Recipe for Redemption Page 10

  “Jason, hi.” She opened the door. “Everything okay at the inn?”

  She’d gone totally relaxed in her yoga pants and sci-fi sweatshirt, her hair pinned to the top of her head with what looked like wooden chopsticks. He could hear the muted strains of Stevie Ray Vaughan at his guitar-playing best and...was that burned garlic he smelled? “Everything’s fine. But I do have something I need to talk to you about.” He couldn’t help it. He sniffed. “You’re cooking.”

  “You caught me, Teach. I gave myself homework so I could get a jump start for tomorrow. Come on in.” She waved him inside. “You want some wine? I have something other than pinot around here.”

  “Is that code for I’m a wine snob?” He closed the door behind him and cast an appreciative glance around her small but comfortable home. A small beige sofa and matching chair cuddled in the corner, opposite a rather large flat-screen TV situated against the peaceful blue walls that mimicked the ocean mere steps away. A casual dining area led into the galley-style kitchen that, while filled with smaller appliances than he was used to, seemed serviceable.

  “Listen to you, working on that sense of humor.” She pointed to the wooden shoe rack she’d converted into a wine rack. “Choose your poison. Unless you want beer? I keep some for Luke when he and Holly come over for takeout.”

  “Wine sounds great.” He dropped into a crouch and examined her selection. “These are pretty good.”

  “Again with the surprise. I might not know kale from collards yet, but I take my wine very seriously. I like the Australian shiraz myself. Kind of goes with everything.”

  “Works for me.” He grabbed the corkscrew from the counter as she retrieved a second glass from a cabinet. “Nice place.”

  “It’s cozy.” Abby shrugged as if dismissing his compliment, but he could see she loved it here. “Mr. V—that’s short for Vartebetium—and his wife gave this to me when I took over as manager, um, seven years ago? Right before she passed away.”

  “And Alice lives in the hotel?”

  “In the same suite she and Gramps shared,” Abby said. “It’s not huge, but I suppose by your New York standards, it would be. She’s comfortable there and feels safe. That’s all that matters.”

  “My New York standards might surprise you.”

  Abby grinned as he poured. “Let me guess, penthouse apartment? No!” She stuck out a finger when he narrowed his eyes. “Loft. You live in some obnoxiously large one-room stainless steel monstrosity.”

  Was he that predictable? “In my defense, the monstrosity has a huge kitchen.”

  “Better than my dollhouse one, you mean?”

  “It’s different,” he agreed. “Not better.” This place was all...Abby. “So what are you making?”

  “Pasta carbonara.” She set her own glass beside his and pushed her hands in her back pockets. “I was feeling pretty good about my egg success today, so I did a recipe search. Bacon, pasta, eggs and cheese. Sounded like a sure bet.”

  “But?”

  “Well, I haven’t set off the smoke alarm. Yet.” She returned to the small four-burner stove and showed him the singed pan. “I put the heat up too high, didn’t I?”

  “Looks like.” Wine in hand, he switched on the burner and tested to see how high the flame went on low, medium and high. “Not your fault. Your pilot needs resetting. Do you mind?”

  “Are you kidding?” She shifted her pot of water and frying pan to the other side of the kitchen and moved aside as he pulled the stove out from the wall.

  He bent down and, after a few adjustments, tried the burners again. This time when they clicked to life, the flames were more manageable. “Should help.” He pushed the stove back into place, found a new pan and replaced the pot of water on the burner. “Why don’t you try the recipe again?”

  She didn’t look so confident now.

  “I’ll be hands-off, I swear.” He lounged against the cabinet behind him as she drank down a good portion of her wine. “I’ll be here in case you have questions. Take your time. In fact, this will be a good lesson in distraction management. There’s always something going on in a kitchen. Always someone else, tons of noise and banging and yelling. Might as well get used to it. That stage you’ll be on is going to be chaotic.”

  “Would you like me to provide you with a metal pot and a wooden spoon for your personal enjoyment?”

