by Mysti Parker
Once the commotion dies down in the lobby, I step into the office, where Richard’s wife, Susan, is reapplying lipstick for the fifteenth time.
“Do you like this shade?” She makes a duck face and turns her head this way and that. “I want to make sure I don’t look like a clown on TV.”
“Well, it’s a little bright.” More like fire engine red with a weird orange undertone. “Maybe you can blot.”
“Good idea.” She grabs a tissue and puts it between her lips, blotting red lip stains all over it.
Susan has been as nervous as Richard about this event, but for different reasons. Richard’s afraid the hotel will sink and drown, while Susan’s more afraid of looking terrible on camera. I suppose they’re two sides of the same coin. They support each other to no end, and actually, I kind of envy them. But I think that’s why I’m holding Henry in my jealous clutches. He’s the real deal, and though I’m not ready for marriage yet, if there’s anyone else I’d walk down the aisle with, it would be him.
“Hey Susan, would you mind watching the front desk for a second? I need to take care of something,” I ask.
“Sure Jane, no problem. Take as long as you need. I’m sure Henry will love to see you.”
“What? Is he here? I didn’t see him come in.”
“Oh yeah, I saw him slip in and hurry down the hall a little while ago. I think that’s when that pastry chef was crying on your shoulder.”
“Yeah, my shirt is still damp. I’ll be back.”
I start to rush down the hall but slow down to ponder why Henry would sneak in without telling me he’s here. Surely he’s not with…nope, can’t think that way. Maybe he forgot some tools when he was helping install the kitchen equipment and didn’t want to bother me while Sad Chef boo-hooed on me. The poor guy had just been dumped by his girlfriend via text. I think he’d had one too many shots of tequila, but his suddenly single status could make him a prime candidate for my sister. She once claimed a man who could win her over with food would win her over for good. Better yet, Sad Chef lives in Canada, eh? Sure, it’s a long shot, but if things work out, she’ll be in a whole other country by the time this is over. I almost break into a run.
The conference room turned chef challenge arena buzzes with activity. Chefs yell for things I’ve never heard of before like agar-agar, daikon and hogget. Sous chefs run from refrigerators to pantries in a panic. The actual battle isn’t until tomorrow night, so apparently they take dress rehearsals seriously.
I don’t see Henry anywhere, nor Katherine. Logical Me says don’t think the worst. Once Bitten, Twice Shy Me says barge into her room like a gorilla on a rampage. I listen to Logical Me this time. Thankfully, Sad Chef is there, seated at a table, flipping through a messy recipe book and jotting down notes. He looks up as I sit beside him, a slight blush on his cheeks.
“Oh, hi Ms. Seymour. I’m Lester Sneezel, by the way. We didn’t really make it past the introduction, did we?” Despite such an unfortunate name, Lester has a charming Canadian accent. “So sorry about…you know. I’ll be happy to pay your dry cleaning bill.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Listen, if you really want to make it up to me though, I have a sister who loves chocolate.” This is a gamble – either he’ll burst into tears again, or he’ll jump at the chance for a blind date.
He perks up. “Really? Is she single?”
“Oh yeah, she’s single all right, and she has a real weak spot for guys who can cook.” I want to wiggle in my seat as my dastardly plan gets off to a bonny good start.
“Not to brag, but I make a chocolate soufflé that would knock her socks off.”
She won’t stop at just her socks if he truly impresses her, but I just nod and say, “If you need any ingredients, I’ll be more than happy to go purchase them.”
“I had my sous chef buy plenty of everything. I’ll whip one up. Is she free tonight?”
“I’ll make sure that she is.” And as far away from Henry as possible.
****
I text Katherine the good news, hoping she’ll fall for the bait. My sister may be stupid when it comes to men, but she’s a super smart swindler. Hopefully the thoughts of melt-in-your-mouth chocolate will draw her from her lair.
After a nervous wait, I finally get her reply: What time?
What time’s good for you?
8:30.
Good, I’ll tell him.
This better be worth it.
Oh, it will. I put away the phone and whisper to myself, “So long as Lester Sneezel doesn’t let us down, that is.”
