Val’s head was spinning. Christmas was five weeks away. It was going to be a stretch getting most of the work done by New Year’s—done enough to impress Sheila, at least. But Mark Warnell? By Christmas? Impossible. “Do I have any say in this?”
There was a silence on Sheila’s end that said Sheila thought Val mad for even asking. “Are you interested in vaulting to national prominence or not?”
“Of course I am,” Val said shakily. She was mad. This was insanity.
“Mark Warnell wants to experience Christmas on the Coast—like you wrote about in your column. He’s actually a very sentimental man. It would be just me and him visiting. Possibly Graham Chester as well.”
“Graham Chester,” Val echoed weakly. She’d never even met Sunrise’s executive editor.
“So we’re on, right? I’ll call with details. If you’d like I can fly out sometime soon and develop an itinerary for the visit. I know Mr. Warnell’s tastes fairly well. I’ve known him for many years.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Val said. Panic beat at her eardrums, making it hard to hear. “The place I’d like to entertain Mr. Warnell is actually not in San Francisco. I took a little literary license there. If my readers knew that I lived literally on the coast and in an old inn, they’d never think they could accomplish the projects I write about. That I was some lady of leisure with a staff of twelve—which is hardly the case. So I chose San Francisco as a base. I just have an apartment there.”
“Where exactly is this inn?”
“Mendocino.”
“Really?” Sheila sounded moderately pleased. “I’ve always heard that’s a charming little place. Mr. Warnell will love it.”
“That’s great, then,” Val said.
“Well, I’ll let you know our schedule. Do you have a fax up there? And what’s the phone number?”
Val gave Sheila the phone number for the inn and mentally added her fax machine to the list of things to take up with her. Her Subaru was going to be loaded.
She wandered aimlessly around the apartment gathering things she was going to take, the enormity of Mark Warnell’s visit not yet sinking in. By Christmas. She had to renovate the Waterview by Christmas. There was not a moment to spare. She already knew Jamie had a lot of extra cooking planned for Thanksgiving, and that was next week.
It could be done. No other option was available. She’d have to hire more people than she thought. Jamie’s budget was really tight, so the extra people might end up being her investment.
Christ! She had until Christmas to learn to cook. Really cook. Mark Warnell was not going to be fooled by a single meal Jamie whipped up and Val served. Sheila and Mr. Warnell would be there for several days—egads! As many as twelve or thirteen entire meals. They’d linger in the kitchen to chat while Val cooked.
What had she gotten herself into? It wasn’t as if she’d been backed into a corner by a lie—well, okay, she had. But if she could only turn the lie to truth she would achieve her dreams.
Five weeks. It would be two weeks before she got her permit to start work, and two weeks was a miracle by San Francisco standards. Things weren’t quite so busy in Mendocino. Well, she would spend the next two weeks doing whatever could be done without a permit—painting and wallpapering. And cooking lessons.
This was madness.
She only went to bed because she knew that if she didn’t sleep she’d never stay awake for the long drive back to Mendocino. She stared at the pattern the streetlights made seeping past the blinds. With Jamie’s permission, she had moved into the most usable room on the second floor of the inn, and even without blinds the nights were dark, the mornings quiet. She found herself startling awake at the slightest noise and she wondered if country life would ruin her.
“You’re folding the egg whites, not beating them into submission. Be gentle.” Jamie was almost at the end of her rope. Val really wasn’t a stupid person, but her lack of patience with cooking steps was wearing Jamie ragged.
“Why does it matter?”
“Your goal is to keep as much air as possible in the egg whites. No air equals a flat soufflé. If I wanted a flat soufflé I’d make an omelet.”
Val stared down at the bowl as if it contained poison. “I don’t get why it’s called folding.”
“I don’t know why it’s called folding,” Jamie said. Honestly, Val was like a four-year-old. “Why is grout called grout?”
“It’s from grut, an Old English—”
“Forget I asked,” Jamie snapped. “You fold like this. Scoop down the side of the bowl, lift the mixture, then carry it to the other side of the bowl, lower it in, then back to the other side of the bowl to lift again. It’s like…like folding towels.”