  He was pretty sure she was teasing. “I think my presence will be enough to keep you on guard.”

  “You’re telling me.” She planted her hands on her hips, let out a long breath. “Okay, let’s start over. Only this time I’ll cook for two.”

  Either he was that good a teacher or Abby had finally gotten her mind in the right place, because when they eventually sat down at the small round table, he didn’t have any qualms about eating what she’d cooked. He might have a lot to say about her pot and dish management—her kitchen looked as if a bomb had gone off—but one battle at a time.

  “Well?” She twirled her pasta around her fork.

  He did the same, using his spoon to catch the loose strands of spaghetti. He bit in, the silkiness of the egg combining with the garlic and crispy bacon mingled to make an excellent bite. He nodded enthusiastically as he chewed. “It’s good, Abby. The pasta probably could have done with another two minutes, but it’s really good.”

  “You mean it?” He’d never seen anyone appear so relieved before.

  “Do I strike you as the type of person to flatter falsely?”

  “Not at all.” She dug in and grinned. “I can’t believe I cooked this.”

  “Is there a local paper we could call to put the word out?”

  “Ha-ha. Oh! I forgot the garlic bread.” She dashed back into the kitchen and let out a low groan. “Well, that didn’t last long.”

  She carried a cutting board with a slightly burned loaf of sourdough to the table.

  “Believe it or not, bread can be tricky,” he said.

  “Yeah, right.” Whatever happiness she’d embraced thanks to the pasta faded as she dropped into her chair. “Who ruins bread?”

  “My first job out of cooking school was in a four-star restaurant in Chicago. My job, my only job, was to bake their signature rolls they made during the day.” He couldn’t ignore the skepticism on her face. “I swear. Take a lump of dough, roll it into a ball, tuck the edges in and bake them. That’s all I had to do. I can say without hesitation your scones were better than my first batch of rolls. I walked away from the oven.”

  “Does bread need babysitting?” She started eating again as he sliced through the charred end of the loaf.

  “No, but you shouldn’t let it cook for ten extra minutes. Batch two, I was so paranoid, they were still raw in the middle. Finally, one of the sous chefs came over and guided me through it. He also noticed I hadn’t put the bread in the center of the oven; it was too close to the burners, so...” He shrugged, took a bite of bread and smiled. “This tastes like that night, which, believe it or not, isn’t such a bad memory. Good job not overdoing the garlic.”

  “Could use more cheese.”

  “No apologies or excuses, remember? Whatever you put in front of anyone is your work. Be proud of it. Don’t give people something to criticize. If they find it on their own, fine. Just smile, nod and say, ‘I appreciate your feedback.’ Otherwise, every plate you serve, consider it a masterpiece.”

  “Maybe you can write a companion book—Cooking Wisdom from Jason Corwin.”

  “Want to bet how many copies that would sell?”

  “One, at least. Thank you.” The smile on her face was one he’d remember for nights to come.

  “For what?”

  “For helping me. Believing in me. For not making me too much of a nervous wreck in there when I wanted to try something not on your agenda.”

 
She made him sound like a drill sergeant. “Your kitchen. Besides, you’re off hours. I see you brought some of Matilda’s cookbooks home with you?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her appetite picked up, as did his, and, surprising them both, he took a second helping. “That okay?”

  “More than. I’d like you to go through and pick out a bunch of recipes that appeal to you. We need to start building your style.”

  “My style?” She drank more wine. “I thought this was cooking, not fashion.”

  “Every artist, cooks included, has a distinctive style. It would help if you had some go-to techniques that you’re comfortable with, ingredients you like using. The more you can enjoy what and how you’re cooking, the more natural it’ll feel when you get thrown a curveball.”

  “What’s your style? Don’t tell me, that French stuff that sounds all stuck-up.”

