by Ani Gonzalez
She had no idea.
But Zach did.
He had all the administrative know-how that she lacked. He knew the Banshee Creek food market like the back of his hand. He could tell her if her ideas were workable.
But would he? That was the question. They were rivals, after all. Elizabeth, she knew, was worried about something having to do with Zach's pizzeria. She wouldn't explain the problem, but Patricia suspected that the pizzeria's issues had something to do with Zach's interest in the Rosemoor.
She couldn't avoid the fact that they were both after the same thing.
But she trusted Zach. Didn't she?
She hurriedly opened the box before she somehow managed to talk herself out of it. "These are actually old recipes. I came up with most of them in Manhattan." She was babbling. Why was she babbling? "There's a lot of cultural influences. It's a kind of fusion cuisine."
Which, Trevor had maintained, was absolutely inappropriate in the pastry arena. Well, that turned out not to be the case, didn't it? She'd spent a couple of hours figuring out how much Trevor had stolen, and had been relieved to find that he hadn't used her more...interesting recipes. He'd only taken the French and American recipes.
She still had a chance to recapture her dream.
Zach looked at the contents of the box, his face serious. The pastries were all very different, a wild riot of color and shape.
"Are you serving these all together?" His voice was carefully neutral.
She laughed. "No, I can't. The flavors clash more than the colors. I want to pick the best combination." She took out the pastries and placed them on the dessert plates. "These would be the groupings. Each group has complementary flavors."
They had a lot more than that, but she wasn't going to disclose that. She wanted to keep a few tricks up her sleeve.
Zach reached for a cardamon-carrot cupcake and she fought to hide a smile. Everyone went for the cupcakes. It was the First Law of Baking.
He nodded approvingly at the gold wrapper. Then he dipped a spoon into the fluffy white frosting and took a taste.
"Cream cheese?"
"Yes, I stuck to my usual recipe."
"It's a winner." He took a bite of the cupcake and smiled. "Now, that's different. It tastes like Indian carrot pudding."
"That's the idea. It fits with my British Victoriana theme, but it also gives it an interesting twist."
"Very good. Pre-shredded carrots will save you time, but they are expensive. The spices aren't cheap either."
"I know, but this," she reached for a porcelain cup, "will make up for it."
Zach smiled approvingly and raised his spoon. "Crème brûlée is very budget friendly and...rice?"
"It's an Indian rice pudding and crème brûlée hybrid."
He tasted it. "It's good, very good. Are you doing ice cream?"
"I don't know." She frowned. "Ice cream makers are expensive."
He nodded. "Caine's sister does my icebox cakes and she was talking about making her own ice cream. Go talk to her. If we both commit to buying her ice cream she can buy her own machine. Ice cream is a big seller in the summers."
"I know. Do you remember the Devil Monkey Ice Cream parlor?"
"Of course, someone should look into reopening that place." He reached for an orange-colored oblong shape. "Is this plum pudding?"
"Yes, it's gingerbread flavored. I added a sugar glaze."
He chewed the pastry thoughtfully. "Nice. Fruitcake isn't very popular around here, but this gingerbread thing is promising." He swallowed. "Dirt cheap too."
She chuckled. "I like cheap. It gets you through the slow season."
"It sure does. I bet Sarah will love this one."
They sampled the desserts, one by one. Zach's comments were honest and useful. She quickly realized that he'd picked her most attractive samples first to give positive feedback before tackling the more problematic offerings. Her curry and caramel popcorn was too spicy and the pistachio cotton candy would have to be made by hand by the harried waiters, resulting in an unacceptably long serving time. In fact, Zach had a lot to say about cotton candy, none of it good.
"It sticks to everything." His voice fairly dripped with loathing. "You'll need a bigger machine and they break all the time and it costs the earth to fix them. The only place that sells or rents them is in Reston and, I swear on my dad's marinara sauce recipe, those guys sabotage their machines on purpose."
"Oh, that can't be."