“Right.” Val looked confused, but she took the bowl back and copied Jamie’s motions relatively well.
“That’s right. Just go slow and be gentle. Think airy thoughts.” Jamie sped back to processing nuts for vegetarian mincemeat. Thanksgiving was three days away—two, really, since it was late Monday evening—and no vacation for her. Dar’s suggestion that she take orders for pies and meals had proven lucrative, but there were not enough hours in the day. She’d forgotten that Thanksgiving week always brought extra tourists, so dining room traffic was up. Then she had all the extra pies and meals to make for Thanksgiving itself. There just wasn’t time to show Val the finer points of cooking.
The dining room was mostly empty by now, and Dar poked her head in. “I’m off, Jamie. Tips were good today. And folks really liked the cranberry cake.”
“Dar, you’re a jewel,” Jamie said. “Thanks for working the extra hours. Can you make it back early in the morning?”
“Sure, but I can’t Wednesday morning. And I’d like to get home Wednesday night reasonable like. Have my own turkey to make, you know. But my niece is visiting, and she’d jump to make some extra cash. Can I bring her by Tuesday for dinner rush? You remember her. Nancy? She’d only want minimum plus tips.”
“Sure I do. That would be great. All this extra work means I can pay for some extra help. You were working way too hard tonight, too.”
“It’s nice for a change,” Dar said. But it was clear to Jamie that Dar was tired.
“You’re lucky to have her,” Val said after Dar had left.
“Don’t I know it.”
“I think these are mixed,” Val said. “I thought about balloons and clouds all the time I stirred.”
Jamie found herself smiling helplessly. She could be so annoyed with Val, then find herself responding to Val’s undeniable charm. But she swore she wouldn’t succumb to it. Dar already had. Liesel had. Jacob had.
All the lesbians in town had as well. It seemed like every gay woman Jamie knew had been in and visited. Several of the craftswomen had volunteered to lend a hand if Val needed it. Val had so far turned everyone down—at least as far as working on the project went. Jamie had no idea what Val did with her nights.
She was certain that Val would do well in the world of entertainment, where it seemed as if everyone was glib but only a few people had substance. Val had some substance. Jamie was not interested in finding out how much.
There was a knock at the back door and Liesel bustled in carrying a large basket covered by a tea towel.
“Cornbread delivery.” Liesel set the basket on the counter. “I cubed it down, dear, but I didn’t know if you wanted it to stay cubed or broken up.”
“A little of both,” Jamie said. “Just spread it out on the big cookie sheets and I’ll pop them in the oven after I turn it off.”
“You look beat,” Liesel observed.
“Yeah, but I’m turning a profit.”
“That’s because she has slave labor,” Val muttered.
Liesel laughed, but Jamie gave Val a narrow look. “Tonight alone, you have learned how to roast red peppers, use a Cuisinart, whip egg whites, fold egg whites and macerate raisins.”
“What-erate raisins?”
“Here.” Jamie hand
ed Val an eight-cup measure two-thirds full of raisins. “Get the kettle up to a boil, then pour enough boiling water into this to cover the raisins. Let them soak for about five minutes. Let me know when time’s up and I’ll show you what to do next. You’ll love macerating.”
“Oh to be young again,” Liesel said. “Not. I’ve always said you couldn’t pay me to be young again. Thirty-nine—now that’s a nice age. Ten more years for you, liebchen.”
“When are you going to stop calling me little girl?” Jamie gave Liesel a fond look.
“When you’re older than me.”
A startled cry from Val made Jamie look her way.
“I didn’t know the handle would be hot,” Val said. She was shaking one hand and glaring at the large kettle.
Liesel tsk’d. “Put some ice on it or it’ll keep burning.”
“And use the oven mitts. That’s why they’re all over the kitchen.” Jamie turned back to her mincemeat.
“It’s a nuisance to always be taking them on and off.”
