The Chef's Choice (14 page)

Damon stared. “What was that for?”

“Just checking to be sure your lips were in working order,” she replied with a straight face. “All right. Grab the seeds and let's get planting.”

It was one of her favorite tasks, being wrist deep in rich, dark soil. There was, in planting a garden, an optimism, a trust in the future. It was the same feeling she had seeing wrapped packages under the Christmas tree, knowing that the bare earth held the surprise of germinating seeds that would transform everything.

Damon knelt beside her. “What do we do?”

She ripped open a packet of corn seeds. “This is the easy part. Use your finger to make a little trench.” She demonstrated, drawing her forefinger along the soil. “Now drop the kernels in, an inch or so apart. Push the dirt over the top and pat it down. Lightly.” She caught his hand and demonstrated. When he resumed, she nodded. “You've got it,” she said and moved to plant celeriac.

“So why did you get into landscaping?” Damon asked, finishing with the corn and picking up a packet of rosemary.

Cady sat back on her heels and swiped a strand of hair back with her arm. “Plants are easy. They don't pitch fits on you, they don't need to be catered to.”

“Aren't you supposed to talk to them?”

“Yeah, but they don't go on and on and expect you to be interested. And they don't tend to show up four hours early for check-in.” She watched him sprinkle the seeds into the earthen groove and reached over to help cover them. “Anyway, I always liked being outdoors. It used to drive me crazy, being stuck inside in summer, cleaning rooms or making breakfast or being nice to guests.”

“Yeah, that being nice part, I just hate that.”

She shot him a look. “Do you want to hear or do you just want to mock me?”

“I want to hear, although mocking you does have its charms.”

She swatted him. “Anyway, the only break was helping my dad outside when he did handyman stuff around the place or worked on the grounds. So I started volunteering. The better I got at it, the more I got to do. At some point, I realized I had kind of a knack for it—and my parents realized it was a good way to keep guests from demanding their money back.”

“Convenient,” he observed.

“Very,” she agreed, adding a row of cilantro.

“Did you go to a vo-tech or something to learn how it all worked?”

“No, I was more like you.” She smoothed the soil. “I found somebody who was really good at it and got him to take me on. I worked for him until I figured I'd learned what I needed to know. And then I went solo a couple of years back. You're getting me at a bargain today, I hope you know.”

“And I'm forever grateful for it,” he said. “How's it going?”

She raised her shoulders and let them drop. “I'm paying the bills.” She rose to go get the pony packs of tomato seedlings. “It would be easier if my danged boss would ever give me a raise.”

“Doncha hate that?”

“She's the worst. A slave driver. All work, no fun.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” He rose to follow her. “I wouldn't say that at all.”

Cady recognized the glint in his eye. She felt the shiver down deep. “We've got tomatoes to plant,” she reminded him.

“I'd hate to leave you brooding over your boss.” He skimmed his hands up her sides.

“And zucchini,” she added.

“In fact, I kind of like your boss,” he said, nuzzling her neck.

“And thyme,” she managed.

“Oh, we've got lots of time,” he murmured, and drew her down to the ground.

The flattened meadow grass was soft beneath them. The sun was warm on her skin. And Damon's mouth was soft, so soft on hers.

“We shouldn't be doing this,” she managed, but her fingers wound through his hair.

He teased the hem of her T-shirt from her jeans. “It's an ancient Indian fertility rite, guarantees a good harvest.”

“We can't—” She groaned at the feel of his mouth on her bare nipple. “We can't make love out here. Someone could see.”

“Then the neighbors will learn something,” he said against her breasts.

“You don't have any neighbors,” she panted as she slid her hands down into his jeans.

“Exactly,” he said.

D
amon scowled at his computer screen. Of all the many tasks his job entailed, pricing entrées had to be his least favorite. Second-least, he corrected himself. Getting harassed by Ron, the Sextant's manager, for not turning in his menu data headed the list.

When the phone rang, he reached for it impatiently. “I know. You'll have the pricing in your in-box as soon as I get it done.”

There was a short silence. “Is that any way to talk to an old friend?” purred a husky voice.

Damon let out a long, slow breath. “Francesca. What a surprise to hear from you.”

Francesca Cornwell, dedicated gourmet,
Chef's Challenge
judge and the fiercely ambitious editor of
Dining Well
magazine.

And, one wine-sodden night, his lover.

She was in her early forties but looked a decade younger at first glance. She reveled in her position as an industry insider only slightly less than her ability to influence careers—for better or for worse.

“So I hear you're living up in the wilds,” she said in her cut-crystal British accent.

“I'm living in Maine, yeah. And you're still in Manhattan terrorizing your staff, I assume.”

