Rest in Split Peas

by Hillary Avis

  Bethany grinned in spite of herself. “Yeah, I will. I am going to crush Marigold by pretending she doesn’t exist.”

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday

  “What are you serving today?” Olive asked.

  Bethany stirred the huge stock pot. “Split pea with smoked ham hock. Seemed perfect for such a foggy day.”

  “What’d be good with that? Maybe my cornbread muffins...or a cheddar biscuit.”

  “Can’t go wrong with either one if you ask me. Uh oh—here comes trouble.”

  Even though she’d sworn to pretend Marigold didn’t exist, it was impossible to ignore her. Bethany tried not to stare as Marigold swept through the entrance doors. She wore her usual skintight wiggle dress and red, patent-leather heels, but something about her seemed different. She held the door open for another woman who was pulling a red wagon loaded down with two giant pots.

  “Oh my goodness!” Olive gasped. “She didn’t!”

  “Morning, ladies,” Marigold said. “What do you think?”

  “About what? The wagon?” Bethany asked.

  Olive groaned. “About her hair. It’s...new.”

  “Oh!” Bethany took a closer look. Marigold’s white-blonde curls had been dyed a lustrous auburn and were arranged in a messy bun on top of her head. “It looks—like mine.”

  “Exactly!” Marigold squealed. “Isn’t it great? Soup sisters for life!”

  At least until your roots grow out.

  “Is that your actual sister?” Bethany asked, nodding to the woman pulling the wagon up the kiosk, who was puffing with the effort. She looked remarkably like Marigold—at least, Marigold before she dyed her hair. She had the same blonde hair, the same voluptuous figure, and the same glitzy style. The only difference in their appearance was the prominent beauty mark on the woman’s upper lip. Marigold penciled one on, or sometimes glued a small gem in the same spot, but it was obvious that this woman’s was real.

  “Oh. No.” Marigold pursed her lips. “Cousin Jen. Surprise visit.”

  The cousin blushed and extended her hand.

  “We hug around here.” Olive ignored Jen’s hand and embraced her. “I’m Olive—I own the bakery. Welcome to Newbridge. How long are you staying?”

  “That’s up to her.” Jen motioned to Marigold and shook Bethany’s hand across the kiosk counter.

  Bethany did her best to smile. “Must be nice for you two to catch up.” Jen nodded shyly. Hm, however much she looked like Marigold, she certainly had a different personality!

  “She’s going to be my assistant for the grand opening,” Marigold said. “There’s so much to do! Why don’t you put that soup on the warmer? We don’t want it to get cold, do we?” Jen nodded and slowly dragged the heavy wagon over to the Souperior Soups kiosk.

  Marigold shook her head. “She’s been stuck to me like glue since she came in yesterday. Crashed the poker game even though she didn’t want to play. Wouldn’t even have a martini. What a party pooper.”

  Bethany’s ears perked up at the mention of the poker game. “Oh, did Ben talk to you last night?”

  “Of course he did. All Ben does is talk, talk, talk. ‘Marry me, Marigold.’ Who has time for that? Marriage, shmarriage.”

  Olive and Bethany exchanged a look that said one thing: poor Ben.

  “He didn’t mention anything about changing your kiosk?” Olive asked.

  Marigold stuck out her chin. “No—not that it’s any of your business. Why are you over here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be baking or something?”

  “She was just helping me with bread pairings,” Bethany said.

  “Ooh!” Marigold leaned on the counter. “What would you pair with avgolemono? That’s my soup of the day.”

  Bethany choked. Olive patted her on the back until she regained her composure. “You mean like I made yesterday?”

  Marigold nodded eagerly. “Mhm. It was a tasty little number—perfect for my grand opening! Everyone loved it, so I know they’ll be back for more.”

  “Well!” Olive said, smoothing her silver bob. “Everything I make has gluten in it, so I don’t think I can help you.”

  “What about your—” Bethany had been about to say gluten-free dinner rolls, but Olive shot her such a steely glare that she stopped in the middle of her sentence.

