Angels at the Table: A Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy Christmas Story

by Debbie Macomber

  Still, how dare the reviewer criticize her sauce. She’d worked hard on that recipe and she’d put it up against any chef’s in the industry.

  Wendy remained unfazed. “Lucie, you worry too much. We have a large number of loyal customers.”

  “Don’t you understand? Didn’t you read the article?” Lucie didn’t need to retrieve the printed page. After reading the worst of it several times over she had the comments memorized: “Heavenly Delights is anything but. Those with high blood pressure beware, the chef has a heavy hand with both lemon and salt. So much salt that she must have drained the Dead Sea in the beurre blanc sauce … seriously, whoever is in the kitchen needs to return to culinary school or hang up their hat entirely.” Lucie was too upset to continue.

  “I agree that comment wasn’t the least bit kind.”

  “It was a desperate effort to sound clever and witty at my expense.” Lucie seethed every time she thought about those cutting remarks.

  “I don’t think you should take it personally, Lucie.”

  “Not take it personally! How can you say that? This is definitely personal. It’s an attack on my credibility. The reviewer might as well have said I’m unqualified. Come to think of it, that’s in the article as well.” Lucie struggled to contain her outrage. Of all the nerve. Eaton Well knew nothing about her, nor was it necessary to write his or her review. The food critic didn’t have a clue of the sacrifices she’d made in order to attend culinary school or how she’d worked nights and weekends until she was too exhausted to think. As far as she was concerned this critic was heartless and unfair.

  Her mother continued to drink her tea, setting the cup carefully back in the saucer. “Answer me this: When was the last time you took a night off?”

  Lucie collapsed into the chair. “Are you suggesting that I’m so overworked that I—”

  “I’m not saying anything of the sort. What I am suggesting is that you need to step back, take a deep breath, and let this roll off your back. A single bad review isn’t going to destroy us.”

  Lucie wished she could believe that. Clearly her mother didn’t have a clue how serious this situation was. Until recently Wendy hadn’t been part of the culinary world. Lucie’s mother didn’t understand that these restaurant reviews could be incredibly influential.

  The phone rang and Wendy reached across the kitchen counter and snagged it.

  Lucie only half-listened to the conversation. It didn’t take long for her to recognize that the person on the other end of the line was a friend of her mother’s who’d phoned to commiserate.

  “I’m not the least bit concerned,” Wendy insisted. “I know my daughter. Anyone who’s ever tasted Lucie’s cooking recognizes that she’s a fully qualified chef. My daughter knows her way around the kitchen. No, no, we aren’t going to file charges against the newspaper. This was one person’s opinion. Most people prefer to judge a restaurant themselves. It’s unfortunate that he or she had a bad experience but we can’t make everyone happy all the time.”

  That was true enough, Lucie realized. Still, she would have preferred to have this reporter brag endlessly about her cooking instead of lambasting her on every level.

  Wendy had no sooner hung up the phone when it rang a second time. “Oh, hi, Juliana. Yes, of course we saw it. No, I’m not worried. Thank you. I’ll tell Lucie. Really?” After a couple of moments of silence, her mother sat up straighter and fixed her gaze on Lucie.

  Lucie couldn’t help but notice the way her mother’s eyes brightened.

  “Of course I’ll tell her. This is just wonderful. Thanks so much, Juliana. You’ve made my day.” Wearing a huge smile, her mother docked the phone.

  “What did Juliana say?” Lucie couldn’t help being curious at the change in her mother’s posture.

  “Juliana went on the newspaper’s website. She always was one to keep up with technology. All that social media techie stuff is beyond me.”

  “And?” Lucie pressed.

  “Well, apparently several people have taken exception to the review and have left comments.”

  “Really. Several people? Did she mention a number?”

  Wendy nodded. “She said you should check it out yourself and you’d be impressed. I believe she said there were already three hundred comments, all disagreeing with the review.”

  “Three hundred.” Lucie felt like dancing around the room.

