Let's Dish

by Catherine Wade

  I was surprised, but I remembered what I'd told myself before lunch. No matter what happened, it would be okay because Ted was, all in all, a decent guy. “It's not so horrible if you weren't ready."

  "I wasn't. And the deal is I don't think I ever will be. The whole family thing was another part of a mold I just could never fit. I love you, Maggie. And I want you to have everything you want, whether that means the business or a baby. Just as you have been there for me, I'll be there for you and the baby. I just can't play daddy when I don't want to be daddy. Can you understand?"

  Maybe it was hormones, or maybe it was a compelling argument, but I was fighting tears. I didn't know what I had been expecting, but I felt a little sad. It occurred to me, however, that Ted's excusing himself from responsibility made my life a lot easier. After all, how was I going to explain to a toddler why Daddy wore a dress to go to work at night?

  Still, somewhere deep in my psyche, I had clung to the image of that perfect family. I had secretly hoped Ted would give up on his dream to help me make mine a reality.

  "I understand,” I choked. “But know you're always welcome in our lives. As a friend."

  Now it was his turn to choke. “I know. I wish it were different, but it's not. It's time to move on. For both of us. Who knows, maybe I'll even let Paul take me out. He's been asking long enough. But there is no way I'm letting him kiss me goodnight!"

  On that note, we ended our lunch and really put the last nail in the coffin of our marriage. I was sad, of course, but I was also relieved. I felt really free for the first time. I knew what I faced, and it wouldn't be easy by any stretch of the imagination. Who knew what was going to happen? But I knew what I had to do. And, at last, I was okay facing it without Ted.

  * * * *

  Three days later, I sat in my kitchen at the Dish with an unusual sense of calm. My belly was still there, though I think only Lyla and I noticed it. Of course, that might be because I was wearing outfits made by Fallsview Tent and Awning. But the presence of the bulge had become almost comforting. Whether that meant I was getting used to the idea or was completely off my rocker remained to be seen.

  The bell over the door jingled, but I left Heather to deal with the few customers that came in between lunch and closing. Most likely Mr. Mulcahey in for his afternoon tea. I went back to latticing the tops of the cherry kiwi tarts.

  "Mrs. Taylor,” Heather called.

  "Donnely,” I said, my calm vanishing like Armand's bear claws on a Saturday morning. “My name is Donnely."

  "Whatever.” Heather stuck out her hip in annoyance. “That Roberta Hansen lady is here. She wants to talk to you. Says it's something about some dumb contest."

  "Roberta Hansen!” Yes, I know I should have been aggravated with Heather and, trust me, somewhere in my subconscious I was chewing her butt like you gotta see to believe. But at that moment, Roberta Hansen was my ticket to a big fat check that might save my business. That was just a teeny bit more important than dealing with Princess Attitude Problem.

  I checked my reflection in the glass of the oven door. Pasty white face accentuated by smudges of flour. Check. Wild, curly, red hair so I resembled Carrot Top. Check. Flaming red cheeks thanks to a hot oven. Check. Great. This was the face they'd really want to put in a spread in the middle of Atlantic Gourmet. Not!

  I bundled my mop back into a makeshift French roll and hurried out to the front counter. There she stood, all classy and stick-straight. It amazed me how she could look bored and manage that tight little smile of hers all at the same time. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hansen! So good of you to stop by."

  "Hello, Mrs. Taylor.” I tried not to wince. “I was wondering, do you have any more of those lovely mints with which you could tempt me?"

  "Absolutely. Heather, please bring me that fresh tray of white chocolate mints, please. And wrap up a dozen for Mrs. Hansen."

  "I'm on my break,” Heather said from behind the pages of her Vogue.

  "You can take your break later, Heather. Right now you need to box up those mints. Neatly. Understand?"

  Heather tossed her head and then tossed her magazine. “Oh, all right!"

  "Mrs. Taylor,” Mrs. Hansen began. I tried not to scream. “Your employee seems a bit recalcitrant."

  What was I going to do? Deny it? “I've been meaning to get rid of her, but who else am I going to get for slave wages?” I laughed. No, I twittered. It was grating to me, and I could see Roberta Hansen refrain from rolling her eyes. Just barely.

