A Taste of Heaven

by penny watson

  Jonathan began to ask them about their contributions, and Sophia was relieved she had more than just fruit salad as a response.

  “Tell us about your inspiration, Elliott,” Jonathan asked.

  “This is based on a classic Scottish breakfast. I made homemade pork sausages with ginger, nutmeg, and sage, black pudding with pork blood and suet, and tattie scones, a traditional Scottish side. Mr. Smith asked for hearty and satisfying. I made hearty and satisfying.”

  “Don’t you mean we made hearty and satisfying?” Jonathan said.

  Elliott forced a smile. “Of course. We.”

  “Aren’t Scottish people worried about fat and cholesterol?” Jenny asked.

  Elliott glared at the blogger.

  Sophia placed her hand on his arm and whispered, “No.”

  “You took a chance with the black pudding, Chef Adamson. I’m not a huge fan. But the sausage you made is possibly the best I’ve ever tasted.” Tarquin smiled.

  Elliott relaxed slightly.

  “And Sophia, what was your contribution?” Jenny asked. Sophia noticed the blogger’s perky, happy appearance wasn’t holding up so well under the Vermont sunshine. She had tight fine lines next to her eyes and acne under the make-up. And the look she gave to Elliott was cold as ice.

  “I decided to do a lighter twist on some of the traditional Scottish sides. I grilled the vegetables and made the orange marmalade and the citrus salad. My daughters love that fruit salad, especially with the lemon basil.”

  “I liked your part of the dish best of all. The bright flavors of the fruits and vegetables. Very refreshing.” Jenny turned to Elliott. “So, Chef Adamson, how did the two of you blend your dishes on the platter? Did you taste your partner’s food?”

  Elliott froze. Sophia—and everyone else on the set—was well aware of the tension between them as they cooked. Damn Jenny. She was putting him on the spot deliberately.

  “I did not taste her food,” Elliott answered. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I assumed since she won the contest yesterday that the woman can cook.”

  Jenny shook her head, clearly not impressed with that answer. “And Sophia, how about you? What did you think about Elliott’s black pudding? And why are you preparing Scottish food? You’re American.”

  Sophia could feel the heat from Elliott’s body next to her. He felt like a furnace. There they stood, under a blazing Vermont sun, being scrutinized and prepped for certain failure.

  To hell with that.

  “I tasted Elliott’s food as we cooked this morning. His traditional Scottish dishes were rich and satisfying. I thought some lighter sides would be a nice contrast and balance the breakfast. Black pudding isn’t my favorite food, but I thought it was perfect for someone who needs a hearty meal.” She glanced at the table of farmers, some of them friendly faces she knew from previous trips. Those smiles spurred her on. “I’m not Scottish, but my partner is. This contest is about blending our two styles. So our platter showcased both of our approaches to cooking—traditional Scottish fare and my love of fresh fruits and vegetables.”

  Jenny looked disappointed. If she’d expected Sophia to fold under her criticism, she’d underestimated her.

  Tarquin nodded in Sophia’s direction. “You and Elliott may join the other finalists.”

  Elliott refused to glance her way. Embarrassed by being put on the spot? She had no idea. He took her hand and pulled her to the finalist area.

  Tarquin, Jenny, and Jonathan stood next to Mr. Smith who held a miniature Taste of Heaven flag.

  “This is so exciting! Our first winning pair! Okay, judges, who will it be?” Mr. Smith waved the flag and winked for the camera.

  Tarquin stepped forward and took the flag from the producer. “Today’s winner made a classic brunch sing. Sometimes the tried-and-true favorites pack in the most flavor. And the judges were very pleased to see how this pair utilized the locally farmed maple syrup, one of the stellar products from the state of Vermont. Congratulations to Chef Michael Baldwin and Amateur Chef Kevin Holt.” He handed the flag to a flustered Kevin who waved it over his head as the other chefs clapped politely.

  It may have been Sophia’s imagination, but the applause from the other contestants felt lukewarm at best.

  And it definitely was not her imagination that Elliott looked ready to throttle the winners.

  “Stand down, Elliott.”

