Recipe for Redemption

by Anna J. Stewart

  Abby took a deep breath as he walked away, a sea of coral-colored Five-Alarm Manning! shirts glowing at her from the stands.

  “Abby, before you go.” Gil jogged over from where he’d been schmoozing with the judges. “I wanted to wish you good luck. And that I’m sorry if you ever thought I had less than the best intentions for you with this contest.”

  “Apology accepted.” It made her sad, however, that she wasn’t sure which Gil offered it: the Gil she’d known growing up or the mayor determined to keep hold of her vote. “Thanks.” Whether he meant it or not, she’d take it.

  “Contestants, please take your places!” Roger’s voice blasted through, of all things, a bullhorn. Abby gave Gil a quick smile and climbed the stairs to her station. She heard cheers and cries of support and some people chanting her name, but instead of the encouragement bolstering her, her head began to swim. Her ears buzzed. Nausea swirled in her stomach as everything she’d tried to learn the last two weeks formed an impossible lump in her brain.

  She needed to focus on the items around her, to see what she had available. She caught sight of a flash of color in the front row.

  Calliope Jones gave her a nod of support and, after holding her hand in front of her mouth, blew against her palm.

  A pair of monarch butterflies flitted in her direction. Abby could almost hear the beat of their wings as they broke against the ocean breeze. As they reached her, the tension in her body eased.

  For the Flutterby, they seemed to whisper. For Gran.

  For Jason.

  She stretched out her hand and one of the butterflies perched on her index finger, its tiny legs tickling her skin.

  Her mind cleared. Her skin cooled and the second butterfly came to claim its mate and the two of them flew off, leaving a calmness in their wake.

  “Now that’s the way to start an event in Butterfly Harbor!” Roger shouted into his microphone, facing the main camera. The deafening cheers and cries from the audience unlocked the band of tension around her chest.

  Abby breathed easier. She was ready.

  “Tell me we got that on tape?” He dropped his mic and looked toward his crew, who gave him a thumbs-up. “Okay, great. Ladies and gentlemen, contestants, judges. Welcome, everyone, to the inaugural By the Bay Food Festival amateur cooking competition!”

  Abby applauded with everyone else as Roger recited the disclaimers and how the day’s event would proceed. Voice-overs would be added during the editing process before the program aired in six to eight weeks. She tuned out, choosing instead to memorize where everything was. Not the setup she would have organized, but Jason had taught her to be adaptable in the kitchen.

  A large cardboard box sat on the edge of the counter to her right, and when she checked the other stations, she saw they had identical ones.

  A cameraman passed in front of her as Roger introduced each contestant. Her hometown crowd let their support be known and she couldn’t help but laugh at the added shouts and comments coming from the Cocoon Club. Roger continued his intros to polite applause. Abby looked toward Gran and Jason, the latter of whom held up a bottle of water and gestured toward hers.

  He was right again. The second she drank the cool liquid she felt better. The way things were going, she would have to get “he was right again” tattooed on her forearm. Okay. She wiped her sweaty palms on her thighs as Roger introduced the judges and then, finally, rattled off Marcus Aiken’s bio—without any mention of Jason, thankfully—before announcing the former sous chef as the emcee for the event.

  Maybe his being here was a coincidence. Except Jason didn’t think so. Which asked the question, why was he?

  “Thank you, Roger!” Marcus took the microphone and picked up where the producer left off. He climbed the stairs and stood at the edge of the stage near Abby’s station. “Contestants, you’ll have ninety minutes to put your own spin on a comfort food classic. The meal must be served hot to our judges, so make sure you time things accordingly. Here’s the twist. As you can see, none of you have an oven or stove. This meal must be made only using the kitchen appliances currently at your station. You can use any of the ingredients found in your refrigerators or in the box behind you. When you’ve completed your meal, please take it down to the table right here in front and we will serve it to your judges. Keep in mind, this round is worth thirty points, five of which will be awarded for presentation, so make those plates as appealing as possible. Clock ready?” Marcus pointed to the large digital clock above the computer screen at the back of the stage. “And, go!”