  "Well, we at Atlantic Gourmet are looking for more than just good cooks, you realize. We're looking for keen business men and women who personify their art and the realities of the financial world."

  I felt like I was getting dressed-down by my first grade teacher. “I assure you, Mrs. Hansen, that I have the best business manager money can buy.” And free donuts. “Mrs. Hemingway has a degree in business administration and accounting from Northwestern State University."

  A perfectly plucked eyebrow raised. “Indeed. So you and Mr. Hemingway are not the only brains behind Let's Dish. Very interesting indeed, Mrs. Taylor."

  I tried not to strangle her. “Please, just call me—"

  "What other lovely decadence do you have today?” She was already perusing the case, examining my cherry-mousse-filled éclairs, my dark chocolate pecan pie, and the mint julep swirl cheesecakes. “My, don't these look delicious? Mint julep cheesecake? I've never seen that before."

  "Armand and I got drunk off our butts one night and spilled our drinks in the pie.” Okay, I didn't really say that, but that's what happened. Instead, I said, “Well, I enjoy experimenting with ingredients and that has been a very popular selection."

  "It has a pastry crust instead of a graham cracker crust. Why is that?"

  "The graham crackers were too sweet against the mint. The pastry is lightly sweetened so it doesn't conflict with the mint."

  She popped up from her position eyeing the desserts on display. “Excellent. I'll take three. I'm having a dinner party tonight and those may be just what I've been looking for as dessert."

  After my butt chewing for not being a business genius, I couldn't help but beam like the Cheshire cat. I did, however, control myself when the urge struck to boast that Kevin Best would have no such pie. Good thing I did.

  "I'm sure Mr. Best won't mind me providing my own dessert."

  I stopped cold with the pie balanced precariously on my hand. “Mr. Best?"

  "Why, yes, Mrs. Taylor.” I resisted the urge to slam her head against the counter while screaming Donnely! Donnely! Donnely! “I'm sampling selections from all our chefs in the contest. I've been told that Mr. Best makes a boeuf roulade that is beyond compare."

  "Just because it's in French, lady, doesn't mean it ain't a roast that been beaten into oblivion and filled with Stove Top.” No, I didn't really say that, either. “Yes, it is good."

  "And you, my dear Mrs. Taylor, are rumored to have the best and most creative pastries in town."

  So maybe I wasn't chopped liver. I was mint julep cheesecake. “I'm glad to hear it.” I gave up on the whole Donnely/Taylor debacle. “I do hope your guests enjoy the pie."

  "I'm certain they will.” She gathered the green-clovered bag into her arms. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you have a menu ready for the competition?"

  "Yes, I have it written down somewhere. Would you like it?"

  "Oh, no, no, dear. My arms are far too full.” She hefted her bag to make her point. “Just drop it by our offices later today or tomorrow so it can go to the calligrapher.” She turned to leave, but stopped before she got to the door. “You don't expect any last-minute changes, do you? After all, the menus will be printed before the contest begins."

  I shook my head and prayed I wasn't lying. “No, Mrs. Hansen. No changes."

  "Excellent, Mrs. Taylor.” I fought the urge to break her neck. “It's good to know I'm working with such conscientious professionals.” The door jingled as she swept out of the place.

&nbs
p; I fought the urge to break my own neck.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Thirteen

  The offices of Atlantic Gourmet Magazine were straight out of an eighties us-against-the-corporate-world movie. Everything was glass and marble, and everyone's suit cost more than my car. When it was new. Suffice it to say I felt completely out of place in my pink A-line top and blue stretch pants. I know, I swore no stretch pants, but I soon learned that such things are unavoidable because they ... well, they stretch!

  "I'm here to drop off a menu for the competition,” I told the receptionist.

  "What competition?” She didn't bother to take her eyes off her computer screen.

  "The Thompson Turkey contest?"

  The disinterested receptionist looked up at me, annoyed. “This isn't Thompson Turkeys. This is Atlantic Gourmet Magazine, as you can clearly see by the sign above you."

  Ah ha! So I wasn't the only one suffering obnoxious labor problems. “Yes, I realize this is Atlantic Gourmet Magazine. And you are holding a competition in conjunction with Thompson Turkeys in ten days. Is any of this ringing a bell?"

