The smile remained on her face, but she blinked a couple of times. Great. I say two words and blow my chances of being featured in Atlantic Gourmet.
Ha. Two words. As if I could shut up that quickly.
"Maggie,” she said, her lips forming the word like tasting a ripe raspberry. “I'm Mrs. Roberta Hansen. You may have heard of me."
"Yes, of course, Mrs. Hansen. And let me say that I am truly honored to have you visit our store."
"Of course,” she said, in a way that made me wonder if the rest of that sentence was, “Of course, I am delighted” or “Of course, you are delighted."
"I've heard fabulous things about your confections,” she said. Somehow the compliment made me feel like I should be genuflecting and thanking her for the kindness she had bestowed on a wretch like me. Before I could say anything, though, she continued, “I was especially interested in the white chocolate mints."
"We have some right here in the case.” I headed for the far end. “Or ... or I could make up a fresh batch for you. I could deliver them to you this evening?"
Yeah, okay, so I'm a suck up. Sue me. You'd win all of twenty-five cents.
"That's not necessary, Mrs. Taylor. Maggie. I'll just have a dozen of those in the case, thank you."
I opened the back of the glass case and selected the twelve finest, most perfect white chocolate mint roses I could find. I slipped them into the individual cups in a gold box, wrapped the whole thing in clear cellophane, and tied it with a gold ribbon.
As I handed them to her, she slipped me a twenty before I could even offer them on the house. “I'm anxious to try these,” she said, looking over the packaging as I passed her change. “Very anxious, indeed. Curious as to how they compare to Kevin Best's."
I froze, her change falling from between my fingers. “Kevin Best?"
"Yes, over at Best Dishes. He's just opening, but I managed to get a sneak peek. And as many wonderful things as I've heard about you, my dear, I'm afraid you might have a run for your money.” She wasn't trying to be mean. At least, I don't think she was, but my heart ached with every word she said. “However, Best Dishes does not have such a lovely presentation.” She fluffed the ribbon once more and turned to leave, but looked back over her shoulder. “Oh, Mrs. Taylor, you might be interested in something."
Please let it be a spread in Atlantic Gourmet, I prayed. “I'm sure whatever you have in mind, I'd be interested."
"Thompson Turkeys is having a competition in conjunction with Atlantic Gourmet. It's open to professional chefs and caterers, such as yourself and your partner Mr. Hemingway. The challenge is to create the most unique and creative dishes to go along with a Thompson Turkey. You understand, to give the general public more than the typical holiday spread."
I forced a smile. I loathed cooking competitions. A little too Betty Crocker Bake Off for my taste. “Sounds lovely!” What a fake.
"The prize is one hundred thousand dollars and a full spread in Atlantic Gourmet. Are you interested?"
"For a hundred grand, I'd sell Armand. Hell, yeah!"
All right, so I didn't actually say that. I'm pretty sure it took every ounce of willpower I had not to, though. Instead, I said, “That sounds just lovely, Mrs. Hansen."
"So I can sign you up, then?"
"Absolutely."
She nodded. “Excellent. I'll be getting you an official entry form by the end of the week. The competition is one month from Saturday, so you'd best get working on those recipes!"
With that, she looked over her white chocolate mints again and nodded at the remnants of the lunch crowd as she glided out of the room.
A hundred thousand dollars. I could do a lot with a hundred grand. Like pay taxes and get ahead on my mortgage in time for the post-Christmas slump. A hundred grand, all for just making a unique and creative holiday dinner.
"Armand,” I called, heading back to the kitchen. “You're taking the check for the fire insurance over this afternoon. Oh, and get out the spiced rum. I've got an idea for some stuffing!"
* * * *
"What is this stuff?"
Monday night again, but Mom had thankfully agreed to forego the usual goo and let me cook. I wanted to try out some of the new recipes.
"It's pumpkin chutney with brown sugar and cognac, Dad."
"What are those little yellow things?"
"Lemon zest."
He poked at it again, looking suspicious. “What the hell is lemon zest?"
"It's the peel, George,” my mother said.