  He laughed. “Okay, you caught me. We have some nouvelle cuisine on the menu. I know, it sounds snobby.” It sure did now, anyway. “But David and I were transitioning. Going more field-to-table, good, local, organic ingredients. Hopefully at more affordable prices. We still needed to keep our current clientele happy, though, so we decided on traditional American with Italian and French inspirations.”

  “Was that English? Because you’ve lost me.” She pointed her fork at herself. “Food illiterate, remember? Burger. Salad. You know, diner lingo.”

  “Now who sounds like a snob? I’m known for my pesto-infused escargot.”

  “Snails?” Abby dropped her fork and grimaced. “I’m taking cooking lessons from a guy who could find dinner in my yard?”

  “Ever tried them?” Telling her it was one of his favorite meals probably wasn’t a good idea. Neither was telling her about the sweetbreads.

  “No. And rest assured, I never will. Blech.” She shook her head and reminded him of a five-year-old refusing to eat her green beans. “At least tell me you do something fancy like soufflés and stuff.”

  And stuff? “We do. Seared scallops are a specialty. Lots of seafood, especially papillon en croute.” He could only imagine the fresh fish they had available to them in Butterfly Harbor and the surrounding seaside towns.

  “I’m going to need a hundred more lessons after all if you keep this up.”

  “Ratatouille.”

  “Oh!” She brightened. “That sounds nice. On Fridays, Calliope Jones opens Duskywing Farm to host a local farmers’ market. We should check it out. You would lose your mind at her garden.”

  “We’ll work it in. Do you like to garden?”

  “I used to. When I had more time.”

  He could tell she missed it. “You’ve got a great space for it in your front yard. You should think about it.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe I will.” She picked up her plate and headed into the kitchen, leaving Jason at the table. When she took her time coming back, he followed her and found her standing at the sink, staring into space.

  “What did I say?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head and turned on the water. “It’s nothing. Sometimes it’s easy to forget everything I’ve got riding on this. You just reminded me why I’m in this competition in the first place.”

  “You mean it’s not for the free advertising?” he asked with too-wide eyes.

  She faced him, irritation evident on her face. “Do I ever fool you?”

  “You’re not the world’s best liar, Abby. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” He’d had the feeling it wouldn’t take much to nudge her in that direction.

  “The inn needs money. A lot of money, not to mention attention. Me competing gives us at least half that, and if I win, well, then I win all around. Not enough to get us in the black, but enough to get us over a serious hump.”

  “How serious?” He didn’t like the sound of this at all.

  “My boss informed me the other day this place is ready to close its doors. If that happens or even if Mr. V sells, I don’t have enough saved to buy any kind of house for me and Gran, and I refuse to put her in some facility where I’ll always have to be traveling to see her. She’s mine. End of story.”

  “Wait a minute, hold on.” Jason rested his hands on her shoulders for fear she’d take off into orbit. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. Why would you have to put Alice in a home? She seems pretty lively to me.”

  “She’s in the early stages of Parkinson’s.” Tears spiked her lashes and blurred her vision. “It’s manageable and the doctors believe it’ll stay like that for a while, but keeping her comfortable and positive about things will help. Which is why I can’t tell her about the money issues. But in the end, she won’t get better. Oh, shoot. Now I’m blubbering all over you.” She stepped away, grabbed a napkin and blew her nose. “How about that? Dinner and a show.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this from the start?” He should have known there was more to her desire to learn to cook than earning a little publicity for the inn.

  “I haven’t told anyone. Except Holly.”

  “Of course.” As he would have told David if he was in trouble.

  “Word gets around Butterfly Harbor faster than the speed of light. I’ve got employees who rely on me to keep things stable, and I don’t want Gran worrying—plus, the Flutterby is like an anchor. If something happens to it, if it goes under, what’s to stop it from taking the rest of the town with it? I need to fix this. So.” She shrugged. “I took a chance.” She touched a hand to her throat as if reaching for something, then clenched her fist until her knuckles turned white.

