by Hillary Avis
Marigold squealed and danced in place. “Victoryyy! I mean...yours is good, too.”
“OK, I’ve got customers,” Bethany said pointedly. Marigold twirled around a few more times and capered off to her kiosk.
“Friend of yours?” the next customer in line asked, as Bethany ladled out a container of split pea soup.
“Not really. Why?”
“Just curious.” The man set another container on the counter. He took out a small notebook and jotted something down, and then put it back into the pocket of his denim shirt.
“That’ll be three dollars.”
As the man pulled out his wallet to pay, Bethany noticed that the container he’d put down on the counter was from Marigold’s kiosk. “Hedging your bets, huh?”
He handed her the three dollars. “No—I’m here from the paper.”
“Come again?”
“The newspaper. I write the Sunday food feature for the Newbridge Community Observer. Milo Armstrong,” he added, adjusting his thick-framed glasses. “I probably should have introduced myself first.”
Milo Armstrong was pretty cute. Behind his geeky glasses, he had warm eyes in a delicious chocolate shade and an even warmer smile.
“What brings you here, Mr. Armstrong?” she asked, her stomach fluttering nervously. She hoped it wasn’t a follow-up on last year’s debacle. She’d had enough of that kind of coverage in the Community Observer. But maybe her little kiosk had finally made enough of a name for itself that they were sending a food reporter to write about her soups!
“Milo,” he said, flashing that smile at her again. “Ms. Wonder invited me down to compare the two soup kiosks at the station for this week’s feature, kind of a head-to-head thing.”
Any bubble of hope that had buoyed her spirits immediately popped. As much as she wanted a food feature, a surprise cooking competition was not cute. “I wouldn’t have made split pea if I’d known!” she burst out without thinking.
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow and pulled out his notebook again. “Why’s that?”
“Well, split pea soup is comforting, but it can be a bit stodgy,” she babbled nervously. “Some people don’t like it because of bad childhood experiences. It’s not what you make to win a contest.”
“Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’re afraid of the competition? I had a bite of her soup already, and it’s exceptional.”
“Why, thank you!”
He eyed her skeptically. “I haven’t tasted yours yet—I was talking about Ms. Wonder’s.”
“I know. I made that avgolemono yesterday.” Bethany crossed her arms.
“Are you saying she stole your recipe?” Milo’s pen was poised over his notebook, ready to record her response.
“No. Well, sort of. She ate some of my soup yesterday, and what she made today is exactly like it. And it’s tough for split pea to compete with that—it was one of my best soups ever. What are you writing?” Bethany stood on tiptoe to peer at what he was scribbling, but she couldn’t decipher his handwriting upside down.
“Just some notes.” His brow furrowed. “I’m curious—if you made one of your best soups yesterday, why not make it again today? Why make something that you know is worse?”
Bethany sighed. “It’s hard to explain. I make soup to fit the day: the mood, the atmosphere, the weather, whatever. This morning it was foggy, so split pea seemed like a natural choice. Plus, I never cook the same soup twice—or I try not to. I make soup of the day, not soup of the yesterday. I’m kind of regretting it now, though.”
“Aw,” Milo said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I promise you a fair and unbiased review. I’m not here to make anybody look bad.”
How could she explain that she’d put her life savings into Souperb Soups and worked her butt off for the last nine months, and Marigold had put in one day and a new sign, without sounding peevish? Hmph. “It’s not exactly a fair review, though, is it? Because she knew you were coming and I didn’t. If you really wanted to be fair, you’d come back another day—one we both know about.”
He tapped his finger to his lips, considering. “OK. You’ve convinced me. I’ll give the tasting another shot tomorrow, and that way you’ll both be prepared. You can serve up your best, whatever that may be.”
Bethany snorted. “Well, I know what Marigold will be cooking—split pea with smoked ham. Soup of the yesterday.”
Milo chuckled. “Then I guess I won’t bother with this, since I’ll be having it tomorrow.” He pushed the container of soup back across the counter. Bethany started rummaging in the till to retrieve his three dollars, but he held up his hand. “No, no, keep it, Ms.—?” He broke off questioningly.