  “Pancakes. And syrup. Pancakes and syrup.” Elliott kept repeating the same thing over and over again.

  “It’s okay. We’re still here. And we were one of the three finalists in this round. That’s a good thing.”

  “A good thing. Uh-huh. Time for a chat, Ms. Brown.”

  And for the second time in twenty-four hours, Elliott Adamson grabbed Sophia’s hand and dragged her off for a lecture. Dragged her like a rag doll.

  She was seriously getting tired of it.

  Chapter Nine

  Elliott pulled Sophia behind the chicken coop and released her. The chickens were less than thrilled with their visitors. Cherry red feathers floated in the air as the poultry squawked and darted around their legs.

  “You told me to trust you.” He spat the words at her.

  “Yes, I did. It’s unfortunate that we were still plating one second before time was called—”

  “Oh, no. Do not blame me.”

  “Blame you for what? We were one of three finalist pairs.”

  “We didn’t win!” he shouted.

  Sophia finally realized that Elliott was not just disappointed, he was absolutely furious.

  “We didn’t win? What did you expect? We were lucky we weren’t on the bottom today. You ignored me until the last twenty seconds of the contest. You made black pudding which is probably despised by ninety five percent of the world’s population.”

  “Not in Scotland.”

  “But we’re not in Scotland, Elliott.”

  “You forgot your fruity sauce.”

  Sophia blew out a frustrated breath. “I know. I’m disappointed about that.”

  “No matter what the contest rules say, I am in charge. You know nothing.”

  Sophia rolled her eyes. “You are such a snob.”

  “Hmm. Maybe for good reason.”

  “Reason being . . . ?”

  “I’m a trained professional chef. You are not.”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m smart enough to realize that just throwing a garnish on the side of the plate isn’t going to cut it for this contest. Our cooking needs to blend together seamlessly. We can do this.”

  He barked out a laugh. “God, you’re cocky. You actually think you can cook as well as I?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. It would be lovely if you could give me some pointers and suggestions. Instead of ignoring me the whole time!” Sophia heard the shrill tone of her voice and forced herself to relax. She never lost her temper. What was it about this man?

  “If you’re unhappy with this team, you have no one to blame but yourself. You chose me, remember? Now you’re stuck with me. Quit complaining.” Elliott’s burr was so thick she could barely understand him.

  “I didn’t choose you. I chose your food. There’s a difference. I had no idea that you had prepared that amuse-bouche.” She glared at her infuriating partner.

  “Regretting your choice?” he asked with a sneer.

  “No, your food was the best thing I tasted yesterday. You’re a talented chef. But you need an attitude adjustment or we’re going to lose!” Sophia yelled.

  “You tried to replace my tattie scones with your ridiculous little potatoes!” Elliott yelled back.

  A couple of chickens ran away in a panic.

  “Yes, I did. If everything on that dish had been heavy and rich, the judges would have rejected it. Jenny has a simple palate. Tarquin likes contrast. We have to think outside of the box for this. I wish I’d had time to put my sauce on the platter. Our two sauces would have been excellent side-by-side. The salty rich sauce with the tart
and fruity one.”

  “Funny how folks in Scotland don’t need a fruity sauce to eat their fucking breakfast. Isn’t it funny how that works?” Elliott’s expression was so arrogant.

  Sophia wanted to slug him.

  “We’re not in Scotland. If you wanted a Scottish contest, then you should have looked for one in Scotland.”

  He leaned down to her eye level and grabbed her arms. “I didn’t want one in Scotland. I wanted an international competition where I could show the world that Scottish food is something special. Something that deserves a second look, and perhaps some accolades, instead of derision.”

  “You really have something to prove.” Sophia wriggled out of his hands.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Regardless, you have to keep the judges in mind. They are not Scottish, Elliott. Our other ‘customers’ today, the farmhands, are used to American fare, with lots of locally-grown ingredients. Including fresh vegetables.”

  Elliott regarded her with stony silence.

  “You’re welcome, by the way. For saving your butt at judge’s table.”

