by Meg Benjamin
“Not exactly.” Joe rubbed his eyes. “We won’t have a real stove to work on, just something one step up from a hot plate. They’re trying to get some ovens, but my guess is those won’t be restaurant quality either. So we have to come up with a menu that we could do on a goddamn Coleman camp stove if it came to that.”
Fairley nodded slowly. “A challenge. Simple but good.”
“Simple but good and original. And with a wow factor thrown in. Steak Diane isn’t going to cut it.”
“No.” Fairley still looked serious. “That wouldn’t be right.”
“Well, we got a few weeks to work on it. Give it some thought.”
“Yes, sir.” Fairley nodded, his smile returning. Apparently, he’d forgotten all about the MG Carmody thing. He pushed himself to his feet, heading for the door. “I better go check on the lunch prep.”
Joe watched him go, leaning back in his chair. Crisis averted. He stuck Craven’s letter back in the stack on his desk, promising himself he’d look at it later and knowing he might not. A contest on a camp stove. Crap on a stick.
He rubbed a hand across his face, then smiled. The MG Carmody thing. MG Carmody in her red apron and ball cap, like a pixie transformed into a prep cook. At least she’d brighten up the kitchen at breakfast.
Maybe things were looking up after all.
Chapter Five
MG limped inside the house at four thirty, wanting nothing so much as a beer and a place to rest her feet. The sandals had seemed like a good idea when she’d put them on in the morning—they were comfortable and they looked okay. They’d work for standing around, which is what she’d expected to be doing. Besides, it was September in the Hill Country and most people still dressed to keep cool.
Now she knew better. When she could bring herself to move again, she swore she’d dig out her running shoes. At least she’d finally get some real use out of them.
She’d driven to the discount store at the edge of town and found a chef’s knife. It looked like Darcy’s but she was betting it wasn’t in the same class. Still, at least she’d have something with an edge on it.
Once she pulled into the drive at the farm, she felt like groaning. Of course. She couldn’t put her feet up yet. She had the freaking chickens to deal with.
Two more eggs lay in the nest boxes. Fortunately, the hens in question hadn’t felt like coming back and sitting on them since that would probably have resulted in cracked eggs. Hen Nine muttered curses at her from her new position on the roost. She knew it was Hen Nine even though the bird looked like all the others—Hen Nine’s nest box had been moved to the coolest part of the hen house, making it no longer fun for her to sit on and brood.
She cleaned the nest boxes, then added more pellets to the feeder and checked the levels in the water can. Around her the hens clucked amiably enough, except for the malevolent mutterings of Hen Nine. She stepped outside and collided with the outraged Robespierre, who danced around her, squawking.
“Oh, give it a rest,” she muttered and tossed him a handful of cracked corn. He paused in mid-squawk, then started pecking at the scattered kernels, ignoring her intrusion into his domain.
MG looked regretfully at the green side yard. If she weren’t so tired, she’d run the hens out to let them do a little grazing, but she just wasn’t up to it at the moment. Sighing, she carried the eggs back to the house then returned the feed sack to the utility shed.
Inside, she checked the refrigerator. Yes, she had one can of the cheapest beer available. At least now she’d be able to afford something better, assuming she didn’t devote all her cash to the mortgage. She popped the top and sat down to review her day.
Lunch had been an exercise in thinly organized chaos. Three chefs handled the orders, Darcy and Leo from breakfast and a third chef, Jorge, who’d come in while she was washing cherry tomatoes. He’d glanced at her, unsmiling. “That’s my hat.”
By then, MG had forgotten that she was wearing a hat at all. She gave him a cautious look. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
He shrugged. “Looks better on you than on me.” She didn’t think he’d uttered another word for the rest of the afternoon.
“Your job is to make sure we’ve got all the stuff we need at each station,” Darcy said grimly. “Keep an eye out to see if anybody’s running low on anything. Today you’ll blow it. Tomorrow you won’t.” She didn’t add or else, but she didn’t need to. MG got the message.