“Bradstreet. Bethany Bradstreet.”
He nodded. “Right. See you tomorrow, Ms. Bradstreet.” He turned on his heel and sauntered off to Marigold’s kiosk, whistling.
Who whistles anymore? Bethany shook her head and swept the container of uneaten soup in the trash. As she cleaned up the kiosk for the day, she reflected that she should have at least had the guy try the split pea. If he didn’t come back tomorrow, she might have missed her last chance at getting a review in the newspaper...plus, to be honest, she kind of wanted to see that warm smile again.
“I THINK I MIGHT HAVE blown it.” Bethany wrapped her hands around her mug of hot chocolate and peppermint whipped cream.
“Aw, no, honey, you didn’t! You set yourself up for success!” Kimmy sat down at the kitchen table and slurped the topping off her own mug. “If he’d tasted the soup, he still could have written that head-to-head article without your permission. At least this way, it’s a level playing field. Don’t get me wrong—your split pea is great! But it can’t compete with that avgolemono.”
“I know,” Bethany said glumly. “I can’t believe Marigold was able to recreate it so exactly. She’s going to do this to me every day from now on, isn’t she? No matter how good I am, she’ll just match me. And pretty soon, people are going to start going to her first.”
“Stop saying that!” Kimmy slammed her fist on the table, causing the spoons to rattle in their mugs. “And stop selling it to her!”
“Can I even do that? Legally?”
“Of course you can! It’s your product—you can sell it to whoever you want! You can be like the Oprah of soup.” Kimmy put on her best Oprah impression. “You get a soup! You get a soup! You don’t get a soup.”
Bethany snorted into her hot chocolate. “You’re saying I should be the anti-Oprah?”
“No, I’m saying even Oprah would not be giving soup to this lady. Marigold is ripping you off. She can cook and she has good taste buds; girl don’t need to be lazy. If you stop literally feeding her your recipes, she’ll just have to succeed or fail on her own merits.”
“I guess I can start by not giving it to her for free. That way she’s at least paying to use my recipe.”
Kimmy bounced her fist on the table again. “That’s right! Now you’re talking.”
Bethany glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. “Now I better figure out what I’m going to cook for that reporter.”
“Hey, all you have to compete with is split pea, right?” Kimmy grinned.
Bethany shook her head. “I can’t count on it. Marigold is full of surprises—she might just make avgolemono again. I need to bring my A-game. What do you think about minestrone?”
Kimmy wrinkled her nose. “Kinda basic. It’s like the pumpkin spice of soups. How about vichyssoise?”
“I don’t even know how to spell that.”
“OK, carrot ginger? Nice bright flavor, easy to spell...”
Bethany hemmed and hawed. “Nah, I think that’s too simple. Only one texture. I want something with a little heartiness, but a light broth with a lot of aromatics.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Like maybe the most epic chicken noodle ever.”
“Oooh! I like that. I like it a lot.”
“Does that mean you’ll let me have the keys to Café Sabine
so I can work on my stock all night?” Bethany clasped her hands together pleadingly.
Kimmy chewed her lower lip, looking torn.
“Just this once? It’s only for the food review, and I’ll owe you big time. I’ll do anything you want—I’ll cater your wedding when you marry Charley!”
“Seems a little premature, considering Charley and I have only been dating for four months, but I am going to hold you to that.”
“Is that a yes?” Bethany grinned hopefully.
Kimmy nodded. “But I’m going with you. Monsieur Adrien would kill me for giving you the keys, but if I’m there getting work done, too, he can’t really argue. And you better cook the soup of your life if I’m going to stay up all night.”
“This is going to be just like when we were in culinary school and we’d stay up all night cooking together!”
Kimmy smiled. “Those were the good old days. Slumber party in the kitchen. I’m down this once, but let’s not make a habit of it.”
“Deal.” Bethany held out her pinky, and Kimmy linked fingers with her.
“Deal.”