  The audience erupted as Abby dashed over to unload the box. She took mental inventory before heading to the refrigerator to do the same. Comfort food. Okay, she knew comfort food. Hot. Warm. Melty. Creamy. All the terms that came to mind circled around each other as she started grabbing items to fit the description. No, not cheese. Too easy. Think outside the box. She wanted rich, she wanted homey, but not elegant. That didn’t fit. The familiar blue tube of biscuit dough wedged in the corner of the fridge called out to her. “Ah, man, that’s good. Come here.”

  Calm, she told herself. Reasoned, patient. Step by step. She couldn’t let herself think what her competitors might be planning; she could only focus on what she could do, what she could control. When she couldn’t find a tablet or notebook, she grabbed a pencil and started scribbling notes on the side of the box, mapping out her plan before grabbing a large sauté pan and the waffle iron, which she plugged in to heat.

  Jason had been right. The noise of the crowd faded into the distance. She could hear her heart pounding as the adrenaline kicked in. Within minutes she was used to the camera. She peeled and diced carrots, celery, baby potatoes and onions, tossing them into the pan with some olive oil and butter. The pan smoked and she caught the instant blast of burning onion.

  Stifling the panic, she yanked the pan off the hot plate, dumped out the contents and wiped the pan out with paper towels, wincing as the heat singed her fingers.

  She could see Jason in the crowd instantly. His eyes narrowed in warning. She could hear his voice in her head. Carefully. Slow and steady. Take your time.

  The clock ran down. She’d already lost six minutes.

  Back on track, she turned the hot plate on, this time remembering Jason’s comment that electric was more difficult to control and settled for medium heat. Now, when the vegetables hit the skillet, they settled into a gentle sizzle that had her senses singing in approval.

  No time for more mistakes. She checked her list, set a saucepan on the second burner and got started on the sauce: after butter and flour cooked down, she added double the amount of cream and as it thickened, added chopped thyme and rosemary before she married the sauce to the finished vegetables, removing both pans from the heat.

  She checked the clock. Forty minutes had passed already? Grabbing a clean cutting board and knife, she diced up the two chicken breasts, which she threw into another pan, then hit it with some white wine to grab all those brown bits Jason made such a big deal out of.

  She popped open the biscuit tin and opened the smoking waffle maker, buttered it liberally, then stretched out each piece of dough into one of the sections. Within seconds, she had mini chicken potpie turnovers cooking in the waffle iron.

  Fifteen minutes left. The pies would be a good size, but they would need something more. The plates she’d been provided were plain, square and white. Nothing fancy. Great. Setting them out on the counter, she raided the fresh vegetables and made a quick salad in a bowl, refraining from dressing it to keep it from getting soggy.

  She ducked down and peeked under the top of the waffle iron. It wasn’t browning as quickly as she’d like, but there wasn’t a temperature control. Nothing she could do except wait.

  Lemon juice and olive oil, a couple of cloves of garlic and she had her dressing. Season at every step, Jason had reminded her over an
d over. She added salt and pepper to the salad.

  Eight minutes.

  Sweat poured down the sides of her face. Waiting for the pies, she piled up her used pots and pans, organizing them off to the side for whoever needed to clean up after her. Courtesy in the kitchen, she remembered. By the time she returned to the waffle iron, the biscuits were perfect.

  Time to plate.

  She saw Clara speed past her with two plates, off to deliver her entries to the judging table with Steve right on her heels.

  Three minutes.

  It was missing something. A punch of color. Ah! She’d seen...

  She dived back into the fridge and pulled out the container of edible flowers, choosing the four best-looking ones and setting one beside each of the pies.

  The audience counted down from twenty. She got her first plates on the table by her name, and, as the audience yelled, “Five...four...”