“You wear gloves to hammer, don’t you?” She did a rapid calculation, multiplying the recipe times two and a half. Three tablespoons butter became seven point five, or almost a whole stick. “Lots of people die in kitchen accidents.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Val’s tone was so dry that Jamie had to look up. “Someone ate too many cookies for dinner.”
“Someone was too busy slaving to eat anything else.”
“I think I’ll head on home,” Liesel said. “Jamie, dear, don’t you even think about making anything for our Thanksgiving dinner—I’m doing all the work so you can rest.” She looked pointedly at Val, then sidled out the door with a wave good-bye.
Val was rubbing an ice cube over her palm. “You’re just a fountain of joy, you know that?”
Jamie turned back to her work, refusing to be drawn into a fight. “You thought of this, not me.”
“Just don’t make me keep paying for it, okay?”
“And why not? If anything about life is true it’s that you never pay for anything once.”
“And here I was thinking you weren’t philosophical.”
“And here I was thinking you—oh, forget it. I’m too tired.”
Val suddenly grinned. “Don’t poop out on me now I was just getting an adrenaline surge.”
There is was again, that charm. “Let’s call it quits after the raisins are ready. I’m seeing double and nuts are too expensive to risk.”
“What is that, anyway?”
“Vegetarian mincemeat. Usually you add finely chopped meat—beef or pork. But I use almonds and walnuts. This year I’m trying hazelnuts and macadamias, too. Then you add raisins and a sugar syrup, spices, mix and fill pie crusts. I have orders for a total of twelve mincemeat pies. And fifteen pumpkin. Tomorrow you’ll learn how to make a pecan paste filling for pumpkin pie.”
Val yawned. “Excuse me, sorry. It’s not you, but I am tired. Three more minutes on the raisins.”
Jamie covered her work with clean tea towels, then went out to the dining room to turn the sign to closed and shut off the lights.
Val looked at her blearily when she returned. “Five minutes soaking in boiling water. Done.”
Jamie handed Val a bowl already containing a cup of sugar and a mashing tool. “Macerating just means the raisins are softened and then gently mashed. We still want raisin shapes. Just dump a third of them in, mash a little, pick up the sugar with them—like that. You got it.”
Val had the raisins ready in no time. “Just like sandy mortar,” she said through another yawn.
Jamie wearily shrugged into her jacket. “See you in the morning. Are you comfortable enough upstairs? Liesel was serious about the room at her house.” Liesel liked Val immensely, which irked Jamie a tetch.
“I’m fine,” Val said. “It’s kind of nice to be alone after the busy day.”
“I know what you mean,” Jamie said. “This place was never empty when I was growing up. Oh—” Jamie remembered Liesel’s pointed look. “I’m suppose to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner at Liesel’s.”
Val quirked her lips. “Are you inviting me because Liesel made you?”
Jamie stifled a yawn. “I would have remembered around noon on Thursday, after all the food was picked up and the dishes done. My ability to think ahead is limited to ordering supplies. Take the afternoon off and come to dinner. Liesel will think I scared you off if you don’t.”
“We can’t have that, can we?” Val lowered her gaze to the tea towel she was drying her hands on. “Tell Liesel I would be honored.”
“Great,” Jamie said. “Lock up after me.”
“As if I’d forget,” Val muttered when Jamie was gone. She locked the back door firmly and dragged herself upstairs. Who knew that cooking was every bit as tiring physically as hanging wallpaper? She’d done both today.
Her thirty-five days until Christmas were now thirty. So far she’d marked walls for demolition—placement of the fireplace in particular. There were only a few walls that weren’t going to be touched, and those she had painted with a scrubbable quality white. Jamie was still making up her mind about which Shaker stenciling pattern she liked best. The wallpaper had gone into what would eventually be a master suite on the third floor, incorporating some of the existing attic. Maybe they’d get their permit to go ahead tomorrow. Maybe if Val took one of Jamie’s pies down to the inspectors it would move things along. Bribery, she told herself. Bribery was not a good thing unless it worked.