It’s just a few minutes past 6:00. Now all I have to do is suffer through the smells of practice rounds until my shift is over at 11:00 PM. The front door chimes, and in walks Carol. Her bracelets jingle as she sprays Aqua Net all over her permed hair and enters the office in a perfumed cloud of aerosol.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Relieving you, hun.”
“You don’t need to do that. We’re full up, but with Jerry and a housekeeper on call, it’s nothing I can’t manage.”
“I know you can manage, but I’m here to relieve you on strict orders.”
“From whom?”
“Your cutie-patootie. He wants you over at his house at 6:30 sharp.” Carol winks and pops a piece of Wrigley’s in her mouth. Her hoop earrings sway as she chomps happily.
“But, but…” My brain is stuck in a loop of buts. Henry usually eats dinner with me at the hotel when I’m working, but has never asked me to take a day off or leave early. Maybe he’s sick, but he was fine when he left for work this morning. Susan said he was here earlier, but he never said anything to me or stopped by the front desk.
Carol reaches down, grabs my purse, and puts it in my arms. “Now shoo – don’t keep the Donut Guy waiting.”
“Okay.” I clock out, going into autopilot as I put on my coat and head to my car.
Logical Me is nowhere to be found, so my rattled brain drifts a few years back to the night Nick took me out to dinner, only to tell me he wanted a divorce because he was leaving with Brandy for California. My trembling hands can barely hold the key fob as I unlock the car and get in. Twenty minutes later with a headache and churning stomach, I arrive at Henry’s house. His renovations to his grandfather’s former residence are almost done. The place looks brand new with freshly painted siding and shutters. But what if he doesn’t want me to be part of it anymore?
I raise my hand to knock on the door when Henry opens it and engulfs me in a tight, warm hug. “So glad you could get off early. I take it Carol came through for me.”
He pulls me inside and helps me out of my coat. Then he hangs it and my purse on the coat rack.
“Yeah, but why did you have her do that? Is everything okay?” Delicious aromas are coming from the kitchen. My legs wobble. My voice becomes shrill with rising hysteria. “Why were you at the hotel today? Susan saw you. You didn’t talk to me.”
He grins and heads toward the kitchen where he takes a couple of wine glasses from the rack over the island. “You like Chardonnay, right?”
I follow, leaning against the counter for support. “Yeah, but…what’s this all this about?”
He’s got the table set with the good china, complete with forks, knives, and spoons. Even cloth napkins. Soft music plays from his stereo in the living room. It’s Kenny G. Everyone knows that Kenny G isn’t breakup music. It’s romantic night music. What if he’s not breaking up with me? What if, instead, he’s getting ready to propose? It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I may need a paper bag because I don’t know what’s worse – being faced with another breakup or another marriage.
Henry finishes pouring and looks up with a concerned frown. He comes around to me and takes both my hands in his, kissing my knuckles. “Relax, Jane. It’s not what you think.”
“It’s not?”
“Well, I never can be exactly sure about what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours, but I know you’re not ready for marriage
.”
Crazed gorilla mode kicks in. Crap, it must be a breakup. Kenny G’s a liar!
“You and Katherine?” I squeak.
“What?” Henry shakes his head and laughs. “See what I mean? Honey, you have to stop thinking the worst of everyone. No, it’s not a proposal, and I’m not leaving you. I simply wanted to surprise you with a wonderful dinner and enjoy the night with you. Would you rather go back to work?”
Slowly, I come down from the peaks of Mount Emotion and shake my head. “You mean you just made dinner for me? That’s it?”
He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me right below my ear, sending warm shivers all the way to my toes. “Well, there might be some dessert after dinner, if you’re up to it.”
My word, he smells heavenly, with a fresh splash of aftershave and…
“Is that Alfredo?” I peer over his shoulder to the pot bubbling on the stove and the cut up chicken, complete with sear marks, on the cutting board. “Chicken alfredo?”
“It’s your favorite, right?”
“Yeah, but…is that why you were at the hotel?”
