by Meg Benjamin
He wondered briefly if Great-Aunt Nedda’s health problems would have any effect on the possible foreclosure at the farm. Knowing the way financial institutions worked, he doubted it. If MG couldn’t make the payment, she’d be out. His jaw tensed. She’ll make the goddamn payment—or I will.
The door to the waiting room hissed open and MG’s head jerked up. The other two or three people in the room swiveled toward the doorway too. A doctor in scrubs stood just inside, holding a clipboard. “MG Carmody?” she called.
“That’s me.” MG stood a little shakily, and Joe stood too, his arm around her shoulders.
The doctor walked toward her briskly. “Your aunt’s been placed in the intensive care unit. She’s been stabilized. We’ll know more in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Is she going to die?” MG asked flatly.
The doctor paused, looking slightly less self-assured than she had before. “Her condition is very serious. At her age, it’s difficult to give a definite prognosis. As I said, we’ll monitor her for the next twenty-four hours.”
Which meant Great-Aunt Nedda was likely to die if he was any judge. He pulled MG closer. “Will you get in touch with us if her condition changes?”
“Of course.” The doctor was back to brisk again. “I’d advise you to go home for now. If anything happens, we’ll let you know.” She gave MG a quick nod, then moved smartly back toward the door.
“Come on.” Joe pushed MG gently toward the same door, one arm firmly across her shoulders. “They have your cell phone number—you don’t need to stay. You do need to eat something. And then you need to get some sleep.”
She nodded mechanically. “I guess.”
“Do you want to go back to the Faro?” He was guessing not, given what had happened the last time they were there.
“Is my guitar in your truck?”
He nodded. “I picked it up when you went with your great-aunt in the ambulance.”
She shuddered. “Then no.”
“Let’s go back to the farm. I’ll fix you something there. You do have food there, right?”
She nodded again. “I think so.”
“Then let’s go.”
MG did, in fact, have some food in her refrigerator, although it wasn’t much to brag about. Joe fixed a couple of hamburgers and pulled down a bag of potato chips. He didn’t feel much like doing anything fancy himself.
She ate automatically. He wasn’t sure she even knew what she was putting in her mouth.
“I didn’t like her,” she said flatly after she’d pushed her plate away.
He didn’t have to ask who her was. “Understandable. She was trying to make your life miserable.”
“But she was Grandpa’s sister. It’s like I’m losing him all over again.”
“She may get better.” But she probably won’t. They both knew that.
“She may. I guess…I’d like to talk to her again. See if we could work some things out. For Grandpa’s sake.”
“It might happen.”
“She kept asking for this guy in the ambulance. One of the attendants said he was a lawyer.”
“Did they say someone would contact him?”
She nodded.
“Maybe she had something to take care of in her will. Does she have any kids?”
“A daughter. I don’t know where she is—my mom might. I’ll have to call her.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then pushed herself to her feet. “Got to feed the chickens. They don’t care how much crisis I’ve got in my life.”
“Nope.” He pushed his own chair back. “That’s the thing about livestock. They’ve got their own timetable. I’ll do it. You stay here.”
He switched on the yard light as he stepped out the back. By now, of course, the chickens were asleep, or they were supposed to be. He’d refill the feeder and the water bottle and check on things in minimal time without disturbing them any more than he had to. Then he was going to get MG into bed, one way or another, with no ulterior motive whatsoever. The woman needed to sleep, and so did he since he had a contest tomorrow.
He had started toward the gate, grabbing the bag of cracked corn, when something thudded against his leg. He stared down.
Into the outraged eyes of a leghorn rooster.
He blinked. “Robespierre?”
The rooster pecked at his ankles again, squawking.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see MG sprinting across the yard. “Robespierre,” she cried. “You came back!”
The rooster swiveled toward her, then went on the attack, pecking at her feet. MG danced back out of reach, her lips spreading in the first smile he’d seen since they’d found her great-aunt. “I’m so glad to see you, I’m even willing to overlook the fact that you’re trying to perforate me.”