She slowly stumbled out of her clothes and pulled an old T-shirt over her head. As she reached for the light she saw that the fax machine had a sheet of paper in it.
It was Sheila’s itinerary. She and Mark Warnell were arriving on Christmas Eve morning. Make that thirty days minus one, Val thought numbly. She reminded herself that everything was worth the end goal.
Just before sleep claimed her she wondered when Jamie would stop being so prickly. She could like Jamie. She’d. thought her stolid, then revised her opinion to rock-steady. But there had to be a side that wasn’t rock. Imagining Jamie’s soft side coaxed Val into smiling sleep.
Chapter 8
When the first of Val’s extra workers arrived it didn’t take Jamie long to figure out that Jan had a special relationship with Val. She would have been surprised if Val didn’t have a girlfriend in the offing—she was too attractive to be single.
Admitting Val was attractive was saving Jamie considerable energy. She’d wasted the best part of the week since Thanksgiving fighting the realization that Val was doing something to her composure. She’d finally given herself permission to feel Val’s allure; she wasn’t immune to what a whole lot of other women were finding very appealing. Okay, she felt it. But she didn’t have to do anything about it.
She was tempted, though, to let Val’s first attempt at baking burn. She wasn’t going to speculate on what might be happening over her head at this very moment. All she knew was that Jan and Val had gone upstairs to measure and the floorboards had stopped creaking nearly ten minutes ago.
She pretended not to notice when Val finally did reappear that her cheeks were flushed, hair slightly mussed and top button of her jeans undone.
“I took them out of the oven for you.”
“Thanks.” Val bent over the golden loaves. “Are they supposed to crack?”
“Yes,” Jamie said. “The moisture in the crack is how you check for doneness.” She put down her paring knife and joined Val in examining the poppyseed loaves. “See the moisture here—that’s as much as you would ever want to see. The crack should look only that moist, no more. Less moist is also okay. But you don’t want it completely dry.”
“Kind of like when to do the broom finish on concrete.”
“Okay,” Jamie said. “If that helps you remember.” Broom finish?
“I want to taste one.” Val picked up a nearby knife and began inserting it into one of the loaves.
“Stop that!” Jamie he
ld back an exasperated sigh. “You’ll ruin the loaf for serving. Never cut it in the pan, you get torn slices when you try to remove them. Run the knife along the outside edges, then tip the pan to the side and shake gently. If you used enough shortening on the sides it should slip right—there.”
“Now can I have a slice?”
Val’s pleading eyes were the color of the rolling ocean on a sunny day. Jamie shook away the fanciful comparison. “Yes, but get a serrated knife. Now slice your piece with only three passes of the knife.”
“Huh?”
“Only go back and forth a total of three times. Back, forth, back. That’s all.”
“You’re picky”
“Do it your way, then.”
Val sawed off a slice and Jamie was only slightly satisfied when the adjacent piece tore. “Okay, I see your point. We can’t serve that piece now.”
“Three passes is usually enough and it’s a good guide to how much pressure to use. The knife also has to be sharp enough.”
Val cut the torn slice away using Jamie’s method. “I see. Back, forth, back, and it’s done.” She took a big bite of her slice. “Wow, that’s good. I can’t believe I did it myself. Your recipe is dynamite.”
“It’s the standard Joy of Cooking recipe,” Jamie said. “With a little more poppyseed than they call for.”
Jan came into the kitchen looking almost—but not quite—as neat as she had when she’d gone upstairs.
“Hey, try this,” Val said. “I made it.”
Jan nibbled on the piece Val proffered. Jamie turned away from the eye contact the two were making. Big deal.
“That’s really good. You made it all by yourself? I didn’t know you were a chef, too.”
Jamie snorted and turned it into a cough. She had better get used to hearing that.
Val was hemming and hawing. “Well, Jamie has taught me a lot.”
“I’m ready to start on the master bath wall.” Jan licked her fingers—Jamie assumed it wasn’t just for crumbs, then kicked herself mentally for being catty.
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