Actually Jorge and Leo didn’t need much from her—they set up their own stations at the grill and the range, all their bowls of ingredients within easy reach and the garnishes ready to be arranged on the plates. She figured they knew about how much they’d need of anything, and unless there was an unexpected rush on some dish, they were probably set for the duration.
It was Darcy who needed replenishing most often with the salads and cold plates she was fixing. MG trotted from cooler to counter to pantry shelves, keeping her supplied with the premade salad bases, refilling the bowls of dried cranberries and walnuts, locating hotel trays of pulled chicken and shaved steak and crumbled bacon.
Fairley’s role seemed to be largely traffic cop. He stood near the computer where the orders came across, yelling the names of the dishes they needed in shorthand. “Ravioli, Cobb, Special.” The finished plates appeared on the counter in front of him for inspection, then moved onto the waiter’s trays to be taken into the dining room.
The only crisis had come late in the lunch rush. “You,” Leo yelled in her direction. “More frozen ravioli. Now.”
MG stiffened. Freezer. She knew where the cooler was, but the freezer was something else, wasn’t it?
“What are you waiting for? Get moving. Now!” Fairley’s voice cracked across the kitchen.
“Over there.” Darcy inclined her head toward a double-door stainless steel cabinet at the side.
MG ran to open the freezer door, then stopped, staring. The interior was full of bags and containers, all carefully labeled. Was she supposed to take the time to read the labels on every bag?
“Here.” Fairley’s hand shot by her face, and he yanked a bag of pasta from the top shelf. “Learn your job, goddamn it. We don’t have time for your screw-ups.”
He tossed the bag to Leo, who emptied the contents into the pan in front of him.
MG walked back to Darcy’s station, trying to make herself as small as possible. She really didn’t want to attract any extra attention just then.
After a moment, Darcy glanced at her. “More cranberries. Come on. Move.” Her voice didn’t have quite the same bite. MG didn’t look at her to see if she really was being kind—she’d just as soon not know.
The lunch rush finally dwindled and stopped altogether. She emptied the bowls Darcy had been using and returned their contents to the cooler, all except for the chicken and steak, which were being moved on to other uses. She found herself hoping that was all she needed to do for the day, but it was a vain hope.
“Lettuce.” Darcy nodded toward a plastic bag filled with leaves. “Take it to the sink and wash it. Cold water only. Then put it in the salad spinner. Then bring it to me. I’ll show you how to set up the salad plates for tomorrow.”
By the time MG had finished, her biceps were screaming again. The salad spinner was around three times as big as the one she’d once had in her kitchen in Nashville, and it required two hands to use. Darcy had her lay out plate after plate, showed her how to arrange the greens, and bitched at her when the arrangement didn’t meet her standards.
By three-thirty she was exhausted, crabby, and the proud creator of a cooler shelf’s-worth of salad bases, covered with plastic wrap and waiting for the whole process to begin all over again tomorrow.
At least they’d fed her. The whole staff gathered for “family dinner,” including the waiters, waitresses, busboys and hostess. There’d been some muted grumbling when Fairley had put a plate of cold cuts and a couple of loaves of commercial bread out on the table. Apparently, they’d been used to bette
r food before he’d taken over the sous chef job. Then Joe had arrived and replaced the cold cuts with some corn chowder and plates of heirloom tomatoes with fresh mozzarella, along with a couple of bowls of pasta. He’d given Fairley a cool look and explained that he wanted the waiters to taste the specials. Fairley had agreed quickly enough.
When the meal was over, she’d waited for Darcy to assign her some other piece of backbreaking labor, but Darcy had headed for the staff room. MG skulked along behind her, wondering if she was supposed to wait outside or if she could be in the staff room at the same time as the cooks. It didn’t matter since Darcy emerged almost immediately, wearing a Blunt Force Trauma T-shirt and running a hand through her spiked hair. She caught sight of MG and shook her head.
“Go home,” she said, making shooing motions with her hands. “You’re done. Breakfast staff doesn’t do dinner. We took care of all the prep already.”
“Oh.” MG blew out a breath. “Thanks.”
Darcy gave no sign that she’d heard. Instead, she headed out the door to the parking lot without looking back.