He nodded. A boyish smile spread across his face. “I talked to one of the Italian chefs to get the best recipe I could. The stuff in the jar isn’t good enough for my Jane.”
I throw my arms around his neck, a few tears of relief mingling with my laughter. “You are simply amazing, you know that? What did I do to deserve you?”
“Why don’t you show me later?”
“Why don’t I show you now?” I grab his hand and drag him toward the bedroom.
He laughs. “What about dinner? It’ll burn.” I drag him back to the kitchen and turn off the burner. We can’t waste good Alfredo. It’s surely an unforgivable sin.
He spins me around. His lips meet mine in a kiss that makes my legs as limber as the fettuccine on the stove. Needless to say, we don’t make it back to the bedroom.
Episode #25
All’s Fair in Love and Meringue
The next night, it’s all hands on deck as the Battle of the Chefs gets underway. Carol is in the breakfast area with Jerry while he replaces a burned out bulb in one of the ceiling lights.
“You’d beat them all hands down. I just know it.” She’s gazing up at him adoringly as he balances on a stepladder. Theirs is such an odd romance, but hey, why not? It’s the Roche Hotel. None of us are without our quirks.
“Hmm nam ana bolognaise. Na na num a wrench.” This, I think, translates to ‘I do make one heck of a bolognaise. Hand me a wrench,’ in Jerry’s hair-muffled language. He may be a huge sasquatch of a maintenance man, but he’s also a man of many talents, one of those being a gourmet cook.
Carol’s big hoop earrings and bracelets jingle as she rummages through Jerry’s toolbox. She hands him a screwdriver.
“No, a wrench,” he mutters.
She keeps rummaging, face scrunched up like she’s looking through alien experiment tools. "Which one’s the wrench?”
He points and grunts.
She finds it, hands it to him then stares at the David statue. “Hey Jane?”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen a loincloth on David the past few days?”
“You know, I don’t think I have.”
I study our concrete nudist sitting on his pedestal. Mrs. Roche doesn’t let him stay naked for long. He’s become more of a mannequin than a classic art replica with the variety of fabrics she wraps around his stony nether regions. Richard inevitably removes them and still considers her an attempted murderer after poor David fell over during a power outage and broke his head off at the neck. The statue proudly wears the battle scar where Jerry glued him back together.
But tonight David’s in his birthday suit, despite Mrs. Roche having been on the premises for several days.
Carol comes through the office door to the front desk and stops about six inches from my face. “Do you think she’s sick?”
“No, I don’t think so. She’s been quiet though, coming in and out without complaining about anything.” I’ve tried to get used to Carol’s close-talking, but still find myself slinking away. At least her breath isn’t horrendous. Tonight it smells like grape Bubblicious gum.
“I just knew she’d be bent out of shape about the chef challenge. But I haven’t heard her say a peep.”
“How odd.” Hardly a day goes by without the elderly former owner fussing about something Richard or Susan has done to improve the hotel.
“Well, you’re up,” Carol says. “Have fun.”
The hotel is full tonight, but most of the guests have gathered to watch the showdown. Carol and I had agreed to play tag team while the competition was underway so we could witness foodie history in the making.
I hurry to the conference room, toward the buzz of excited chatter and a weird mixture of food aromas from recipes I’d never be able to prepare. Media folk with cameras and boom mikes crowd the doors just inside. I weave my way between them. Nick is seated at the judges’ table with four food critics. He catches my eye and does that wink-nod thing that used to make me swoon, but now only nauseates me. How he qualifies as a food judge is beyond me. Sure he can cook way better than I can, but so can a college kid with a hot plate. I really wish Henry was here. Instead, I have to spend the evening getting eyes and come-hither nods from my ex-husband.
Whatever the chefs have sizzling and steaming from their stoves doesn’t smell anywhere near as good as the meal Henry prepared last night. Of course, that might have something to do with the, um… appetizer beforehand.