Chapter 3
Wednesday morning
BETHANY STIFLED A YAWN as she wheeled Daisy through the door of the station. The lid on the stock pot jostled, emitting fragrant steam. Bethany closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Herbal, full-bodied, hint of spice. It was sure to impress that reporter with the warm brown eyes and the Clark Kent glasses—what was his name?
She opened her eyes and narrowly avoided crashing Daisy into Ben and Trevor, who seemed to be arguing.
“I don’t care—it’s unacceptable!” Ben poked his finger into Trevor’s chest. “We can’t afford—”
“Sorry, guys!” she said. “I just need to get set up.” They stepped aside, resuming their discussion in more hushed tones, and she pushed Daisy over to the Souperb Soups kiosk. She put the soup on the warmer and wrote “Epic Chicken Noodle” on her chalk board.
“Meow!”
Bethany peered over the counter. Caboose sat at attention in front of the kiosk, flicking his tail. Apparently he thought the soup smelled good, too. “Sorry, sir, I’m not open until eleven. If you’re hungry, you’ll have to go catch a mouse.” She shooed him away; even one stray cat hair could mean a bad review in the paper. He stalked off toward the bakery, his tail straight and indignant.
She couldn’t help herself, then—she sneaked a look over at Marigold’s booth to see what her soup of the day was. Jen was there, busy stirring a vat of thick, green liquid.
“Did she copy again?” Olive asked, leaning to peek around the counter at Marigold’s kiosk, too.
“Yep, split pea.” Bethany tried not to feel too smug. After all, the reporter hadn’t tasted either soup yet, and maybe he didn’t like chicken. Maybe he didn’t like soup that he had to chew. Maybe—oh, who am I kidding? I’ve got this thing in the bag. “Here, have a taste and tell me what you think for the bread pairing.”
Olive sipped the spoonful of soup that Bethany offered and closed her eyes blissfully. “Wow. Normally I’d say maybe an onion roll to liven up chicken soup, but I’m not sure with this one—it’s so flavorful. It needs a bread to stand up to it but not compete. Plain, old-fashioned sourdough?”
Bethany nodded. “I could see that, or maybe a brioche to sop up—” she broke off as she watched Trevor storm to Marigold’s kiosk. He seemed to be angry about something, and poor Jen looked terrified.
“What’s he so mad about?” Olive whispered. Bethany shrugged. Trevor raised his voice, but Bethany couldn’t make out what he was saying. Jen shrank back from the counter, her hands behind her back like she was searching for an escape route. Bethany held her breath—would Trevor step into the kiosk to menace Jen even further? He yelled at Jen again, leaning across the counter and gesturing wildly. When Trevor whirled and left in a huff in the direction of the maintenance room, she finally exhaled.
“Wow, I’ve never seen him like that! He’s usually so chill.” Bethany shook her head in disbelief. “Poor Jen.”
Olive nodded. “I know! Maybe it’s just the stress getting to him. His wife is pregnant—their first—and the baby is due this week. That’s enough to send any man over the edge.”
“You’d think he’d get used to the idea after nine months. I wonder if he’s just passing along the negativity from Ben. I saw Ben yelling at him about something when I came in. I know Trevor’s having a hard time keeping up with the maintenance on the station, but it’s not really his fault—this place needs a lot of work.”
“Well, whatever the reason he blew his stack, Jen doesn’t deserve it,” Olive declared. “I’m going to go see if she’s OK before Marigold shows up.”
“Talk to you later.” Bethany stifled a yawn.
Olive stopped short. “What’s up with you? That’s the fourth yawn in a row. You can hardly keep your eyes open.”
“I was up all night working on my chicken stock. I hope I can make it through the lunch rush without falling asleep with my head on the counter!”
“I’ll get you some coffee in a minute,” Olive promised. She left to fuss over Jen. A few minutes later, she brought Bethany an enormous latte from the bakery, the foam decorated with a cocoa swirl.
“Thanks, Olive. You always take such good care of me.” Bethany smiled at her and downed as much of the hot coffee as she could. It’d be great if her eyelids were open when the reporter showed up.
“Anything for you, dear.”