Zach's face darkened. "The things blow up and take your entire electric system with them. Trust me, they're a menace. Stay far away from them."
"But I thought customers would like it." She glanced meaningfully at the empty paper cone that used to contain a single, generous serving of pistachio cotton candy. It was empty. Zach had eaten the whole thing.
"They do," he hissed. "They love it and they order tons of it. If a family with three kids comes in, you can count on eight orders of cotton candy. Eight."
She bit her lip trying not to laugh. Zach hated the cotton candy, and he didn't even know about the sugary treat's special property. The one that tied in with the Victorian interest in Spiritualism and gave her project the requisite paranormal twist.
The cotton candy glowed in the dark.
Zach continued with his diatribe. "The waiters will be making cotton candy for hours. All your tables with be slow. It will be a nightmare."
She giggled. She couldn't help. "I guess you feel very strongly about it."
Zach started, as if surprised by her merriment. Then he laughed. "Yes, I do. There is a circle of hell where restaurant owners are forced to serve cotton candy desserts to their customers for all eternity. It's that bad."
Patricia mentally scratched the cotton candy from her list.
"Thank you," she said as they cleared the table. "This has been very helpful."
He seemed surprised by her comment. "Anytime."
They cleaned up in companionable silence, and she couldn't help but compare Zach to her ex-boyfriend. Even though they were rivals, Zach wasn't jealous or petty. He didn't tear her down or criticize her. Instead, he gave her honest advice and constructive criticism.
He wasn't just a good lover. He was a good friend.
"Your food is good," Zach said as he closed a cabinet door. "You can tell that a skilled chef with a lot of creativity came up with these dishes."
Patricia preened.
"But," he looked at her gently, "you still need a concept, a marketing hook, preferably a paranormal one, to win the competition. Quality food won't necessarily win this."
"Oh, you mean Banshee Creek isn't a mecca of gourmet eating?" she teased. "Tourists come here for Halloween-themed snacks and sugary treats named after movie monsters? I'm shocked, shocked I tell you."
He laughed as he wiped down the kitchen counters. She put the leftover desserts in the fridge and cleaned up the scraps. She was practically humming as she tore up her pastry box and put it in the trash.
He had a point. Her recipes weren't enough. She had to come up with a killer schtick in order to win the competition.
And with a little help she was going to do just that.
"Do you want to brainstorm about that?" Zach asked, sounding concerned. "We can do that, if you want."
She was touched. The offer was very sweet, but she didn't need his help with the marketing concept, she had a clear idea of what she wanted to do with that. She felt confident and capable. That was the great thing about Zach, after talking to him you felt good.
Really good. Let's go out and conquer the world type of good.
"No," she replied, wrapping her arms around his waist, enjoying the feel of the hard muscles under his shirt. "I have other plans for tonight."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A GREEN light shone outside. Zach blinked and it disappeared. He got up from the piano bench and peered out the window.
Nothing. Just stars.
The barn was quiet. Patricia was in the loft, fast asleep.
They'd made love and showered, and
then lay down in bed, chatting about the difficulties of carrying out a commercial building remodel in Banshee Creek, a subject very much on their minds because of the Rosemoor competition. Whoever won the right to the mansion would have a huge project in his or her hands. He'd been talking about zoning variances and turned around to ask her a question only to discover that she was fast asleep, his impressive collection of blankets and comforters wrapped around her tightly.
The Banshee Creek Historical Preservation Regulations were a darn good sleeping aid.
Unfortunately, they hadn't worked on him. He'd been wide awake and antsy as hell.
So he'd gotten up, careful not to wake up Patricia who had to get up at an ungodly hour to open up her bakery, and trotted downstairs. He'd wanted to go over his plans for the Rosemoor and maybe make some changes.
So he'd gone down, pulled out his papers, and stared at the building plans and sample menus. The concept had changed completely. The impromptu business meeting with Salvador Acosta had sparked a new idea, one he was eager to try out.