“Let’s get him into the chicken yard so he’ll still be here tomorrow morning.” Joe opened the gate then managed to shoo the attacking rooster inside the fence.
MG narrowed her eyes. “Why does he look so weird?”
Joe gave the rooster a more thorough inspection than he had before. Brown body. Flopping coxscomb. Tail? He paused, narrowing his eyes. “He lost his tail.”
Where he’d once had a proud stand of black feathers, Robespierre now sported a couple of limp quills. “No wonder he’s pissed.”
“He’s always pissed,” MG said affectionately. “Now he just has a specific reason for it.” She reached into the bag of cracked corn and tossed a handful in front of the rooster. “Here you go, you old reprobate. They’ll grow back. At least”—she glanced at Joe—“I assume they will, right?”
“Can’t see why they wouldn’t. Coyote must have gotten pretty close.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He got away. Good for you, Robespierre. Welcome back.”
Joe sighed, heading for the hen house. “Let’s get the ladies fed and then go back inside. I’m beat, and you should be too.”
MG slid her arm around his waist. “Yeah, I am. But all of a sudden I feel a little better than I did.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Joe was up at five on Saturday morning. He didn’t necessarily want to be, but his brain wouldn’t let him sleep any longer. He slid out of bed as quietly as he could, glancing back once at MG. She lay on top of the sheets, her long legs slightly bent, her arms curved against her pillow, red-gold curls tousled around her head. He could see her lovely breasts and a small tuft of gold hair at the curve of her belly.
His groin gave a quick throb. Okay, probably not the best thing to be concentrating on if you want to get up and moving.
He took a quick shower, running his hand over the stubble of hair on his scalp. He should shave it off. Or maybe not. Maybe if he got through this miserable competition without losing his cool, he’d let it grow out again. He wondered if MG might like the idea.
Move it, asshole. He headed for the kitchen and the coffee pot that was already perked. Maybe foodies were supposed to prefer French press, but he wanted his coffee hot and ready when he was. And that was now.
“Joe?”
MG stood in the doorway, curls wisping around her face, her T-shirt barely covering the essentials. Ah, geez.
“Go back to bed,” he said shortly. “I need to do breakfast and start packing stuff up, but that’s no reason for you to get up.”
She shook her head. “Fat chance. Everybody in the kitchen’s going to be there. Even Jorge. And I need to check on Great-Aunt Nedda when there’s somebody there who can tell me how she is.”
She turned back into the bedroom where he heard sounds he assumed were related to putting on clothes. Ah well, there was always tonight.
Tonight. After the contest.
Shit, when had this stupid competition become so important? Probably since Todd Fairley had decided to go mano a mano.
He smiled, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Somehow or other he was going to crush that little asshole, but first he was going to cook a few rings around him.
; MG was right, of course. When they walked in, the kitchen was full—Jorge, Leo, Darcy, even Plac and his cousins. And Ezra, cowering in the corner.
Joe rubbed his hands together, feeling another jolt of adrenaline running through his system. “Okay, boys and girls, let’s get to it. Breakfast first. Jorge and Leo, after breakfast today, you’re in charge of the kitchen. I don’t care how you do it, but do it right. Lunch is likely to be big with all the tourists in town for the festival. I’ll do my best to get back in time for dinner, but I don’t know how long this thing is going to take so you might as well figure on doing that too.”
Jorge grimaced slightly, although given his normal deadpan it was hard to tell. Joe shook his head. “I’ll take brunch tomorrow. You can both stay home.”
“Who goes downtown with you?” Leo asked.
“MG can help us get everything inside and get set up. They only allow two chefs per restaurant so it’s just Darcy and me after that.”
“Anything else need to be prepped?” Plac looked more keyed up than anybody else in the kitchen.
Joe shook his head. “We’ve got it covered. Right?” He glanced toward Darcy. Correction, nobody was more keyed up than she was.
