Taste

by Juliet Madison

  Some people laughed.

  David, whoever he was, spoke to the Dancing Chef on his way past, no doubt correcting the pronunciation of his surname, then went to stand beside his entry. The photographer took a photo.

  David. My dad’s name was David…

  “He would be proud of you,” a voice inside me said.

  More were called up, and then, “Tamara Delcarta! Welcome to the stage.”

  With shaking legs, I walked up onto the stage, my mouth dry. I heard what I assumed to be Savannah’s loud whistle and someone yell, “Go, Tamara!” A few other people yelled, “Woohoo!”

  “Well I think we know who the crowd favorite is,” said the Dancing Chef with a chuckle. That made me even more nervous.

  I smiled for my photo, though I worried my smile was so strained and nervous and forced that I probably looked like I needed to go to the bathroom. It felt like I was showing too much teeth, trying to look too happy and confident but looking more like one of those smiley emoticons online with the cheesy grins.

  It was only when Emilia was called up that I actually looked at the other entries, hers included, and my mouth gaped. She had made a dancing-themed cake! I knew it! I should have done that!

  Two perfectly-shaped dancing shoes made out of cake stood there, beautiful and sparkly as Cinderella’s glass slippers. Except they were lemon-colored, with pink, orange, and red sugar crystals mixed with silver dragées. Maybe the Dancing Chef would chip a tooth on one and give her a lower score.

  Another entrant had made a dragonfly cake. Thankfully, not a butterfly. But his looked a bit better than mine, sadly. Though the colors were dark.

  And someone else had made a garden of cupcakes, each cake like a pebbled stepping stone to the main cake which was decorated to look like a flowering bush of some kind.

  I was screwed.

  If I’d had wings I would have flown away.

  “Be proud of yourself,” I heard that inner voice say. I looked down at my cake, the wings looking light and airy despite the heaviness of the frosting and decorations.

  The voice was right; I had done a good job. I should be proud of myself and not compare myself to others. If I didn’t get this opportunity on the cooking show, it wasn’t the end of the world. I had my job at Harborside, and there was no telling where that could lead. It had already led to something wonderful—romantically speaking, at least.

  They took a group photo of us, and then the judges lined up. Four of them, the TV show host included. He had the handheld microphone and commented on the presentation of each entry as he studied it.

  It was like a beauty pageant for food.

  My silly mind imagined the cakes with minds of their own, trying to win over the judges. “I like baton twirling, admiring marine life at the beach, and would like to achieve world peace!” The winning cake would be presented with a shiny satin sash and it would cry little frosting tears and thank its family and God for supporting its dreams.

  These nerves were doing my head in.

  I forced a slow breath and a smile as he commented on my creation. “Pretty, delightful, dainty… Very good job indeed.” He winked at me then moved to the next entry, and then to Emilia’s. “You know the way to a man’s heart, don’t you?” He smiled at her. “Well, mine anyway. Nice work here.” He gave a nod and then continued along until he had judged all the entries, and the other judges did the same, jotting down scores and notes on their little clipboards.

  “Next up, the most important thing—taste!”

  Tell me about it.

  “Entrants, you will be provided with serving implements and plates; please present four servings to be judged.”

  I reluctantly sliced open my beautiful creation, making sure to include a piece of butterfly wing on each serving. I wished I could taste a bit myself to make sure it was as good as the practice version.

  I bet Emilia was heartbroken to have to destroy her dance shoes.

  All was quiet as the Dancing Chef began the tasting process. I decided not to watch his facial expressions for the first four entries because I didn’t want to have to compare them to the expression he’d use when he tasted mine. So I just kind of looked past him, into the crowd, which was kind of a blur.

  Then a sudden worry shot through my heart. What if the poisoning was going to take place here? What if someone had unknowingly made a cake with a contaminated ingredient? Or what if one of the entrants was a psychotic chef killer and had it in for the man in the dancing shoes? My heart started beating faster.

  Surely we would have gotten more of a sign if it was going to be here, right? And Savannah did see the Harborside menu. But maybe that was somehow unrelated. Maybe it was just symbolic of Iris Harbor. At least these cakes didn’t have chili in them—except Emilia’s appeared to have lemon frosting, and that was in the vision.

  But, oh hang on… I peered at the end of the long table, toward the last entrant. She had made a variety of small cakes in the shapes of healthy fruits and vegetables. Was that a chili pepper? Uh-oh. I observed the entrant, a woman who looked to be in her thirties. She didn’t look like a psychotic chef killer, whatever one was supposed to look like. She looked fairly nervous, like me.

  The chef cleared his throat. “I understand if you don’t want to watch. It’s a bit nerve-racking.”

  “Oh, sorry. Got distracted,” I said quietly. “Hope you, ah, enjoy my cake.” I flashed my forced toothy grin again and cringed.

  He dove a fork into the cake, which softened and then sprang gently back up when he lifted the fork. “Nice spongy texture,” he said, turning the fork around to see it from different angles. Then he put the sample in his mouth and closed his eyes. Apparently your sense of taste was stronger if you turned off your most-used sense, sight. It didn’t make one bit of difference for me.