  Marigold waved her hand breezily. “No worries. I bought a case of saltines at Cheapko. I’ll just serve those.” The clock tower chimed a quarter-till, and Marigold straightened. “Oopsie, I better get things set up before the 10:55 comes in! Toodles!” She minced off to her kiosk.

  If ever a tea kettle was steamed up and ready to shout, it was Olive Underwood. “Unbelievable! Un-be-lievable. The nerve of copying your recipe and serving it with crackers!” Bethany returned the favor and patted her on the back until Olive turned a less volcanic shade of red.

  “Soup of the day,” Bethany said, rolling her eyes. “More like soup of the yesterday.”

  “Poor Jen.” Olive frowned. “To be related to that woman. She’s treating her own cousin like garbage.”

  Bethany sighed and wrote “Split Pea with Ham” on her chalkboard. “Do you think my regulars will choose Marigold’s soup instead of mine?”

  “No, of course not! Don’t even think that way. Your customers love what you do. Why would they gamble on someone else when they know they’ll love every drop of your soup? Uh oh! There’s the train. I better get those cheddar biscuits warming.” Olive scampered back into the Honor Roll just in time. A flood of passengers exited the platform, and Bethany’s heart swelled when a good number of them lined up at Souperb Soups.

  “Here you are.” She ladled soup into a container and handed it over the counter. “Olive’s got cheddar biscuits and corn muffins today if you want something on the side.”

  “Perfect, Bethany.”

  “Smells great.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I haven’t had a good split pea soup since my grandma passed.”

  “Can I get the recipe?”

  Bethany basked in the glow of satisfied customers. Nourishing people’s hearts and stomachs had to be the best feeling in the world. Her pot was half-empty and the line was still long. Maybe there was enough room for two soup kiosks at Newbridge Station after all. She glanced over at Marigold’s kiosk. A few people she didn’t recognize milled around the booth.

  “Avgolemonooooo,” Marigold called, her hands to her mouth. “Get it here!”

  Bethany was horrified to see a few people from her line step out and hurry to the other booth. Her dismay must have showed on her face, because the kindly man at the front of the line said, “Oh, everyone’s in a hurry these days. Your soup is worth a few minutes’ wait.”

  “Thanks,” she said, relaxing. That was it. She just needed to serve faster. The defectors would get a bowlful of disappointment and be back tomorrow, anyway. She put down her head and ladled soup as quickly as she could so she could get through as many customers as possible.

  “I brought you some, hon.” Marigold plunked a container of soup down on the counter. “Wanted to soup-swap before you ran out again.”

  “Who is serving at your—oh,” Bethany said, spotting Jen at the counter. She bit her lip. If she gave some split pea soup to Marigold, Marigold would probably just copy it tomorrow. But if she didn’t honor the trade, Marigold was likely to make a scene, and the customers waiting patiently in line didn’t need to see that. She slid a bowl of soup over to Marigold. “Take it.”

  Marigold leaned over the bowl and inhaled deeply. “Smoked ham! Nice. Are those carrots in there or sweet potatoes?”

  “Carrots.” Bethany craned her neck to see the next person in line. Marigold didn’t budge. Instead, she scooped up a spoonful of the soup and savored it like she was tasting wine. Bethany sighed. “Do you mind, Marigold? I need to serve the rest of these people.”

  “Not until you try mine!” Marigold tapped the lid of the unopened container with her spoon.

  “Fine.” Bethany crac
ked open the avgolemono and took a small bite, not expecting much. Rich, bright, comforting. It was a perfect replica of the soup she’d made yesterday, down to the hint of marjoram. Marigold might not have her own ideas, but she was a darn good cook.

  “What do you think?” Marigold pretended to bite her long purple fingernails in anticipation.

  “I can’t lie—it’s good.”

  Marigold squealed and danced in place. “Victoryyy! I mean...yours is good, too.”

  “OK, I’ve got customers,” Bethany said pointedly. Marigold twirled around a few more times and capered off to her kiosk.

  “Friend of yours?” the next customer in line asked, as Bethany ladled out a container of split pea soup.

  “Not really. Why?”

  “Just curious.” The man set another container on the counter. He took out a small notebook and jotted something down, and then put it back into the pocket of his denim shirt.