  “And not a single one of them is related to this family,” Wendy boasted.

  Lucie immediately sat down at her desk, which she’d set up in the corner of their cozy living room. Sammy, who sensed something was wrong, waddled over and sat down at her feet, resting his chin on her foot as though to comfort her.

  Lucie booted up her computer, logged onto the Internet, and went to the home page for the newspaper. Sure enough, the Heavenly Delights review dominated the comments directed at the newspaper. Lucie could barely believe her eyes. Her hand covered her mouth as she read comment after comment praising the restaurant. Several people mentioned Lucie’s signature dishes and nearly everyone raved about the desserts. Wendy was right. Their loyal customers hadn’t remained silent. They’d come to the restaurant’s defense in droves. It was barely noon and the comments already numbered over three hundred.

  “Take that, Eaton Well,” Lucie murmured, grinning uncontrollably.

  “What did I tell you,” Wendy said, coming to stand behind her. “We don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  Lucie desperately wanted to believe that.

  A summons from the managing editor wasn’t unusual, but it was the way the message came to Aren. He’d been asked to stop by the editor’s desk at his earliest convenience.

  Sandy Markus had been with the paper nearly thirty years. She was a pro and didn’t stand on ceremony, nor was she shy about sharing her opinion. The woman had grit and guts—both necessary to rise this high in what was once considered a man’s world. Sandy had not only broken the mold; she’d helped shape a new one. Aren respected and liked his boss even though she had the power to intimidate him.

  When Aren appeared at her office door, Sandy glanced up and motioned him inside.

  “Close the door,” she instructed.

  Aren reluctantly complied with her request. If Sandy wanted the door closed, it usually meant bad news.

  Aren’s stomach sank.

  The managing editor continued to focus on her computer screen. “Have a seat,” she instructed. She wasn’t the stereotypical newswoman. Sandy was tall and thin, with short, wiry hair that she groomed into submission with mousse until it stood straight up on end. In her mid-sixties, her face had weathered well through the years.

  “Is there a problem?” Aren asked. As far as he knew his work had been more than satisfactory.

  Aren didn’t expect Sandy to praise his writing. She’d let it be known she expected his articles to be of top quality. If they weren’t he could seek employment elsewhere.

  Aren took a seat. “What’s this about?” He hated being called to task when he didn’t have any idea what he’d done wrong.

  “Heavenly Delights,” she muttered, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from the monitor. She removed her eyeglasses and a deep frown marred her brow as she studied him. “You wrote the review of the restaurant, right?”

  “I did.” Aren stood by his piece. The food had been some of the worst in his experience. As far as he was concerned, whoever was doing the cooking had a lot to learn. The chicken dish was satisfactory, but that showed no real expertise. The true test had been the sole and sauce, and in that the chef had failed miserably.

  “You were scathing in your remarks.”

  Scathing wasn’t the word he’d use. “I was honest.”

  Sandy glared back at him from the other side of her desk. “Apparently your review has caused quite a stir.”

  He laughed. “It has?” He couldn’t imagine why, other than the obvious fact that the restaurant needed a new chef.

  “I don’t suppose you’v
e taken a look at the website or the Facebook page? There are hundreds of rebuttals to your review between the two sites. Readers are leaping to defend the restaurant, the food, and the chef. They even applaud the color of the dining area walls.”

  Aren grimaced. That comment came as a result of a line he’d written about the calming effect of the interior. The owners had chosen a warm shade of gray with black highlights. Aren might have gone a bit overboard when he’d insinuated that the interior, while soothing and inviting, wasn’t enough to distract from the poor quality of the food. The remark had been cutting; he wished now he’d been more judicious.

  “Not everyone is going to agree with me,” he felt obliged to remind his editor.

  “I second that. We aren’t running a popularity contest with these restaurant reviews. However, when three hundred people take the time to write and contradict your findings, I sit up and take notice.”