  He nodded a little, tilted his head, then opened his eyes and took a bit more, this time with more frosting.

  That was a good sign.

  He jotted some notes on his paper, then moved to the next entrant, then to Emilia, then eventually to the final entrant.

  Please don’t be poisoned, please don’t be poisoned.

  It was only when he took a bite, and I gripped the edge of the table, that I realized the servings that the woman had placed on the plates didn’t contain a segment of the cake shaped like a chili pepper. They had watermelon, apple, and what I think was a mushroom. Or a soufflé gone wrong, but that wasn’t a vegetable.

  Okay. There was probably no need for concern. I hoped.

  He finished judging and thankfully didn’t start grasping at his throat, while the other judges repeated the process, albeit more quickly and less dramatically than the head chef. When all was done, he gathered the judges together in the corner of the stage and took all their scoresheets, plus a piece of paper handed to him by one of the crew who had tallied the public scores. There was some chatter, a calculator, and some more jotting of things on paper, and then he looked up at all of us.

  “Well, folks, it looks like we have a winner. But it was very close, only two points’ difference. So we are going to award a winner and a runner up, and the runner up, although they won’t be able to work on the show, will win a private cooking coaching session with yours truly.”

  He picked up a bouquet of flowers and stood at the microphone, while the camera crew stood at the ready, as did the photographer. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I announce the winner of the contest and lucky recipient of our on the job training program. Congratulations, Miss Emilia Harwood!”

  My body softened with relief that it was all over, despite some disappointment, as Emilia gasped with shock. “Me? Really?” she said, glancing around as if they’d made a mistake.

  It was the dancing theme. I knew it. She’d won before you could even say “tango.”

  She accepted the flowers and gave a little wave to the audience, and shook hands with the chef. When she returned to the table she leaned over to me. “Maybe we wo
n’t knock over the winner’s cake after all.” She winked.

  I was about to see if we needed to walk off stage when the chef continued. “And congratulations to our runner-up, Tamara Delcarta!”

  Huh? Me? I was sure it would be cake garden guy.

  Huh. Yay!

  Disbelief turned to joy when I went up and shook his hand, and took a brief glance at the audience to see Leo smiling and clapping his hands above his head. So I wouldn’t get to be on the show, but I was going to get some private tuition with the Dancing Chef (which would look great on my resume), and I already loved where I worked and knew that my career could only grow from here. And I was only seventeen, for crying out loud. Many others my age still didn’t know what they wanted to do with their lives. I was lucky. Focused. Driven. Passionate. This was the beginning of a great life doing what I loved. If only school didn’t get in the way.

  Someone put on some music and the chef took Emilia’s hand, then bowed like a gentleman. She pretended to be all embarrassed, but she wasn’t. She loved this moment in the spotlight. And hey, she deserved it. She worked hard, she was good at what she did, and she was obviously great at baking cakes.

  They danced around, and the chef led in such a way that made it look like it had all been rehearsed. I was glad I wasn’t up there dancing; my face would have gone bright red, and I’d be…

  Huh?

  Uh-oh.

  The chef was curling his finger at me, beckoning me onto the stage.

  Oh no. No thanks, it’s fine. I waved my hand as if to say, “Oh, it’s okay, you two keep going. I’ll wait here.” But he came up and led me out from behind the table, and before I knew it I was being twirled around the dance floor. No doubt Savvy was filming this, but she wouldn’t be able to put it online, since the crew had requested that no footage of today’s event be broadcast online, since it was to be screened exclusively on next week’s cooking show.

  Thankfully it was over quickly, and we were given the chance to take what was left of our cakes home, or leave them on the table to be shared among the crowd—first come, first served.

  I left mine to share. I wanted to get off the stage and breathe again.

  Leo greeted me with a hug. “Congratulations! A one-on-one with the man himself!”

  “I’m sure I’ll still enjoy our one-on-ones more,” I whispered in his ear.

  He gave me a cute smile that promised so much more. And I realized that now that we had finished our little cooking sessions, we would need to find another excuse to spend quality time together. Alone.

  My family congratulated me, and so did Serena’s boyfriend, Damon. His sister Lara shook my hand then said she was going to try to speak to the chef to find out how they tallied the scores to make sure there were no mistakes.

  I wandered over to one of the stalls with Sasha, who wanted to show me a beautiful piece of jewelry that had a butterfly on it, and the woman behind the stall appeared anxious and confused.

  “Where is it?” she said, moving things around on the display table and looking on the floor.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “My hand-made gemstone necklace. It has lots of stones woven into silver netting, and looks like a multi-colored waterfall. It was just here, but now it’s gone. It’s my most expensive item.”

  I exchanged glances with Sasha.

  The woman straightened up. “Someone’s taken it. I know it.”

  While she kept her eye on the stall, I called for one of the crew members to assist her. Then I surveyed the crowd. Some had gone, but it was still busy. And unless the woman had made a mistake, and unless it was a one-off theft, the town thief had been—or still was—somewhere in this hall.