Now MG stretched out on her grandfather’s lumpy couch, feeling her feet throb in time with her stress headache. She’d worked from six thirty in the morning until three thirty in the afternoon. Longer than Joe had said she would, but maybe he didn’t realize how clueless she really was about what went on in the kitchen. Then she’d filled out the paperwork that meant she was hired.
She had no idea how long the job would last. She wasn’t sure she’d last that long herself. But god, she needed the money.
She took a long pull on her beer, trying not to grimace at the taste. She could tolerate mediocre beer, but this was swill. Unfortunately, swill was in her price range.
Okay, enough with the pity party. Nobody’s making you do this. You’re in it because you want to be.
She took another swallow of beer, then rested the can against her forehead. Her choice. Her house. Her farm. Her grandfather could rest easy. Chew on that, Aunt Nedda.
She’d managed to find an episode of Seinfeld on the ancient living room television when she heard an odd chirping sound. It took her a minute to realize it was her cell phone. It rang so seldom these days she’d almost forgotten what it sounded like.
“Hello?”
“MG, sugar? Is that you?”
The voice was vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place it immediately. “Who is this?”
“Well, this is Dewey Hesseltine. I’m trying to reach Miss MG Carmody.”
Dewey Hesseltine. MG frantically flipped through her mental Rolodex, trying to remember exactly who Dewey Hesseltine was. She thought he might be a club owner but she wasn’t entirely sure. She’d met a lot of people like him in Nashville—some of them legit, some not. Still, no reason not to be polite.
“This is MG, Dewey. I’m sorry. I was just surprised to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m fine, but I’m kind of annoyed with you, young lady. How come you didn’t let me know you were here in Texas?”
MG rubbed a hand across her forehead. The automatic answer, Because I have only the vaguest idea of who the hell you are, didn’t seem quite right under the circumstances. “I’ve been kind of busy, Dewey. Family stuff.”
“Well, family’s important, that’s for sure,” Dewey said vaguely. “But so’s singing. I’m looking to fill some gaps in my schedule here at the hall. I’d have called your manager if I knew who he was.”
“I’m between managers right now, Dewey.” Seeing as how her former manager had washed his hands of her when she told him she was taking a time out in Texas. Of course, in reality he’d washed his hands of her a long time before that.
“Well, then we can just set this up between us, can’t we? I got an opening next week I’m tryin’ to fill. Not much time to publicize it, but I can get your name onto some posters. It’s strictly pass the bucket for pay, but the crowd’s good. You should pick up some cash.”
She licked her lips. Singing again. After all these months. When she hadn’t touched her guitar since she’d walked in her grandpa’s front door. “Where’s your club, Dewey? I’m outside Konigsburg and I can’t travel too far right now.” In fact, considering the state of her Kia and the cost of gas, she probably couldn’t travel more than a couple of miles without a certain amount of luck.
Just an excuse, MG. You could travel as far as you wanted to. If you wanted to.
“I’m in Oltdorf, same as always. It’s the Oltdorf Hall, after all.” Dewey sounded a little annoyed. Maybe he thought she should know what and where Oltdorf was. Wrong again, Dewey.
She blew out a quick breath. “I’m still getting my bearings in the area. Where is Oltdorf exactly? I live on Wildrose Lane.”
“Well then you’re just down the road.” Dewey’s voice warmed. “That big fancy inn there is about five miles away.”
She blew out a breath. “Great. I guess I can find you.”
“All right, sugar.” The good ol’ boy was back. “We’ll give ’er a try. Let’s say Wednesday night next week. You go on at eight. Do me a thirty-minute set and I’ll pass the bucket for you. We’ll see how it goes. Main act’s out of San Marcos. College boys. Just gettin’ started, but they’ve got a following already. Should be a good crowd.”
MG wiped her suddenly damp palm on her thigh. Her chest felt tight. “Okay, Dewey, I’ll be there around seven to get everything set up.”
“That should do it then. Can’t wait to see you, sugar.”