  She placed the last two—one of which was for the emcee—and scribbled “Petite Chicken Pies” on her card. The crowd exploded into applause.

  Abby managed to make it to her station on wobbly knees. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the round drained out of her and she gripped the edge of the table. Dragging in deep breaths, she crouched down. When she popped up again she immediately looked over to Jason. He was on his feet, staring at her station with concern on his face, but his face broke into that smile she loved so much when she met his gaze.

  For a moment, that smile of his was worth more than the prize money. For a moment, win or lose, she was happy.

  The buzzer sounded.

  “Contestants, your time is up!” Marcus strode to the table, a camera right behind him. “All I can say is I’m glad I’m not one of the judges. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll announce the winners soon. Keep your eyes pinned on that screen right up there!” He made a motion for the camera to follow his lead as Roger ordered his crew to clean up the kitchens and set up for round two later this afternoon.

  Abby smoothed her hair and headed for the stairs. By the time she joined Jason, Eloise, Gran and Holly, she’d been congratulated by practically everyone she’d ever known in her life; her back and shoulders were stiff and sore. Her feet were numb. She felt like she could take on the world.

  “I have no idea how you ever did this,” she whispered to Jason as he folded her into his arms with a hug so tight she couldn’t breathe. Almost. She gave herself a good thirty seconds to enjoy the embrace before she sagged onto the bench next to Gran as Eloise squeezed her hand.

  “Good show, Abby.”

  “Thank you.” The pride on her grandmother’s oldest friend’s face felt like another badge of honor.

  “I am so proud of you,” Gran said and hugged her side. “You were so focused. I couldn’t believe it was you. Not a flame in sight.”

  “None of us could.” Holly leaned across Gran and pushed a bottle of water into Abby’s hands. “Mini potpies were genius. Those are so going on the diner’s menu as soon as I talk to Paige and Ursula.”

  “As long as I don’t have to make them,” Abby said as she finished the bottle. Jason sat beside her and without a word, slipped his fingers through hers. “That’s the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done.”

  “And that’s only round one,” he reminded her.

  “Does anyone see Simon?” Holly frowned and got to her feet, looking toward the judges’ table. “I told him and Charlie to sit in the front row. Where—” She let out a curse Abby had heard her use only once and that was during labor. “He’s in big trouble. Both of them.” She climbed through the people nearby with murmured apologies.

  “I don’t even want to know,” Abby said as she leaned into Jason. “You have my undying admiration. You and David.”

  “Nice to know we’re appreciated. Alice, you doing okay over there?” Jason asked.

  “I’m fine,” Alice said as she fanned herself. “But I don’t know if I’m going to make it through round two. I’m knackered.”

  “Would you like me to drive you home?” Jason offered. Abby squeezed his hand. That he treated her grandmother like a queen softened her heart.

  “I’m about ready to call it a day myself,” Eloise said. “The sun’s brutal. But we’ll be with you in spirit.”

  “I appreciate that.” She probably would worry less if Gran was back home.

  “March! Both of you.” Holly had her hands pressed against the backs of Simon and Charlie as she resumed her seat. “You, there.” She pointed Simon to the space between her and Eloise. “Charlie...yeah, okay. You can sit with Abby and Jason. Lucky them, you criminals.”

  “What did you do?” Jason whispered as Charlie wedged herself between him and Abby.

  “Simon crawled under the judges’ table. He was coming out when Holly saw us.”

  Abby spotted Roger leaving a rather intense conversation with a clearly irritated Marcus, proving she and Jason weren’t the only ones in the anti-Roger brigade.

  The recorded sound of a drumroll exploded out of the speakers.

  “Here we go,” Charlie squealed and grabbed hold of Abby’s hand.

  The monitor buzzed to life. The crowd roared.

  “Second place!” Holly whooped.

  “Only one point off first,” Jason said as Abby skimmed the display. Twenty-eight out of thirty points. Clara had squeaked past her with her chicken meatball spaghetti. Steve wasn’t that far off the mark, only two points behind Abby with his sausage-and-pepper hoagies.