  He looked away. Sophia refused to let this go. “Jenny was ready to throw you under the bus. Both of us. It’s a good thing I tasted your food and could defend our dish. I saved us. Admit it.”

  Elliott shrugged. “I don’t care what that blogger thinks.”

  “Well you better start caring. She’s a judge. And we have to think about the palates of the judging panel and our other guests. My daughters are a good example. They love—”

  Elliott threw up his hands. “I don’t care about your daughters. I don’t care about what they eat, or what you eat, or what you think. I don’t care about what your husband eats, or what—”

  “My husband is dead!”

  The sentence hung in the air, hovering there as its echo ricocheted off the back wall of the chicken coop. Sophia had screamed so loudly, her throat ached. She would be hoarse the next time she spoke.

  Elliott was frozen in place. He blinked, but otherwise remained unmoving. As well as unmoved?

  They stayed like that, two combatants in the arena, facing each other. Covered with a sheen of sweat and cooking oil. Half of Sophia’s hair had slipped from the clip and was now spilling over her face. It blocked her view of Elliott, so she could only see slices of the man, bits of ginger beard, half a mouth, one blazing eye, part of a white apron covered with blood and fingerprints. She shuddered in a shallow and painful breath. Elliott closed his eyes for just a moment, and then he turned and walked away.

  Leaving Sophia all alone. And feeling just as empty and hopeless as that day in June when the sky was blue and the birds were singing and her husband was lowered into the earth.

  ❦

  “Mrs. Brown, may I speak to you?”

  Sophia was curled up on a bench outside of the main barn, hugging her knees. Each of the contestants was being filmed for their “testimonials” with the picturesque farm in the background. She’d already filmed her spot. She’d made a point not to look at the screen, knowing what she’d see. A pale face. A wooden demeanor. Her outburst with Elliott had left her numb. The producer hadn’t pushed her too hard, aware of her state-of-mind.

  She and Elliott were careful to avoid each other, and the other contestants were keeping their distance as well. As though she were infected with some sort of virus and they were all deathly afraid of contracting it.

  Except for Helene, who seemed impervious to anything, including contagious germs.

  The French woman pushed Sophia’s legs out of the way and sat down.

  “You know, Elliott wasn’t always so . . .” She waved her hands in the air. “Such an asshole.”

  Sophia smiled at her deliberate French accent. Asshole never sounded so good.

  “You knew him when he was younger?” Sophia couldn’t help her curiosity. The photos she’d found on the Internet had made her wonder. Wonder about the man he’d been. The man he’d become.

  “Oui. We attended some cooking classes together many years ago. I knew him when he was a cocky young chef. Brilliant. Stubborn. Still hopeful.”

  Sophia frowned. “What happened?”

  “Hmm. Life ’appened, as they say. He is a very talented chef. But the man makes horrible choices.” Helene pronounced the word “orri-bull.”

  Sophia smiled. “What sort of choices?”

  “Ah, well, wives for one thing. They were never strong enough or dedicated enough for that man. He is driven. And he managed to drive them away.” Helene snapped her fingers. “If he had chosen well, they would have stayed. They would have fought for him, for their marriage, for his culinary vision, too.” She shook her head and released a long sigh. “And his choices for restaurants! Mon dieu, he thinks like a man, n’est-ce pas? He cannot see around him, just on the plate in front of him. Customers do not want to smell stinky fish while they eat a gourmet dinner.”

  “Stinky fish?” Sophia was intrigued.

  “Oui. He cannot choose good locations. Too small, too dark, too stinky. If your restaurant is right next door to a fish market, and the waste barrel is outside your front door—”

  “Oh my God. That can’t be true.”

  “Oui. It is true. And that’s not the worst of it.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what’s worse.”

  “The worst is that Elliott is a big baby. Like most men—but I won’t repeat that statement in mixed company.” Helene winked. “Anyway, he does not like criticism.”

  “Oh, I noticed that.”

  The French chef chuckled. “Yes, if anyone dares to criticize the great Elliott Adamson—customer, wholesaler, restaurant critic—he will explode like a giant volcano.” Helene’s hands flew into the air as she made amusing explosion sound effects.