  “That’ll be three dollars.”

  As the man pulled out his wallet to pay, Bethany noticed that the container he’d put down on the counter was from Marigold’s kiosk. “Hedging your bets, huh?”

  He handed her the three dollars. “No—I’m here from the paper.”

  “Come again?”

  “The newspaper. I write the Sunday food feature for the Newbridge Community Observer. Milo Armstrong,” he added, adjusting his thick-framed glasses. “I probably should have introduced myself first.”

  Milo Armstrong was pretty cute. Behind his geeky glasses, he had warm eyes in a delicious chocolate shade and an even warmer smile.

  “What brings you here, Mr. Armstrong?” she asked, her stomach fluttering nervously. She hoped it wasn’t a follow-up on last year’s debacle. She’d had enough of that kind of coverage in the Community Observer. But maybe her little kiosk had finally made enough of a name for itself that they were sending a food reporter to write about her soups!

  “Milo,” he said, flashing that smile at her again. “Ms. Wonder invited me down to compare the two soup kiosks at the station for this week’s feature, kind of a head-to-head thing.”

  Any bubble of hope that had buoyed her spirits immediately popped. As much as she wanted a food feature, a surprise cooking competition was not cute. “I wouldn’t have made split pea if I’d known!” she burst out without thinking.

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow and pulled out his notebook again. “Why’s that?”

  “Well, split pea soup is comforting, but it can be a bit stodgy,” she babbled nervously. “Some people don’t like it because of bad childhood experiences. It’s not what you make to win a contest.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just saying that because you’re afraid of the competition? I had a bite of her soup already, and it’s exceptional.”

  “Why, thank you!”

  He eyed her skeptically. “I haven’t tasted yours yet—I was talking about Ms. Wonder’s.”

  “I know. I made that avgolemono yesterday.” Bethany crossed her arms.

  “Are you saying she stole your recipe?” Milo’s pen was poised over his notebook, ready to record her response.

  “No. Well, sort of. She ate some of my soup yesterday, and what she made today is exactly like it. And it’s tough for split pea to compete with that—it was one of my best soups ever. What are you writing?” Bethany stood on tiptoe to peer at what he was scribbling, but she couldn’t decipher his handwriting upside down.

  “Just some notes.” His brow furrowed. “I’m curious—if you made one of your best soups yesterday, why not make it again today? Why make something that you know is worse?”

  Bethany sighed. “It’s hard to explain. I make soup to fit the day: the mood, the atmosphere, the weather, whatever. This morning it was foggy, so split pea seemed like a natural choice. Plus, I never cook the same soup twice—or I try not to. I make soup of the day, not soup of the yesterday. I’m kind of regretting it now, though.”

  “Aw,” Milo said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I promise you a fair and unbiased review. I’m not here to make anybody look bad.”

  How could she explain that she’d put her life savings into Souperb Soups and worked her butt off for the last nine months, and Marigold had put in one day and a new sign, without sounding peevish? Hmph. “It’s not exactly a fair review, though, is it? Because she knew you were coming and I didn’t. If you really wanted to be fair, you’d come back another day—one we both know about.”

  He tapped his finger to his lips, considering. “OK. You’ve convinced me. I’ll give the tasting another shot tomorrow, and that way you’ll both be prepared. You can serve up your best, whatever that may be.”

  Bethany snorted. “Well, I know what Marigold will be cooking—split pea with smoked ham. Soup of the yesterday.”

  Milo chuckled. “Then I guess I won’t bother with this, since I’ll be having it tomorrow.” He pushed the container of soup back across the counter. Bethany started rummaging in the till to retrieve his three dollars, but he held up his hand. “No, no, keep it, Ms.—?” He broke off questioningly.

  “Bradstreet. Bethany Bradstreet.”

  He nodded. “Right. See you tomorrow, Ms. Bradstreet.” He turned on his heel and sauntered off to Marigold’s kiosk, whistling.

  Who whistles anymore? Bethany shook her head and swept the container of uneaten soup in the trash. As she cleaned up the kiosk for the day, she reflected that she should have at least had the guy try the split pea. If he didn’t come back tomorrow, she might have missed her last chance at a getting a review in the newspaper...plus, to be honest, she kind of wanted to see that warm smile again.