  Once the audience quieted, Roger took over the announcements again.

  “Well, everyone. That ends round one. Round two will commence at two this afternoon. Contestants, please return to the stage by one thirty. Until then, enjoy the festival!”

  Abby glanced at her watch. “Do I have time for a nap?”

  “Can we get ice cream?” Charlie asked as she dived toward Simon and Holly.

  “Wuss,” Jason joked as the crowd broke up and her group meandered down the path to the other side of Skipper Park. He draped an arm over her shoulders and drew her against him. “I’m proud of you, Abby. You did great. What do you want to do to kill time?”

  “Eat?” She laughed.

  “I have to get to the diner,” Holly said. “It’s been nonstop since yesterday morning. Excellent for the cash register, not for Paige and Twyla’s nerves. Congratulations.” She grabbed Abby into a big hug. “You proved me wrong. Good for you. Take care of her, okay?” She gave Jason a gentle punch on the arm. “Kids, let’s go!”

  “Aw, Mom, can’t we stay?”

  Holly shook her head.

  “We can keep an eye on them,” Jason offered.

  “We can?” Abby squinted at him. “I mean, sure, yeah. We can do that.” He was really embracing her attempts to help him socialize.

  “You sure?” Holly didn’t look convinced. “Luke said he’d stop by the diner later, but I have no idea what time.”

  “It’s not a problem. But before you go, there’s something I wanted to ask you. Give us a second?” Jason moved off with Holly before Abby could answer.

  “I think I may have entered an alternate dimension.” Abby winked at her godson and Charlie. Despite his protests to the contrary, Jason had become quite the social butterfly in the last couple of days.

  “You two behave,” Holly called out a moment later to her son and Charlie. “No more spying.”

  “’Kay!” Simon yelled. The second his mother turned her back, he said, “Come on, Charlie! Race you!”

  “And there goes any hope of relaxing,” Abby commented just as Jason returned. Before she could think it through, she kissed him square on the mouth. “You’ve come a long way. Thank you. For everything.”

  “It’s only round one, Abby,” Jason reminded her and whistled for Charlie and Simon to return. “I
saw an ice cream booth with our names on it. Let’s go.”

  “Yes!” Charlie gave a significant fist pump as Simon stuffed what looked like a phone in his pocket.

  “Don’t get used to it.” Abby laughed as she waited for them to catch up. Only then did she realize they—or rather Jason—had an audience.

  But when she caught Roger and Marcus looking in their direction, they immediately walked away. Whatever they’d been discussing, she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  She wasn’t sure she liked it at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JASON LET ABBY into the Flutterby ahead of him, or rather, he guided her inside. Contrary to her insistence that they attend Calliope’s celebration dinner at Duskywing Farm, Abby was dead on her feet.

  “I just heard!” Lori darted around the desk. “You took first place in the second competition! That’s amazing.”

  “It’s a minor miracle,” Abby said as she returned Lori’s enthusiastic hug.

  “Don’t shortchange yourself,” Jason said. “You’re in the lead going into tomorrow’s final challenge. That’s nothing to sneeze at.”

  “The only reason I won this round was because Clara overcooked her steak,” Abby said. “Which she wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for that bee.”

  “You owe your winning to a bee?” Lori didn’t look convinced.

  “Apparently Clara has a phobia,” Jason explained as Abby struggled not to laugh. “After today, I’m betting the feeling is mutual. I’ve never heard anyone shriek that loudly before.”

  “She was flapping her arms so hard we thought she’d take off.” Abby shook her head. “It’ll make for great television. We shouldn’t be laughing. Karma’s going to kick me for sure.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad you won.” Lori headed to the desk.

  “I need to check on Gran.” Abby gestured down the narrow hallway.

  “This came for you.” Lori turned to his mailbox and pulled out his key and an envelope. “We don’t get many registered letters these days. I almost didn’t know what to do.”