  “Three hundred?” Aren squared his shoulders. “I ordered the sole—”

  “I know what you ordered.” She cut him off. “You wrote about it in great detail as part of your review.”

  She was right, he had.

  “Look at this.” Sandy swiveled her monitor around so Aren could read a few of the comments left on the website. In case he had trouble, Sandy read one aloud. “My name is Bill Wheeler and I’ve traveled extensively around the world. One of my favorite seafood dishes is sole served with a beurre blanc sauce. I’ve ordered sole in London, Paris, and beyond. The best, the very best I’ve ever tasted, is served at Heavenly Delights.” The last three words were spoken slowly and precisely as though she was reading them to a child.

  “Three hundred comments,” Aren muttered under his breath.

  “Apparently Mr. Wheeler liked it.”

  “Apparently so. Mine was inedible. An entire canister of salt must have fallen into that sauce, along with enough lemon to pickle herring, not to mention the distinct taste of cayenne pepper. There was no redeeming this sauce or the fish.”

  “Some people aren’t going to agree with a food critic’s reviews.”

  “That’s understood.”

  “But three hundred? That tells me you aren’t doing your job.”

  “That’s not true.” Aren feared he was about to join the ranks of the unemployed. “What would you like me to do?” he asked, fearing she was about to ask for his resignation.

  “What I’d like,” Sandy said, her voice elevated to the point that the window of her office vibrated, “is for you to eat at Heavenly Delights again. Clearly the chef had an off night.”

  “Clearly.” Aren struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “If several hundred diners have rallied to defend the chef, then I believe a second look is in order.”

  “All right.” Although Aren wasn’t looking forward to this dining experience.

  “Do it soon.”

  “Consider it done. However …”

  “Yes?” Sandy had already returned her attention to the computer screen. Her gaze bounced back to Aren.

  “I wrote an honest review. I’m willing to give Heavenly Delights a second chance, but if the food is the same poor quality as before I won’t change my opinion no matter how many people disagree with me.”

  “Fair enough,” Sandy said. Then, as if she’d suddenly had a second thought, she asked, “Anyone go with you when you ate there earlier?”

  “My sister.”

  “What was her opinion?”

  Aren exhaled and frowned. “Actually, she was impressed. Her chicken dish was delicious, or so she claimed.”

  “So it was you and you alone who found the food below par.”

  “Apparently.”

  Sandy was facing her keyboard again even before he left the office. Returning to his desk, Aren reached for his cell and texted out a message to his sister.

  Giving Heavenly Delights a second chance. Join me?

  Her reply came within a few seconds. When?

  Tonight?

  Tomorrow?

  OK tomorrow.

  Can I meet you there?

  No problem.

  What time?

  7 unless you hear otherwise.

  Aren made the call and discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that the only reservation available was for five thirty p.m. He sent another text to his sister.

  She replied, I’ll do my best to get there on time. Might be a few minutes late.

  No problem.

  Aren arrived at Heavenly Delights five minutes before their early reservation. His sister sent him a text telling him she was running ten minutes behind and told him to be seated.

  Be there lickety-split.

  The same charming, older woman who’d served as hostess at his first visit seated him. “I see you’re back.” She beamed him a smile. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “I’m glad that nasty food critic didn’t change your mind about our food.”

  Aren feigned a grin.

  She led him to a table that was close to the kitchen. He had to agree the scents coming from the other room enticed him.

  Perhaps he had been overly critical. Well, he’d find out soon enough.

  Busy in Heavenly Delights’ kitchen, Lucie paused, certain she’d heard the sound of tinkling bells. The piped-in music was low and subtle but the gentle ring could be heard above and beyond that. Bells? Someone was ringing bells in the restaurant, and while that seemed rather odd, the melody resembled a favorite Christmas carol. “Jingle Bells.”

  Glancing outside the kitchen, thinking she might find the source, Lucie caught sight of someone who resembled … Aren.