“Of course. Most especially for not finding out that you were leaving. Why was I the last to hear? The least you could have done is given me a scoop.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It might have made me think kindly of you. In which case I might have been calling to give you the cover of our Hot Chefs issue,” she added in a tone that invited him to grovel.

Not going to happen. “My mistake,” he said, instead.

“A serious one.”

He heard the beep of call-waiting in his ear. Ron, he thought. “So why are you calling?”

“To tell you we've decided to put you on the cover of our Hot Chefs issue. And before you start congratulating yourself, it's not because of any of this revolutionary New England cuisine hogwash I've been hearing. The publisher's convinced that mad mug of yours sells magazines.”

“You always were good for the ego, Francesca,” Damon said.

“It serves you right for not telling me what you were up to.” She sulked.

There was no point in observing out loud that he hadn't seen her in nearly a year. Or that he wouldn't have told her if he had.

“Just so you won't make that mistake again, I'll be up week after next to interview you. You can tell me what you're planning next.”

“Maybe this is it.”

She just snorted. “You have a choice of Tuesday or Wednesday.”

“Either works. Tuesday's better,” he said. “After lunch service.”

“Then we'll be there Wednesday at 8:00 a.m.”

“Sure. Come to the front desk of the inn when you get here. They'll hunt me down. You know how to find the place, right?”

“Of course. We'll see you then.”

He'd had a few calls, a couple of interviews since the
Globe
review had appeared. A cover story in
Dining Well
, though, that would put him back on top. After that, it was just a matter of time before the next big offer.

Somehow, the thought didn't please him the way it had a month before.

“Hey, Chef, can I talk to you for a minute?”

It was Roman, standing outside his little office cubbyhole.

“Sure.” Damon finished his e-mail to Ron and hit Send. He glanced over at the young sous chef. “What's on your mind?”

“You said you were interested in hearing ideas about new dishes.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Well, I came up with one. It's a lobster clambake on a plate.”

Interesting. “Keep going,” Damon said.

“Lobster in puff pastry, with a couple of steamers, a corn cake and a corn sauce. You juice the corn, cook it up with a little butter and lemon juice to wake it up. I figured it fit with the reworked New England thing.”

“You might be onto something. How are you thinking of plating it?”

“Like that.” Roman stepped aside and pointed to the counter behind him.

Damon rose and walked over. “Planning ahead, huh?”

“I figured it was easier to show you than to tell you. The lobster's from home.” He handed Damon a fork. “What do you think?”

The plating worked, Damon thought, the dashes of color, the use of shapes. Then he took a bite and chewed thoughtfully, letting the flavors come together in his mouth.

Roman shifted uneasily, watching. “Okay, well, I'll leave it with you. I've got to get back to prep.”

“Hang on a second.” The kid was nervous, Damon realized. He'd put himself out there, taken a risk and now he was worried about the result. “So you came up with this yourself, out of the blue?”

“Yeah. Malika and I were at a clambake this weekend. I started thinking about how I could pull together all those flavors in one plate. It's just a first try,” he added anxiously, though Damon was willing to bet there'd been more than a few lobsters sacrificed in Roman's kitchen already.

“It's a good first try,” Damon said, reaching for another bite. “In fact, better than good. This is dynamic.”

“Really? You like it?”

“Hell, yeah, I like it. Flavor profile, composition, it hits on all levels. And you can't go wrong with lobster.”

“I was thinking of serving it as one of the dishes at the boss's birthday party next weekend,” Roman said.

“Good idea. Work up an order list for it. We'll add it to the menu after the party, for the rest of the summer.”

“You mean it?”

“Absolutely. Oh, and, Roman,” he added as the sous chef started to turn away, “keep thinking. I want another special from you for next month. Now get back to prep,” he growled.

He turned back to his office as Roman headed back to the line. A few minutes later, Damon heard the back door swing open and slam, and then very faintly, a whoop of triumph.

And he grinned to himself. This was what it was about, he thought. Not Francesca and her games but a clambake on a plate and a kid who was just learning to trust his talent.

Cady stood at her workbench in the greenhouse. Midday sun streamed in through the roof. She sang along with the Dixie Chicks on her music player while she finished seeding the trays of microgreens before her.

A sound at the door had her stomach fluttering. It was midafternoon, far enough after lunch service to be the right time. Damon had taken to stopping in to see her afternoons on the days she worked the grounds, and she'd taken to being there. She turned, expecting him.

Instead, she saw her mother.

“Oh, Mom. Hi.”

“Hi.” Amanda stepped inside.

A party update, Cady figured. “So, I think Max and I have everything all set for next weekend,” she said. “Roman's got the menu finalized, Damon signed off on it.”

