed him on a level he didn’t understand. She was unsettling and unconventional. He didn’t like feeling so out of control. This kitchen was his domain. He needed to get her into her own kitchen. That way if she didn’t follow instructions, he wouldn’t know. He would see the end result and wouldn’t have to agonize on how she got there.
Chapter 3
Hendrix walked out into the hot noon sun. Reno was so different from San Francisco, which was cool during the day and downright cold at night. Mark Twain had once said that the coldest winter he’d ever experienced was a summer spent in San Francisco. She missed the fog, the activity, even the culture. If Reno didn’t work out she could always go back. But she didn’t want to—she wanted to leave her mark here. This was her home now.
Having survived her first week with Donovan was a relief. She hadn’t blown anything up or set fire to the kitchen. She decided she deserved a little treat. She climbed into her VW bug with the ladybug paint job, complete with eyelashes over the headlights. She headed for her favorite vintage fashion store after a quick stop at her house for some cupcakes she’d frozen for Hazel, the owner of Vintage Fashions. They’d be defrosted by the time she arrived.
Hazel Winston’s vintage shop was a small store set in a tiny, out-of-the-way strip mall. She was a tall, curvy blonde with sparkling blue eyes and a penchant for vintage fashion. The store itself was small and felt cluttered with a dozen racks of clothes, shelves of vintage accessories and boxes of gently used shoes. On the walls, Hazel had hung lattice and there she kept her most recent acquisitions. She was an expert on fashion from the forties and fifties and her passion showed in the white tulle Balenciaga wedding gown that floated in ethereal splendor on the most prominent wall in the store.
Hendrix gazed longingly at the Balenciaga wedding gown, but the price was too steep. Plus, she’d first need a man in her life, and that wasn’t part of the picture she had for her future.
Hazel dropped what she was doing and rushed over. She wore a pale yellow dress with a black-and-white polka dot neckline and cuffs—vintage Oleg Cassini.
“Did you bring my cupcakes?” Hazel demanded holding out a hand.
Hendrix handed over the box. “Hazel, do you have my dress?”
“I have three for you.” Hazel placed the box on the counter and, after a small peek inside, she led the way to the back of the store. “Thank you for the cupcakes. They look wonderful.”
“This is why I love you.” Hendrix followed her. “You love my cupcakes.”
“Everyone loves your cupcakes.”
Hendrix had been supplying her friend with baked goods for a couple years. Part of Hazel’s clientele came just for a quick snack while browsing the store.
Hazel grabbed the three dresses she’d found and hung each one over a hook on the wall. Hendrix was immediately drawn to a navy blue dress with embroidered yellow daisies on the halter top and a full skirt that flowed out over a white crinoline. She barely looked at the other two. One, a Dior form-fitting street dress of gray-and-green serge was almost as cute. The third dress was a black, pleated Coco Chanel silk dress with creamy white contrasting silk at the neck, cuffs and hem that would look heavenly on a romantic date.
“I’m celebrating my first week on my new job.” She began to unbutton her yellow dress once she was in the dressing room.
“You didn’t insult a customer or set fire to the kitchen, did you?”
Hendrix laughed. “I don’t deal with customers anymore.” Just an annoying executive chef. “I sort of miss talking to them.” She didn’t miss the complaints. No matter how good something was, one person would be dissatisfied. “And for your information, I only set fire to a stove once when I was adding butter rum to a chocolate sauce and some splashed over the rim of the pot.”
Hazel laughed. “Where’s the new job?” Hazel held out her hand for Hendrix’s dress.
“Hotel de Mariposa,” Hendrix answered as she pulled the navy blue halter dress over her head and settled it around her curves. The designers in the fifties really understood how to accent a woman’s natural curves, which was one of the reasons she loved vintage fashion so much. She wasn’t forced to slide her curves into current fashions designed for girls who looked like sticks.
“Ooh. The new in place. You are moving up in the world.” Hazel helped Hendrix adjust the dress.
Hendrix stepped back to view herself in the full-length mirror clamped to the wall. Nice. A little nip at the waist and it would be perfect. She twisted and turned to see herself fully. “I’m going to wear this swing dancing next week. And I have just the right shoes for it.” She’d found navy blue platform shoes in a sale bin at a resale store in San Francisco a couple years ago and she’d been saving them for just the right dress.
