Untitled (19 page)

   I greeted Jim, but he didn't have a chance to so much as look my way. The bar was packed with a just-come-fromwork crowd, and from the looks of them, the work they'd just come from were jobs that paid well and demanded that they dress for success. They were demanding, too, and Jim was busy. A man at one end of the bar was in the middle of saying that Jim's idea of a perfect martini did not jibe with his and was demanding another drink. A woman at the other end was talking too loudly on her cell phone. Always the perfect host, Jim didn't fuss or fight. He ignored the loud woman, tossed out the not-so-perfect martini, and mixed another.

   With no hopes of cornering Eve any time soon, I pushed through the swinging kitchen door in search of a cup of coffee.

   "Boy, am I glad to see you." Damien rushed over, and for a second, I thought he was going to hug me. Instead, he looped an apron around my neck. "We're slammed."

   "It didn't look like it." I glanced back toward the restaurant, but I don't know why I even tried. All I could see was Damien, who had scooted behind me to tie the apron around my waist. "Four ladies who may take all night to order if they can't find a table that's not too hot and not too cold. The people at the bar who seem to be more interested in drinking than eating. Three guys who already ordered—"

   "And a party of seven with reservations for eight fifteen." Damien grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the grill. "You're going to have to help."

   "Help? Cook?" My blood ran cold. My knees locked. My breath caught behind the sudden ball of panic in my throat. "You don't know what you're asking. I've been known to burn water."

   "Yeah, so I've been told." There was a counter next to the grill and a huge bowl of vegetables on it. Damien slid the veggies in my direction and held out a knife. "Believe me, after the stories I heard from Jim, I'm not thrilled about this, either. But we don't have any choice. Marc colored his hair again yesterday, and Marc and green dye . . . well, it looks like they don't exactly get along. He's got a rash just about everywhere, and I do mean everywhere." Just thinking about it made Damien squirm. "He says it itches like a son of a bitch. He's home soaking in an oatmeal bath."

   "But—"

   "Ain't no buts. Jim's orders."

   To Damien, Jim walked on water, so of course he didn't imagine that I would dispute this.

   Little did he know that nothing could strike terror in my heart like cooking did.

   I scrambled out of the kitchen and behind the bar, prepared to state my case. Since Jim was my cooking instructor at Très Bonne Cuisine, and since my days at Très Bonne Cuisine were (in a word) a complete disaster (I guess that's two words), I knew in my heart of hearts that he would not be willing to risk his reputation, not to mention his customers' health, on my questionable culinary skills.

   "Jim—" I began.

   But Jim was in the middle of explaining the difference between rye and potato vodka to a young woman who didn't look as interested in liquor as she did in the bartender. She batted her eyelashes at Jim. Jim ignored her and went right on to the advantages of Polish vodka over the stuff made in Russia.

   I wasn't usually the pushy type, but I knew a crisis when I saw one. The fact that Damien had poked his head out of the kitchen and was watching me with an eagle eye and a look that said he wasn't going to let me slide on this, was, in my book, a crisis of the first order.

   "Jim, excuse me, we have something of an emergency in the kitchen and—"

   "Not the only place you people have an emergency." Martini man slammed his empty glass against the bar. "Good but not perfect," he said. "Try again."

"Jim—"

   When he finally turned to me, Jim's teeth were clenched around a smile. His voice was calm, but I wasn't fooled. The spark in his eyes told me that between cooks who called out because of bad hair color and demanding customers, he'd just about had enough. "What?" he asked.

   The front door opened. The party of seven had arrived. They were early. And they brought three friends.

   "Never mind," I said. My stomach reeling, I retreated into the kitchen to throw myself on the mercy of the cooking gods.

          Damien didn't get the joke. I could hardly blame him, since it wasn't very funny. What it was, was my attempt at stalling the inevitable.

   "I can't cook," I said. Again. Just like I had the second I walked into the kitchen. "Didn't Jim tell you?"