“We’re good,” she said, wiping her palms on her apron. “We’re super.”
He didn’t think he’d ever heard her use the word super before, but he decided to let it go.
“Okay, let’s do this.” He started toward the dining room, buttoning his jacket.
Jorge stepped in front of him, his lips edging up into one of the few smiles Joe had ever seen him give. “Kick him in the balls, Chef.”
Joe blew out a breath. “Yeah. That’s what I had in mind.” He managed his own grim smile, then buttoned the last button on his coat and settled his beanie on his head. If nothing else, he was going to cook the best damn omelets anybody in this hotel had ever tasted.
MG surveyed the large room that served as the competition kitchen. the Rose’s contingent was the first to arrive, although it was close to the official starting time at eleven. Somehow the people in charge of the contest had managed to lug four stoves in there, although they weren’t anything like the stoves in the kitchen at the Rose. For one thing, they were electric rather than gas, which she guessed wasn’t surprising. But they were also more like home kitchen stoves than the monsters she’d grown used to. No flattops, no salamander. One oven.
Oh well, Joe hadn’t seemed to have any problems with the stove at her house, and that one was beyond crappy. She figured he’d already considered the drawbacks of the contest stove and come up with a menu that worked around them.
He walked by her, carrying a carton with the pans and knives. She hurried after him with her own bag of produce.
“Do you have to roast the beets?”
He shook his head. “A fourth of the meal has to be done entirely at the competition, and that’s the entrée for us, and the rest of the salad. But the beets are cooked in advance. Mainly it’s assembly—we’ve only got ninety minutes to put everything together. We roasted the beets yesterday.”
“Good thing we didn’t have any beet thieves last night.”
Joe’s jaw hardened. “We locked everything in the walk-in. Pain in the ass, but nobody can say I don’t learn from experience, darlin’.” He nodded toward the counter with a processor and blender sitting alongside the cutting board. “We’re supposed to do a little showmanship with this, let the people watch us cook. Darcy can put the salad together there. Panna cotta too.”
She nodded. “Darcy should be good at putting on a show.”
“She should at that.” He grinned. “Too bad she didn’t dye her hair blue again. That always gets a rise out of people.”
“I heard that.” Darcy narrowed her eyes, balancing her box of food. “Where’s the refrigerator?”
He nodded toward the miniature box at the side. “That’s it. Looks like it’s a wine cooler in its normal life.”
Darcy sighed. “Oh well, it’s just for a couple of hours. Thank god we don’t need a freezer.”
A sudden commotion at the door signaled the arrival of the other contestants. Lee Contreras from Brenner’s looked like a culinary Napoleon directing his troops, a pair of virtually silent teenagers who carried in equipment and some boxes marked prominently with the logo of the best local seafood purveyor. Clem arrived with her prep cook Margene and Chico Burnside. Chico was apparently serving as pack animal at the moment, carrying in her boxes of equipment and two massive coolers that looked to contain enough food to serve the French army. He nodded briefly at MG, then ignored everyone else in the room.
Clem threw a quick grin Joe’s way. “Hey, Chef. Ready to have your ass whipped?”
“Bring it on, Clemencia.” Joe grinned back until another noise made him turn back to the doorway.
To no one’s great surprise, Fairley wore another starched toque along with a chef’s jacket that was so white it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. He marched at the head of a line of men carrying his equipment and food cartons, sort of like a big game hunter followed by a line of safari porters. He himself carried only a leather knife case.
Beside her, MG heard Joe blow out a breath. He was probably grinding his teeth too, but fortunately she couldn’t hear that.
Fairley glanced in their direction. One corner of his mouth edged up in a half smile that was closer to a sneer. He dipped his head imperiously in Joe’s direction.
Joe’s expression remained impassive. His head didn’t move. “Game on, asshole,” he muttered.
The judges arrived at the same time as the contest officials, who cleared everyone out of the cooking area who wasn’t actually a cook. MG took a seat in the spectator section that was set up around the sides of the room.