  “I THINK I MIGHT HAVE blown it.” Bethany wrapped her hands around her mug of hot chocolate and peppermint whipped cream.

  “Aw, no, honey, you didn’t! You set yourself up for success!” Kimmy sat down at the kitchen table and slurped the topping off her own mug. “If he’d tasted the soup, he still could have written that head-to-head article without your permission. At least this way, it’s a level playing field. Don’t get me wrong—your split pea is great! But it can’t compete with that avgolemono.”

  “I know,” Bethany said glumly. “I can’t believe Marigold was able to recreate it so exactly. She’s going to do this to me every day from now on, isn’t she? No matter how good I am, she’ll just match me. And pretty soon, people are going to start going to her first.”

  “Stop saying that!” Kimmy slammed her fist on the table, causing the spoons to rattle in their mugs. “And stop selling it to her!”

  “Can I even do that? Legally?”

  “Of course you can! It’s your product—you can sell it to whoever you want! You can be like the Oprah of soup.” Kimmy put on her best Oprah impression. “You get a soup! You get a soup! You don’t get a soup.”

  Bethany snorted into her hot chocolate. “You’re saying I should be the anti-Oprah?”

  “No, I’m saying even Oprah would not be giving soup to this lady. Marigold is ripping you off. She can cook and she has good taste buds; girl don’t need to be lazy. If you stop literally feeding her your recipes, she’ll just have to succeed or fail on her own merits.”

  “I guess I can start by not giving it to her for free. That way she’s at least paying to use my recipe.”

  Kimmy bounced her fist on the table again. “That’s right! Now you’re talking.”

  Bethany glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. “Now I better figure out what I’m going to cook for that reporter.”

  “Hey, all you have to compete with is split pea, right?” Kimmy grinned.

  Bethany shook her head. “I can’t count on it. Marigold is full of surprises—she might just make avgolemono again. I need to bring my A-game. What do you think about minestrone?”

  Kimmy wrinkled her nose. “Kinda basic. It’s like the pumpkin spice of soups. How about vichyssoise?”

  “I don’t even know how to spell that.”

  “OK, carrot ginger? Nice bright flavor, easy to spell...”


  Bethany hemmed and hawed. “Nah, I think that’s too simple. Only one texture. I want something with a little heartiness, but a light broth with a lot of aromatics.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Like maybe the most epic chicken noodle ever.”

  “Oooh! I like that. I like it a lot.”

  “Does that mean you’ll let me have the keys to Café Sabine so I can work on my stock all night?” Bethany clasped her hands together pleadingly.

  Kimmy chewed her lower lip, looking torn.

  “Just this once? It’s only for the food review, and I’ll owe you big time. I’ll do anything you want—I’ll cater your wedding when you marry Charley!”

  “Seems a little premature, considering Charley and I have only been dating for four months, but I am going to hold you to that.”

  “Is that a yes?” Bethany grinned hopefully.

  Kimmy nodded. “But I’m going with you. Monsieur Adrien would kill me for giving you the keys, but if I’m there getting work done, too, he can’t really argue. And you better cook the soup of your life if I’m going to stay up all night.”

  “This is going to be just like when we were in culinary school and we’d stay up all night cooking together!”

  Kimmy smiled. “Those were the good old days. Slumber party in the kitchen. I’m down this once, but let’s not make a habit of it.”

  “Deal.” Bethany held out her pinky, and Kimmy linked fingers with her.

  “Deal.”

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday morning

  Bethany stifled a yawn as she wheeled Daisy through the door of the station. The lid on the stock pot jostled, emitting fragrant steam. Bethany closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Herbal, full-bodied, hint of spice. It was sure to impress that reporter with the warm brown eyes and the Clark Kent glasses—what was his name?

  She opened her eyes and narrowly avoided crashing Daisy into Ben and Trevor, who seemed to be arguing.

  “I don’t care—it’s unacceptable!” Ben poked his finger into Trevor’s chest. “We can’t afford—”