   "He did, and you know what, Annie, right about now, I really don't care." Damien had said that before, too. This time, though, when he saw that I was staring in horror at the recipe on the countertop in front of me, wringing my hands, he took pity on me. "Look . . ." Damien had salmon steaks on the grill, so he couldn't talk for long. "All you have to do is follow the directions. You can do that, can't you? Jim's very careful when it comes to writing out his recipes. No way you can make a mistake if you do exactly what it says."

"
You
could do exactly what it says."

"I could." A timer rang, and he took off in answer to it.

"But I don't have time. And besides, Marc handles the desserts. I wouldn't know what to do, anyway."

   "And I do?" But by that time, I was talking to myself. Damien was busy doing whatever it was that chefs who knew what they were doing did, and I was left on my own.

   As if it would somehow change things, I squinted at the recipe. Looked like I was officially in charge of a fresh fig tart with rosemary cornmeal crust and the infamous—at least in my book—mascarpone cream.

   There was a handwritten note attached to the recipe that explained that the two patrons who were coming in tonight to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary had specifically requested the desssert, since they'd had it in Paris on their honeymoon. I did not in any way, shape, or form want to be responsible for ruining such an important occasion. Lucky for me (and the happy couple), the tart crust was already made and waiting for me on the counter. One look at the crust that was flour, cornmeal and rosemary perfection, and I knew Jim had baked it. No one could make such simple (not to mention disparate) ingredients look so good.

   I was in charge of the filling. "Sour cream, mascarpone, sugar, grated lemon zest," I read over the recipe, grumbling the ingredients under my breath. It was longer than my Christmas card list. "Why would anyone bother to mess with a recipe this complicated?" I asked Damien. He was too busy putting the flawlessly cooked salmon steaks onto their plates to answer. Seeing no help from that quarter, I pressed on, following Damien's advice. I did exactly what the recipe told me to do.

   By the time I'd whisked the sour cream, mascarpone, sugar, and lemon zest in a bowl along with some salt, my heartbeat had settled. So far, so good.

   But I should have known that nothing is that easy, especially when it comes to cooking. What's that saying about pride coming before a fall?

   The next step was heating red currant jelly with honey. I didn't have to check the recipe to know that by the time I was done, it wasn't supposed to be the consistency of rubber cement.

   I tossed the concoction—along with the saucepan that was so black at the bottom, I determined I had burned it beyond its usefulness—and started again.

   This time, I stirred the jelly and honey mixture until it was melted and watched it like a hawk. I turned off the stove to allow it to cool and prepared myself for the next step: taking the tart crust out of the pan.

   I know, I know . . . sounds like a piece of cake (or in this case, a piece of pie). But honestly, is anything in the world of the culinary arts ever that easy?

   Fortunately, the tart pan had removable sides, so I accomplished the actual removal with ease. It was when I had to spread the mascarpone mixture into the shell that things went awry.

   They also went amiss, wonky, and a little kerflooey.

   Not to worry. Much to my amazement, I discovered that mascarpone cream filling does the trick when it comes to sticking pieces of broken tart shell together.

   Satisfied the tart would pass muster (at least if the lights in the restaurant were low), I cut the figs and arranged them as artistically as I was able on top, then drizzled the glaze over all.

   I had just decided that maybe I had a talent for baking after all, when Damien called out to me, "You get those green beans off the burner?"

   "Beans?" I looked over to the stove where a pot was boiling away merrily. "I didn't know about the beans."

   Damien took a look. "They're mush. Clean a couple more pounds."

   I turned toward the cooler where we kept the veggies.

   "And while you're at it," he added, "the people at table three want another appetizer. I'm going to slice the melon. You get the prosciuto."

   I swung toward the walk-in cooler where we stored the meat.

   "And table ten has asked for blueberry cobbler, table one is still waiting for the sweet potato pie, and table six . . ." On his way by with a melon in one hand, Damien studied my glassy-eyed stare. "You OK, Annie?" he asked. "You need any help?"