At Kitchen One, Chef Sneezel is busy whisking something in a pot. Sadly, I don’t see Katherine anywhere. My dastardly matchmaking plan must have failed. Sneezel glares at the female chef at Kitchen Two, who calmly squeezes doughy mounds onto a baking sheet with a pastry bag. I have a strong suspicion that she’s the one responsible for his sobbing all over my shirt.
Richard and Susan are seated at a table in the corner with Mrs. Roche, and ugh – Brandy of all people. She’s wearing a tight red blouse that showcases her silicone additions a little too well. Her platinum hair is pulled into a high ponytail, but the dark roots suggest she’s late for a touch up. Is that because she’s actually concerned with chemicals muddling her unborn baby’s brain? While everyone else is enjoying tiny servings of complimentary champagne, she has a can of ginger ale, sipping it through a straw. I don’t want to ponder if she’s good mother material. And I really don’t want to sit by her. But there’s only one empty seat – by Brandy, of course – and Susan’s frantically waving me over.
I swallow a choking dose of pride and walk over to the table. Since she and Nick are apparently here to stay, I have to learn to tolerate her at the very least. Susan must notice my unease, because she scoots over to the seat beside Brandy, leaving hers vacant for me. I have a seat and flash her a grateful smile.
“Oh, Jane, isn’t this exciting?” Susan squeals, bouncing in her seat.
Richard smiles and pats his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.
“Yeah, it certainly smells exciting,” I say. “Who’s the lady chef?”
“Oh, that’s…what’s her name, Richie?”
He perches some narrow reading glasses on his nose and consults a laminated schedule. “That’s Francesca Leek, lead chef at Shweet Tweats.”
I’m not sure whether Richard’s developed a lisp or there’s a typo or if the restaurant owner had been a tad too tipsy when choosing the business name.
“That’s it!” Susan nods emphatically. “I sure hope she leaves some cream puffs for us.”
Brandy slants a wary gaze toward me. Her usual rouged cheeks are a little on the green side. I guess that explains the ginger ale.
“Feeling okay?” I ask, in the most tolerant voice I can manage.
She responds with a tentative smile. “Just evening sickness.”
“Don’t you mean morning sickness?”
She glances at her phone, confusion wrinkling her forehead like I’d asked her to expl
ain astrophysics. “No, it’s 7:36 PM.”
“Yeah…well, I’m sure it will pass.” Wow, Nick really knows how to pick ‘em.
“I hope so.” Brandy focuses on her ginger ale. She looks rather sad. Surely Nick isn’t already cheating on her. Of course, he’s still trying to schmooze his way back into my heart. It’s a lost cause, but if that jerk is cheating on his pregnant girlfriend…
Holy crap! This moment of female solidarity cannot be tolerated, so I silently curse her with warts and toenail fungus. Clearing my throat, I notice Mrs. Roche to Brandy’s right is focused on a smart phone on the table in front of her, using one crooked finger to text someone.
Leaning close to Susan, I whisper, “When did she get a cell phone? I thought she said they were instruments of the devil.”
Susan shrugs. “I don’t know. I just noticed she had one tonight.”
“And where has she been? David’s practically shivering without his loincloths.”
“That’s a good question. No wonder it’s been so peaceful around here.”
A lump of goo lands on the table, followed by a crusty roll, which bounces across the tablecloth and lands in Richard’s lap.
“What the bloody…” He’s wide-eyed, mouth agape, staring at the chefs.
Another roll flies straight onto Richard’s bald head and bounces off. A collective gasp rises from the audience. The crusty roll grenades are coming from Chef Sneezel.
He holds the next one in his fist, ready to launch it at any second. “A text? You broke up with me with a text?! Who does that?”
Chef Leek yells from her station, “Me, that’s who! Your head’s always in a cookbook!” She flings another glop of goo with her spatula, hitting his chef hat so it’s cockeyed on his head. Some of it splats on our table.
I stick my finger in it then lick it. “Mm, meringue.”
He hurls another crusty roll. “Coward!”
“Hack!”
Brandy turns a more sickly shade of green, while I catch the next crusty roll and take a bite. Mrs. Roche seems oblivious to the food war, smiling and texting as fast as her arthritic finger will allow.