She wondered if Donovan did swing dancing. That would be a hoot, watching him trying to keep up with her doing the Lindy Hop or the jitterbug. She did a couple steps of the Lindy Hop and watched in satisfaction at the way the skirt flowed around her long legs in just the right wave action. This dress was perfect. She twisted her hips in a couple more moves and grinned at Hazel.
“I’ll take it.” She had room on her credit card and with the new job she would be able to pay the card next month and still indulge herself.
Hazel helped her out of the dress and back into her own clothes. She fondled the dress as Hazel folded it and led her to the front of the store.
She walked out into the blazing Reno sun ready to take on the culinary world.
* * *
“The guests at table five are demanding to see the executive chef,” the hostess, Rena Masters, said as she ran through the kitchen.
Donovan took off his apron and made his way through the kitchen and out into the restaurant to table five, wondering if they were complaining or complimenting. It was always a crapshoot.
“Are you the executive chef?” a woman demanded. She was in her early sixties with snow-white hair and a lovely face that owed its youthfulness to genetics rather than Botox. The man with her was distinguished-looking. He nodded politely after a smile.
“I’m Donovan Russell,” Donovan said.
“I’m Lenore Abernathy. This is my husband, Bruce. You’re apple custard tarts are divine. I’ve never had one so amazing before. How much do I have to pay you to get this recipe for my restaurant?”
Donovan reeled. The whole restaurant community knew who Lenore Abernathy was. Her restaurant, Piquant, was world famous. “It’s a secret recipe.”
She stared at him and he tried not to quake. “I would kill for your secret recipe.”
Donovan was too stunned to think straight. “Um...” How would he tell her that he had no idea what his new pastry chef had put in the tart?
“Donovan Russell,” Bruce said. “I know your name. Don’t you own Le Noir in Paris?”
“I did. I sold it to come to Reno and help my grandmother out.”
Lenore nodded sagely. “I read about your grandmother. She won this place in a poker game.”
“That’s my grandmother.”
“Bruce and I are on our annual food tour,” Lenore explained. “And I need this recipe. I will be happy to call it the Russell tart.”
“I don’t know if I want to be a tart,” Donovan said.
Lenore stared at him, eyes wide with surprise, and burst into laughter. “I do like a man with a sense of humor.” She pointed at the empty chair across from her. “Sit down. Let’s talk food.”
Donovan couldn’t refuse.
She was authoritative, a bit too much like his grandmother. He couldn’t say no to one of the most successful restaurateurs in the United States. He sat down and tried to figure out what he was going to say to her. He couldn’t say he didn’t know what Hendrix had added. And he couldn’t just make something up and expect Lenore to be satisfied. She was astute, shrewd and a woman of substance. She would know he was lying.
“As you know, recipes are sacred,” he began.
Her eyes narrowed. “Piquant is not only known for its dinners, but its desserts. And my clientele also buys my upscale frozen foods. I want to try this out in my restaurant. Who knows, it might make its way into the frozen food section of your favorite supermarket.”
Donovan listened, thinking hard. His grandmother had told him food would bring people in. People came for the gambling and stayed for the extras. Having the tart featured at Piquant would also put the Mariposa on the map of food connoisseurs looking for the newest food experience.
He had two thoughts. First he had to sample the tart. Second he had to talk to Hendrix and find out what she did.
“I need to think about this and talk to my grandmother.” And he should probably talk to a lawyer. He’d developed the basic recipe, but Hendrix had added to it, which he figured would make them co-owners. The whole idea was too confusing to think about at that moment.
“That’s good enough,” Lenore said. “My husband and I are leaving tomorrow, but we’ll be back later in the summer. I will admit we love this hotel. The service is exceptional and the spa is to die for. Who knew I would find this gem in Reno? We’ll be in touch.”
Donovan knew when he’d been dismissed. He stood, thanked them both and retreated to the kitchen. He needed to talk to his grandmother, as well.
Having Lenore Abernathy want to add his dessert to her menu was an incredible opportunity. Yet, he was annoyed with Hendrix for doing exactly what he’d asked her not to do.
He grabbed an apple custard tart on his way through the kitchen. In his office, he sat at his desk and stared at it. The tart looked innocent enough and it was beautiful. Creamy custard bathed the apple slices arranged in a circle. A golden raisin anchored the center with two crescent shaped kiwis forming the leaves. The tart was a work of art. How had Hendrix found the time to do this? She was only one woman working the whole shift alone.
Bet on My Heart Page 3