“Good. Your aunt Barbara and uncle Michael are coming up next Friday. I've put them at the inn out on the highway. Everyone else is close enough to drive in for the party, except Walker and his wife.”

“Dad already knows Max and Walker are coming for the weekend, so we're cool there.”

Amanda waved a hand. “I don't think he's been paying close enough attention to notice anything anyway, as busy as he's been with all this traffic at the inn.”

“All we've got to do is keep the secret this weekend and next week.”

“I'll be glad when it's over. Keeping secrets is exhausting. Isn't it?” She looked at Cady deliberately.

Cady frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Amanda hesitated. “Are you having an affair with Damon Hurst?”

The answer, she was sure, was all over her face, but she nodded. “Yes.”

“This whole time?”

“No. It's pretty recent. Sudden. I wasn't expecting it but we…” She took a breath. “This is kind of a strange conversation to have with your mother.”

“It's kind of a strange conversation to be having with your daughter,” Amanda returned.

“Then why are we having it?”

Amanda closed her eyes and shook her head. “Do you remember a month ago, we were standing in our kitchen and you were telling your father and I what a mess Damon Hurst made of his personal life?”

“And I remember you telling me he'd changed.”

“Enough to run our restaurant. Not enough that I want my daughter sleeping with him.”

“Mom.” Cady met her eyes steadily. “I know I said those things and I believed them at the time. I don't anymore. He's been here, what, six weeks now? I've watched him, I've spent time with him. He's not the person they talk about.”

“They can't all be stories.”

“No, they can't. But didn't you tell me once that people grow up? I believe he has.” She paused. “I believe in him.”

Amanda let out a long breath. “I'm sorry. I know you're an adult, and I know it's not my business. But I seem to remember you telling me that you couldn't help worrying about your father and me.” Her eyes softened. “I can't help worrying about you. You're my daughter and I want you to be happy. I just don't know that he's the person who can make you that way.”

“Didn't you used to tell me I was the only one who could make myself happy?”

“And are you?”

Cady looked at her mother. “I think I might be.”

“You've always kept yourself closed off from almost everybody.” Amanda blinked a few times. “It's not good for you. You need someone to bring you out of yourself. I don't know, maybe Damon can do that. You've been different the last couple of weeks. I noticed it, I just didn't think to wonder why. Maybe I should have asked.”

“We would just have had this conversation earlier.”

“What an usually diplomatic way for you to tell me it's none of my business,” Amanda said with a watery laugh. “Maybe he's a good influence on you after all.”

“We'll find out,” Cady said, hugging her. “We'll find out.”

The morning was cool, dew still on the leaves as Damon stood in his backyard, spraying the vegetable beds. Or what Cady assured him were vegetable beds. You couldn't prove it by him. The tomatoes and peppers they'd planted as seedlings still sat inside their hot caps, looking as if a row of scarecrows had been buried so that only the tops of their hats showed. Otherwise, just like every morning in the week since they'd planted the garden, he was just watering dirt as far as he could tell.

Still, the air was sweet and the water coming out of the sprayer looked like a shower of golden needles in the morning light. Patience, he reminded himself. It had taken weeks for the restaurant review, too. Just as it would take weeks more for the seeds of the
Globe
story to bear fruit. Sure, business at the restaurant had picked up almost instantly, but for him personally, nothing had changed except the call from Francesca for
Dining Well
, and that interview wouldn't see the light of day for a month or more. Things took time.

And things took time with Cady. A week had passed since they'd first slept together. Or had sex, he corrected himself. They hadn't ever actually slept the night through. On the couple of nights they'd managed to get together, she'd always insisted on going home or sending him back to his place. There were the excuses—they had to get up early, she didn't want to be carting a bag of clothes around, but he knew that wasn't the reason.

She was holding back.

It was early, he told himself. There was no logical reason he should press. He'd always been the king of the speed affair and alarmed by women who wanted to glom on to him. He should have been relieved she wanted to play it casual.

Why, then, did it frustrate him?

“Well, if it isn't the gentleman gardener.”

He glanced over to see Cady coming to him across the lawn and felt the glad rush, the rightness at having her there. Whether she'd stayed over or just driven there, she was with him now. Sure, it was only a Sunday stolen away for the two of them but it was time and it was theirs.

“Nice to see you're being diligent.” She stopped next to him.

“Twice a day, every day, even if I do have to drag my sorry ass out here at night after I get home from the restaurant.” He curved one arm around her waist to pull her in for a kiss.

“You wanted the garden, you got the garden,” she told him. “Anyway, once they get established, you can scale it back to every couple of days.”

“Assuming they ever sprout. How do I know the seeds were any good?”

“I wouldn't have picked you for a pessimist, Hurst. You should have more faith.”