  “I’m starting to get the picture. Not the best personality for a cooking competition.”

  “Hmm. Or perhaps the perfect person. Perhaps the show likes the explosions and drama, but has no intention for this man to win? How could a man who prepares black pudding win a show like this?”

  “You think they set Elliott up?” Sophia sat straighter on the bench.

  “No, not necessarily. I just think that they are probably pleased to see the sweet little American woman with the big bossy Scottish chef. Entertaining, yes?” She raised a brow. “Do you understand?”

  Did Sophia understand? That Elliott had tunnel vision—he only saw the food, but no other details. That the television show didn’t care about him, but they cared about ratings. Sophia did understand, but she wasn’t happy about it.

  Helene shrugged her shoulders. “Well. You have your work cut out for you, as they say. He has raw talent, but he must be managed. And he is a big bully. You . . .” Helene raised a judgmental eyebrow as she assessed Sophia. “You are tiny, but I think you have a steel spine. Is that how you say it? But remember, Elliott is a man. You have to”—Helene made a hitting motion—“clunk him over the head to make him listen. You cannot be polite. You cannot be sweet. You must be a bitch. Do not let that man run you over, the way he did with his wives.” She patted Sophia on the knee. “I like you, Mrs. Brown. And I like Elliott, too. Don’t give up.”

  Sophia smiled at the petite French chef. Her face was creamy smooth and clear, her simple clothes meticulous.

  “Thank you. I think I needed that pep talk. May I call you Helene? You may call me Sophia.”

  Helene stood. “You may call me Chef Bertrand.”

  The two women laughed.

  “Very well. Thank you for your advice, Chef Bertrand.”

  Helene smiled at her and walked away.

  Sophia felt like she could sleep for a thousand years. She hoped the testimonials were almost finished and they would be heading back to the dormitories soon.

  She needed to rest and regroup. She had a feeling that managing Elliott Adamson would require every bit of energy she could muster.

  Chapter Ten

  Sophia slept. And she dreamt.

  Not abou
t her home or garden or the obscure details of her life that cropped up during the darkest hours of the night.

  She dreamt about a cauldron over a pit of fire. And she was stirring . . . stirring. Stirring with a black cast iron ladle, as a primordial soup bubbled. Bits of things bobbed in the muck. Animal parts and organs she would rather not identify. The things were fleshy and brown, tattered and obscene. Even in her dream she barely held back a retch.

  Elliott appeared at her side and smiled. “It looks perfect. Ready to serve?”

  She groaned.

  “Sophia. Sophia. Wake up. We need to talk.” Strong hands gripped her shoulder and shook her from the nightmare.

  “Elliott. Go away. I’m sleeping.”

  “You’re having a nightmare. You’re groaning and scowling in your sleep. Better to wake up and have a cup of coffee. Nice and strong. Try this.”

  She cracked open an eyelid as he placed a mug on her nightstand.

  A pillow sailed through the air and knocked him on his back.

  “What are you doing here? Get out! This room is for women only!” Lin Lin screeched at him.

  “Ah, Lin Lin. Good morning to ye. Hope you had a refreshing sleep.”

  “Get out!”

  “Elliott, you just can’t help yourself, can you? Rubbing everyone the wrong way.” Sophia leaned up on one elbow and sighed. Her voice was still scratchy after yesterday’s outburst. “Go wait in the hallway. I’ll be out in a second.” She reached for the coffee and took a sip. “Too bad we aren’t having a coffee challenge. This is excellent.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you. Hurry.” He waved at Lin Lin as he slammed the door.

  Lin Lin shook her finger. “You tell your partner to stay out of our room. He thinks he can do anything he wants to. But that won’t work here. Not here.”

  Sophia nodded. “You’re right about that. I’m wondering if he’ll realize this is no longer the Elliott Adamson Show. God, I hope so.”

  She pulled a hooded sweatshirt over her T and faded floral pajama pants and stuffed her feet into a pair of rubber work boots. She cradled the coffee in her hands and enjoyed one quiet sip before facing her partner.