"The peel? Who eats lemon peel? Margaret Mary, what in the world are you feeding people?"
These were simple people, I reminded myself. Simple people with simple tastes and that was okay. Still, I needed their opinion. Or did I? “Then try the stuffing, Pop."
Mom looked concerned. “Margaret, did you put alcohol in this, too?"
"It all cooks out in the end, Mom. And there's just a little touch of spiced rum in it for flavor. Mostly it's cornbread and pecans."
"Cornbread?” Dad asked. “You mean that stuff you eat with chili?"
"Yeah, Pop. The stuff you eat with chili. Oh come on, just taste it before you make that face!” Honestly, I can't stand people who smell their food before they eat it, can you?
Mom patted him on the hand. “Yes, dear, do taste it. After all, maybe she'll meet a nice man at the competition."
"Ma!"
She smiled. Little Miss Mary Sunshine, look out, you've got some serious competition. “I'm sorry, dear, but if you could just settle down and find a husband—"
I had to throw her a bone. Something to get her off my back so I could concentrate fully on the competition. Something to distract her for just a little while.
"Well, I am seeing someone.” Seeing him walk through my door counted, didn't it? Seeing red when I thought about him making my white chocolate mints?
Mom's expression changed to that of a crack addict getting a fix. “You are? Margaret, why didn't you tell us?"
"Because he's just moved back to town again.” Keep it close to the truth, I reminded myself. After all, it might be a sin to lie, but real hell was lying to my mother and getting caught because of a stupid, fictitious detail. “He's been living in the city since we graduated from the culinary academy."
"You knew him in cooking school?” She perched on the edge of her chair, her hands folded and her face enraptured. And she didn't even know the guy I was talking about. If she did ... well, I could imagine several ugly scenarios there.
"Yes, he was my partner when I first started school."
"Did you hear that, George?” She turned to my father, who was trying to pick all the lemon zest out of his sweet potatoes. “They were partners. And now they're in love!"
"I didn't say I was in love.” I was pretty proud of myself. So far I hadn't said a single thing that wasn't true.
"Bring him to dinner,” my mother said. “Next Monday night. I want to meet your young man."
Crap. I should have anticipated the “bring him to dinner” thing. Time to start lying my butt off. “Thing is, Mom, it's such a new relationship. And since it's only been a few months since I got—” I bit off my words and scanned my father's face. He hadn't caught what I was saying. He was still picking at his food. “What I mean is, since I'm still new at this, I don't want to rush it."
Mom's face fell a fraction of an inch, but she nodded. “Oh yes, I can understand that. You want to go slowly. Take your time."
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Right. I'm glad you understand."
"But don't take too long.” She pointed a finger at me. “If you make a man wait too long for commitment, they tend to get a wandering eye. Don't they, George?"
"What?” My dad gave up on the lemon zest. “Oh. Yes. Listen to your mother."
"I know.” I proceeded as delicately as I could. “But just for now, I think I'm going to take things day by day. Can you understand?"
Mom nodded, her teeth flashing from her pleased, smug smile. “Of
course. I won't say anything more about it until you're ready."
"Thanks, Mom.” I wondered just how much time I'd jut bought myself.
"But when do you think you might get married? So I can see if the church is free."
"Ma!"
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Four
January 18
Dear Diary,
I'm living the life I've always wanted. I'm a wife and have my own home to take care of. Ted bought me an apron to go with my new kitchen. It's the exact same color of yellow! Now if I could just figure out how to use the oven without burning the TV dinners. Oh well, soon we'll have a baby, I'm sure, and then it will all be just perfect.
Ted and I bought our first house four months after we got married. Sure, our parents had to co-sign the loan, but the place was just as I'd always pictured it. We're talking white clapboards, green shutters, the cutest little front porch you've ever seen—it had everything but the white picket fence, and the pickets were already on order with the hardware store. The only thing missing was the pitter-patter of little feet. But we were working on it. We were newlyweds, after all.
I guess our picture-perfect life was looking a little tarnished, though, when the Friday after our first anniversary Lyla came over for our weekly margarita night.