   My head was spinning so fast, I didn't even bother to answer. But then, Damien probably wouldn't have believed me, anway, if I told him that I'd already asked for help.

   Looked like the culinary gods weren't taking any requests.

       and to my credit, I had set off the smoke alarm only twice. Who knew that pasta could get so crispy? Or that left to their own devices, veal patties could turn into a substitute for hockey pucks.

   "Here. Something tells me you need this." Our customers were gone, and I was sitting at the bar, my head in my hands. Jim slid a glass of white wine under my nose. "You worked hard tonight."

   "I worked hard at nearly getting us closed down." I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering one of the fur-coat ladies and how she'd gagged at the first taste of my chicken Florentine. "Sorry."

   "Not your fault." Jim had poured himself a chocolateylooking beer. He sat down on the stool next to mine and took a drink. There was thick foam on his lips, and he licked it away. "You came through in a pinch. That's what counts."

   "You're being kind."

   "I knew what I was getting when I hired you."

   "You didn't think you'd ever have to let me near the kitchen."

   He grinned. "Not going to argue with you there! Don't worry, lass." He slid an arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick hug. "It isn't the end of the world. And everyone left happy."

   "Because you promised them all free meals the next time they came. And you told them you'd make sure I stayed in my office where I belonged."

   "A brilliant strategy on my part, yes?" Jim wiggled his eyebrows. "Cheer up. The worst they can say is that the kitchen wasn't up to snuff tonight. And hey . . ." He leaned in close and kissed the tip of my nose. "There's always a silver lining. You didn't poison anyone."

   I groaned. I was too tired to agree, too tired to disagree, and too, too tired to remind Jim that I had tried to warn him and that he wouldn't listen. There was no good to be had from letting Annie Capshaw within an arm's length of a stove. Any stove. Maybe from then on, he'd remember and believe.

   I leaned my back against his shoulder and closed my eyes. "Hire another cook," I told him.

   "Marc will be back tomorrow. I talked to him not ten minutes ago. The swelling is down, and the itching is mostly gone. He says he's never going to color his hair again."

   "Right." I didn't want to budge an inch, but that glass of white wine was calling to me. The only way to take a drink was to sit up, so I did. "I'll believe that when I see it."

   Jim chuckled. "Aye. And I'll—"

   "Hey, Jim, come have a taste of this. It's awesome!" Damien called from inside the kitchen. Like I may have mentioned, when it comes to food, Damien is obsessed. It was late and nearly time to close up and go home, but he had insisted on trying out a new recipe for a white sauce he claimed would taste great with seafood. "I think you're going to love it," he shouted again.

   I knew that when it came to food, Jim was just as obsessed. I gave him a nudge. "Go on. The kid worships the ground you walk on. He won't sleep tonight if he doesn't find out what you think of his new creation."

   Left to my own devices, I would have liked nothing better than to close my eyes and go right to sleep. My back ached from hours of standing at the grill. I smelled like fish and olive oil. I'd chopped about a million vegetables, and my right wrist ached.

   None of which stopped me from calling Eve over when I saw that she was done rolling silverware in napkins for the next day.

   "I've been trying to talk to you all night," I told her.

   She took the seat Jim had just vacated. "You found out? About the cruise? Which one is it? I've got a theory, see. It's got to be the senator, and if it is, it's no big deal. He's not married, and Sarah wasn't married and—"

   "I don't know if it's the senator," I said.

   "Then Dougy?" As if she found the very thought repulsive, Eve shivered. "He's not Sarah's type. And he's married."

   "I don't know if it's Dougy, either."

   Now I had to explain myself. A process that had seemed simple hours ago when I walked in. Right about then, it was nothing short of a monumental effort.

   I stretched my back and worked a kink out of my neck. "I called the senator's office, just like I said I was going to do. I told the woman who answered the phone that I was with a local women's group and that we'd just found out the person who was going to speak at our next meeting had to cancel. I asked if Senator Mercy could come instead, and I told the secretary we needed him to speak on February 1, a date right smack in the middle of the cruise."