  She looked at me from over her pencil-thin glasses. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me who referred you to our office?"

  "Perhaps you would be kind enough to go somewhere and eat your own face?” You know, if I said aloud half the stuff I thought, Joan Rivers would be looking for a new job as the cattiest chick in town. Instead of letting my sarcastic nature get the better of me, I said, “Roberta Hansen."

  That got her attention. “Oh! I'm so sorry. Let me get your name and I'll get you in to see her.” After a few scrambled misdialings, she finally got through to Mrs. Hansen.

  The receptionist from hell ushered me back to a small waiting area, asked me if I wanted coffee, cappuccino, tea or Colin Firth's phone number—just kidding—and told me Mrs. Hansen would be right out. Finally. Drop a name or two and you can get some action, especially when that name happens to have the words Editor in Chief behind it.

  While I waited, I flipped through a few issues of the magazine that sat on the table. There were interviews with all sorts of famous chefs, along with their recipes for “simple gourmet fare". Emeril, David Rosengarten, and some guy from Japan were all featured. Man, if Armand and I could get a spread in this, we'll make it. We'll get credibility and we'll make it. And by it, I meant the property taxes. Not to mention this month's electric bill. And we really needed a new blast chiller, but that would have to wait until we bought a new furnace.

  Before I could work myself up into a full-fledged panic attack, the door of Roberta Hansen's office opened and out walked...

  "Kevin?"

  "Maggie!” he said, equally surprised. “Wow, hi. What are you doing here?"

  "The same as you, I expect."

  Kevin flashed his charmer smile and glanced behind him. “So you want to seduce Bobbie, too, huh?"

  Out from behind him stepped a very flushed Roberta Hansen. “Oh, do stop, Mr. Best. You know I'm married."

  Kevin put his hand to his heart in faux agony. “A fact I cannot seem to escape, though it breaks my heart. Come run away with me and we shall make beautiful pasta together."

  Mrs. Hansen actually giggled. It appears that crap can melt ice. “Now don't you think you're laying it on a little thick?"

  No, I didn't say that. Even though I was thinking it. But Mrs. Hansen had been the one to call him on his bull, even though her voice was all aflutter and her hand flapped away, fanning her blushing cheeks.

  Kevin kissed her hand. “Never too much for you, my lovely lady. But speaking of lovely ladies, I see you have another visitor so I will, regrettably, take my leave.” He kissed her hand again, winked at me, and strode past the reception desk to the elevator.

  "Oh, that man is a flatterer,” Mrs. Hansen said. “He's full of malarkey, but he does know how to treat a lady!” She gathered herself together and a chill once again crusted over her porcelain features. “Do come in, Mrs. Taylor. I wasn't expecting to see you here today. Is there a problem? Please don't tell me you're dropping out of the competition."

  "No, no problem.” I sank into the fluffy pillows of the settee in her office. In contrast, she settled daintily on the edge and crossed her legs in such a way her ankles were impossibly close together. I tried to sit that way once. I tore a ligament. “I just came by to drop off this menu like you asked."

  She blinked. “My dear, you could have given that to the receptionist."

  "I tried.” The flush returned to Mrs. Hansen's face.

  "Oh dear, was Candace being difficult again? Goodness, do forgive me. It is truly difficult to find good assistants these days, as you well know."

  Now how did she do that? Even though she got caught with her pants—I mean, her Prada skirt—down, she was still able to make it all about my deficiencies. Of course, it could be possible that I'm just paranoid.

  "Well, let's see it.” She reached for the sheet of notebook paper I was holding and looked it up and down. “My, my, this is promising. All traditional holiday foods, but with a twist. Excellent. I think our judges will be pleased."

  "Who are the judges?” I'd been wondering since the second she'd set foot in my store to tell me about the contest, but I'd managed to keep my curiosity to myself.

  "The editor of Home Gourmet, Sally Scanland from Thompson Turkeys, and Charles Scott."

  "Charles Scott? You don't mean the Charles Scott?"