  “You don’t have to defend yourself to me, Abby. I get it.” He only wished he didn’t. But it did put more responsibility on his shoulders. He’d figured before he left he could teach her enough to get her through the first round. Maybe. But one or even four or five solid recipes weren’t going to win her anything other than bonus points. Working with her to ensure she’d have a shot at winning? That was going to take a different strategy. “If I thought for a second you’d take it and if I had any liquid funds at my disposal, I’d help you. Everything I have is still tied up in Corwin Brothers.”

  She sighed and dropped her head back. “I don’t know whether to be irritated you’d offer or relieved you understand me.” She wrapped her hands around his forearms and squeezed. “I appreciate the thought. And it means a lot that you’d offer, but honestly, what I really need is for you to help me win. I can do it.” Perhaps by sheer will alone, from what he saw. “I just need you by my side to make it happen, even if you’re in the shadows. Believe it or not, I feel better in the kitchen when you’re around. Tonight proves that. That reminds me, didn’t you come here to talk to me about something?”

  “Oh, that.” He’d come to tell her he’d have to leave soon, that he couldn’t be here during the competition and risk reigniting the scandal that was finally dying down. But as he looked at her now, all that glossy blond hair, her red-rimmed hope-filled eyes and pouty lips, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a prettier sight. He shook his head. “I wanted to let you know some people aren’t going to be happy to see me around here. During the festival. I didn’t want their reactions to come as a nasty surprise.”

  “Trust me, nothing anyone does or says these days surprises me. I run an inn, remember?”

  “How about I help you with the dishes before I go?” He needed a distraction, but found himself leaning over to press a kiss on her forehead. Chills raced down his spine as he heard her soft gasp. He stepped back and touched her cheek. Her skin felt as soft as he’d imagined it would.

  Abby Manning had just become a major problem. But what was worse?

  He wasn’t going anywhere.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “IF THERE’S ONE thing I’ve learned about you in the last week,” Abby said Friday morning as she and Jason headed up the hill and over to Calliope Jones’s D
uskywing Farm, “it’s that you tend to go all quiet when you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  “No sleeves today.” Jason pointed to his well-formed biceps, which Abby had been taking more and more notice of.

  They’d fallen into an easy rhythm the last few days, and hour by hour, Jason seemed to relax. Who knew he had an edgy sense of humor or that he was capable of talking to people without the threat of bodily injury?

  He still got on her nerves and the feeling was mutual. Her continued tendency to leap without thinking remained an issue, especially for someone as straitlaced and controlled as Jason.

  Her attempt at deep-frying fresh herbs had almost set off the smoke detector for the first time since the day they’d met, something she wouldn’t have done if he’d told her to make sure the herbs were bone-dry before they went into the oil. But of course that information had been in the cookbook he’d told her to refer to, so...

  Yeah. Her bad.

  “I have to admit, I’ve been wanting to check out this farmers’ market ever since you mentioned it,” Jason said.

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Abby asked. “Calliope’s a friend. The market might only be on Fridays, but she would have given you a tour anytime.”

  “I was waiting until you were on more solid footing with what you’ve learned.”

  More likely he wasn’t up for adding even more people to his expanding social circle. She’d never met anyone so reticent when it came to making friends. “Well, you haven’t yelled at me in the last two days, so I’m feeling pretty good about my odds.” Abby didn’t mention the fact she’d been staying up until all hours poring over cookbooks, chef biographies, internet sites and anything else she could get her hands on to try to get a better grasp of what her style was. So far she was going with...edible. As long as she had a guide, a recipe, she was gold. It was when she ventured off on her own that she ran into trouble.

  At least they finally had a schedule of events for the competition. The three rounds would be held over two days with two events on day one. With no eliminations, each of the three contestants would receive a cash prize, but the fifteen-thousand-dollar second-place award barely ticked her radar. She needed to win the entire kit and caboodle to keep the Flutterby solvent. For Abby, there was no second place. “I kind of miss you yelling at me, now that I think about it.”