He'd asked Lily Holroyd for new art and logos without the original steampunk flourishes, and she'd delivered. That girl was a design wiz and fast too. She'd even told him about old canvases and posters that could be reused. He made a note to send Sarah to Lily's parents' house to pick them up. The linens and china from the steampunk concept would have to be reused because they couldn't cancel the rental order. The drinks were all getting new names, and he smiled as he read Sarah's suggestions. His restaurant manager had a wicked sense of humor.
Diego's dishes, classic British pub fare with a twist, would also have to stay. They couldn't reorder the ingredients at this late date. But they could make it work. Their dishes weren't as interesting as Patricia's, not by a long shot, but they didn't need to be. He'd been perfectly honest when he'd told her that food wouldn't win this competition. Diego's fish and chips and bangers and mash were perfectly adequate. All they had to do was figure out a way to turn them into finger foods.
He grabbed a notepad and started to take notes. Bite-sized sausages with sauce? Sausage and potato kabobs? Fish croquettes? Any of those would do. The Americanized serving style would give Sarah a heart attack, but so what? She loved having stuff to bitch about.
Now for the boring part, customer service. He tried to come up with a list of suggestions for his staff, but his attention kept wandering.
He stared out the window. Was that another green light? He peered at the night sky, but the light did not reappear. He must be imagining things.
He flipped over the notepad and paused, confused by the undecipherable handwriting. "Ixnay on the CC." "Greenlight the car-car cupcakes." "Storytime."
These weren't his notes. These were Patricia's. What the hell was a "car-car" cupcake? Never mind, he didn't want to know.
He tore the notes out, folded them, and put them in her purse, which was lying on the sofa next to her pink scarf. The whole situation was strange and unfamiliar, yet somewhat pleasing. Patricia sleeping in his bed while he worked. Her purse in his living room. Her handwriting on his notebook.
It felt good. He wondered what would happen after the competition. Would she still come over? Would they still be lovers? Friends?
And what the hell was it with that light outside? He craned his neck trying to look out the window. Another light appeared. No, this wasn't his imagination. There was someone or something out there. Was Caine still looking for the darned vampire sheep? No, wait, it wasn't sheep. It was deer.
He put on his coat and boots, took out a flashlight, and headed out to investigate. The night was cold, with a bright full moon casting light over the snow that covered the grounds. He saw a bunch of green lights in the forest and headed that way. It was so bright he almost didn't need the flashlight, but he turned it on anyway. He didn't know what the paranormies were up to and he really didn't want to end up with a tranquilizer dart stuck in his butt.
The lights came from the clearing next to the creek. His boots crunched on the snow as he walked towards them, wondering what the group was doing. Were they collecting more fecal samples? Setting up cameras? He couldn't tell.
But he did know one thing. They were trespassing.
The town gave PRoVE a lot of leeway. The group had access to private homes and public buildings and folks allowed them free rein over most of the town.
But there were limits, and setting up a filming station in his backyard was one of them.
The clearing was bright as day, thanks to a trio of spotlights set up around the perimeter. Two men in Arcanum Films gear with large film cameras hoisted on their shoulders walked slowly around a large bonfire. A bunch of PRoVE guys and gals sat on fallen tree trunks around the fire pit, and Caine stood on the side, arms folded, watching the proceedings. The paranormies wore their usual black gear, but it was accented with worn leather jackets and stylish scarves, which, he guessed, belonged to the Arcanum Films wardrobe department. They all stared, spellbound at a corner of the clearing, where a dark-haired girl dressed in a colorful tunic and jeans sat on a log, playing a mandolin.
He stopped and stared. It was Abby Reed, his old bandmate, and she was singing a very familiar song.
The melody was light and sweet, with a seventies vibe and a catchy, albeit melancholic hook. The song was about a wandering spirit that visited a town then disappeared, never to be seen again. It was about friendship, but also about magic and mystery and how very pedestrian things can be imbued with both when you are with the right person, and how all of that wonder drained away when that person left.