  She smiled at me, one of those superior smiles that only those in extreme power can muster as they dangle a mouse in front of a cat's nose. “Yes, the owner of Chez Marquis in Manhattan, and star of ‘The Everyday Gourmand’ on Cooking Television."

  "Wow,” was all I could manage. Charles Scott, the Everyday Gourmand, was going to taste my pumpkin chutney. It was enough pressure to make a person want to hurl. Which I did.

  Right into Roberta Hansen's ficus.

  * * * *

  "Whoo hoo! You yakked in her ficus! Oh, this is too good. Get me a camera. I have to take a picture of this historic moment!"

  I glared at Armand as he roared with laughter. “I'm glad you find this so amusing, Armand. Maybe you'd like to go explain to our accountant—you know, your wife—just exactly why we need to expand the budget this month to cover a two-hundred-dollar plant!"

  "I woulda killed to see that,” he went on. “Charles Scott makes you lose your lunch. In a ficus! Now there's a headline!"

  He was laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face. I sat back and waited for the torrent to end, but I had a feeling it was going to be a while.

  "At least she understood when I explained the situation,” I said, trying to get his attention.

  "A ficus, for God's sake. A ficus!” His peals of laughter were giving me a headache. “Well, that's certainly one way to get an editor's attention. I mean, ralphing in a ficus. That's classic!"

  "Of course, she refused when I offered, but I insisted we buy her a new ficus. Buy. A ficus. A new one. For two hundred dollars. Whole new plant."

  It wasn't working. Armand was too far gone to care about a measly couple hundred if it could bring him some laughs.

  "Do you mind?” I finally said. “I'm suffering a great deal of personal embarrassment here!"

  At last, he managed to control himself, but was still uttering a few snorts and chuckles off and on. “Sorry. I'm sure it was awful. And I'd just die of embarrassment if I ... if I ... A ficus!"

  And he was off again. Go figure; a guy who spends his life telling everyone he's Ernest Hemingway's illegitimate grandson finds my morning sickness amusing. Terrific.

  The jingle of the front door saved me from my humiliation. We'd been closed an hour already, but we rarely bothered to lock the front door until we'd both left for the night. Tonight was no exception, but the fact that it was opening was something rare.

  "I'm sorry,” I called on my way out to the front, “we're closed."

  For the second time in one day, a do
or opened unexpectedly to reveal Kevin Best. “Hi, Maggie."

  "Kevin.” I put on my best Roberta Hansen Ice Queen impersonation. I didn't think I was getting it right, and I knew I wasn't when Kevin flashed his smile. Not that annoying Charmer smile, but a real one. A smile that made me feel like I could melt like butter.

  "I wanted to stop by and ... Well, I didn't want you to get the wrong impression."

  "Of what?"

  "Of me at the Atlantic Gourmet offices today. I wasn't there to influence anyone."

  I folded my arms. “Mm hmm, and I bet your flirting with ‘Bobbie’ had nothing to do with the competition, either, did it?"

  "Of course it didn't. I want to win it fair and square. It just wouldn't feel right if I won it because of my extreme charm and good looks."

  "Oh, please! I forgot my hip waders at ‘Bobbie's’ office."

  His smile grew devilish. “Yeah, it was getting a little deep in there. But I wasn't vying for any special treatment. In fact, if anyone here has any influence over Bobbie Hansen, it's you."

  "Me?” Yeah, right. “As if! She can't say enough about your roulade."

  "Ask me how long she went on about your white chocolate mints. It sounds like mine aren't nearly as creamy as yours. In fact, I believe the word she used was ‘dry'."

  I was doing okay until he brought up the mints. “They shouldn't be, since you're using my recipe!"

  "Oh, not that old song and dance routine again.” His smile fell. “We worked on those mints together. You and me. As a team. Before you abandoned me, that is."

  "What? I abandoned you?"

  "Yes.” He took a step toward me. “You left me."

  I stood my ground, resisting the urge to retreat. “Perhaps I did, but that was after you ... pulled what you did on me."

  "Can you blame me?” He took another step. “Your marriage was a mess and you knew it!"

  "I did not know it.” He was awfully close to me. I could smell the leather of his jacket and the hint of cologne that clung to him despite the scent of butter cookies that had settled in his hair. “Ted and I had our problems, but we were working them out."