“Me too. See you Wednesday.” MG disconnected and allowed herself to settle back against the lumpy couch again, trying to will her pulse to slow down.
Singing. In front of an audience.
She hadn’t sung for anyone since she’d moved back to Texas. She hadn’t even thought about looking for a gig. In some part of her mind she’d pretty much given up on the whole idea of singing and writing songs. It seemed sort of stupid—the singing chicken farmer. Just like going to Nashville had seemed stupid to her mom.
Wasting your time and your money, MG. Why’d you get that college degree if you were just going to go starve in Tennessee?
And then she’d given it all up to come back here, to look after Grandpa and to watch him die. And now to try to keep his farm—their farm—afloat. She felt a quick pinch of sadness, the same one she felt whenever she thought of those last weeks.
She’d done what she could. She couldn’t keep him alive, but she could keep him from worrying about what would happen when he was gone.
Now she’d have to get used to doing this all over again, to getting up on a stage and singing.
Her stomach twisted itself into a knot. Her palms were suddenly damp. You can do this. You want to do this.
She did. Maybe not as much as she’d once thought, but still. And maybe she needed to prove something—to Nashville and to herself.
MG sighed, running a hand across her forehead. What she mainly felt right now was tired. Her feet ached. Her back ached. By next Wednesday she might be used to this schedule, but right now the thought of getting up to gather eggs, putting in eight or nine hours at the Rose and then going over to Dewey’s club in Oltdorf to do a thirty-minute set made her head hurt. On the other hand, it was one more source of income to throw at the bottomless sinkhole that was Aunt Nedda’s pocket.
That’s the way to think of it. I’m only in it for the money, right?
She checked the clock on the wall next to the television set. Eight-thirty and she was ready for bed. Oh well, like they say, early to bed, early to rise, healthy, wealthy and wise. Emphasis on wealthy, please.
Chapter Six
Nedda considered the barren front yard of Lloyd Kurtz’s farm—packed black dirt flecked with white lumps of rock and the occasional tuft of gray-green rye grass. It looked like he was growing a fine crop of limestone.
Clearly, he’d let his goats graze all around the place, and clearly he’d discovered what Hill Country farmers had known for generations—grass didn’t flour
ish with a only a half-inch of topsoil for its roots.
She sighed. Kurtz was going to go bust eventually. The real question was what she’d do with his farm once she took it back. Still, it didn’t look like he was going broke this afternoon, and he could be useful for the time being.
She strode across the baked soil, carefully avoiding the occasional goat droppings that threatened the black leather soles of her Lucchese boots.
Kurtz stepped out onto his front porch before she reached the steps. He wore overalls and a battered T-shirt. His blue baseball cap was pulled down to his bristling black eyebrows, the design on the front faded to a pale pink. Nedda felt like grimacing—if you were going to look like a cliché, at least you should make it an interesting one. “Morning, Kurtz,” she grunted.
Kurtz’s jaw tightened. “Morning, Ms. Carmody. What can I do for you?”
She allowed herself a faint smile. He wasn’t trying to bluster. At least Kurtz knew where he stood. “How’s the goat business?”
He shrugged. “Same as usual. Got ’em grazing up the road today.”
Which meant he was probably paying somebody for pasture since he didn’t have any of his own to speak of. “Glad to hear it. You got that balloon payment coming up, you know.”
His jaw flexed again. “You’ll get it. Was that what you were worried about?”
She shook her head, resting the toe of one boot on his lower step. “Not exactly. I got a proposition for you.”
Kurtz stared at her boot toe with its elaborate embroidery. Maybe he was afraid to look at her directly. Nedda wouldn’t have blamed him. “What proposition’s that?” he muttered.
She turned slightly, squinting through the pecan trees toward the drive. “You can see a good ways from here, can’t you? All the way to the next field over, looks like.” She glanced back at Kurtz.
His expression had moved from wary to confused. “Guess I can at that.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Never thought much about it.”
“Next field over is Harmon Carmody’s place,” she said flatly. “Where my niece is now.” Technically, she was a great-niece, but Nedda didn’t feel that detail was necessary.