It was a very good song, even if it was a bit derivative. It was called "The Gypsy Ghost" and it was a not-so-subtle Fleetwood Mac tribute, with a complicated flamenco arrangement that was a pain in the...neck to play.
He should know, he and Abby had written it years ago, back when the band was still together. She'd loved it and it had become one of their signature songs. He vaguely remembered Abby asking for permission to use it a couple of years ago. He'd said yes, but, as far as he knew, she'd never used it. It must be going in the new album.
"Cuuuuuuut." A bald man with round glasses made a slicing motion across his throat, and the cameramen relaxed.
The paranormies got up and stretched their legs and Zach walked up to talk to Caine, who greeted him with a curt nod.
Abby groaned. "I have to start again? It's been six times."
"Yes," the director said, seemingly unmoved by her suffering. "But not right now. I want to adjust the lighting. Guys, can you move the left light forward? Move a bit to the right, Abby."
He walked toward her with a light measuring tool. Abby sighed, put her mandolin down and moved as directed.
"You know," one of the paranormies shouted from across the clearing. "This 'music video extra' gig is not as fun as I thought it would be."
"Looks like you may have a mutiny here," Zach noted.
Caine nodded and glanced at Cassie, his second in command. "Time for desperate measures, Cass."
Cassie nodded and walked to a camp table on the edge of the clearing. With exaggerated sixties-style makeup and her teal-colored hair piled up, she looked like a punk Brigitte Bardot. The Arcanum Films wardrobe crew had performed a minor miracle here. The PRoVE guys looked like movie stars.
"Time for a break, guys," she shouted. "We brought hot chocolate."
The group cheered up noticeably and in a split second a bunch of leather clad ghost hunters mobbed Cassie's table.
"Where are the marshmallows?" Zach heard someone ask. "Are we having a nationwide marshmallow crisis or something?"
"You're thirty years old, Quinn," Caine replied, sounding annoyed. "You can live without marshmallows in your hot cocoa."
Abby walked up to them, carrying her mandolin and looking displeased. A smile lit up her face when she saw Zach.
He smiled.
"Hey, there, stranger," he said. "I didn't know you were in town alread
y."
"You scamp." She laughed and hugged him tightly. "Did we wake you? I was afraid we would. I'm glad, though. I was dying to see you."
"It's great to see you too," he said, hugging her back. "What are you guys doing here?"
"Filming the world's most boring music video," Abby answered, looking glum.
"It's not that bad," Caine replied. Cassie glared at him and he relented. "Okay, maybe it is."
"The song is fabulous," Zach said, trying to console her. "I love how you're going down in the chorus. It adds so much texture to the sound."
Abby smiled. "Oh, the music is not the problem. If this video works out, the song could go to number one and you and I, Zach, stand to make mucho royalties. And just in time too." She pointed to her belly, camouflaged under the loose tunic. "These guys are going to be expensive."
Zach stared. "A baby? Are you kidding? Congratulations!"
Abby held up two fingers.
"Twins." Caine grinned. "That's great news, songbird. How's Mike taking it?"
"Oh, he's scared out of his wits," Abby answered, patting her belly. "The three tours in Afghanistan didn't scare him as much as these two tiny peanuts. When he saw two heartbeats on the sonogram screen he almost fainted."
"He'll get used to it," Zach reassured her.
"Oh, I know he will," Abby replied. "I'm more worried about my record company. They want another record, but I'm on tour until the babies are born and I won't have much time to write after that." She sighed. "But that's a long-term worry. Right now, I'm concerned about this stupid video."
"Why are you filming here, anyway?" Zach asked, examining the set.
The clearing was nice, but it wasn't exactly a sought after destination. The impromptu set was attractive, but, honestly, you could set up a fire and a bunch of logs pretty much anywhere.
Abby shrugged. "The record company wanted us to. They liked the new songlist and were very interested when I explained that it is kind of a tribute to Banshee Creek. I wrote a whole set of liner notes about Cole and PRoVE and the Historical Preservation Society. They loved it."