Bethany leaned against the counter and dozed off for a minute, letting the caffeine do its work, but her eyes flew open when she heard the clock tower chime 10:45. The coffee had made its way to her bladder, and she really had to go. With only ten minutes left before the train came in, she couldn’t wait. She’d have no chance later, when she had customers lined up.
“Marigold, can you watch my—” Bethany looked over and saw Marigold still wasn’t at her kiosk, and now Jen was gone, too. The split pea soup simmered on the warmer, but no one was behind the counter. She walked quickly over to the bakery and stuck her head through the door.
“Keep an eye on my till while I run to the ladies’ room?”
Olive nodded, waving a floury hand. Bethany hustled down the concourse, walking as quickly as she could past the ticket booth and maintenance room toward the restrooms. Just as she reached the door to the ladies’ room, she saw Jen opening the door to the men’s. Caboose prowled in the hallway nearby.
“Is the ladies’ full?” Bethany asked.
Jen shook her head. “Um, it’s”—she winced—“clogged or something.” She slipped into the men’s room and closed the door, clearly as anxious as Bethany to get back to the kiosks in time for the lunch rush. Bethany waited, tapping her foot impatiently. Caboose yowled and pawed at the door to the maintenance closet across from the restrooms. Two minutes passed, then three. She couldn’t wait any longer. She dashed back down the concourse, through the main doors, and across the street to Café Sabine.
She went through the back entrance and stuck her head into the kitchen. “Hey Kimmy! Can I use your restroom? The train station’s is clogged.” Kimmy nodded, sliding a tray of vol au vents from the oven, and Bethany ducked into the small restroom that was only used by the kitchen staff.
She made it back to Souperb Soups just in time. She heard the 10:55 train pull in, but there was no rush of passengers exiting the platform. Strange. She didn’t have long to think about it, though, because the newspaper reporter, Milo, strolled up to her counter and slapped down his notebook.
“I hope that look of puzzlement isn’t because you forgot I was coming, Ms. Bradstreet.” He grinned mischievously.
She felt her cheeks turn pink. “Forget you? No way—I made something to blow your mind.” Bethany pointed to the chalk board.
“Epic chicken noodle,” he read aloud. “Sounds promising. I wonder what Ms. Wonder came up with to compete.”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Soup of the yesterday?” He winke
d at her.
“Oh, so you’re funny and smart.”
Ack, that was flirting! What if he thought she was trying to butter him up to give her a good review? Bethany died a little inside. “Uh...I mean...just kidding. I’m sure you’re normal...average. Whatever.” Bethany flushed beet red—this was only getting worse.
Milo seemed intent on ignoring her awkwardness. “How about that soup?”
Bethany gratefully turned to the stock pot and was ladling out a bowlful of epicness when she heard a loud commotion. People were yelling and running from the platform.
“Someone got hit by the train!” a man shouted. The swinging doors to the front entrance smashed against the wall as a pair of paramedics ran in carrying a stretcher, followed by a couple of police officers.
“Everybody stay in the building,” one of the cops announced through a bullhorn. “I repeat—remain in the train station until an officer takes your statement. This is a crime scene.”
“Are they really going to lock the whole place down?” Milo asked.
Bethany nodded, her heart banging in her chest. “They must suspect foul play if they’re calling it a crime scene. I guess we’re stuck here until they can figure out what happened.”
“I’m so sorry,” Milo said. “I really have to go.”
“You can’t leave! The cops just said we have to stay here.”
He shook his head. “If nobody can come in or out of the station, that means I’m the only reporter with access. I have to call my editor and tell him we have the scoop! No offense, but the food feature isn’t exactly front page news.”
“‘No offense.’ Why does that always precede something really offensive?”
“I’ll make it up to you?” He smiled apologetically and stuffed his notebook back into his jacket. “I have to go cover this—a good crime story could be my big break! I’ll come back later to try the soup, I promise.” He tapped the counter with his fingers like he was playing a set of tiny drums. “Wish I could stay—I really do, but...” He pointed at her and then left without finishing the thought.