  Chapter 17

  “They’ll catch him. Or her,” Leo said. The festivities had died down, so he and I went for a walk down by the harbor before he needed to start his shift. I had the night off—thankfully, since I was feeling pretty tired. My brain and hands needed a rest. And right now I needed to be alone with the guy whose hand was entwined with mine. “Somehow he’ll mess up and get caught.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’m starting to get paranoid. I’m keeping my things close by at all times.”

  “Probably someone who needs money for drugs, or to pay back debts or something.”

  “Probably.”

  I almost told him how Emilia had jokingly (was it jokingly?) suggested Leo could be a thief, when her money went missing that first day of work. But I thought we had better change the subject.

  “So, Riley explained everything, huh?”

  We stopped and sat on the pier, dangling our legs over the edge as soft blues merged together on the horizon. Seagulls squawked and raced each other, and I envied their freedom and simple lives.

  “He did. I think he was more emotional about it than me,” Leo said. “He’d been keeping it inside all this time and finally he could tell me.”

  “I didn’t think about that. I had only been thinking of how it would affect you, but it obviously relieved a lot of turmoil for him, too.”

  “Yep. He likes to play the cool, strong guy, but inside he’s quite sensitive and emotional. He likes to hide those things sometimes, whereas if something is bothering me, I like to let it out. Go for a drive, a run, let off steam somehow.”

  “Or talk to your girlfriend.” I nudged him in the side.

  He nudged me back. “I can now add that to my repertoire of things to do when upset.”

  The sides of our arms touched, and his warmth radiated into me.

  “I should have known Dad wouldn’t leave us on purpose. I feel so guilty that I believed it.” Leo shook his head.

  “Hey, it’s understandable. That’s what they concluded.”

  “And he really appeared to your sister? She really saw him?”

  “Yep. Described his clothing and everything, and that gesture he used to do for Riley.”

  “Over and out.” Leo curved his hand across in an arc and then pointed his thumb behind his shoulder. “Man. It all feels so surreal.”

  “It’s real. The things we think are real life are just fillers. Time wasters. Distractions. But I’ve learned that this stuff, this ability, what it means for us—it helps us to see what is real and what is important in life.”

  Leo turned to face me. “You’re really smart and amazing, you know that?”

  “Well…” I fluttered my eyelashes and tossed my curls behind my shoulders.

  “Come here,” he chuckled, sliding his arm around my back and leaning into me. I slid my arm around him too. “I hope I get the chance someday to be a dad.”

  “You want kids?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  I laughed. “Well, not right now!”

  “I know, I know, but someday. It’d be nice. I’d like to have fun teaching them how to cook.” He smiled and looked off into the distance. “I can’t imagine Riley being a dad. Don’t tell him I said that. I might be the only chance to carry on my dad’s name.”

  “He’d be proud of both of you anyway, no matter how life turns out.”

  Leo nodded.

  “And to be honest, I can’t imagine Savannah being a mom. Don’t know why. Although I think she’d be scared that her aneurysm would come back if she was pregnant. I’ve heard that can happen to some people.”

  “Geez,” said Leo. “Your family’s been through such a lot too.”

  And we were still going through it.

  I thought about Dad, remembering that night when Savvy had first seen his ghost. The shock. The disbelief. The anger. And then the grief. “Hey, I haven’t told you something.”

  “More secret supernatural abilities?”

  “Nope.” I took a deep breath. “I told you how my father disappeared, but what I didn’t tell you was that…” I hated saying it. “We found out that he died.” My voice shook.

  “How? When?” Leo placed a hand on my cheek.

  “Last year. His ghost appeared to Savannah. So at least we ha
ve some closure, but we still don’t know what happened or where his body is. He doesn’t seem able to get that message across to us.”

  “Holy crap. I’m so sorry, beautiful.” He kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes, warm with tears that wanted to be set free.

  “He may have been caught up in something illegal, unwillingly,” I explained. “We have a few clues, but not much. And the cops have given up hope.”

  “So you’re assuming that it was no accident, that it was…”

  Murder.

  “Yes.” I didn’t want him to say it; I didn’t want to say it either.

  “I wish there was something I could do,” Leo said, his voice strained and frustrated.

  “You’re already doing it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Being here for me. With me.”

  “I wish that was enough.”

  “For now, it is. It’s more than enough.”

  We sat peacefully in silence, side by side, arm in arm, watching the slow rhythm of nature, our breathing in sync with our surroundings and with each other.

  And that was the moment I fell in love with Leo Pearce.

  Chapter 18

  The disappointment from not winning the competition had well and truly faded by the following weekend. More significant things were taking place in my life, and I was finally growing up. Finally getting a sense of what it was like to be a young woman. I felt empowered, confident, and ready for more.

  After the most boring week of school ever, I now had a whole day and a half of freedom left to enjoy. I had agreed to work tomorrow for the dinner event, just so I wouldn’t be scheduled for tonight. Escaping to the movies and arcade with my sisters and their boyfriends, and Lara, sounded like a great idea. I could taste the popcorn already. Though I knew my home-cooked version tasted better.

  “So Mr. Jenkins is cooking tonight, Mom?” I asked, since she had been invited over next door.

  “Yes. I did offer to bring something, but he made me promise I wouldn’t.”

  “It’s weird that you’re having a dinner date with our teacher,” said Savannah.