"I brought the Cuervo,” she announced, barging in the back door. She set the bottle on the table with a thud and looked around the empty kitchen. “Where's Mr. Wonderful? Come on; tell me he's here. It's tax season and I've been saving up all my nastiness just for him."
"Ted's working tonight."
She looked at her watch, and then glanced at me with skepticism. “A chiropractor? Working late? On a Friday night? I know you tend to be just a tad naïve, Maggie, but even you can't be this clueless. What's her name?"
"Ted's not screwing around. Trust me. He just has this high-profile patient who he has to see after hours."
"Let's review.” Lyla counted on her fingers. “Chiropractor. Friday night. Working late. What kind of high profile patient could he possibly have?"
"It's a secret.” I proceeded to pour the salsa into a bowl.
"Sure it is. A secret other woman. Come on, Mags."
"It's not another woman! I swear. Really, Lyla, this could be our ship coming in."
"Your ship?” She grabbed a chip from the bowl and buried it in the salsa. “Try your Mac truck coming to run you over."
I caved. I knew I would, but I'd surprised myself by lasting long enough for Lyla to actually have a chance to sit down. “Okay, I'll tell you, but you have to keep it a secret."
"Who am I gonna tell? I'm an accountant. I live my life in a dingy little cubicle with a calculator. I talk to you and my cat."
I sat down across from her, and leaned over so I could whisper. Never mind we were alone in the house. “He's been treating a basketball player."
"A basketball player? Who?"
"I can't ever remember his name, but he plays for the Kicks."
Lyla's eyes popped. “The Knicks? Your husband is treating a guy who plays for the Knicks?"
For the first time in my life, I actually saw Lyla looking impressed by something I had said. “Yeah. I guess so. And if things work out, he might get a job with the team."
"Wow,” she said. “I take it all back. Ted might not be the loser I thought he was."
"You don't think he's a loser."
She nibbled a chip, hesitating. “Well, maybe not, but what's the fun in life if I can't annoy my best friend's husband?” She eyed the tequila. “So let's get drunk and celebrate. Break out the blender, baby!"
I stalled by picking at the chips in the bowl. “If it's okay with you, I think I'm going to skip the margaritas tonight."
"What? Why? Don't tell me you've finally morphed completely into your mother. Booze isn't a sin, Mags. Priests drink wine, you know."
I shook my head. “No, it's not that. It's just ... well, there's another secret I haven't told you."
Lyla stopped, hand halfway to her lips with another chip. “Oh, God. You're pregnant."
I nodded and a flush heated my cheeks. “Yeah. I think so."
"Christ on a cracker.” She rolled her eyes and dropped her chip back into the bowl. “You're like a little kid playing house, and now going into mommy mode. Well, I can't say it's unexpected."
I was stunned. I hadn't expected her to break into cartwheels, but I didn't think she'd be so judgmental. I had imagined this moment more times than I had imagined telling my husband. And this wasn't how it happened in my head.
When I'd been silent for several seconds, Lyla picked up the Cuervo. “Well, so much for this crap. You're making my job of corrupting you damned difficult.” She attempted a smile. It wasn't the ecstasy I wanted, but it was something.
"You don't mind drinking them virgin for a while?"
She heaved a sigh, looking burdened beyond reason. “I suppose I can handle it for nine months. But as soon as that kid hits the floor, we're getting you drunk."
But the deal would never come to fruition.
It started out innocently enough. Ted got up early and went to work, but I lingered in bed with my usual bout of morning sickness. I nibbled the saltines he'd brought me, but they just weren't cutting it.
By nine, I decided it was time to drag my pregnant butt out of bed. The carpet wasn't going to vacuum itself, after all. When my feet hit the floor, though, I felt like I'd been hit by a bus. Blessed with an iron constitution, I'd never had a hangover, but I suspected what I was feeling was pretty similar. I stepped into the shower, rubbed my stomach to wish the little one inside a good morning, and that's when the first real pain hit. Lyla found me two hours later, passed out in the tub with the water still running.