  It took a moment for her brain to register the fact that the man sitting at the table, reading over the menu, was indeed Aren Fairchild. Instantly her heart started racing at double time. Aren was here … in her restaurant? She swallowed hard, debating what to do … if anything. It’d been almost a year. She would hardly know what to say to him. How could she explain what had happened?

  Mark, their headwaiter, stepped into the kitchen and Lucie grabbed him by the arm. “Get my mother.”

  Mark stared at her and his eyes rounded. “Now? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, I think so … just get my mother.” She clenched her hands together and was grateful there was a lull in the kitchen. It was early—they had just opened for dinner—but soon the orders would come pouring in.

  “Are you sure everything is all right?” Mark frowned, concerned.

  Lucie had already started to shake. “Yes … of course.”

  Not more than a minute later Wendy raced into the kitchen. “Lucie, what’s wrong?” She reached for Lucie’s trembling hand.

  “He’s here … in the restaurant.” But her mother seemed oblivious to whom she meant.

  “Who’s here, sweetheart?”

  “Aren. Empire State Building Aren.”

  “Aren,” her mother repeated slowly and then her eyes widened into round orbs. “That Aren?”

  Biting into her lower lip, Lucie nodded. “And he’s alone.”

  “That does it. You’re coming with me.”

  “Mom …”

  It was too late, her mother caught her by the sleeve of her cook’s jacket and dragged Lucie through the swinging doors of the kitchen. Lucie knew the instant Aren saw her because his reaction was close to her own. The warm bread roll he held in his hand fell onto his plate and he slowly rose to his feet.

  “Lucie?” Her name was a wisp of sound, as though he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  “Hello, Aren.” Beyond a greeting she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Her tongue felt as if it’d grown to twice its normal size, filling her entire mouth and making speech impossible.

  “I’m Lucie’s mother, Wendy Ferrara.” Her mother stepped forward and clasped Aren’s hand with both of her own as if she were meeting a Greek god. She gazed up at him as though transfixed, studying his features as if wanting to memorize them.

  Aren’s gaze didn’t waver from Lucie. A
pparently he’d been struck with the same malady, because he didn’t seem inclined to speak either.

  “Did you … were you there?” Lucie didn’t need to explain where she meant. Aren knew.

  He broke eye contact and looked away before nodding.

  Lucie felt dreadful to have left him to stand in the cold, believing she had chosen not to see him again. She would have given anything to live out her own version of Sleepless in Seattle, but apparently it wasn’t meant to be. “Did you wait long?”

  “Awhile.” He shrugged as though it was nothing. “I left as soon as I realized you weren’t coming.”

  Lucie noted that he didn’t mention the length of time he’d stood in the cold and wind. She remembered that it had rained that day and hated the thought of him outside, dealing with the elements. She hoped he’d been out of the cold. Lucie wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and she was. Still, against impossible odds, they’d found each other again and now they couldn’t seem to take their eyes off each other.

  “Give him your phone number,” her mother urged, poking Lucie in the side with her elbow. “Never mind, I’ll do it, and listen, dinner is on us. Order anything you want.”

  Aren broke eye contact. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Please,” Lucie added. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Just then a lovely woman strolled up to the table. “It looks like we’re having a party. Sorry I’m late.”

  Lucie’s heart sank. She’d assumed Aren was dining alone. How foolish of her. How completely naive she was to entertain the idea that he’d pined for her the way she had for him. Clearly he’d met someone else. While Lucie was dressed in her kitchen gear with her hair tied up in a net, the other woman was striking in every sense of the word.

  “Oh.” Lucie retreated a step before Aren spoke.

  “Lucie, this is my sister, Josie.”

  His sister? Lucie remembered that Aren had talked about his sister. He’d been living with her at the time.

  “Lucie?” Josie asked, focusing her attention on her. “That Lucie?”

  “Yes.”

  She noticed that he didn’t elaborate beyond the one word. Apparently his sister knew all about her.