She’d already called the hospital once, but they wouldn’t tell her much. Just that her aunt was still in intensive care and under observation. And she wasn’t allowed visitors. MG figured she might as well spend her time watching the cooking competition rather than sitting in the hospital waiting for news that might or might not come.
Joe and Darcy were directly in front of her, both with what she thought of as their game faces on. Darcy was working on the salad, while Joe chopped the ingredients for the quail stuffing. The grits would be reheated later, after the bacon had been fried and chopped.
In the adjoining kitchen, Clem and her assistant were industriously chopping something that looked like iceberg lettuce. Apparently, she’d decided to go downscale with gusto. As MG watched, Clem threw back her head, laughing.
She sighed. If only there was a way for both of them to win.
Lee Contreras’s prep chef was a gray-haired man who looked a little like a drill sergeant. Right then he was breaking down some shellfish, while Contreras ran the processor.
Across the room, Fairley stirred something in a saucepan on the stove, ignoring his prep cook’s frantic chopping. He looked like someone’s idea of how a chef should behave. Someone who’d never been in a real kitchen, of course.
“Eleven fifteen. One hour and fifteen minutes remaining.” The voice over the loudspeaker echoed through the room. Joe glanced up, then caught her eye. The corner of his mouth moved up in a lopsided smile before he returned to his work. Well, at least one of them had things under control.
Joe wondered if MG needed to check with the hospital, then told himself to cool it. She was there to cheer him on. Why would he want her thinking about anything else?
“You cooking anything there, Chef, or just chopping for the fun of it?”
At least Clem was enjoying herself thoroughly. “Cooking up a storm, ma’am, cooking up a storm.”
He was dimly aware of Lee Contreras giving him a quick grin and Fairley pretending that the rest of the room didn’t exist. As a strategy it struck him as faintly ridiculous, but it went along with Fairley’s style.
“How’s it coming?” he called to Darcy.
“Beets done. Doing the dressing,” she snapped. She seemed to ha
ve worked through her nerves and was back to her normal irritability, a good sign.
He turned to the refrigerator, pulling out the box of quail. He’d rechecked it five or six times already that morning, superstitiously afraid that somehow they’d disappeared. But the small mounds of meat lay just where he’d left them.
He pulled one of them out, then flopped it open on the cutting board, spooning on a dollop of stuffing and wrapping it tight. Then he reached for the next.
“Doing quail, Chef? Tricky things, aren’t they?” Fairley’s voice floated across the room.
Beside him, Darcy stiffened, but he shook his head. “Mind games,” he muttered.
“Right.”
“Only tricky if you don’t know what you’re doin’,” he called back, letting his inner good ol’ boy come to the fore.
“I’d have marinated it, myself. Right, Lee?” Fairley glanced in Contreras’s direction.
Lee gave him a look that would have turned most men to stone. “Not with quail,” he snapped. “Only amateurs marinate quail.”
Fairley’s ears turned red as he leaned over his cutting board. “To each his own,” he muttered.
Joe allowed himself a slight smile. So news about the burglary had spread, along with speculation about who was responsible. He’d have to remember to thank Contreras later on.
The next thirty minutes passed more quickly than he could have imagined. The quail was grilled while the bacon for the grits crisped on the stove. Darcy plated the salad and warmed the grits. The panna cotta emerged from the refrigerator to be transferred to glass bowls, the pomegranate seeds glowing scarlet against the white custard. At some point, he’d moved into his zone, no longer aware of the activity around him, concentrating on the perfect plating for his quail, the ideal splash of orange-flecked golden sauce, the flutter of green cilantro around the edge of the dish.
“Perfecto,” Darcy breathed.
He looked again. “Yeah. Doing good so far.” He wiped a tiny drop of sauce off the edge of the dish. Then allowed himself a quick glance at the audience. MG gave him a reassuring grin.