I'd sunk like the Titanic, and felt like I should have gone down with the ship.
* * * *
"I'd like a half dozen éclairs, a dozen of those bear claws and a mocha latte. Grande mocha latte. From the big cups Lyla thinks you threw away."
I chuckled. “She knows I didn't throw them. Miss Penny Pincher just doesn't know I still hand them out.” As I filled the order, I stuffed my diary under the counter and hoped no one would notice the dampness in my eyes. It was difficult thinking back to the day I'd lost my son, but if there was a sure cure for sadness, it was seeing Greg Kendall. His smile was infectious, and he was always laughing. Except today. “Another staff meeting, Mr. Kendall?"
He sighed, the movement of his shoulders sending a wave down his entire body. “Yeah. On second thought, better make that a big cup of Armand's special brew."
"High octane?"
"The extra high octane stuff."
I laughed, this time out loud, as I dug out the extra-large to-go cups. “I'll get it from his private stash. In the mean time, Heather, can you please finish getting Mr. Kendall's order ready?"
"Yeah, whatever.” She pulled her nose out of the latest Cosmo, hopped off the stool behind the cash register, and started slapping éclairs in a box.
"Gently,” I reminded her, and it even slowed her down for thirty whole seconds.
Handing Mr. Kendall his coffee, I smiled my best “come back and buy more stuff” smile, perhaps amped up a notch in honor of one of my best customers. “You make the best bear claws, Maggie.” He smiled back at me, looking like a five-year-old kid bringing an apple to his favorite teacher.
"Thank you, Mr. Kendall. I'll be seeing you again tomorrow?"
His face flushed. “Um, yeah. In fact...” He looked down at his coffee with an expression of uncertainty, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “Well, I was just wondering ... if you could ... would mind if sometime I..."
"Oh! Of course!"
He looked up, startled. “What?"
"You want cream packets for your coffee. Forgive me! I forgot."
No, I'm not really that stupid, but I panicked. It was like when I was in college. I blew my first kiss and now I blew Greg Kendall's charmingly inept attempt to
ask me out.
I slipped a couple extra creamers into his sack, my smile plastered on like the freaking Mona Lisa. “Thank you, Mr. Kendall. I promise I won't forget next time."
He gave me a tight grin, more disappointed in himself than me, I thought. I hoped. “I'll see you tomorrow morning, Maggie. Thanks."
Armand sidled up to me as he wrung his hands in a dishtowel. “Did you just save him or yourself?"
My face fell into my hands. “I'm not sure. But I'm just not ready to date yet, even someone as sweet as Greg Kendall."
"Well, when you are, at least you know he can handle his coffee. No one can drink that mud except me."
I shrugged. “He loves it. Beats me why."
Armand looked pleased. “It's an old family recipe."
"No wonder it tastes like primordial ooze."
He let his smile turn into a smirk. “Kevin used to like it, too. Gotta respect a man who prefers his coffee to have the consistency of motor oil."
"You can respect him. I'll focus on running him out of business.” I walked away to make the rounds with the coffee pot—the coffee of the less toxic variety—leaving Armand in my wake.
"Good morning, Mrs. Adler. Would you like a warm up?"
"Oh, yes, dear.” She offered up her cup. “You do make excellent coffee. Not to mention your prune Danish."
I figured it was best to leave to my imagination exactly why she liked my prune Danishes so much. “Good to see you're feeling well,” I said as I poured. “I was worried about you while you were sick."
"Oh, you're so sweet, dear. You're nice to care about an old lady."
"Of course I care.” It wasn't a lie. I did worry about her. She was a regular. I couldn't afford to bury a regular. “How is the planning for your granddaughter's wedding going?"
"Fine, just fine."
"I'd love to discuss the menu with her."
Something was up. I knew it right away. Mrs. Adler started to blush and fidget, avoiding my gaze. “Well, dear, I gave her your name."
"I appreciate that."
"I told her how wonderful your food is, I really did."
"Thank you, Mrs. Adler.” I counted the milliseconds before I went nuts.
Let's Dish Page 4